Chapter Thirteen Back to Previous Chapter Mr. Bennet held his son for a long moment, then released him and looked him over with a smile. “Here you are at last, Thomas,” he said quietly. “You have grown into a handsome man indeed. You take after your mother, fortunately. But I must not call you Thomas. You have been Henry too long to change now.” Henry smiled at this evidence of the return of his father’s customary demeanour. “I think so, sir.” “Well, if I slip sometimes and call you Thomas, I hope you will forgive an old man for being sentimental.” Henry laughed. “Father, call me whatever you like, and I do not consider you an old man by any reckoning.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes grew wider upon hearing himself addressed as “father,” and he turned his head slightly; wishing to spare him any embarrassment, the conscious Henry turned to his sister with a smile. “Well, Lizzy? I think not even Darcy can censure me for using your Christian name now!” Elizabeth wiped away her tears, smiled, and said, “No, he cannot.” She went to Henry and they embraced. “From the first time that we met I felt a connection to you,” she said. “But I confess I never dreamed that you were my brother.” “I felt it as well, do you remember? I thought perhaps I had met you previously.” Henry smiled down at his sister and kissed her on the cheek. “You two are a great deal alike,” observed Mr. Bennet paternally. “We are the most like you, Papa,” laughed Elizabeth. “Oh, this is delightful! Sir, I congratulate you!” “If you were not such a bold, forward miss, the discovery should never have been made,” declared her father. “Thus I thank you, Lizzy. Now, shall we tell the others?” “Not until the Lucases have gone,” warned his daughter. “The business will be common gossip soon enough. Let us keep it in the family as long as possible. Besides, the Lucases are not likely to consider this good news.” “Ah, yes, I trust Mr. Collins will be disappointed in his hopes of inheritance now.” Mr. Bennet’s dark eyes twinkled at Henry, who smiled faintly but felt uncomfortable at the thought of the disappointment of Mrs. Collins’ hopes. They stayed in the library for another half-hour, Henry and Elizabeth hand-in-hand while their father told them stories of Henry as an infant, and told Henry about his mother and asked him about the people who had raised him. “The oddest circumstance of all in this odd story,” Henry mused, “is that I actually resemble my foster mother somewhat. Everyone always said that I had the look of the Drummonds. How Mrs. Tilney must have laughed!” “What’s that?” asked Mr. Bennet, startled. “What was Mrs. Tilney’s maiden name?” “Drummond. Her name was Mary Drummond.” “And who was her father, do you know?” Henry filled in all the details he could recall of his foster mother’s family. Mr. Bennet shook his head, then laughed. His children stared at him, but finally he said, “My first wife’s maiden name was Elizabeth Drummond. I believe that she was the cousin of Mrs. Tilney. Elizabeth’s father was a younger son; the brothers quarreled, and the two branches of the family had nothing to do with one another afterward. The older brother was Mrs. Tilney’s father. No wonder you were thought to resemble her, Henry! The two Miss Drummonds were reckoned a great deal alike.” He fumbled in the drawer of his secretary until he located the miniature of the first Mrs. Bennet. He unwrapped it and passed it to his son. “That is your mother.” Henry took the miniature and looked down at it with a smile. “Yes, sir, they were very like. And from what you have told me, they were alike in disposition as well as looks.” His eyes did not move from the painting as he spoke. “Mrs. Tilney often had a great deal to bear in her marriage, but I believe that General Tilney valued her sincerely, and loved her as well as he was able.” He handed the miniature back to his father. “I assure you that your mother was loved dearly,” said Mr. Bennet with some emotion. “Loved, valued…treasured. Such was her worth.” He gazed at the miniature for a time, then re-wrapped it and stowed it in a drawer. “Well, even those good-natured, gossiping Lucases must have gone away by now. Henry, why don’t I present you to your step-mamma and your sisters?” But the Lucases had not gone away; in fact, Mrs. Bennet had invited them to dine with the family, hoping to have an announcement about the marriage of her second daughter with which to torture Lady Lucas. She waited expectantly, but no such announcement seemed to be forthcoming; however, they were a large, noisy party, and she was soon distracted by being doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases. After