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The moon had just risen as Knightley left the grounds of Donwell Abbey and walked the familiar road to Hartfield. He had left his brother’s house in London only that afternoon, later than he had intended. Even apart from his own reluctance to leave the homely atmosphere of Brunswick-square, it had been difficult to extricate himself from the family. The children had hung about him and begged him not to leave, and Isabella had delayed him further by entrusting him with long, affectionate messages for her father and sister. Even John, though not demonstrative, had not wanted to see him go. But at length he had made his final farewells, and only John had followed him out of the house to see him off.
“You might have stayed a few more days, George,” John had said as the groom brought the horses around to where they were standing and checked to see that the luggage was securely loaded onto one of them. “The children would have liked you to see the Royal Menagerie with them.”
“Had I only my own inclination to consult, I would stay until Christmas. But the Quarter Sessions are approaching and William Larkins is anxious that I come and approve his plan for moving that fence on the north side of the sheep pasture before he dismisses the workmen that have been building the new barn. And I must see how Hartfield is sustaining the loss of Miss Taylor.”
“Yes.” John smiled wryly. “I do not envy you the task of cheering my father-in-law. Though you and Emma together might just do it—temporarily, at least. I fear you will be entirely surrounded by morose and irritable people: Hartfield will be sober for several weeks at least, and William Larkins and Mrs. Hodges are never quite cheerful.”
“Not exactly never, John. There was a day last spring…”
John snorted. “I suppose all the sheep had twin lambs, pleasing Larkins with the thought of profit and Mrs. Hodges with the thought of lamb cutlets?”
“Not quite. It was the cows that had twin calves, and even then Mrs. Hodges only smiled because the asparagus was early.”
John groaned even as he smiled. “I do not know how you can bear with them with such good humour. It seems to me that you spend a good deal of your time smoothing over fractious tempers or putting up with difficult and tedious people.”
“No more than is good for me.”
“And you are sadly in want of rational conversation.”
“Not at all. I have told you that Cole is on the parish committee for Poor Relief, and he is a good fellow. And I have Langley and Dr. Hughes. Dr. Hughes, particularly, is well-read and intelligent. And then I am often surprised by good conversation when I am not looking for it. Young Martin came the other week to discuss the new rams he had bought and found me reading the road surveyor’s report of that bridge near Highbury. We had a most interesting talk on the subject of roads, bridges, and improvements.”
“And Weston is settled there now, as well.”
“Yes, though I’m not sure any newly-married man is good for rational conversation. I recall you, for example, seven years ago—”
“No, no, that is enough of that. You had better be off now, or you will be too late to give Isabella’s greetings to Hartfield.”
And so he had travelled home and eaten his dinner and was now going to raise the spirits of Mr. Woodhouse and Emma. He might have deferred his visit to the morrow, but he felt that a visit to Hartfield was as necessary to his mood as it was to theirs. After the noisy cheerfulness of his brother’s house, Donwell Abbey seemed lonely and silent—even more so than usual. A little bit of conversation at Hartfield was just the thing he needed.
The road was well lit by the nearly-full moon, and the weather was just right for an evening in late September. The weather would certainly not hinder the final days of work on the new barn, in spite of William Larkins’ gloomy predictions. His brother’s words came back to him and made him smile: I fear you will be entirely surrounded by morose and irritable people. John pitied him, he knew, for living alone at Donwell with no connections nearby—unless one could count the Woodhouse family as connections. But even so, he was usually content. His brother’s home was not too distant for frequent visits, and Hartfield was so familiar to him as to be almost a second home. Mr. Woodhouse could not take the place of a father with him, but he was the sort of man that one must respect, and it felt good and right to Knightley that there was such a man in the neighbourhood for him to pay deference to. Even his brother, who at times allowed Mr. Woodhouse’s weak understanding and nervous temperament to vex him, knew the real generosity and goodness of the old man’s heart. Knightley’s father had been Mr. Woodhouse’s friend and advisor, and the son had taken up the mantle when he became the master of Donwell. It was a satisfaction to him to be of use to the fussy, kind-hearted old gentleman.
This usefulness extended to the daughter; it lifted Emma’s burden a little when he was there to calm Mr. Woodhouse’s fears and make him cheerful with small, happy items of news. You and Emma together might just do it … Yes, he feared that the loss of Miss Taylor would be such a blow to Mr. Woodhouse that Emma alone would not be able to do much to prevent his lamentations. And Emma herself would be feeling melancholy after the loss of such a friend. Not for the first time did Mr. Knightley wish that there was another companion in Highbury for Emma. Her loss was the heavier of the two.
He was nearly to Hartfield now; the knowledge that Emma was labouring alone to bring her father to contentment while feeling rather dismal on her own account had hastened his steps. A few moments later, the hall porter, a dignified elderly servant, answered the door to his knock and greeted him with his usual quiet, “Good evening, Mr. Knightley.” As he took Knightley’s coat, he added, “I thought you might come tonight, sir.”
The footman announced him as he walked into the drawing room. The faces of the two occupants of the room brightened with unfeigned pleasure at the sight of him. Mr. Woodhouse was seated, as usual, near the blazing fire, and Emma was evidently arranging the playing pieces on the backgammon table in preparation for a game with her father. She came forward to meet him with a smile and a lively greeting, and he fancied there was even a little bit of relief in her expression as she led him to the empty chair near her father and bid him be seated.
“All well here, I trust?” he asked, as Emma put the backgammon aside. “I left Isabella and John in excellent health and spirits not three hours ago.”
“How good of you to come and tell us so, Mr. Knightley!” said Mr. Woodhouse. “But the children? How are the dear children?”
“They are all in excellent health, sir.”
“Poor Isabella, my poor dear Isabella,” murmured Mr. Woodhouse. To a stranger this remark would have been puzzling enough, following as it did on the heels of a good report, but to Knightley, who understood it, it gave gentle amusement. Emma’s eyes rested lovingly on her father, but there was humour in them, too.
“And had poor Isabella a headache while you were there? She often has a headache, you know, Mr. Knightley, though she never complains.”
“I do not believe she had any. She said that she has had very few since they returned from South End. And that little Bella’s throat was much better as well.”
“Oh! That miserable South End and that sea-bathing! They had much better not have gone. Sea-bathing with a weak throat! Perry said that he had never heard of such folly. And the baby, too—so young, and so liable to infection! Are you sure, Mr. Knightley, that the baby caught no infection at South End?”
“Perfectly sure. All the children are in remarkably good health. The boys are strong and healthy fellows. I took them to the park one day, and Henry rolled his hoop the length of it with no assistance from anyone.”
“Did he, indeed? Well, he is a clever boy, to be sure.”
“And little Bella,” said Emma, “is it true that she knows her alphabet already?”
“In truth, she does know it, and can recite it whenever she is called upon. She’s a precocious little thing. She reminds me of Emma, sir, when Emma was a child.”
“Yes, Emma was always very quick, was she not, Mr. Knightley? You were like your dear mother, Emma. It is no wonder that Isabella’s children take after her.”
After Mr. Woodhouse was satisfied that the Knightleys in London were in no worse health than they were when he had last seen them, he was at leisure to express his concern for Mr. Knightley’s comfort, as he had walked all the way from Donwell Abbey on such a dark and damp night. Mr. Knightley made his usual protests against such solicitude, as it was perfectly unnecessary, and then gently broached the topic of Miss Taylor’s marriage.
“Ah! Poor Miss Taylor!” said Mr. Woodhouse immediately, his countenance clouding over again. “’tis a sad business.”
Knightley looked at Emma to see how she took the mention of this change in her life. Her elegant posture did droop a little at this reminder, though her face retained the smile it had been wearing. Poor Miss Taylor, indeed! thought Knightly. No one in this room needs sympathy less than she! He would do what he could to comfort Emma, at least. An appeal to her love for Miss Taylor and her desire for Miss Taylor’s happiness would do more than anything else to reconcile her.
“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please,” he said, “But I cannot possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence! At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please, than two.”
