Beginning, Previous Section, Section IV
Jump to new as of May 27, 2008
Knightley awoke to the same thoughts he had closed his eyes against the night before. He lay in bed, staring at the canopy above him, while his thoughts wandered. How had Emma fared on the carriage ride home? Presumably, Elton had offered and she had refused, and therefore he ought to feel relief that this affair was over. Most probably, also, Emma now realized her own error—Elton was not attracted to Harriet, as Knightley had told her, and she was Elton’s object, as John had advised her. She must also now be aware of her own conceit. And he knew Emma; where she knew she was in the wrong, she would endeavour to change. Elton’s unsuccessful proposal would bring many good things to Emma—and to Elton as well, if he would condescend to profit by it. Really, he should be full of relief and thanks.
Instead, he was uneasy. Whatever the scene had been, it must have been supremely uncomfortable for Emma. Humility was not a virtue that sat easily with her. Good for her it might be to be caught out in her error, but the pain and embarrassment that must be hers awakened all his compassion. And then a new doubt assailed him: what if Elton had seen Emma’s displeasure and bided his time in making his proposals? Had he taken Emma’s hint? Or had he declared himself?
He threw off the bedclothes and went over to the window, looking out at a landscape that had its own snowy blanket. For the moment, the world was fresh and peaceful; nothing could be more appropriate for Christmas morning. Peace… He felt greatly in need of some peace of mind. The evening before had been full of turmoil, though now that he came to consider it, he was not entirely sure why. Of course Elton was an idiot and a nuisance, but that was nothing new. Neither were John’s hints about marriage. He hadn’t been vexed when he had arrived at Randalls, so what was it that had turned the evening sour?
The sound of the door being opened ended his musing, and he turned to greet his butler.
“Good morning, sir,” said Baxter. “Permit me to wish you a happy Christmas.”
“Thank you, Baxter, and you have my wishes for the same.”
“I thank you, sir. May I propose the grey coat for this morning? I fear the inclement weather will render the church extremely frigid.”
“Yes, I will have the grey. However, I will return here after church to change it for a lighter one before I go to Hartfield—there will be no need to be dressed warmly there.”
The church was very cold; poor Spencer could be seen shivering as he read out the lesson. Knightley suspected that his was not the only mind not fixed on the text, but he was distracted by more than just the temperature. His thoughts were at Hartfield, and he spent most of the service wondering what Emma’s state of mind might be, and whether John’s temper was restored. If Emma had been troubled by the events of last evening, John being out of humour would distress her still more. He must be ready to assist in keeping harmony between John and the rest of them, and to show Emma by quiet friendliness that, in spite of unpleasant scenes, all was well.
“O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord,” he found himself saying with the rest of the congregation, and started at the relevance of the words. Author of peace and lover of concord…peace and concord…the very things he hoped to restore at Hartfield. It might well take divine assistance to accomplish that.
His fears were a little relieved by Emma’s greeting him with a smile, and although she was rather more quiet than usual, she did not look anxious or unduly shaken. She busied herself with the children, reading to them and keeping them occupied with quiet play while they were in the same room as their grandfather. John, too, was remarkably good-humoured and talked to Mr. Woodhouse for a full half-hour without once betraying any emotion but kindly sympathy and, what is more, without manoeuvring to get Knightley to take his place. Knightley settled himself near Emma and entertained his toddler namesake with a spinning top. At length Isabella joined her father, and John excused himself from the fireside to talk to his brother.
“Well, George, you seem to have recovered from your ill humour last evening.”
“I was going to say the same to you.”
“Quite true. The wind must have carried away my bad temper during the night; I was a perfect lamb when I woke this morning.”
Knightley laughed. “I take it you bleated your apologies to all and sundry this morning?”
John grimaced. “Not exactly. Really, I ought not to have gone at all—I so dislike that sort of evening. I would have done better to feign a headache. But I never thought you had an aversion to such gatherings. I don’t know when I’ve seen you so out of sorts.”
“It must have been the company we were forced to keep.”
“Ah. Elton, you mean.”
“I suppose. And how did Emma—that is, did Elton—”
“I have no idea. She seemed…preoccupied when she first arrived home, but I only saw her for a few moments. And she would have said nothing, of course, even if—”
“Of course.”