the Lucases had left, Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and see how everybody went on; but her father prevented her in the scheme. He called the family into the drawing-room and said, “You all know that Longbourn is entailed to the male line, and thus was bound to pass into Mr. Collins’ hands when I die.” “Oh, do not talk about the Collinses,” cried Mrs. Bennet fretfully. “I was quite put out with Lady Lucas at dinner, constantly calling to Maria to ask how Mrs. Collins did, how she got on with her poultry and her housekeeping. She knows that I must one day give up my home to her daughter, and she rubs my nose in it! And when I think that Lizzy could have been married to Mr. Collins--” “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Bennet impatiently. “But Lizzy had the good sense to refuse him, and even you must admit, Mrs. Bennet, that Mr. Collins’ only claim to your good favour was his eventual inheritance. You will allow this?” Mrs. Bennet stared at her husband sullenly. “Yes.” Mr. Bennet was enjoying himself hugely. “Very well. Now, if I were to produce a son to inherit the estate instead of Mr. Collins, would you then regret his loss to Charlotte Lucas?” “But you do not have a son, and Mr. Collins must inherit. Oh, I beg you, Mr. Bennet, do not tease me so!” She pulled out her handkerchief and sniffled into it. “I do not tease you, Mrs. Bennet. I have a son. You know that.” “But he died, or something, did not he?” Jane looked perplexed. “Papa? What do you mean?” “I have not spoken of this to you girls, except Lizzy. Before I married your mother, Jane, I had another wife.” Even Kitty and Lydia, who had paid almost no attention to the proceedings, looked up and exclaimed at this news. Mr. Bennet continued to speak. “The first Mrs. Bennet bore me a son. He was taken from us in infancy, and I have not seen him since. Not until today.” He smiled at Henry. “It turns out that Mr. Tilney here was not born Henry Tilney, but Thomas Bennet II. You need no longer despise Mr. Collins for the iniquity of inheriting Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet. From today, you may despise him entirely on his own merits.” The news shocked Mrs. Bennet into silence, though it caused her daughters to exclaim all at once. Henry sat quietly, smiling at Elizabeth, who reached out and took his hand. “We shall have dowries!” exclaimed Lydia. “Oh, Papa! Will you give me ten thousand pounds, like Miss King? I shall have my pick of the officers!” “And I know who you shall pick!” exclaimed Kitty, causing her sister to laugh merrily. Mrs. Bennet still said nothing, but simply stared at Henry. Finally she burst out with, “Oh! Mr. Tilney! You have saved us! We shall not be turned out to starve in the hedgerows after all!” She regarded him again for a moment and added, “Shall we?” Henry exchanged an amused glance with his father. “Nay, madam. No one shall starve in the hedgerows while I have a say in it.” “Oh! Mr. Tilney!” She went to him and kissed him on the cheek, a salute which he received with great good-nature. “And here I thought you had come to marry Lizzy!” Henry replied with perfect gravity, “No, ma’am, I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I am sure you will agree that under the circumstances I cannot marry Lizzy.” “Oh, no, no, that would not do at all!” She tittered nervously. “Lord bless me, what a scandal that should be! I shall find another husband for Lizzy, you may depend upon me, Mr. Tilney--but I may call you Henry now, may not I? Oh! I am all a-tremble! What news this is, Mr. Bennet!” She continued to flutter her handkerchief and bless herself for some time, which her family, accustomed to such behaviour, ignored. Jane went to her brother and took his hands in hers. “I am very glad that you have found us, and that we have found you," she said with a smile. "I know you have made Papa very happy.” “Thank you, Jane,” he replied, accepting a kiss from her as well. “I am happy to be part of your family, as well.” Bingley is a fool, he thought, gazing at Jane’s serene, glowing countenance. “I have read the tale of the Prodigal Son,” said Mary placidly. “It brought great joy to his family when he returned, and your return brings great joy to me, sir.” Henry said gravely, “I thank you, Mary.” She nodded and smiled at him, reflecting that a clergyman was precisely the sort of brother she would have wished for, had she ever thought to wish for one before. Lydia, for her part, was struck by a new idea. “Oh! Papa! Now we can afford to go to Brighton for the summer, can not we? Henry can come with us!” “Brighton?” asked Henry in some surprise. “The -----shire is encamped there this