Emma’s left eyebrow lifted, as it always did when she was about to tease him. “Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature! That is what you have in your head, I know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”
He grinned and opened his mouth to respond to this, but was checked by Mr. Woodhouse’s breaking in with, “I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed. I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”
Emma quickly reassured her father that she had herself in view, certainly not him, and that it was all a joke, anyway—Mr. Knightley liked to pretend to find fault with her, and that was what the joke was about. Knightley watched this familial interplay with quiet amusement. He knew she wished his reminders and reprimands were all mere teasing, though she knew very well they were not. However, these few well-chosen words from Emma quieted Mr. Woodhouse’s fears and brought him back to complacency. Even so, Knightley judged that his nerves were not in a state that made it possible to tell Emma now—again—that he had only her own good in view when he brought her faults to her attention. Instead, he merely clarified his own statement, saying that anyone who had only one person to please instead of two must find it a gain.
“Well,” said Emma, starting a new subject, “You want to hear about the wedding, and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks. Not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.” Emma glanced at her father—she could not honestly say that there had been no long faces. “Oh no! We all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.”
Perhaps Mr. Woodhouse thought Emma sounded rather heartless, for he shook his head and said, “Dear Emma bears every thing so well. But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for.”
Emma’s determined cheerfulness wavered at this—the truth of her father’s words could not be denied. She turned away, but not before Knightley saw tears forming in her eyes.
“It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” he said. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it.” He meant to show her that he understood her feelings, and could never think her wanting in affection for her friend. It was, in fact, that affection which would be the most material help in soothing the pangs of separation; the more Emma thought of Miss Taylor’s happiness, the less she would regret her own loss. So he said all he could on the subject of Miss Taylor’s comforts and advantages, and was rewarded by the return of a smile to Emma’s face and the good omen of a raised left eyebrow.
Knightley walked home to Donwell less content than he had been on the walk to Hartfield. The marriage of the Westons was undoubtedly a good thing for them, but he foresaw that it would be a bad thing for Emma. Though not as firm in her authority as she might have been, Miss Taylor had been a good companion and teacher for her charge; she had instructed her commendably in the art of being a gentlewoman, had nourished her love of her father and her compassion for the poor, and had given her right principles to live by. Those principles had taken root in Emma; when once convinced that something was her duty, she would do it, regardless of cost to herself. Emma really was, in many ways, an admirable young woman. But she might be still more admirable than she was. She could be a very knowledgeable and accomplished woman indeed, but she had not disciplined herself to read, practice, or study when she did not feel like it, and Miss Taylor had not forced her. He felt that her intellect was often wasted on trivial matters. She was clever, but there was no one around her but himself who would oppose any scheme she had. He had no doubt that the scheme she had spoken of tonight would be diligently pursued. Probably nothing he could have said would have deterred her, but had he goaded her into it by any misspoken word? How had it started? Ah yes. She had taken credit for the Westons’ marriage, saying that she had planned it four years ago and that as it was the greatest amusement in the world, she would continue to make matches for other people.
Amusement! He bit his lip in frustration. Meddling in the lives of good, honest men and women all for the sake of her own amusement! And then when he had protested that the Westons’ marriage was really not due to her own endeavours but that she had merely made a lucky guess, she asserted that she had at least smoothed the progress of the courtship and assured its successful conclusion.
“A straight-forward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational unaffected woman, like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns,” he had told her. “You are more likely to have done harm to yourself than good to them, by interference.”
Mr. Woodhouse had also urged Emma not to make any more matches, though it was more on his own account than anyone else’s. But Emma would not be dissuaded by either her father or himself, and there was no one else to check her. She had declared that she meant to make a match for Mr. Elton, the vicar, and Knightley was sure that however weak her determination proved to be when she planned a course of improving study for herself, it would be firm in this enterprise.
Mr. Woodhouse had suggested that an invitation to dinner would be far more helpful to Mr. Elton, and Knightley could not help laughing as he concurred. But the more he thought about it, the less humorous he found it. Deprived of Miss Taylor’s steadying influence, she would be more headstrong than ever; deprived of Miss Taylor’s society, she would amuse herself with employments unworthy of her intelligence and abilities. For years—since Emma was about twelve—he had thought that if he had a wife she might be a help to Emma. The right sort of woman…virtuous but also lively, domestic but intelligent, able to appreciate and meet Emma’s wit…such a woman would be an ideal companion for Emma no less than for himself. But no such woman had crossed his path, and he was not prepared to let a lesser woman take the title of mistress of Donwell Abbey.
He sighed as he walked through Donwell’s sweep-gate. He had some little hope that he had been able to raise the spirits of those at Hartfield, but his feelings were rather more depressed than they had been two hours ago.
“So then, gentlemen, we are all agreed? Good. Charles Burton is hereby appointed constable for this parish,” said Knightley. “I will call on him this evening and inform him of our decision.”
“Very good,” said Weston. “He’s an excellent man for the job. Full of energy and good spirits—just the sort of man that position needs. That concludes our business today, Knightley, does it not? I need to be getting home.”
“Ah,” said Cole with a wink. “It’s no wonder you’re so keen to get back to Randalls—you’ve only been married three weeks. Give it three years and you won’t be in such a hurry.”
Weston laughed good-naturedly and rose from his seat. “For such a remark as that I ought to deny you any wedding cake.”
“Too late,” said Cole, rising also. “My wife and daughters were to call on Mrs. Weston this very day while we have been meeting, and I am certain your good wife will have given them each a piece as well as one to carry home for myself.”
“No doubt. Well, the sooner it is all gone the sooner poor Mr. Woodhouse will be relieved from his anxiety on the score of everyone’s health. Elton, you ought to call again and help us to eat it up.”
“I should be very happy to,” said Elton, and stood up, stretching surreptitiously as he did so. These meetings of the parish council at the Crown always took so long. These were good men, of course, but so very meticulous about everything! Knightley, particularly, would not make any sort of decision without considering every possible point of view and gathering more information than Elton thought was ever needed. He took up his hat and gloves and moved toward the door, glancing out the window as he passed it. Something he saw arrested his attention, causing him to stop suddenly and forcing Knightley, who was coming behind him, to stop as well. Knightley looked out the window and saw instantly what had stayed the vicar’s steps: Emma was across the road, looking into the shop window of Ford’s, and with her was a young woman. Knightley could not remember the last time he had seen Emma out together with another young lady, and he gazed at the pair for several moments trying to determine who it might be.
By this time Weston had gathered that there was something of interest outside the window. “What is it, Elton? Something amiss?”
“Ah—no, no,” said Elton. “I see John Abdy walking along—looking very frail, I must say. I was wondering whether—ah—he was looking more feeble than he used to look.”
Weston joined them at the window. “Yes, he does look bad, poor thing. No doubt he’s failing a bit. And there’s Miss Woodhouse and her new little friend, Miss Smith. Do you know Miss Smith, Knightley? No? Such a pleasant young girl—only seventeen, I believe—and Emma will do her a great deal of good. Bring her out in society more, you know, and that sort of thing. She was a pupil of Mrs. Goddard’s. Still lives there as parlour-border. Mrs. Weston is so pleased that she can be a companion for Emma. And there they go into Ford’s. I tell Mrs. Weston that Ford’s is like a magnet that draws in all the young ladies. No lady can come into Highbury without stopping there, what?”
“Mrs. Cole cannot, at any rate,” said that lady’s husband, who declined to add himself to the party at the window, “And if she cannot shop there herself, she gives me commissions to attend to on her behalf. I have one today, as it happens, and I’m afraid I must part company with you, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow, Weston, Elton. Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley.”
“Well, now, Knightley,” said Weston after they had all quitted the Crown, “Can you come to Randalls now and eat up more of the wedding cake? Mrs. Weston would be very pleased to see you.”
“No, I thank you. I promised William Larkins that I would go and inspect some cottages this afternoon.”
“Very well, very well. I mustn’t interfere with promises made to William Larkins, I know. I suppose I will see you Thursday evening at Hartfield?”
“Yes, indeed. Hartfield’s first dinner in honour of the Westons cannot be missed. Give my regards to Mrs. Weston.”