“John,” said Isabella, coming over to them, “John and Henry are asking when they may play the bullet pudding game.”
“I think we may as well do it now.”
“Bullet pudding?” said Knightley. “At Hartfield?”
John smiled. “In the nursery, dear brother. I would not subject Mr. Woodhouse to such a boisterous amusement.”
“Good. For a moment I thought the wind in the night must have carried away your good sense as well as your ill temper.”
So John, Knightley and Emma brought the three older children up to the nursery and watched them play. A bullet was balanced on a cone of flour, and each child took turns cutting away slices of the flour. The object was to keep the bullet in place, but when it fell, the one whose cut had dislodged it had to pick up the bullet with their teeth, thus getting well powdered. When the children had played long enough that each was dusted with white, they clamoured for their elders to have a game.
John rolled his eyes and looked at Knightley, who shrugged. Emma laughed.
“And who do you think will lose?” she asked the children.
“Papa! Papa!” shouted Henry and John, and Bella giggled.
“You have so little confidence in me?” said John, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.. “You think Aunt Emma and Uncle Knightley will get the better of me? Well, we shall see about that!”
One of the nursemaids gathered up the flour and put it back into the cone mould.
“Do you not think you should wear an apron of some sort to protect your dress?” said John to Emma as the mould was inverted on the table and lifted away to reveal a perfectly smooth cone of flour.
“I do not intend to let the bullet fall,” said Emma. “But I can get you an apron.”
“I won’t need it. George might.”
Emma turned mischievous eyes to Knightley. “Shall I fetch one for you? I have a very pretty one…”
The children laughed.
“Thank you, no. I prefer to keep whatever dignity I have.”
“Very well, then,” said John. “Bullet ready? There, all arranged. Ladies first, Emma.”
Emma took up the knife and cut away some of the flour without hesitation, and handed it to John who did the same. Knightley did pause when it was his turn—the others had changes of clothes at Hartfield, but he did not.
“Worried, Mr. Knightley?” said Emma. He looked up and saw the challenge in her eye.
“Never,” he answered. “’Courage mounteth with occasion.’” He took the knife and with a show of bravado, made a cut in the flour. The bullet stayed at the top of the cone.
“Pope is singularly inspiring,” said Emma.
“Not at all,” said Knightley dryly.
“Shakespeare, dear sister, Shakespeare,” murmured John.
“Oh! I do beg his pardon,” said Emma, cutting away another portion and smiling when the bullet did not move.
“Oh Emma,” said John, “That was ‘the most unkindest cut of all.’ How is anyone to carve any more without the whole thing toppling? Have no fear, however; I see the place which may be attacked without consequence.” He scrutinized the cone and put the knife to the flour as if he were a great surgeon. “No one but such a master as I am could possibly—”
But at that moment the cone collapsed, and the bullet was buried in a mound of flour. The children shrieked and clapped their hands with delight and the adults in the room laughed.
Emma grinned and said “Pride goeth before—”
“I know, I know,” interrupted John and sighed. “I had better get this over with. I shall ‘go down to the vile dust’ and get myself powdered white with it.”
“‛Unwept, unhonoured and unsung?’” suggested Knightley.
“No doubt,” said John, and proceeded to gratify the very ungenteel desires of his children (and of his near relations) by getting himself thoroughly covered with flour.
The next day, a Sunday, followed the exact pattern of the day before it: another morning with snow on the ground, another frozen hour in church, another afternoon at Hartfield. He spent the time there observing Emma closely to see if by manner or by word she would betray what had happened between herself and Elton on Christmas Eve, but she continued to be subdued yet not unhappy and made him no wiser than he was before. John continued to be agreeable, which was fortunate as the inclement weather would force the Knightleys to stay on at Hartfield for another day or two.
Knightley had formed the habit of calling on Dr. Hughes every Monday, and as he set off for the rectory the next day, he wondered if the invalid would be interested in a game of chess. He wanted something to take his mind off that infernal question of how things stood between Emma and Elton. Was the whole business at an end? Or would it die a yet more lingering death?
He was surprised to see Elton himself coming away from the rectory as he approached it.
“Good afternoon, Knightley,” said Elton as he came within speaking distance. “I was just coming to tell you that I won’t be at the parish meeting this week—I am away to Bath on Thursday.”