summer,” Lydia explained. “It will be so dull here without them. Mamma wants to go, do not you, Mamma? Do not you want to go to Brighton?” “If one could go to Brighton!” sighed Mrs. Bennet. "A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever." "And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good," added Kitty. “It is said that sea-bathing can cure many ills,” mused Mr. Bennet aloud. Mrs. Bennet was quick to encourage such a view. “To be sure, Mr. Bennet! I am persuaded it should do us a world of good, and our daughters too.” “I dare say it cannot cure our daughters of their chief ill, Mrs. Bennet,” her husband responded, passing out of the room and beckoning his son to follow him, “because even sea-water, healthful as it is, cannot cure them of their natural silliness, nor make me more reconciled to it.” Henry exchanged a grin with Elizabeth and followed his father out of the drawing-room and into the library. “I do not like to tear you away from the bosom of your family, Henry,” said Mr. Bennet dryly, “but my patience was surely tried. Will you have a brandy?” Henry accepted the drink and for the first time looked around the room. Bookshelves lined every wall, rising from floor to ceiling. “You have an extensive library, sir.” “Yes, well, it has been a long time in the making,” agreed Mr. Bennet, taking the chair opposite Henry. He sipped his drink and added, “You may borrow any volume you like.” “Thank you, sir, that is generous.” “They will all be yours one day. At least I know they will go to someone who will appreciate them, as Mr. Collins would not have.” He took another sip of brandy and added, “Had I not inherited Longbourn, I would probably have stayed a Fellow at Oxford. It was a life that suited me well.” He was quiet a moment, then added, “No, I would have married once I met Elizabeth. Perhaps I would have entered your profession. Think you I would have made a good clergyman, son? Perhaps I would have met Lady Catherine de Bourgh and gotten the preferment at Hunsford. I am not sure I should be so diligent in pursuing the tithes as my cousin, although I flatter myself that my sermons would be somewhat more learned.” Henry laughed in agreement with his father’s witticism, and a short silence followed which Henry finally broke with, “Father, Lydia mentioned my sisters’ dowries--” His father raised an impatient hand. “Lydia spoke out of turn. That freckled, impertinent King chit came into an inheritance and naturally all the officers began to court her, and it quite put my youngest’s nose out of joint. A little disappointment in love will do her good, I dare say.” “Nonetheless, I should not like my sisters to have their happiness possibly ruined by a lack of fortune,” said Henry, thinking of Bingley and Jane. He added, “They do not need a large fortune. They are daughters of a gentleman, and that alone will recommend them to liberal-minded people, although I dare say some kind of settlement is usually expected.” “I can give them nothing,” said Mr. Bennet bluntly. “You must join me in breaking the entail if we are to take anything from the estate.” “Gladly, sir. I would see my sisters provided for.” “As I have failed to do,” his father added dryly. “I was not criticizing you, sir,” replied Henry with some embarrassment. “Perhaps you should, Henry. Perhaps you should.” “Perhaps, Father, but I shall not. I would not presume to criticize circumstances that I do not fully comprehend.” “Well said, Henry.” Mr. Bennet sipped his brandy and added, “If you are truly determined on this course, I will set my brother Philips to work on it.” “I am, sir.” “Very well. But then what shall you do? I would not have you sell off part of the land, or mortgage your own future for the sake of your sisters’ present.” “I have a small fortune of my own, sir, that came from my foster mother on her death, and her marriage-articles provided me with a rather large inheritance upon the General’s death. And my living is a very good one. To sell a piece of land will not affect me overmuch. I am more concerned that such a sale will diminish your income.” “Once my daughters are in the care of their husbands, a little less income will not affect me greatly. Well, when the business of the entail is taken care of, we shall look everything over and see what we can do for the girls.” “Very good, sir.” They sat together in companionable silence for a time, then Henry said thoughtfully, “Father, there is one circumstance in all of this that I cannot understand. Why was I taken from you? For what purpose? There was no blackmail, no demand of payment for my return, was there?” “There was not. Your mother and I waited daily for such a