“Of course. And mine to William Larkins,” said Weston with a twinkle in his eye. “Until Thursday, then.”
William Larkins received the regards of Mr. Weston from Knightley with a very modified rapture. He was a short man of about fifty-five with greying hair and a rather severe expression. He nodded his acknowledgement of the courtesy, but quickly got to the business at hand.
“I sent a message to the cottagers this morning to say that we would be along this afternoon, sir, so as not to embarrass them with an unexpected visit.”
“And which cottages are these, exactly?” asked Knightley as the two men set forth.
“The ones along the mill road. The game-keeper Green’s cottage is among them. They are the oldest on the estate, and they are in such a condition now that they ought to be replaced.”
Knightley nodded. Larkins was nearly always right about these things.
“There have been no new cottages built here in the last ten years, have there, Larkins?”
“No, sir. The last cottages to be built were the four near the stables, twelve years ago.”
“The year ’02. Yes, I remember now. That was the last thing my father built, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Larkins.
“You had better look out some new pattern books of designs for cottages. Green needs to have a good place to live. I should hate to lose him as gamekeeper on account of an unimproved cottage.”
As usual, Larkins received Knightley’s humour with all seriousness.
“I do not think such a consideration would ever tempt Green to leave your service, Mr. Knightley. He is as loyal to Donwell Abbey as anyone could well be. But I must tell you, sir, that Mrs. Green is not as happy as she might be with her present cottage. I have heard her holding forth on the subject to the lodge-keeper’s wife.”
Knightley hid a smile. Larkins always played the role of an unwilling bearer of disagreeable news to someone who ought to know it. It was in this way that he spread more gossip than anyone else in the parish of Donwell. His communications usually began with the words, “I must tell you…”
The three old cottages came into view. They looked well enough on the outside, but they were rather small: one room on the ground floor and one on the floor above. Each room was fairly spacious, but they were definitely built to an old design.
Larkins knocked on the first door and Mrs. Green opened it. She was a plump woman, just past middle age, but she made a graceful curtsey to the men and ushered them into the house. To their surprise, the women who occupied the other cottages were also there.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Knightley,” said Mrs. Green as the other ladies rose and curtseyed. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Green. You can answer our questions just as easily all together as you could separately. Mrs. Shaw, Mrs. Bull, do be seated again. Tea? Yes, thank you, Mrs. Green. And now you must all tell me every single thing that is wrong with these cottages.”
The list was long, although the women made as light of it as they could. The ceilings were low; the floors were rather damp; windows were scarce and small which made the cottages dark; they would like to have more rooms—at least two upstairs; the stairs were awkward. Larkins drank his tea in silence and let his master do the talking. Knightley asked questions, listened to the women, and gratified Mrs. Green by taking another cup of tea. He made no promises except that something would be done for them very shortly.
At the end of half an hour, the men rose and took their leave. Larkins departed in quest of the head gardener to find out how many bushels of apples the orchard had yielded, and Knightley walked back to the house alone, thinking about designs for cottages. It seemed to him that Weston had build a cottage on his small estate a year or two ago; he might know if there were any new books to be got on the topic. He might even have one that Knightley could borrow. He would ask him at the dinner at Hartfield on Thursday. Emma would laugh at him, of course, for asking to borrow a book instead of buying it for himself. She thought he was altogether too frugal. Of course she must know that he would buy a book if it merited purchase, but he preferred to glance through a book first if he could before laying out money to make it part of his library.
Emma….yes, what about this new friendship of Emma’s? A girl of seventeen, was she? That did not bode well. What Emma needed was to be influenced by a woman she respected, one who was superior to Emma in just those points where Emma was lacking, and equal enough to her accomplishments to provide a basis for a friendship. A girl of seventeen would hardly fit that description. Perhaps there was something in the girl’s situation that merited Emma’s interest or compassion. But what sort of situation would that be? Emma, who was usually so scrupulous as to distinctions in rank, would seem to be the last young lady to choose a girl with low connections as a companion. There must be more to it than met the eye. There was no time today to call at Hartfield, but tomorrow he would pay a visit to the Woodhouses and see what he could discover.
“Ah! Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse from his usual chair by the fire. “It is so good of you to come, particularly on a cold day such as this. Does it rain? I looked out of the window not long ago and there seemed to be some very threatening clouds.”
“Not at all,” said Knightley. “I saw nothing that looked like rain. And it is not so very cold, sir, as it looks. It is rather warmer than one expects a day in October to be.” He took a chair near Mr. Woodhouse, but a little further from the fire.
“Well, you relieve my mind, Mr. Knightley, very much. Emma and her little friend Miss Smith are out walking to Randalls and I was quite afraid that they might be caught in the rain. But if you say there is no chance of it, then I am content. I fear there is a great deal to trouble my mind just now—I have had a letter from my banker in London, and I cannot understand what it is he wants me to do. It is all about the funds and interest and things of that nature. Between my anxiety over the letter and my worry for dear Emma and her little friend I have been exceedingly distracted all the afternooon.”
“Would you wish me to see the letter, sir? I might be able to understand what is wanted.”
“Ah! That is very good of you. I do not wish to trouble you, but then you are so very clever at understanding these difficult things. The letter is in my library—perhaps you would be good enough to come with me and read it there?”
Knightley assented and followed Mr. Woodhouse into the library. It was a beautiful room, housing an impressive collection of books, though very few of them were new in the last fifty years. Mr. Woodhouse was no sort of scholar and had neither disturbed his collection nor added to it in several decades. Emma was not a great reader, either, and it always made Knightley a little wistful to see the wealth of knowledge on the library shelves and know that it was not being used.
Mr. Woodhouse found his letter and gave it to Knightley. Three minutes were sufficient for him to master its contents, and he was able to give such a clear explanation of the matter that even Mr. Woodhouse could hardly fail to comprehend it. The only thing remaining was to write a letter in response, and, as usual, Knightley obliged by doing the task himself.
“I am a very troublesome neighbour to you, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse as he signed his name at the bottom of the letter. “And I am very sorry to inconvenience you so often with my business affairs.”
“It is my pleasure to serve you, sir,” said Knightley sincerely. “I am indebted to you for your constant hospitality and friendship; you have no need to thank me.”
“It is very handsome of you to say so, Mr. Knightley. And now, perhaps we ought to return to the drawing room; I wonder if Emma and Miss Smith have come back?”
As the gentlemen entered the drawing room they saw that the ladies had indeed returned and were sitting cozily together, talking. Emma had a book in her hand, though it was closed, and whatever the conversation was about it did not seem to include the book. Emma rose and went to greet her father with affection and escort him to his chair. Miss Smith rose also and she and Knightley were introduced. She certainly was a pretty girl, a little awed by her introduction to Mr. Knightley, but not awkwardly shy.
“And how did you find poor Miss Taylor?” asked Mr. Woodhouse when all were seated again.
“Mrs. Weston is very well, Papa, and she sent her best regards to you. She says that she is quite impatient for Thursday to come, to be dining at Hartfield again with us.”
“Ah! It is very sad indeed that she should have to dine anywhere else. I am sure she is always very welcome here. I hope, Miss Smith, that you enjoyed your visit to Randalls?”
“Oh yes, indeed, sir. Mrs. Weston is so very kind.”
“I hope you did not eat any wedding cake, Miss Smith; it is most unwise to eat wedding cake.”
“Oh, Papa,” said Emma, breaking in, “Mrs. Weston showed Harriet her letter from Mr. Frank Churchill. Harriet agreed that it was a very handsome letter, didn’t you, Harriet?”
“Yes, very handsome, Miss Woodhouse.”
“Ah! I think anyone who has seen the letter must agree, do not you, Mr. Knightley?” said Mr. Woodhouse. “You have seen the young man’s letter, I believe?”
“Yes, I have. I thought it very proper of him to write to Mrs. Weston on the occasion of her marriage. What is that book you were reading, Emma, when I came in?”
“It is Dr.Watts’ On The Improvement of the Mind. Harriet and I have been reading it together.” She spoke with some smugness; she knew he believed that she did not do enough serious reading. “And when we have finished with it we will begin on Rollin’s Ancient History.”
