“There is one further point, sir,” the solicitor added, with a gravity that belonged not to ceremony but to duty. “Given the circumstances, I would respectfully propose that we maintain a regular correspondence. Any material change in the boy’s situation, his health, or his prospects shall be communicated to you without delay; and I trust that you, in turn, will inform me of any determination you may reach respecting his education or employment, so that the accounts may be kept in exact conformity with your intentions.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head at once. “That is perfectly reasonable. I have no desire to act without information, nor to leave you without direction. We shall proceed, then, not merely by obligation, but by understanding.”
“I am obliged to you, sir,” said Mr. Jennings. “Such cooperation will greatly lessen the risk of error—and, I hope, spare the boy unnecessary uncertainty.”
“That consideration,” returned Mr. Bennet, with quiet firmness, “ought never to be disregarded.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Bennet resumed his seat, as though recalling a matter not yet exhausted.
“There is one practical point upon which I should value your opinion,” he said. “I have been informed by your assistant, Mr. Cobb, that the demands of this office are such that an additional copyist might be of real service. I would willingly see the boy removed, at least in part, from the daily drudgery of the inn, and placed where his steadiness and fair hand might be better employed.”
Mr. Jennings regarded him attentively.
“If such an arrangement were thought acceptable,” Mr. Bennet continued, “I should be prepared to bear the expense of his further preparation. Twenty pounds per annum would be devoted expressly to instruction—whether under Mr. Cobb’s guidance or another suitable person—until such time as the boy might be fit for college. I should ask only that his labor here be honestly employed, and that his habits be formed under proper supervision.”
The solicitor reflected for a moment, then nodded.
“The proposal is reasonable,” he said. “The office would undertake his maintenance during working hours—his wages and midday meal—nothing more. Instruction beyond the immediate requirements of copying would properly remain your charge.”
“That is precisely my understanding,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Then I see no objection,” Mr. Jennings concluded. “Indeed, I see advantage on both sides. If you will have young Mr. Collins attend here, I shall be glad to observe his hand and habits, and to determine what employment may suit him.”
They exchanged bows; and as Mr. Bennet stepped back into the street, he did so with the settled conviction that the matter before him would not be managed by impulse, nor abandoned to chance, but pursued—as far as prudence and patience would allow—with steady attention and mutual regard.
***
Mr. Bennet next waited upon the local clergyman at St. Thomas à Becket, a man of earnest intentions and a fatigued manner, whose benevolence was sincere, though pressed on all sides by duties which allowed little leisure for particular zeal. Mr. Bennet introduced himself as a cousin of the Collins family, entrusted by the late Mrs. Collins with a measure of concern for the young man, and the interview was conducted without ceremony, and with that quiet frankness which belongs to men accustomed to speak more by necessity than by inclination.
From Father Hartley, Mr. Bennet learned that William Collins’s conduct had been uniformly good; that his attendance at church was neither irregular nor enforced; and that his seriousness of deportment was unaccompanied by gloom. The young man applied himself to study with steadiness rather than display, and showed no disposition to make knowledge a means of vanity.
“William is not brilliant,” said the clergyman, with a candor that was not unkind, “but he is sound. He reads with attention; he remembers what he reads; and he does not tire of it when no one is present to observe him. His Latin is imperfect, but improving; his grammar tolerable; and his turn of mind is more reflective than ambitious.”
“And his temper?” inquired Mr. Bennet.
“Cheerful,” was the immediate reply. “Not volatile, but even. He bears rebuke without resentment, and labor without complaint. If he has any fault, it is rather an excess of submission than a want of spirit. Humility is good at his age; but the illness and death of his mother have bowed the poor lad’s wings too early. There is strength in him still, and a brave soul.”
Mr. Bennet paused a moment. “So, you believe him capable of further advancement, Father?”
“With proper guidance,” returned Father Hartley, “and regular instruction—yes. I would willingly undertake more for him myself, but my time is divided beyond prudence, and my means are unequal to the charge. He requires a firmer grounding in grammar, and more constant exercise in translation, than I can at present supply.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, as if the statement merely confirmed what he had already suspected.
“And his situation at home?” Mr. Bennet asked, not sharply, but with an attention which admitted of no evasion.
The clergyman hesitated—not from reluctance, but from the habitual caution of one who knows that candor may be mistaken for accusation.
“It is not favorable to application,” he said at length. “The house is ill-ordered; the hours uncertain; and the example set before him is not improving. I do not accuse Mr. Collins of cruelty—but of neglect, and of indulgences which are not easily restrained by those dependent upon him.”
Mr. Bennet listened attentively, his hands folded, his expression neither eager nor remote.
“You believe,” he said gently, “that some intervention is required.”
“I believe,” the clergyman answered, “that neglect is often mistaken for Providence, and that the two are not always the same.”
At this, Mr. Bennet inclined his head.
“God has His ways, Mr. Bennet,” Father Hartley said after a moment, “but He is not accustomed to work without instruments. It is very often through the conscience and action of others that His intentions are advanced.”