demand. I would have paid anything for your return. Anything. They could have had Longbourn entire.” “Then what was the motive?” Mr. Bennet sighed heavily. “I have considered this matter for six and twenty years, Henry. I have examined it from every angle. Your mother clung to the hope that you were taken by some unfortunates who could not have children of their own, people who would give you a good home and love you. I took some comfort in that thought myself, but now I know that is not the case. Your foster parents gave you a good home, yes, but you came to them entirely through fortunate chance. When I think where you might have been left--" he shook his head, unable to continue. After a moment he said in a low voice, “There is only one person who would have benefited by your removal from my home, Henry. That is my cousin Collins.” “Collins?” cried Henry. “Not William Collins! He would have been an infant himself!” “No, not William Collins. His father.” Mr. Bennet sighed and took another sip of brandy. “Jeremiah Collins was a truly unpleasant man, Henry. He was illiterate and miserly, yet affected to live like a gentleman and never quite succeeded. He was born a Bennet, but he took the family name of a distant, childless cousin who promised to leave him his estate in return. His wife, a tradesman’s daughter, brought no prestige to the marriage, but did bring a large fortune. Thus his grandfather disinherited Jeremiah and entailed the estate upon me--a distant relation--and my male heirs. Jeremiah could not inherit; only his son could inherit Longbourn, and only if I died in default of heirs male. And I assure you that Jeremiah is sufficiently resentful to have had my son kidnapped so that his son could inherit. It would have been revenge enough to his disordered mind.” Henry was silent through this recitation. “But if Jeremiah Collins had received a fortune from the cousin, and from his wife’s family, why would he be so desperate for his son to inherit Longbourn?” “Avarice,” said Mr. Bennet. “He never had enough. Rather than put his fortune in the Funds where it would have been relatively safe and produced a good income, he speculated with his cousin’s money, and his wife’s, and lost most of it on 'Change. But even before that, he always wanted more. His wife was not a bad woman, though somewhat timid, and a bit vulgar. I always felt sorry for her. She died when William was a boy, and Jeremiah became even odder, hoarding what little money remained to him and keeping his son in total subjection. He would send me harassing letters occasionally, which I at first found highly diverting as you might imagine; but they quickly grew tiresome, and I cut the connection for good. There was some money that Mrs. Collins’ father settled on her that Jeremiah could not touch, and that money put the boy through public school and Oxford and permitted him to earn his living as a gentleman, as earn his living he must.” “I never thought I should feel sorry for William Collins,” Henry mused aloud. His father laughed. “No matter how idyllic his childhood, William Collins would never be a sensible man. When you knew him at Oxford, did he take advantage of any of the social opportunities he encountered?” Henry had to admit that he had not. “Then you need not feel sorry for him. Enjoy his lack of sensibility, and count yourself blessed for such amusing relatives.” He gazed at his son with a slight smile. “Perhaps you consider yourself less deserving of Longbourn than Mr. Collins?” Henry laughed. “No, sir.” “I am glad to hear it.” Just then came a light knock on the door of the library, and Elizabeth entered upon her father’s summons. “Henry, did you ask Papa?” “Was I to ask him something?” asked a very perplexed Henry. “I am surprised at you!” cried Elizabeth. “Have you forgotten Miss Morland?” Catherine! Good Lord, I have not spared her a thought today! Embarrassed, Henry immediately grasped his sister’s meaning and turned to his father. “Sir, there is a young lady whom I wish to marry. The General did not consider her worthy of his name, and though her parents had no objection to my suit, they were unable to sanction the match in the face of his disapprobation. We have been apart for more than a year, but my affection for her has not diminished. May I obtain your permission for the marriage, and present it to her parents?” Mr. Bennet regarded his son with faint amusement. “Tell me about this young lady, Henry. Is she silly and ignorant, like most girls?” Henry laughed. “She is quite ignorant, sir, though not as much as she was formerly, and she is only occasionally silly.” “That is unfortunate. I am not sure I should relish domestic harmony