Knightley looked at the bookmark, reposing in what looked to be the first chapter of the book.
“Are you fond of reading, Miss Smith?” was his next question.
“Oh, yes, sir. I have read all of Miss Edgeworth’s novels as well as The Vicar of Wakefield and several more besides. I have not read many books of the sort that Miss Woodhouse has chosen for us to read—I had not heard of Dr. Watts’ book before we began to read it together last week—but I do think reading is a delightful occupation.”
“As do I, Miss Smith. I hope you will enjoy the book you have started—‘some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested’—and I believe Dr. Watts’ work is in the last category.”
Harriet looked rather puzzled than edified by Bacon’s dictum.
“Mr. Knightley is only quoting Pope, Harriet,” said Emma. “He is comparing reading to eating—not a particularly elegant metaphor, I must say.”
“Oh! Of course, it is a quote, and a metaphor,” said Harriet. “I ought to have known. But you are so clever, Miss Woodhouse, to know so quickly which author said anything! I do not think that I will ever be able to learn such things.”
“Well, Harriet, I think that you will improve a good deal as we study together.” Emma’s tone was authoritative and confident.
“Be careful, Emma,” said Knightley, smiling. “‛A little learning is a dangerous thing’—Pope did say that, before you hazard another guess.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse, whose attention had been caught by the mention of tasting and swallowing. “One must always be careful what one eats. Digestion is so apt to be impared by the wrong foods. I think it is very wise to be cautious about what you eat. But you need not fear while you are at Hartfield, Miss Smith. We have no unwholesome food here. Emma, my dear, will you ring for tea?”
An involuntary smile passed between Knightley and Emma as she rose to ring the bell.
This year, however, he was conscious of a lack. Instead of feeling that he was free now to enjoy the social engagements of the winter months, he felt as if he wanted to be doing something more in the way of work to fill his time. Donwell Abbey, which had always seemed to him to be a sheltered refuge, was beginning to seem just a bit too sheltered — too far away from friendly society. He shook his head at the notion. Donwell was what it always had been. It was no more isolated than it ever was, and he had never had cause to be lonely. Perhaps the colder weather today and the shortening of the daylight hours had given him a fit of melancholy. Well, he ought to shake off this unfounded discontent before the Hartfield dinner. A book — an amusing book — would clear his mind. He had only begun to consider which volume might answer the purpose when the butler came in.
“Yes, Baxter?”
“I thought you would like to know, sir, that Dr. Hughes has broken his leg.”
“Broken his leg!” Knightley stared at the butler in surprise.
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. William Larkins heard it from the Hughes’ maid only this morning.”
“When did it happen? And how?”
“I believe the accident occurred yesterday, sir. William Larkins said something about a tumble down stairs, but I am not certain of exactly what transpired.”
“I must see him at once, of course,” said Knightley, rising. “Do you know what has been done for him?”
“William Larkins says that Mr. Perry was sent for immediately, and then a surgeon was brought from Kingston late last evening. The footman has your things by the door, sir.”
“Thank you, Baxter.”
Knightley collected his hat, gloves, coat, and walking stick from the footman and took the path to the vicarage of Donwell. This was a blow not only to Dr. Hughes but to all of Donwell. For a man who had reached his five-and-sixtieth year, the vicar was very busy: not only did he prepare sermons that were thoughtful and scholarly, yet not out of the mental reach of the largely unlettered congregation, but he regularly visited his parishioners and he had a place on the Donwell parish council. How long did broken legs take to mend? It probably took longer in an older man than a younger one. Perhaps the news was all wrong and it was merely a bad sprain instead of a break…
The Hughes’ housemaid answered the door and curtseyed when she saw Mr. Knightley.
“May I see Dr. Hughes?” said Knightley. “Or failing that, Mrs. Hughes?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Come this way, if you please, sir. If you’ll wait in the drawing room, sir, I’ll fetch Mrs. Hughes.” The maid ushered him into the room, curtseyed again, and disappeared.
Knightley wandered over to the window and looked out over the tidy garden that Mrs. Hughes tended so well. There were only grass and shrubs to be seen now; the bulbs of next year’s flowers were buried under the earth, waiting for March. ‘Daffodils,’ he quoted to himself, ‘that come before the swallow dares, and take the winds of March with beauty.’ They would all have to wait until spring to come out of their graves, like Lazarus.
He heard footsteps coming down the stairs and turned to meet Mrs. Hughes as she came in.
“Mr. Knightley! How very good of you to come.”
“And how is Dr. Hughes?”
“He is in a good deal of pain, I fear. But he is in bed, resting.”
“And how long did the surgeon say he would be housebound?”
“Months, I’m afraid.”
Knightley sighed, although this was exactly what he had expected.
“Is there anything I can do for him?”
“Yes, you can go and talk to him.”
“I would not wish to disturb him if he is in pain.”
“It would be an act of charity on your part to give him some amusement for this last half-hour before I can give him the draught that Mr. Perry left for him to take three times a day. Believe me when I say that he will be most disappointed if you go away without speaking to him. Come with me now.”
Knightley could not do otherwise but follow Mrs. Hughes up the stairs and into the bedroom. Dr. Hughes was sitting in bed, his face rather ashen, but the serenity that usually marked his countenance was still there, and the shadows lifted from his eyes for a moment when he saw the younger man.
“My dear sir,” said Knightley. “I am extremely sorry to see you in this condition.”
“For my part I am thankful that I am still here for you to see, Mr. Knightley. The fall was not so sinister as it might have been.”
“You fell, then?”
“Yes. It was all rather foolish, really. I was coming down the stairs, reading a book, I confess, instead of looking at my feet. I missed a step and tumbled the rest of the way down. I might have been much more grievously injured, but Heaven was merciful and I suffered only a broken leg.”
“It is serious enough, I think. How will you manage?”
“I will have to lay aside my duties for a time. My dear wife has written to the bishop for me already to see about getting a curate for several months to carry on the work of the parish. I expect that in a week or two you will have a youthful and energetic man filling my place.”
“No one could fill your place, sir.”
Dr. Hughes smiled — a thin, slight smile, but a smile. “You overestimate me, Mr. Knightley, but I thank you for your kind words. I return the compliment by telling you that your old valet, Richards, was singing your praises to me only last week. According to him, he is supported by you in a style which no other retired valet in the history of England has laid claim to.”
Knightley chuckled. “He was a loyal, faithful, and devoted servant to my father and to me, and he thoroughly deserves what little pension he gets.”
“He worries about you, Mr. Knightley. He thinks that since you no longer keep a valet you must be entirely neglected. I wanted to tell him that your appearance is as well as ever, but of course that would have hurt his pride terribly to think that a mere butler could do as well as he. I could only murmur that I believed Baxter was as anxious to serve you in your dress and toilet as anyone could be.”
“He is that.”
A spasm of pain crossed the vicar’s face.
“Are you all right, sir? May I get you anything?”
“No, nothing, thank you, Mr. Knightley. I will not deny that I am in some pain, but your conversation is directing my thoughts to other things. Pray, continue.”
“Very well, then. I will enquire of you how young Richard getting on.”
“Quite well, thank you. He is extremely grateful for Mr. John Knightley’s patronage and help. He hopes to be called to the bar next term.”
“I’m certain he will be. John says he will be an excellent barrister, and he is quite taken with him personally as well.”
“It is such a comfort to me to have Mr. John Knightley watching over him, as it were. London is full of temptations, as you know, and Richard is a charming young man. I had some fears that he might be led astray, but your brother has him well in hand.”
Mrs. Hughes entered the room with a glass of water, a spoon, and a paper packet full of powdered medicine. Knightley rose.
“I must be going away now, I’m afraid. There is a dinner tonight at Hartfield for Mr. and Mrs. Weston which I cannot miss.”
“To be sure. Give them my greetings, if you will, Mr. Knightley. I am thoroughly happy for every man who finds a good wife, and Mr. Weston has found an excellent one. Please do take care down the steps, Mr. Knightley — if you break your leg I will be deprived of your company all winter, and my poor wife will be forced to endure all my conversation by herself!”
