Mr. Bennet regarded him thoughtfully. “That is a comforting doctrine, when one finds oneself uncomfortably involved.”
“It is also a demanding one,” the clergyman replied quietly.
Mr. Bennet allowed a short silence, then continued. “Young Mr. Collins has the capacity for learning, if not yet the means. I have spoken with a solicitor who would welcome assistance of the humbler sort—copying, chiefly—but I would not have the lad sent to college without some preparation. His schooling has been irregular; his Latin, as you observe, still requires improvement; and his habits—while not bad—have not been shaped with any particular end in view.”
The clergyman considered this. “You would wish him better instructed.”
“To a degree sufficient to prevent humiliation,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, “and perhaps to encourage ambition where it may be safely entertained.”
“There are men within the parish,” the clergyman said slowly, “who might be equal to such a task. Not schoolmasters by profession, but men of education who would not object to regular employment, particularly if the purpose were clear.”
“Two lessons a week,” Mr. Bennet suggested. “Latin, chiefly, with some attention to reading and order. I do not propose to make him a prodigy—only to keep doors from closing before he has learned what lies behind them.”
“And you would wish this instruction to be paid.”
“I would,” Mr. Bennet replied firmly. “Charity, when prolonged, weakens both giver and receiver. I prefer arrangements that acknowledge effort on both sides.”
The clergyman nodded. “There is Mr. Aldridge,” he said at length. “Once a curate, now retired from regular duty, but still sharp of mind and steady in habit. He has taken pupils before, though not recently. Twelve or fifteen pounds per year would, I believe, be sufficient inducement for his time, if the commitment were understood.”
Mr. Bennet raised his brows slightly. “Fifteen pounds seems modest.”
“It is enough,” the clergyman answered, “to mark the work as valued, without encouraging idleness. And Mr. Aldridge would take satisfaction in seeing a boy advance by his instruction.”
Mr. Bennet reflected for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. If he is willing, and the boy not unwilling, I see no objection.”
The clergyman’s expression softened. “You do a good thing, Mr. Bennet.”
“I do a cautious one,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Whether it proves good must depend upon the boy.”
“That is always so,” the clergyman said. “We may open the way; they must walk it.”
Mr. Bennet rose. “Then let us agree that Providence may take the credit later, if it insists upon it. For now, I shall content myself with doing what lies within reach.”
No further explanation was required. Mr. Bennet thanked the clergyman with civility, and took his leave; but the substance of the conversation accompanied him far beyond the door.
It was only after these enquiries—made quietly, without display, and with no wish to magnify his own consequence—that Mr. Bennet allowed himself to consider what might properly be attempted. He was not a man disposed to schemes of continual interference; he disliked benevolence which required perpetual oversight; and he was well aware that authority, once exercised beyond its natural limits, is seldom either welcome or effective.
Yet the case before him admitted of no indifference. If the boy were to be prepared for admission to college, he must be removed, at least in part, from the distractions of the inn; his studies must be rendered regular, his grammar strengthened, his habits protected from those irregularities which neither youth nor principle can always resist. Above all, the father’s excesses must be restrained—not by reproach, which would be useless—but by the quiet interposition of circumstance.
Here, Mr. Bennet perceived, the trust reposed in him assumed a more active character. The income allotted for William’s education might be employed to secure instruction elsewhere, or to place him, for a time, under stricter discipline; and the authority vested in him as trustee afforded, if not power over the father, at least a means of limiting the consequences of his intemperance.
It was not generosity which determined him, nor sentiment; but foresight, sober and unadorned. To do nothing would be easier—but to do nothing would be to surrender the boy to chance, and the trust to form. Mr. Bennet had never prided himself on exertion; yet he had never shrunk from responsibility when it presented itself plainly.
And here, at least, the path—though not inviting—was laid before him without disguise.
***
Before returning to the Fountain Inn, Mr. Bennet walked for some time alone along the quay, observing the ceaseless activity of the harbor—the departure and arrival of ships, chiefly merchant vessels and coastal traders, and the easy indifference with which men entrusted their fortunes, and sometimes their very lives, to the capricious sea and to forces they could neither command nor foresee. He paused now and then, his hands clasped behind his back, allowing the salt-laden breeze to clear his thoughts. He reflected upon his own household; upon his wife’s perpetual anxieties, his daughters’ uncertain prospects, and the implacable entail which rendered all such reflections uncomfortable if pursued too far. He thought, too, of the young Collins he had briefly observed—steady in hisdemeanor, unassuming in his address, and already burdened with responsibilities far beyond his tender years. A faint pressure settled behind his eyes as he considered how little the world spared the young, or those who had lost the protection of a steady parent.
By the time he turned his steps back toward the inn, his resolution had quietly formed itself, though accompanied by the sober acknowledgement that such responsibilities, once assumed, were seldom laid down again without consequence.
Mr. Bennet arrived at the inn in the middle of the afternoon, took possession of the small chamber that had been reserved for him, and permitted himself a brief interval of repose before the demands of the evening should press their claims. The apartment was plain but scrupulously orderly, its single window affording a view over a narrow back street where the fading light of day lingered upon the worn cobblestones and the low outbuildings beyond. He laid aside his hat and gloves with deliberate care, seated himself upon the single chair, and waited until the familiar sounds of the house—footsteps upon the stairs, muffled voices from below, the occasional clatter of crockery—had settled into their accustomed rhythm.
William appeared a few hours later, knocking softly at the door. When bidden to enter, the boy stepped inside with the cautious air of one long accustomed to correction, though his manner, once within the room, proved respectful rather than servile.
Mr. Bennet did not invite him to be seated.
“What is it, William?”