in so unusual a form, but if it suits you that is very well. I suppose I should ask all those tiresome questions about her family and prospects?” “Her father is the rector of Fullerton parish, in Wiltshire, and is the patron and incumbent of another parish, I cannot recall the name at present, which he will resign to his eldest son when he is old enough to take orders. Mr. Morland has an independent fortune as well, and his situation is entirely comfortable, but Catherine is one of ten children, and can expect only three thousand pounds.” “Excellent. I feared you had fallen in love with an heiress. That would not have done at all. You have my permission to marry, Henry. And my blessing.” “I thank you, sir!” Henry exchanged smiles with Elizabeth as Mr. Bennet took the seat behind the secretary and pulled out a sheet of paper and ink. He moved a few things out of the way so that he could lay the sheet flat, and observed aloud, “I did mean to clear this off. You will be ashamed of your father, I fear.” “Not at all. My secretary looks much the same, I am afraid.” “You take after me, then. That is well.” Mr. Bennet wrote contentedly as his children looked on. Henry spent the next two days becoming acquainted with his new family, and like his father, he found the Bennet women irritating and diverting by turns. Elizabeth, most like him in temper and taste, was his favourite, but he also loved Jane’s sweetness, and learned to appreciate Mary’s steadfast application, Kitty’s eager, unformed mind, and Lydia’s good-humour. He regretted the heedless, hoydenish behaviour of the two youngest, but it was rather too early to cast himself in the role of The Cruel Big Brother, so he observed them silently and made a note to himself to speak to Mr. Bennet about it. As Elizabeth had predicted, the news spread rapidly round the neighbourhood and was the sole topic of conversation in every drawing-room and at every dinner-table. The Lucases soon waited on the Bennets to offer their congratulations, and only Lady Lucas was seen to look upon Henry with anything less than perfect goodwill. There was some discussion about which surname Henry should use; he was unwilling to completely abandon Tilney, out of respect to the people who raised him, in particular his foster mother. He tested various hyphenated versions of Bennet and Tilney but only succeeded in confusing everyone, and at last his highly-diverted father bid Henry to continue on as Tilney for the time being, trusting that the matter would eventually sort itself out. Mr. Philips was put to work on the process of breaking the entail, and legal papers were sent from Meryton on nearly a daily basis. Once they were brought by Mr. Philips’ new clerk, a spotty, bespectacled young man who stood uncomfortably in the drawing-room turning a shabby hat over in his hands and staring at Mary as she practiced on the pianoforte. That young lady took his homage in her stride, approving of his sober appearance and considering his quiet attentions as her due as the most accomplished young lady in the neighbourhood. Her younger sisters made open sport of the young man, and even Henry was diverted, though out of consideration for Mary’s feelings he kept his amusement to himself. Henry debated writing to Catherine to acquaint her with his situation, but decided that such a monumental piece of news was best delivered in person. Though it pained him to leave his father and sisters so soon, his heart was pulled toward Fullerton, and he felt that Catherine had waited long enough. Henry touched the pocket of his coat one last time, reassured by the crackle of paper within it, the letter from his father to the Morlands granting his permission for Henry’s marriage to Catherine. He turned to say goodbye to his father and his two eldest sisters, who had risen early that morning to see him off. “Goodbye, Father,” he said, shaking Mr. Bennet’s hand. “I shall write as soon as I have the Morlands’ answer.” “Very good, son. I wish you a pleasant journey.” “I thank you, sir.” Mr. Bennet held Henry’s hand between his own for a moment, then dropped it with a rather sheepish smile. “Go on, then. Do not forget to bring your bride to Longbourn to be frightened by her stepmamma-in-law.” “You may depend upon it.” Henry turned to his sisters with a smile. He kissed Jane and then Elizabeth, who embraced him and whispered, “Henry, I can hardly wait to meet Catherine.” “You will love her, Lizzy, and she will love you.” “She loves you, and that is sufficient to recommend her to me.” Henry laughed, mounted his horse, and with a last wave to his family rode off toward Catherine. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.