Knightley arrived at Hartfield at the same time as the Westons, and they were shown in together. To Knightley’s surprise, Miss Smith was also included in the party. Elton was already there, of course — he always arrived at the earliest possible moment in order (as Knightley assumed) to gaze upon Miss Woodhouse’s beauty for as long as he could.
Emma had never seemed to notice this; there was so little worldliness in her and so little vanity about her appearance that she never guessed that she had made a conquest. She took it for granted that his excessive deference was only his way of showing due respect. It was just as well, of course. Elton would never presume to make her an offer — his position being so very inferior to hers — and it was best for her to continue to think of Elton as merely the vicar of Highbury who had access to Hartfield simply because of his office. Knightley supposed he could hardly blame the man for admiring Emma; even beside Miss Smith, who everyone must call pretty, Emma’s beauty shone out. And her ₤30,000 certainly did not make her less attractive to a man like Elton.
Elton’s attention was certainly fixed on the young ladies this evening. He made the slightest possible greetings to the Westons and to Knightley, and then resumed his conversation with Emma and Miss Smith. Emma said something, apparently of a humorous nature, at which Elton laughed heartily and Miss Smith giggled like the young girl she was.
Why was she included in this party? Emma would not even condescend to invite the Coles, good people that they were, and yet here was this girl of no birth or class at all evidently become Emma’s favourite companion!
“Well, Knightley!” Weston’s voice boomed in his ear. “I hear that Dr. Hughes is ailing. Cracked his skull, did he?”
Knightley could not stifle a smile. Gossip was, as usual, swift and inaccurate. “No, there’s nothing whatever the matter with his head; it’s his leg that’s broken.”
“Poor fellow! I suppose he’ll be laid up for some time?”
“Yes, I expect it will be a few months at least.”
“What a pity! That will be difficult for so active a man. I do hope he’ll have a curate to preach and so on?”
“Oh, yes. I know he has written to the bishop about it.”
“Good, good. I suppose if one cannot be got very soon, Elton could preach at both churches. You could change the time of the service at Donwell, you know, and then he could preach in both places.”
Knightley tried very hard not to wince aloud. Elton made a passable sort of vicar for Highbury, he supposed, but that was as much as he could say for him.
“Well,” Weston went on, “I must go and visit him one of these days. Cheer his weary hours of recovery and that sort of thing. At least he’s a bookish man. It must be a comfort to him that he’s got a library to keep him occupied while he heals.”
“I daresay it will be some consolation. Descartes says that the reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest men of past centuries — and Dr. Hughes is the sort of man who enjoys that. Speaking of books, Weston, I was wondering if you had any pattern books for cottages that I might borrow. I recall you building one on your estate last year some time.”
“Why, yes, I believe I do have one. It wasn’t much use to me — I didn’t like any of the plans — but it may be to you. Come to Randalls tomorrow and get it, if you like.”
At this moment the bell rang to signal that dinner was ready. Mr. Woodhouse, with delighted alacrity, asked Mrs. Weston if he would be allowed to take her in to the dining room.
Behind him, Knightley heard Elton say, “Miss Woodhouse, may —”
“Oh!” exclaimed Emma, “I must get a cushion for my father. He is so much easier at table with a cushion at his back. Mr. Elton, would you have the goodness to take Miss Smith in while I see what has become of the blue cushion?”
Knightley’s eyebrows lifted. He had never seen Mr. Woodhouse with a cushion in his dining-room chair . And yet Emma had said it so naturally that it was just possible…
“By all means,” said Elton with an ingratiating smile. “Anything to be of service!” And he offered his arm ceremoniously to Miss Smith.
Knightley watched Emma as she bustled around, looking for a blue cushion in very unlikely places. On her face was a self-satisfied little smile — the one she always wore when she was successful at something. But what had she accomplished now? Emma paused in her search behind a curtain to glance at the figures passing out of the room.
Aha! Knightley nearly laughed aloud. So that was it! Emma was following through on her resolution to find a wife for Elton. Miss Smith was evidently the bride-elect.
“Come, Emma, come, Knightley,” said Weston. “We mustn’t keep Mr. Woodhouse waiting.”
“Ah, there it is,” said Emma, retrieving a blue cushion from a window seat. She smiled up at Weston as she took his arm. Knightley followed the two of them into the dining room, trying to feel the impatience with her that he ought to feel and succeeding only in suppressing a chuckle.
The dinner was over and the ladies were gone back to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and whatever masculine topics of conversation they chose.
“So, the workmen are to begin on that bridge on Monday next, I understand,” said Elton. “How long do you think it will take them to replace it?”
“Not long, I hope,” said Weston. “Everyone will be forced to go around by Aston until it is completed.”
“I was assured that it would not be above three weeks,” said Knightley, “but I expect it will be longer if we have bad weather.”
“I sincerely hope we will have fine weather, then,” said Elton. “I will get a steady stream of complaints from parishioners about it until it is completed, just as if the whole thing was my responsibility.”
“Bear up, Elton,” said Weston. “It’s only natural for people to think that if they complain to you, you might put a word in with the Almighty and get some change in their circumstances, isn’t it?
Elton rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they think so. I have a cousin who perpetually writes to me of all his difficulties ‘so that I may mention them in prayer,’ he says. I’m sure he blames me if none of his burdens are lifted.”
The mention of a cousin evidently suggested a new topic of conversation to Mr. Woodhouse.
“Mr. Weston, are all of your cousins quite well? Miss Bates said something a week or two ago about some illness in that house. And knowing how you visit them, and Mrs. Weston, too, I was quite anxious about you.”
“All very well again, now, thank you, sir,” said Weston. “I think it was nothing but a cold that was passed from one to the other.”
“Ah, but a cold, Mr. Weston, may be very serious indeed if it is not properly attended to. Perry has often told me of very serious complaints resulting from a lack of care taken with a cold. However, I am relieved to hear they are well now. And your son — is he in health?”
“Never better, sir, never better. He is at Weymouth just now, but I expect we will see him here in Highbury very soon. That will be something for the young people here, eh?” Weston smiled at the other men at the table, sure of their concurrence. “Emma, I am sure, would welcome a new face here among us all. We will be a much livelier set when Frank comes.”
Knightley was amused to see consternation instead of assent on the faces of the other men. To Mr. Woodhouse, of course, the idea of a new person could do nothing but disturb his peace, and Mr. Elton did not look as if he wanted anyone else’s help in entertaining Emma. Knightley managed a polite smile, but did not think that Mr. Weston’s son would be any great addition to their company. Frank had the reputation of being very good-looking and a great favourite wherever he went, but then that was the reputation of half the idle, rich, and foolish young men in the kingdom. If he were a truly commendable young man, he would have visited his father and his father’s new wife by now.
When the men had finished their wine, they joined the ladies in the drawing room. The three ladies were seated together, and Elton moved a chair close to them and attached himself to their group. Mr. Woodhouse took his seat by the fire, and Weston and Knightley sat down near him. Mr. Woodhouse enquired after Hannah, the daughter of his coachman, now a servant at Randalls, and while Weston answered his minute enquiries, Knightley found his gaze wandering over to the cluster around Emma. Elton was relating a story about a friend of his who had either bought or sold a horse not worth his price, and Knightley watched the faces of all three listeners. Mrs. Weston listened with good-hearted politeness, Miss Smith listened with wide-eyed interest, and Emma listened with one eye on Miss Smith to see her reaction to Elton. That was a mistake, thought Knightley. She ought to be keeping her eye on Elton, to see his reaction to Miss Smith. Knightley could easily see that Emma’s matchmaking efforts were in vain; a man like Elton would never be drawn to a girl like Miss Smith. Emma would soon find that out.
“I must be in London in a fortnight,” Weston was saying. “Business. I shall probably have to stay a week. I used to find Town very exciting, but I suspect it will seem dull now. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you visiting your brother, Knightley, in the next three weeks or so?”
“None whatever, I’m sorry to say. The Kingston fair is on the thirteenth and I must be there.”
