Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted—not in surprise, but in quiet recalculation.
“Who directs your studies?”
William’s answer was given without complaint. “No one in particular, sir. The clergyman here allows me the use of some books, and corrects me when he has leisure. But he has many calls.”
“And your father?”
At this, William’s eyes lowered—not in resentment, but in resignation.
“My father,” he said, after a moment, “has little leisure for such matters. Nor inclination, if I may say so.”
Mr. Bennet did not pursue the subject further; for there are truths which, once admitted, require no elaboration. Instead, he rose, walked a little about the room, and then seated himselfagain, as if the matter had been settled inwardly, though not yet declared.
“You are sixteen, I believe?”
“Almost seventeen, sir.”
“And you wish to enter the Church?”
William’s reply was immediate. “Yes—if such a course should be open to me.”
Not eagerness, not ambition, but steadiness marked the words. Mr. Bennet regarded him more closely than before; for though professions are easily made, they are seldom so simply delivered.
“You understand,” he said, “that the Church offers no certain fortune?”
“I do, sir.”
“And that it demands patience, discipline, and restraint?”
The lad looked his visitor in the eye. “I am accustomed to those, sir.”
Mr. Bennet smiled—not ironically, but with a brief, thoughtful gravity.
“I believe you are, my lad.”
When Mr. Bennet rose to leave the room, it was with the air of a man who has concluded an examination without yet pronouncing judgment.
“I came here,” he said, with deliberate calm, “at the request of your mother’s solicitor, Mr. Jennings. I suppose you know him, or have at least heard of him.”
“Yes, sir. Everyone in the town knows Mr. Jennings. He is a stern man, but an honest one. His office is three streets from here, towards the harbor.”
“Very well. Thank you. I shall go and speak with him. I believe your honorable mother entrusted me with certain responsibilities concerning your future. I promise you that we shall speak again, and that I shall endeavor not to disappoint her trust.”
“That is very kind of you, sir.” William hesitated, then added, with careful propriety, “Would you wish me to prepare a room for you? Since my mother’s death, we have several chambers unoccupied; my father has little tact, and is often unnecessarily sharp with the customers.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Bennet quietly. “And he drinks more than formerly, I should imagine. Very well. I shall take a room here for two days.”
William said nothing further; and when he conducted Mr. Bennet back towards the front of the house, he resumed his place and duties without ostentation, as if nothing had passed beyond the ordinary exchange of civility.
It was evident that Mr. Bennet would not quit Portsmouth the following morning, as Mrs. Bennet had confidently expected; nor would he spend his remaining hours observing Richard Collins’s habits with a severity that could answer no useful purpose. Instead, he applied himself quietly to enquiry.
***
Mr. Bennet entered a narrow outer room, plainly furnished but in constant use, where papers were stacked in careful disorder upon every available surface, and the scratching of pens rose and fell like the sound of industrious insects. A man of middle years looked up at his entrance, rose at once, and came forward with an air of brisk civility.
“Good day, sir. Mr. Jennings is engaged just now, but I am at your service, if I may be of any use. Cobb—Thomas Cobb,” he added, with a small bow that managed to be respectful without ceremony.
Mr. Bennet returned it. “Mr. Bennet, of Longbourn. I was advised that I might find Mr. Jennings here.”