“Bath? On Thursday? I hope you have not had any distressing news which requires your leaving Surrey with such haste.”
“No, nothing like that. I have friends who have been urging me to visit them for some time, and I mustn’t keep them waiting any longer.” He did not look particularly happy or despondent; in fact, he rather had an air of studied carelessness. Certainly there was something artificial in his bearing. And what a peculiar time of year to suddenly hare off with such an unconvincing excuse!
“I’m afraid you will find Bath very quiet at this time of year,” said Knightley.
“Oh,” said Elton, moving his foot restlessly, “I won’t mind the quiet. A change of scene…that is, I am extremely anxious to see my friends, and they remain the same, no matter what the weather.”
So it appeared that he had spoken and been refused and was now going away to nurse his injured dignity.
“How long will you be staying?”
“That is not yet decided. Several weeks, I daresay. I’ve just been to Dr. Hughes, asking if he can loan Spencer to the church in Highbury while I am away. He has agreed, and therefore I am free to go.”
“That was very generous of him.”
“Oh!” said Elton, with a hint of surprise in his tone, “Yes, I suppose it was. Well, I will excuse myself if I may. I have several letters of farewell to write.”
“Will you be calling at Hartfield this afternoon? I may see you there.”
“No, I will not.” The sharpness of Elton’s tone cleared away any remaining doubts about what had happened on that carriage ride.
“Very well, then,” said Knightley, feeling a burden lifted. “I wish you a safe and happy journey.”
“Thank you,” said Elton briefly, and the men bowed and parted.
On Tuesday Knightley went to visit the Bates’, bringing a mince pie. He was forced to stay and eat some of it, of course, and was given a full treatise by Miss Bates on the minutiae of the Christmas festivities at Mrs. Goddard’s school. He stayed above an hour and was returning to Donwell when he passed Old Maggie, Spencer’s housekeeper, shuffling along the road with a basket on her arm. She curtseyed as she drew near, and he said loudly, “How are you this afternoon, Maggie?”
“Quite cold, sir,” she said in strident tones, “And rather windy.”
He was a little taken aback by this personal disclosure, but then realized that she was talking of the weather.
“Yes, it is,” he said, raising his voice. “I think it may even be colder than yesterday… the snow from last night is not yet completely gone.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley, ’e would be most ‘appy to see you. If you go on to the house now, sir, I’ll be back to fix the tea afore long.”
“I was just going home to the Abbey,” he said at full volume. “I was not intending to call on Mr. Spencer today.”
Maggie beamed and nodded. “”E’ll be ever so pleased you called, sir. Tell ‘im I’ll be there very shortly.”
Knightley sighed and yielded. “Thank you,” he said, smiling faintly. “I believe there is nothing I would like better than a short visit with Mr. Spencer.”
It was curious, he thought as he continued down the road to the cottage, that everyone continued to talk in their loudest voices to Old Maggie when clearly it made not the slightest difference whether one whispered or shouted.
Spencer opened the door to his knock, and looked relieved when he saw who it was.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley. Please, do come in. May I get you some refreshment? Maggie is out at the moment, but I can make tea…”
“No, I thank you, not just now. I spoke to Maggie a moment ago on the road. We were a little at cross purposes, I fancy, and she was convinced that I intended to call here.”
Spencer smiled. “And so you came to call rather than disappoint her. Dear Maggie. I cannot tell you how often I have done something I had not anticipated doing because it was too much trouble to explain that she was mistaken.”
“At least I am in good company, then. At any rate, she said to tell you she would be here soon to make some tea.”
“I hope you were not completely disinclined to see me.”
“Not at all. I ought to have been here sooner, but lately my time has been taken up with my brother’s visit.”
“Oh, yes. Pray be seated. Is your brother’s family still at Hartfield?”
“They are. They had planned to leave yesterday, but the snow hindered them. If the weather is fair tomorrow, they will leave in the afternoon.”
“I trust the visit has been a pleasant one.”
“Yes, quite like old times. No one else understands Donwell like John does, of course, and I like to have his opinion on things there. He still teases me mercilessly, but I suppose all younger brothers do that. And I know that Miss Woodhouse and her father greatly enjoy having all the family there. They would not think Christmas a time of much cheer unless the Knightleys were there to share it—nor I. I have spent a good part of nearly every day with the family at either Donwell or Hartfield. I will miss them when they go.”
