Mr. Bennet’s gaze moved past Mr. Collins, and there, at the far end of the room, he saw young William.
He was no longer a child; but he was not yet wholly a man. His height had increased, and his shoulders were beginning to take the promise of strength; yet there remained in his face that look of restraint which belongs to those who have been obliged too early to govern themselves. He wore plain clothes, clean but worn; his hair was kept with care; and in his hands he held a tray with an attention so exact that it was impossible not to suspect the effort required to keep everything steady amid the din. When he turned—and met Mr. Bennet’s eye—there passed over his expression, not delight, but something steadier and deeper: recognition, relief, and the consciousness of being seen.
If Mr. Bennet had come to Portsmouth with a resolution already formed, that look might have confirmed it; but he had come rather with a question than an answer, and William Collins, with that single glance, became part of the question.
“Will,” called Richard, too loudly, as if to assert authority by noise. “Come here, boy—do you not see your cousin?”
The lad set down the tray with a care that did him credit in a place where care was plainly unfashionable, and approached. His bow was respectful, not servile; and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, yet firm enough to be heard.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said, “you are very good to come, sir.”
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes; and the visitor, accustomed to looking into his daughters’ faces when speaking with them, noticed them at once. He was not a man easily stirred into tenderness, but he felt nevertheless the stirring of something like responsibility—sharp, unwelcome, and yet not to be denied; for it is sometimes the most reluctant consciences which, when once awakened, prove the most obstinate in their demands.
“I wished, my dear Will,” he said, “to offer my respects to your mother’s memory—and to see how you both fare.”
At this, Richard Collins laughed—an ugly, careless sound—and clapped Mr. Bennet upon the arm as if they were comrades rather than relations.
“How we fare! We fare as men fare without a woman to order them, cousin. But we shall manage. We always manage. And if we do not—why, we drink the more, and let tomorrow take care of itself.”
Mr. Bennet did not answer that sentiment; his attention had returned to William, who stood with his hands quietly folded, waiting—neither intruding nor shrinking—as if he had long practiced the art of being useful without being troublesome.
The visitor looked at him a moment longer than civility required; and then, with a mildness which concealed decision,he said, “William, you and I will speak presently. Will you do me the favor of showing me a quieter room?”
The lad’s eyes lowered for an instant, as if the request touched upon a hope he had not dared to form; and when he raised them again, there was in them an earnest gratitude so immediate that it bordered on pain.
“Yes, sir, if my father allows it,” he said, casting a glance toward Richard Collins, who nodded with careless assent. “If you will come this way, sir.”
And as William led him from the noise into a narrower passage, Mr. Bennet heard behind him Richard Collins’s voice rising again—complaining, commanding, laughing—like a man who believed himself master because he could make others uncomfortable; but before him went the boy, steady in his step, careful in his speech, and already, in the midst of disorder, displaying that quiet competence which is so often the only inheritance of the poor.
***
The room into which William conducted Mr. Bennet was narrow and ill-proportioned, yet comparatively quiet; a small parlor at the back of the house, where the noise of the common room arrived only in a dulled and intermittent fashion, like the echo of a disturbance already grown familiar. A single window looked upon a yard encumbered with barrels and broken crates; the table bore the marks of long service; and the chairs, though mismatched, had at least been arranged with some attempt at order. It was, in short, a room rendered tolerable by habit and attention, rather than by comfort.
The lad drew out a chair and waited, standing, until Mr. Bennet was seated; a deference which, though proper, was not abject, and which Mr. Bennet observed with interest. There is a species of humility which seeks approval by abasement, and another which proceeds from self-command; and though the distinction is not always easily defined, it is seldom mistaken by those who look for it.
“You have altered, William,” Mr. Bennet said, after a moment’s pause, during which he had allowed his eyes to rest upon the young man’s countenance. “You were ten when I last saw you. I remember you as smaller—and quieter.”
The lad smiled faintly. “I am still quiet, sir. But there is more to be done now that my mother is gone.”
“And you do it all?”
“As much as I can, sir.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, not in approbation, but in acknowledgement. He did not immediately pursue the subject; for he had long learned that young men speak more freely when not pressed, and that the truest accounts are often given not in answer to questions, but in the intervals between them. Yet there was unrelieved strain in the young man’s voice, and Mr. Bennet did not fail to hear it.
They spoke first of indifferent matters: of the journey, of the weather upon the road, of Portsmouth itself, and of the business of the inn, so far as it might be described without embarrassment. William answered readily when addressed, but did not attempt to prolong the discourse; and when silence occurred, he bore it with ease. Mr. Bennet, who had known many young men who filled every pause with assertion, found this restraint neither dull nor uncomfortable.
At length, as if by accident rather than design, the conversation turned to books.
“I see,” said Mr. Bennet, glancing towards a small shelf in the corner, “that you have not wholly abandoned your former inclinations.”
William colored slightly. “No, sir. I read when I can.”
“And what do you read?”
The lad hesitated—not from ignorance, but from that caution bred in those who have learned that knowledge is sometimes mistaken for presumption.
“Whatever I may borrow,” he said at last. “History, chiefly. Some divinity. Latin, when I can obtain it.”