“I dare say you will get better prices for your cattle than anyone. William Larkins says you have a bull nearly the size of the Durham Ox.”
“I think that was Larkins’ idea of a joke. The home farm does have a large bull, but nothing like so large as the Durham Ox.”
“I saw it once — in ’03, it was, at the agricultural fair. I paid a shilling for the privilege, too. Extremely impressive! How large do you reckon it was?”
“Two hundred and seventy stone, I believe, and it stood five feet, five inches at the shoulder. Magnificent creature.”
“Yes, I remember the man standing near it was at a level with its head. And it was all done by feeding the beast turnips, I hear.”
“And a few other things besides, I fancy.”
His eye caught Emma’s; she had a curious expression on her face and he wondered what it was about. Next moment she had turned to say something to Mrs. Weston, and Knightley gave his attention back to Mr. Woodhouse, who was extolling the merits of mashed turnips.
The hour was still somewhat early when the guests departed, Mr. Woodhouse being unable to tolerate late evening parties. Knightley lingered when the others had gone; he was not quite ready yet to go back to Donwell and give up the family atmosphere of Hartfield. He sat by the fire with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma and gave himself another fifteen minutes to enjoy their company before he would leave.
“I hope Miss Smith enjoyed herself tonight, Emma,” he said.
“Yes, she did, Mr. Knightley, thank you. She is full of sweetness and gratitude, and I do not feel that I could ever do enough for her.”
“A fine sentiment, Emma. I believe you do mean to do her good.”
She looked surprised. “Do you doubt it, Mr. Knightley? I certainly did not befriend her to do her harm!”
“No, I am sure you did not. I do not recall you ever purposing to do another person harm. Intention, however, is not everything.”
Emma’s left eyebrow lifted. “Take care, Mr. Knightley. If you begin to lecture me I shall begin to tease you about the beautiful Unknown Lady you were praising this evening.”
“Unknown Lady! I was not aware that I had praised any lady, known or unknown.”
“You were telling Mr. Weston about her. Five feet, five inches tall, I believe you said, and also that she was magnificent. Who is she, pray?”
Knightley laughed. “My dear Emma, that was no lady I was speaking of! Mr. Weston and I were discussion the dimensions of the Durham bull, a famous ox that is known all over England!”
Emma joined in his laughter. “I did think it odd that Mr. Weston should mention her love of turnips!”
He laughed even harder at that, and it was some moments before they could compose themselves again.
“Well, Emma,” he said when he had breath again for speaking, “I must say you have a very suspicious mind. And, I may say, a decided taste for matchmaking. I do not think you have any great skill at it, however.”
Emma’s chin lifted. “We shall see, Mr. Knightley. My hearing might be a little faulty, but my judgement, I think, may be safely trusted.”
Knightley sighed. He wondered what it would take to dislodge these inflated ideas she had about her own powers. It was certainly beyond his abilities to do anything. Rather frustrated with himself and with her, he took his leave and went back to Donwell Abbey; if it was lacking in family atmosphere, at least there were no headstrong young ladies.
“And isn’t it shocking, Mr. Knightley, about poor Dr. Hughes?” said Miss Bates. “He was a friend of my father’s, you know, quite a friend, although my father must have been twenty years his senior, at least. Dr. Hughes is such a good man, such a very good man that it is doubly sad that he should have this sad accident. But we may safely say, mayn’t we, that no one could meet suffering with a greater fortitude than he? And dear Mrs. Hughes as well, of course. Indeed, I think she may have the heavier burden of the two—it is very taxing to see a loved one in pain, is it not?”
“Yes, indeed,” Knightley managed to say before Miss Bates continued.
“But then she is so very patient herself! I called on her yesterday—no, it could not have been yesterday, because I was at Hartfield yesterday—but the day before yesterday I called at the Donwell vicarage and saw Mrs. Hughes, and I must say that she looked as peaceful as ever she did. My mother said the same.”
“Was Mrs. Bates—”
“Oh! yes, my mother was able to go with me, as Mr. Woodhouse kindly sent us his carriage so that we could both visit Mrs. Hughes. My mother was so pleased to see Mrs. Hughes again, as she would tell you if she were not resting. She is very well for her age, Mr. Knightley, but she will sometimes rest in her bedroom in the afternoon as she did today. She is as well as she can be, however, and Mrs. Hughes remarked on it. My mother has always been a good friend to her, and to Dr. Hughes, of course, as well, and also the dear children, Mr. Richard and Miss Phoebe—oh! Mrs. Elson, I should say—it seems impossible that little Miss Phoebe is old enough to be married! But so she is. It ought not surprise me, as Miss Phoebe—Mrs. Elson, that is—is two years older than Jane. She was always so kind to dear Jane, and still is, whenever Jane visits. Mr. Knightley, do have another piece of this cake which Mrs. Weston sent to us. Oh, you must! After all your liberality to us, Mr. Knightley, you must allow us to share with you as much cake as we can when you call! Ah, I knew you would have another piece. I never can persuade Mr. Elton to take more than one piece of cake. His calls here are never very long, but then he is such a busy man! And he has so many people to call on, you know, in the way of parish business and so forth. He makes a great many calls at Hartfield, I know — calling on dear Mr. Woodhouse. He is quite devoted to Mr. Woodhouse, Mr. Knightley, else he would not give so much of his time to Hartfield. He was there yesterday, in fact, when I was there, and with Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith we were quite a merry party.”
“I would imagine so.” And Knightley could imagine it…Elton eager to please and in the best of spirits, Harriet delighting in the attentions of a superior social set, Emma trying to give many little encouragements and smooth many little matters, as she had done—or thought she had done—for the Westons, and Miss Bates, probably rather ignored by the younger people, but sure of Mr. Woodhouse’s regard, and finding her joy in merely being in company with them all.
“Mrs. Goddard says that Miss Smith has spent some nights at Hartfield, as well as many of her days. So obliging of Miss Woodhouse to take such an interest in Miss Smith! Mrs. Goddard believes that it will greatly improve Miss Smith’s prospects.”
“Yes, well,” said Knightley, and looked at his watch. “I fear I must leave you, Miss Bates. William Larkins will be waiting for me at Donwell if I do not hurry. No, thank you, Miss Bates, I cannot have another piece of cake. Give my best regards to your mother, and to your niece when next you write to her. Not at all. Good day, Miss Bates.”
Regaining the street, he put on his hat and began the walk to Donwell—rather reluctantly, as he had rather have been going to Hartfield. Mischief was being done there, and he wished to have a better knowledge of the facts. It was clear that Emma was making much of Harriet Smith, no doubt with a view to matching her with Elton. It was a mistake on Emma’s part, showing a lack of judgement and several false ideas. It would be rather good for Emma to make a mistake—even a large mistake—and have to acknowledge it. But it did not follow that such a mistake would be good for Harriet Smith. Knightley knew little of her, but it was probable that Emma would tell Harriet that she deserved a man such as Elton, and Harriet, trusting implicitly in everything Emma said, would raise her expectations to just such a level. Disappointed hopes, at least, would follow.
And then Elton was being misled as well. It was just possible that he was vain enough to believe that Miss Woodhouse was beginning to prefer him to all other men. And if he really believed that, there was every reason to suppose that he would make her an offer. It might be good for Elton to make a mistake as well, if only he would profit by the lesson it taught him. Knightley had not much faith in that; Elton seemed the sort of man who would respond to embarrassment over a blunder with anger instead of contrition. All in all it would be better for him to be undeceived soon.
And even apart from the injury Emma was doing Elton and Harriet, there was mischief working the other way, too. To have someone like Harriet who relied so totally on one’s judgement, who believed so completely in all one said, and who admired everything one did without any hesitation or reservation—that was a dangerous thing to anyone’s ego. And when it came to Emma…that was absolutely the last thing she needed.