“You are fortunate in having them so near—you must see them several times every year.”
“Yes, London is a great deal closer than Norfolk. Have you any plans to return there for a visit?”
“Not for several months, at least.”
“No, I suppose you will be too busy for that—especially in light of your new extra duties in Highbury.”
“Dr. Hughes has told you?”
“I heard it first from Elton.”
“I see. Yes, I will be busier than usual for the next few weeks.”
“You look as if you do not relish the added work, and I’m sure no one could blame you. I fear Elton thought little of the inconvenience it would be to you.”
“Oh, I am not so much inconvenienced. I will conduct both services on Sundays, of course, but there will not be many extra duties above that. If I seem unhappy it is probably because …do you remember my telling you that I have a dread of meeting new people?”
“I do.”
“Highbury is full of people that I do not know,” Spencer said, looking into the fire. “The thought of standing at the pulpit in Highbury church with that sea of strange faces looking back at me…And there is to be a new tenant, you know, in the old Mefford farm, and William Larkins thought the family might move in today, in spite of the bad weather. In fact, when I heard your knock at the door I thought you were William Larkins coming to tell me they had arrived. I was gathering up my courage to greet them and ask if I might be of service.” He looked up at Knightley with a wry smile. “I must appear very foolish to you—such irrational fears.”
“Not at all, I assure you. I am prey to unreasonable fears myself.”
“I suppose you must have some fears—everyone does—though I must say you appear as imperturbable as a piece of granite. But I can’t believe that there is any time when you are afraid of people.”
“You are mistaken in thinking so. Perhaps there are not many scenes which make me nervous—my position has accustomed me to public life—however I do have a particular dislike of any sort of performance. Fortunately, I am not a young lady that would be expected to entertain the assembled company of an evening, and I daresay hardly anyone knows how much I should dislike a group of people watching me exhibit.”
“You don’t go in much for display, do you?” said Spencer thoughtfully.
“No. Our family has never been ostentatious. I do not know whether it has been due to modesty or to laziness in following the fashions of the hour, but however it has come about, the Knightleys of Donwell Abby are a bit too ordinary for society’s elite.”
“And I am exceedingly grateful that neither your nor your estate have grand pretensions. I could never feel at home in a place that flaunted its affluence. But have you ever displayed a talent in public? If it is merely your family’s habit to refrain from performing in front of others and you have never done it yourself, perhaps you would not find it nearly as disagreeable as you think.”
It was Knightley’s turn to look into the fire. “I have done it,” he said slowly, “though it was a long time ago.” He took a deep breath and glanced at Spencer, whose face was alight with interest. “When I was ten years old, a dancing master came to Highbury—it was a more populous place in my youth than it is now—and my father elected to have me attend his school rather than have private lessons at home. At first I had no aversion whatever to learning alongside the twenty-odd other children, but soon I began to hate it. The dancing master was a bit of a sycophant and he wanted to be on the good side of any rich and important people, which meant that he was particularly attentive to me. He told everyone to ‘watch Master George’ every time there was a new pattern to learn, and I was always chosen to demonstrate the correct steps to children who were not doing them properly. I knew perfectly well why I was made much of, and such praise was hardly gratifying. There was no telling if I was really any good or not, and the thought that perhaps they all knew me to be a poor dancer even as they politely applauded my performance vexed me. I loathe flattery. All the crowd was watching me—judging me—and there was no way for me to ever determine what their true judgement was. The whole business made me detest dancing.”
Spencer nodded. “I’m certain I should feel the same. And how did you overcome your dislike?”
“I never did. I still do not like to dance. The thought of standing up at a ball, for example, with the eyes of all the company on me as the music begins to play twists my stomach into knots.”
“But surely not everyone would have their eyes on you,” said Spencer reasonably. “The young flirting couples, for example, might be more inclined to look at each other.”
“I know it. And the chances that anyone would take such an opportunity to flatter me on my dancing abilities are very remote. I told you that it was an unreasonable fear. It is so unreasonable that I am sure no one has guessed it. When I do not take the very few opportunities for dancing presented to me everyone simply assumes I do not like the music or the motion of the dance.”
