William Collins’s mind turned at once to Longbourn. He recalled the warmth of the household, the ease with which he had been received, the kindness that had required no effort to give and no abasement to accept. He thought of Mrs.Bennet’s bustling concern, of Mary’s solemn goodwill, of Kitty’s shy laughter and Lydia’s bright, untiring curiosity. He thought of Jane’s gentleness—and then, inevitably, of Elizabeth’s keen observation, and how her eyes had seemed to read his thoughts before he himself had named them.
But it was another face that lingered longest.
Miss Charlotte Lucas.
She was not handsome by any fashionable rule; he knew that, even as he remembered her. Yet to him her countenance had appeared touched with a softness that no rule could measure: the quiet kindness of her smile, the patience of her manner, the clear, steady benevolence of her eyes. He recalled the moment in which she had accepted the small nosegay of bellflowers, delicate and vivid still in his recollection—and how she had smiled, not in surprise, but in understanding, as though the gesture itself had pleased her less than the feeling behind it.
“If I may presume, to offer you these, Miss Lucas,” he had said—and how earnestly he had meant it. “They seem to me—just now—to have grown bluer in your presence.”
The memory warmed him now, and with it came a gentler ache: the sense of something begun, scarcely named, yet already dear. He wondered when he might see her again, and whether she would remember him with even a fraction of the interest he felt so keenly himself.
From Longbourn, his thoughts travelled onward.
He would go first to London, then to Portsmouth, to his father, and deliver the news that had transformed his prospects: that he had been examined, approved, and found worthy of further trial; that Oxford awaited him, not as a dream, but as a destination fixed in time. He would call upon Mr. Jennings andMr. Cobb, whose patience and instruction had carried him thus far; he would present himself at the church, to Father Hartley and to his Latin tutor, and receive—he hoped—their approval as well.
And then, in the autumn, he would return north.
Oxford again. St Edmund Hall.
The beginning of a life shaped not only by chance or indulgence, but by steady effort, step following step: collegiate discipline, theological study, and—if God so willed it—ordination in due course.
At the thought, his heart swelled with a feeling at once solemn and tender.
His mother would have been proud.
The idea came upon him with sudden force. He saw her as she had been in his childhood: gentle, watchful, sparing of praise but rich in quiet hope; a woman who had believed, even when circumstances gave her little reason to do so, that her son might yet be something better than the world expected of him. That she had entrusted him, at her death, to Mr. Bennet’s guardianship now appeared to him the wisest act of her life.
“She would have chosen no better,” he thought, and raised his hand to his face, brushing away—almost with impatience—a tear that had escaped him unbidden.
The carriage rolled on, steady and inexorable, bearing him toward duty, toward effort, toward the unknown. William leaned back at last, allowing himself to be rocked by its motion, his mind full, his heart quietly resolved.
Whatever lay before him, he would strive to be worthy of it.
Five
William Collins’s first term at Oxford passed with a regularity that would have appeared unremarkable to those unacquainted with his former life, yet which, to himself, felt nothing short of transformative. His days were governed by bells, books, and the steady expectations of others; his evenings by careful review, modest conversation, and such small duties as arose naturally in a household where industry was both valued and required.
He wrote home with punctual diligence—sometimes to his father, sometimes to Mr. Bennet, and often to both in turn—his letters marked by an increasing firmness of hand and a growing ease of expression. To Portsmouth he sent brief but dutiful accounts, assuring his father that his health was good, his prospects improving, and his gratitude unaltered. To Mr. Bennet he wrote with greater particularity, detailing his studies, his examinations, and the habits of collegiate life, without complaint, with genuine enthusiasm and a steady sobriety that testified more eloquently than praise to his contentment.He wrote in one such letter:
“I find, sir, that order, once established, lightens even the heavier labors, and that the mind, when properly directed, is less disposed to fatigue than I had formerly supposed. I endeavor to remember that every hour ill-spent must be answered for, and that my advantages are not of a nature to be squandered.”
Mr. Bennet read these letters with a quiet satisfaction he did not think it necessary to parade. He folded them carefully,returned them more than once to his pocket, and occasionally allowed himself a faint smile over some unstudied phrase that revealed more character than intention. That the young man neither exaggerated his progress nor diminished his obligations pleased him exceedingly, for he had long believed moderation to be the surest proof of sense.
Professor Saunders wrote less frequently, but when he did, his letters carried a weight that no abundance of words could have improved. They were composed with scholarly economy, and addressed matters of fact rather than sentiment; yet the impression they conveyed was uniformly favorable.He wrote in late November:
“The young man you committed to my supervision continues to justify your confidence. His Latin is now serviceable rather than tentative, his Greek improving, and his habits of attention beyond reproach. This is not unjustified praise, but his scholars’ general opinion. William Collins is no idle ornament to my household; indeed, I find him of considerable use.”
Mr.Saunders proceeded to explain that William had made himself helpful in ways neither demanded nor expected, assisting with the copying and arrangement of papers, maintaining lists and accounts with exactness, and relieving his host of several small but continual tasks which, taken together, saved more time than one might at first suppose. He added, with dry approval, that the young man was equally ready to lend his hands where learning alone could not suffice.
“He assists Mrs. Wells in the kitchen when occasion requires it,” Saunders noted, “with no air of condescension and no diminution of his studies; and he has proven himself willing, under Mr. Edmunds’sdirection, to attend to such stable matters as must be seen to daily. I observe all this not as a curiosity, but as evidence of a temper suited to usefulness rather than display.”
This letter Mr. Bennet read aloud to his wife—selectively, it must be confessed—pausing where he judged it prudent, and passing over those particulars which he knew would invite either misunderstanding or alarm.
Mrs. Bennet, however, required little encouragement to be pleased.
“Well!” she exclaimed, when she had gathered that the young man was industrious, improving, and spoken of with approval by a gentleman of learning. “I always said, Mr. Bennet, that if one must take an interest in poor relations, it is infinitely better to choose one who reflects credit upon the family. I am sure I am delighted to hear of it—quite delighted!”
“You are gratified, my dear,” her husband replied calmly, “by hearing that the experiment has not failed.”