Of course, if there had still been a Miss Taylor living at Hartfield, she would have seen how Elton was interpreting Emma’s behaviour and given her a quiet hint. Uneasily, Knightley wondered if he ought to say something to Emma. Perhaps it was a brother’s place, and he was as close to holding that position as anyone. But something within him shrank at addressing such a topic with her. He could not quite reason out why, but the thought of discussing with Emma the attraction of Elton to her made him unreasonably embarrassed and uncomfortable. No, he could not do it. Perhaps if this went on much longer he could talk to Mrs. Weston about it. They had often talked about Emma before, and now and then she had taken his advice. It could be tried, at any rate.
Knightley arrived home just before Larkins, who came into the library with his brows knit ominously.
“I believe we will have more trouble with that Adam Mefford, Mr. Knightley.”
“His rent is still in arrears, isn’t it?”
“Yes, in spite of your very lenient terms. And he still has not cultivated that field, though you drained it for him. And he has been very insolent to me.”
“Has he?”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. I was passing the widow Hunt’s cottage this afternoon as she was driving her geese back into her little enclosure. They had all got out, it seems, and she told me that one was still missing and asked me to look out for it. Of course I said I would do so, Mr. Knightley, and I asked those I passed on the road if they had seen it. When I came to the Mefford farm I saw Adam sitting on the low wall, just sitting there in the middle of the day, and I said, ‘Have you seen a goose come down this road?” and he said, ‘Just the one I’m talking to.’ That was very impertinent, was it not, Mr. Knightley? And so I thought I would just take it out of him. I said, ‘Mr. Knightley’s been talking to me. He wants to give you a job up at the Abbey.’ ‘Oh? What job’s that?’ says he. ‘He wants you to go up there and play the fool,’ I said. And he said, ‘Is he giving you the sack or is he going to keep two of us?’”
Knightley’s mouth twitched into a smile before he could stop himself. Mefford, though something of a rascal, was a witty rascal, and Knightley had been more lenient with him than he ought to have been partly because he was so amusing. He could understand how a man like Mefford would be tempted to taunt an over-serious fellow like Larkins, who did have a tendency to stand upon his dignity. Nevertheless, it was inexcusable and Larkins was correct in saying that there would likely be more trouble coming from that quarter. It had been a long time since a tenant was evicted from Donwell, but it might come to that.
Knightley sighed. “Well, his manner certainly is impertinent, and he is not a model tenant. I will have to consider his case very shortly. I would have acted before now if it were not for his family.”
Larkins’ indignant face softened. “Indeed, Mr. Knightley. I feel for them most sincerely. His wife is a good creature, and the son, Harry, has the makings of a good young man, if only he got the chance. Well, sir, have you looked over the pattern book of Mr. Weston’s?”
“I have, but I did not see any that I thought appropriate. Some of these designs are impressive to the eye, but hopelessly inconvenient for an occupant. Look here at this one — a gate-keeper’s cottage. It consists of two rooms — a living room and a bedroom — but one on either side of the gate! To be sure, it looks symmetrical and neat, but who would want to walk twenty feet across the road to get to their bed?”
“Yes. It seemed to me that these cottages were designed more for their contribution to the appearance of the estate’s grandeur than for the comfort of the resident.”
“Exactly. Are there any more pattern books we might consult?”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. I have ordered two that sounded promising; they should be delivered next week.”
“Very good.”
“And the head stockman tells me that he wishes he could use the home meadow next year for grazing the cattle.”
“It would be rather inconvenient for the Highbury people making their way to Langham to take their chances with the bull every time they crossed the meadow.”
“Yes,” said Larkins gravely, “I do not think they would wish to hazard their safety on so regular a basis. However, it occurred to me that the path might be moved a little to the right, and so avoid the meadow altogether.”
“Hmm. It might be possible. We shall see about it.”
“And you ought to know, Mr. Knightley, that the widow Hunt thinks it was most unwise for Mr. Elton to preach in Donwell church on Sunday.”
“It was not—”
“Oh, be assured, sir, I told her it was not due to your influence that Mr. Elton filled the pulpit, and she said she was quite aware of that. But she said that all the young girls were in a flutter over such a handsome young man…those were her words, Mr. Knightley, not mine.”
“Well, Larkins, the bishop has acted promptly on Dr. Hughes’ letter, and the new curate will be arriving Monday next. So there will be only one more Sunday for Mr. Elton to preach in Donwell.”
“Yes, sir. But then the new curate might be just such a young man as Mr. Elton, and then what will be the consequence to the parish?”
“Let us hope, then, for the sake of the peace of the young ladies of the parish, that the new curate is old and ugly.”
“That would answer, Mr. Knightley; indeed it would. But there is no assurance that he will be anything near so desireable. And now, sir, I have the accounts ready for your examination, if you would care to look at them.”
Knightley nodded, and the two men submerged themselves in the welcome world of verifiable facts—a world they both understood.
Knightley climbed over the stile and cocked an eye skyward. It was going to rain. He had known it would rain before he set out to look at the Langham path that cut through the home meadow, but he had convinced himself it would hold off for another hour. He wanted to be out of the house. Whatever he had tried to do that afternoon—reading, writing letters, drawing up a new lease—he had found his mind constantly wandering back to the problem of Emma, Elton, and Harriet Smith. Ought he to say something? Was there any way to discourage Emma or Elton without speaking? Should he talk to Mrs. Weston about Emma’s inappropriate friendship with Harriet? Or would it be best to let the matter go and allow the consequences to follow?
At last he had decided that what he needed was to clear his mind by going to look at that path and see if it could be moved. Without even pausing to take his umbrella or great-coat, he had walked out into the blustery day.
Now that he was here, he regretted that he had been so impetuous. Before he could even begin to survey the land adjoining the home meadow, the first sprinkles of rain were felt. The clouds were dark and it was evident that this would not be a passing shower. There was nothing to do but turn around and go back.
Very quickly, the light drizzle turned into a heavy pelting rain, and long before Donwell Abbey was in sight the rain was pouring down. Just ahead was a large oak, and he hastened toward it for the partial shelter it could give. As he neared the tree he could see that someone else was taking refuge under its branches. The driving rain became large irregular drips under the tree’s broad leaves, and he took out his handkerchief and dried his face before turning to greet his fellow shelter-seeker.
He was a stranger with fair hair, young and well-dressed, who returned Knightley’s “How do you do” with a quiet “Very well, I thank you, sir.” The young man looked embarrassed and nervous, and Knightley hoped to put him at ease by asking if he was visiting in the country.
“No,” said the young man uncomfortably. “I fear I am now a resident of this parish.”
Knightley smiled. “Is it a very fearsome thing?”
The man blushed. “Not at all, sir. It seems a pleasant place. I only meant that it is rather mortifying as a resident to have lost my way. All the more as it is now my parish. Mr. Knightley will not think much of the new curate if he learns that I could not even find my own house after a walk.”
Knightley hesitated, reluctant to make the poor young man more unhappy than he already was. But of course, he really had no choice. He summoned a lighthearted smile and said, “As it happens, I am Mr. Knightley.”
The young man gasped and grew rather pale.
“And,” Knightley went on, “I fear you will not think much of me when you realize that I was so imprudent as to set off on a threatening day without so much as an umbrella. So you see, we have already shown our worst faces to each other and there is nothing more to dread.”
The young man bowed, with his eyes on the ground. “James Spencer, at your service,” he said.
“I met the new curate yesterday afternoon, quite accidentally,” Knightley said to Dr. Hughes the next day. “We were both taking shelter under the same tree.”
Dr. Hughes leaned back against the pillows in his bed and nodded.
“Yes, so he informed me when he came to see me last evening. And what did you think of him?”
“Well…” said Knightley slowly, and paused.
“Yes?”
“He seems rather timid.”
Dr. Hughes chuckled but made no reply.
“I have met many clergymen who were quiet or reserved, but none who were so very bashful. He did answer my questions, and I managed to learn that he was born in Norfolk, was up at Oxford, and was ordained three months ago. Beyond that, however, I know nothing but his name…not even the colour of his eyes, as I do not believe that he looked me full in the face even once.”
“And you have misgivings about his ability to ‘feed the flock of God,’ haven’t you?” Dr. Hughes usually knew what Knightley was thinking.
“I confess I have.”