“Well, they will not learn the truth from me unless I find myself in need of a secret with which to blackmail you,” said Spencer with a smile. “But what will you do if there is ever a young lady that you are anxious to please and who wants you to dance?”
“Faint, most likely,” said Knightley.
Spencer laughed. “The very last thing anyone would expect you to do! But I do not think you would fall prey to such an extremity. Holy Writ tells us that ‘perfect love casteth out fear,’ you know. Under the influence of a great love you may find the courage to dance after all.”
“Well,” said Knightley, chuckling, “You have given me the perfect test by which to judge any future infatuations; if I am willing to dance in public for her sake, it must be true love.”
For a week Knightley basked in the restoration of comfortable circumstances: Elton undeceived and gone, Emma undeceived and chastened, and John back in London where he could not tease except by letter. The daily visits to Hartfield were once again pleasant and comfortable, even if Harriet was very much there. Indeed, her presence at Hartfield was evidence that Emma was endeavouring to make amends with her friend by showing her great attention. The long-neglected On the Improvement of the Mind was taken out again, and the bookmark moved a little forward as a result.
“I do not think, Mr. Knightley, that Mr. Elton was very wise in going to Bath at this time of year, or so suddenly,” said Mr. Woodhouse one day when Harriet was not at Hartfield and Knightley had been persuaded to take tea with them in her absence. “He may very well catch a chill during this cold weather. And going about among strangers he may be exposed to infection. The whole excursion is most imprudent.”
Knightley agreed politely, just as he had on each of the other seventeen occasions that Mr. Woodhouse had expressed these thoughts in the last few days. He looked over at Emma, who was quietly smiling over her embroidery. She radiated the natural grace that was indicative of the poise she seemed to have in any situation. Indeed, considering the ordeal she had recently experienced, her behaviour was the model of dignity when contrasted with Elton’s. Emma had responded very well to the humiliating affair. She had swallowed her dose of mortification, learnt from her mistake, and begun to atone for her misguided actions. Elton, on the other hand, had merely become embarrassed and angry and then run away.
“Oh! Mrs. Weston was here this morning, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, turning the subject firmly away from Elton. “She left her compliments for you.”
“Thank you. And how do the Westons do?”
“As well as might be expected, considering their disappointment.”
“Disappointment?”
“Oh, have you not heard? Mr. Frank Churchill will not be coming next week after all; his aunt and uncle cannot spare him.”
“Indeed?” said Knightley, with a dim sense that he ought to be sad on behalf of the Westons but not really feeling unhappy at all.
“Yes, and it is too provoking!” said Emma warmly. “Here we have for all these months been anticipating an addition to our confined society—someone new to look at instead of the same dull procession of faces—and now we must wait some more. It would have been as good as a holiday to Highbury to have a new young man about. I am quite out of patience with the Churchills—they could let him come if they would, I am sure.”
Emma’s outburst gave Knightley pause. She had appeared fascinated by this subject once before, at the Westons’ dinner, though at the time he had put it down to simple politeness. Whatever the Westons might imagine with regard to Frank Churchill and Emma, he had been sure that Emma was in no danger of being captivated by such a trivial, frivolous young man. For all that she had been mistaken in Elton’s nature, she generally recognized an honourable character; and she, more than most people, took a firm view of what was due to a father. She could not possibly be captivated by the mere thought of a man like Frank Churchill. But this enthusiasm for the topic when there was no one else to hear her (for even Mr. Woodhouse had begun to nod) denoted some genuine interest. Perhaps in her desire for something new she had forgotten this imperfection of Mr. Churchill’s. As her plans for Elton to wed Harriet had come to nothing, she must feel that life was very dull and be eager for any novelty. It was but a temporary lapse, of course. When reminded of what she knew already, her interest in Frank Churchill would disappear.
“The Churchills are very likely in fault, but I dare say he might come if he would,” said Knightley.
“I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”
“I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely for me to believe it without proof.”
“How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?”
And so Knightley explained why Mr. Frank Churchill could not possibly be blameless in staying away from Randalls, and why he gave every indication of being proud, luxurious and selfish. It was not long before the conversation began to have a familiar feel to it; once again he was asserting things that were clear as day, and Emma was wilfully closing her eyes to those facts. Back and forth they went, Knightley giving sound reasons for his opinions, and Emma stubbornly arguing with every one of them. She made excuse after excuse for Churchill’s negligence, and it was the more aggravating because he would have thought she was the last person to make light of such errors.
“We shall never agree about him,” said Emma after ten minutes of combat, “but that is nothing extraordinary.”
Nothing extraordinary at all, thought Knightley. I have only to open my mouth to be sure that you will contradict whatever I say.
“I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man,” she went on. “I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son. But he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others.”
The image Emma’s words conjured up—that of a simpering, weak-minded fop—was so very much at odds with his notion of man’s perfection that he responded with more acerbity than he was wont.
“Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain. His letters disgust me.”
He could see from Emma’s face that she was a little taken aback by his harsh words. He did not repent them, however. She had been wrong before and suffered humiliation; if he could keep her from doing the same again, he would.
“Your feelings are singular,” said Emma, recovering. “They seem to satisfy every body else.”
“I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston,” said Knightley, hoping that the mention of her dear friend would aid him in bringing Emma to reason. “They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings, standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come, I dare say, and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very ‘amiable,’ have very good manners, and be very agreeable, but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people—nothing really amiable about him.”
“You seem determined to think ill of him,” said Emma, reverting, as usual, to a change of subject when she could not refute his point.
“Me! Not at all. I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal—that he is well grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.”
“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him,” said Emma, smiling, “he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest—one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill. We shall think and speak of nobody else.”
The idea of, say, Mrs. Hodges thinking and speaking of nothing but Frank Churchill as she went about her duties made him smile in spite of his vexation. Such an exaggeration tempted him to retort in kind, but he stopped himself. It was better to be the voice of reason in this dispute.
“You will excuse my being so much overpowered,” he said. “If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”
“My idea of him,” said Emma, ignoring this bit of good sense, “is that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of everybody, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each. That is my idea of him.”
Good heavens! thought Knightley. She was absolutely determined to admire this fellow. Without ever having laid eyes on him she had decided his personality, his talents and his manners! Her idea of him, indeed!
“And mine,” he said in a tone that sounded less reasonable than he liked, “is that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! At three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority! To be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”
“I will say no more about him. You turn every thing to evil,” said Emma, picking up the embroidery that she had laid aside when the argument began. “We are both prejudiced: you against, I for him. And we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.”
“Prejudiced!” Of all the ridiculous accusations! “I am not prejudiced.”
“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”
Prejudiced! thought Knightley, still fuming at the word. She imagines that I spend all my time thinking up malicious slanders against the man!
“He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another,” he said, irritated beyond caring what his tone conveyed.
Emma looked at him for a moment in surprise and then turned her attention to her needle. “Well then, let us talk of something else. Has William Larkins returned to Donwell since his Christmas visit?”
Knightley took a deep breath and willed himself to put aside his annoyance and answer in a rational matter.
“Yes, he has. He came back from his sister’s house with such evident relief that he was almost cheerful. I am to meet with him this afternoon—in an hour, to be exact—to discuss the winter planting of vegetables in the hot-beds at the Abbey.”
“And your new tenants have come?”
“Yes. The farmer presented himself at the Abbey yesterday. He seems a decent fellow—earnest and dedicated. Not much of a sense of humour, though, from what I could see.”
“Rather like William Larkins himself, then.”
“I suppose so, except that he is twenty years younger, and I doubt that he is quite as full of amusing information.”
William Larkins came to the Abbey and left again an hour later, having received his instructions about what should be sown in the hot-beds and having imparted the news (“I think you should know, Mr. Knightley…”) that Robert Martin’s best ram was injured and not likely to live, that the maid at Starling Farm was engaged to a labourer from Langham, and that the little boy living with his widowed mother at the Foote farm was blind.
It was this last bit of information that Knightley sat musing on as he was once again alone in his library with Madam Duvall purring contentedly on his lap. He remembered once, years ago, when there had been a child in Highbury that was subject to fits, and the family had been almost shunned by the parish in consequence. But the child had died and the family moved away and no one seemed to remember it anymore. He hoped Donwell would not be too disturbed by the presence of this sightless child in their midst. It took so little to unsettle people. Look what the thought of Frank Churchill’s advent was doing to even such a generally steady female as Emma. She was more than steady, she was clever—the cleverest woman he knew, in fact; and she had firm principles and a good heart. And with those characteristics, her view of the young man was completely unaccountable. No one could doubt Emma’s devotion to her own father; she showed him unceasing kindness and consideration, even though he could be a very tedious companion. How then could she treat so lightly Churchill’s indifference to Weston, a man who was by no means a tedious companion, and who, if not due a visit before now, was certainly owed one on the occasion of his marriage? Knightley could not understand it.