“I think he will surprise you, Mr. Knightley. His manner may be hesitating, but you will find him to be a sound man. Very sound.”
“Very well. I trust your judgement, sir, and will reserve my own until I know Spencer better.”
“A wise policy, Mr. Knightley. Hasty appraisals are rarely accurate.”
“He will please William Larkins, at any rate; his greatest fear was that the new curate would be a handsome, pleasing young man who would discompose the feelings of the single young women of his parish.”
“Well then, he pleases me and William Larkins. That means there are two in his favour already. Oh! And there is a third; Mrs. Martin told me yesterday that she highly approves of him as well. She discovered that he was born in the parish of Diss, in Norfolk, which is where her grandfather was born. Evidently being born in Diss is a guarantee of good character.”
Knightley smiled. “The Martins are all well, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Martin brought some Madeira wine which she said was remarkably healing. Robert was with her. He has done very well with his sheep, has he not? He has high hopes for the selling of his wool at the Kingston fair on Saturday next.”
“Indeed, I only wish my own flock were prospering as well. But then his whole farm is very well-managed. His father was an excellent farmer, of course, but it is to young Martin’s credit that the farm has not declined at all—if anything, it has improved since he has taken the lease.”
“I don’t suppose you know if he means to marry soon?”
Knightley looked surprised. “No, I do not. Has he said something?”
“Not directly. I would not be astonished however, to know that he has something of the kind in contemplation. A man in love usually has an aspect of great abstractedness, and there is further evidence of it when he stops talking about sheep and cattle and begins talking about improvements to the furnishing of his house.”
“I confess I have never noticed such a thing.”
“Ah, well, you see, Mr. Knightley, you’re not married. Never even thought of it, I think.” He looked rather steadily at Knightley.
Knightley was a little taken aback, not at the words, but at the searching look, and did not know how to respond. But in a moment Dr. Hughes went on, more naturally.
“I have been the repository of the lovelorn confessions of countless young men over the years. I suppose it is only natural that I should develop a consciousness of these things.”
“I only remember my brother suffering the agonies of uncertainty over Isabella,” said Knightley. “Perhaps subtler signs were present as well, but the thing I remember most is his real anguish as he said one day, ‘What if she should not love me after all?’ I suppose all young men seem insufferably cocksure to their older brothers, but those weeks of apprehension took away all John’s conceit. He grew exceedingly humble. Unfortunately, once he was in no doubt of his love’s being returned, his usual demeanour was restored.”
Dr. Hughes laughed. “Lovesickness is a good remedy for arrogance. If only we could prescribe it as Mr. Perry does his medicines! I can think of half a dozen people who would benefit from such a treatment.”
At this moment the housemaid entered and dropped a deferential curtsey to Knightley.
“If you please, sir, there’s a servant downstairs with a message for you,” she said.
Knightley rose and followed her downstairs to where his footman was waiting in the hall.
“Yes, Thomas?”
“Mr. Baxter wishes to inform you, sir, that Constable Burton is waiting to see you at Donwell Abbey. He has two men with him, sir. Mr. Baxter thought you would wish to be informed.”
“Yes, thank you, Thomas. I will come directly.” Knightley dismissed the servant with a courteous nod and climbed back up the stairs to Dr. Hughes’ room.
“I must go, sir. The duties of a magistrate await me in my own drawing room. It must be somewhat important—whoever it is did not care to wait until my usual day at the Crown.”
“Goodbye, then, Mr. Knightley. Come again soon.” It was not spoken out of mere politeness, and Knightley knew it.
It was only a short walk back to Donwell—hardly long enough to wonder who might want him so urgently. It was someone from Highbury, obviously, as Burton was the constable for that parish, and if there were two men with him it was probably the victim of a crime and its suspected perpetrator. He hoped it would not be something very serious.
The butler met him at the door. “I have shown them into the drawing room, sir.”
“Thank you, Baxter.”
The three men rose as Knightley entered the room. There was Burton, of course, a farmer called Mitchell, and a young man whom Knightley recognized by sight but could not immediately put a name to. He greeted them as they bowed and then asked how he might be of service.
“Well, now, Mr. Knightley,” said Mitchell. “I want William here committed and tried at the petty sessions. He’s committed a felony, he has, and he must pay for it.”
Knightley looked at the young man. Ah yes, William Plover, that was his name. A character rather notorious for petty pilfering and small damages to property. William looked back at Knightley with impudent eyes.
“What exactly was the felony?” said Knightley.
“Stealing eggs,” said Mitchell. “It mayn’t sound like much, but it’s an indictable offence, and I want him taken for it. He’s stolen a quantity of small things from all the farms hereabouts, and this time I caught him red-handed. He was in my poultry-house—and that’s trespass, too—and he was filling this here sack that Mr. Burton is holding with my eggs. And I said, ‘Now then, you thief, you’re caught this time, anyway,” and I had my lad run for the constable and he came and took him in hand and we’ve come straight to you for justice.” Mitchell paused here, out of breath with the speed of his narrative and with the energy of his indignation.
“Is this so?” Knightley questioned William.
William shrugged.
“I take it that you admit your guilt,” Knightley said sternly. “All right. Mr. Burton, would you be so good as to take William into the hall and wait with him there until I ask you to return? Thank you.”
Then men were silent until the door was shut again.
“Will you commit him?” asked Mitchell. “You know he is a troublemaker and must be stopped. No amount of warnings and threats have had any effect on his behaviour thus far. He doesn’t believe he will ever be prosecuted.”
“I know,” said Knightley. “Does he work at all?”
“A little,” Mitchell sniffed. “Odd jobs for a few farmers.”
“He has a mother, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. A poor woman with a bad foot who deserves a better son.”
“You realize, of course, that if he is committed the support of his mother will fall upon the parish? And the rates will have to be raised if any more people are given parish help.”
Mitchell paused. “I had not thought of that,” he said. “Nevertheless, there ought to be some kind of justice done.”
“Indeed there ought. I could commit him to the petty sessions, but I must tell you that I think it unlikely that he would be imprisoned for such a crime. I could fine him, but then there will be even less money in his mother’s house. And I have no doubt she would suffer more from it than he would.”
“True enough,” said Mitchell, whose zeal had noticeably flagged.
“However, there is one thing which may be sufficient to check his criminal activities. I think it is the best solution for now.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and asked the men to return to the room.
“William Plover,” said Knightley, “I am inclined to have the judges at the petty sessions hear this case.”
William looked unconcernedly at the magistrate, not believing that Mr. Knightley was really inclined to do any such thing. He knew he was unlikely to be imprisoned for stealing eggs. It was only another empty threat, and threats did not bother him.
“There is a particular need just now for more men in His Majesty’s Navy. Napoleon is not yet defeated. The penalty given for your sort of theft is often conscription into the army or navy. You could send home a little money to your mother, you know, that way, and the experience may teach you a few things you are lacking.”
William’s eyes lost their contemptuous look as the meaning of Knightley’s words sank in. This was not an empty threat, it was rather a real and sinister one. He would have no one to witness to his character if he were brought to court, and as he would not be able to pay a large fine, the justices might very well think he ought to be entered in the lists of soldiers or sailors as his punishment. He began to look actually worried.
“Please, sir,” he said, speaking for the first time, “don’t send me on. I’ll make satisfaction, truly I will.”
“Will you pay Mr. Mitchell the worth of the eggs you stole?”
“That would be sixpence,” put in Mitchell.
“I will, sir.”
“I think there ought to be something more,” mused Knightley. “Have you a job, Mitchell, that young William might labour at for a day or so?”
“I do, Mr. Knightley. I have a wall that wants repairing, and I know he can do it.”
“Very well. William Plover, I find you guilty of theft. Your punishment is to pay Mr. Mitchell sixpence and to mend his fence in a manner that satisfies him.”
“Yes, sir,” said William.
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Mitchell.
The men bowed and left. Knightley could see them walking away through the drawing room window. He hoped he had done enough. William’s widowed mother ought not to suffer any more for her son’s sake. He hoped she was doing well enough now. He would ask Emma about her; Emma would know.