She could not possibly share the unspoken sentiments of the Westons and wish to marry the man. Could she? His brow furrowed as he considered the idea. Suppose Churchill was both good looking and a smooth talker? With her scant knowledge of the world she just might be taken in. In his mind’s eye he could see a dandified fop (ludicrously dressed in the fashion of twenty years ago) prancing up to Emma and uttering flattering nonsense, and Emma (no doubt taken in by the show of worldly sophistication) smiling graciously and allowing his attentions. No, no, that would never be. The prancing alone would make her laugh. Ah, but what if he walked without prancing—say he had an ordinary, manly gait. The apparition in his mind changed accordingly to one which strode purposefully up to Emma and said his piece with insinuating cleverness (still, however, dressed like a macaroni). Emma might be in some danger from a fellow like that.
The cat suddenly leapt off his lap and huddled under the chair as Baxter came into the library and said, “Mr. Spencer to see you, sir. Are you at leisure?”
“By all means, Baxter, send him in. How do you do, Spencer? Come and sit near the fire. The snow is gone, but the wind is still biting; I know, for I was out in it today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley. Yes, perhaps I will take a little something to drive away the chill. Thank you.”
Spencer took the glass that was offered him and sat down in the chair that Knightley indicated. “I suppose you haven’t heard the latest gossip around Donwell.”
“If it concerns anyone connected with Randalls then I am already well-informed.”
“The Westons? No, it has nothing to do with them. No, it is concerning Mrs. Catherwood.”
“Mrs. Catherwood,” repeated Knightley, searching his memory for anyone by that name.
“She is the widowed sister of Edward Foote, your new tenant,” supplied Spencer.
“Ah, yes. I had not heard her name before.”
“I passed Mrs. Catherwood and her son on the road today and stopped to say a few words of greeting to them. I went down on one knee to talk to the little boy, as one does with children, you know, and I put out my hand for him to shake, and he ignored it. I noticed then that he was looking toward me, but not at me.”
“He is blind,” said Knightley.
“You know, then?”
“William Larkins told me a half-hour ago.”
“Yes, of course,” said Spencer with a half-smile. “I saw him coming away from the Abbey—I ought to have guessed that he would have told you.”
“I am quite sure the whole parish is aware of the fact by this time. I hope there will not be any trouble about it.”
“Trouble?”
“You know the superstitious ideas that fester in the country. Some people think that any malady is a visitation of judgement on the sufferer. I only hope that Mrs. Catherwood may not suffer any harassment from pious simpletons. ”
Spencer looked startled. “I confess I had not thought of that. I was only struck by the difficulty of Mrs. Catherwood’s situation—to bring up a fatherless boy is a difficult thing for any woman, but when the boy is blind as well! His prospects must be very bleak.”
“Yes, they must. You shame me, Spencer. I was so mindful of my own affairs that I gave the situation no more thought than to hope it would not cause uneasiness in the parish.”
“Could it really upset the populace to any extent?”
“I think it could. If folk really think that the boy or his mother have done something so wicked that they merit divine retribution…”
“But that is absurd! Of all the mystical nonsense— Pious simpletons, you called them? Simpletons, yes, but pious,…..Humph! If they were truly devout they would remember ‘neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents’—that was about the man born blind, remember. I wish someone might broach the subject with me. I’d give them a lecture they’d not soon forget!”
Knightley had never seen Spencer speak so forcefully. He’d not imagined that the curate could ever be angry; it seemed too far outside his nature. But there were depths in him, evidently, that had been hidden heretofore.
“Well,” said Knightley, “A sermon or two on the topic may go a long way in influencing the general opinion. If you preached with that look on your face, you may be sure the parish would take notice!”
“Whether they take notice or not, they shall certainly hear the truth on this matter. And surely if you undertook to speak to any disruptive troublemakers, your arguments on the subject would convince them of their error. No one would consider disputing your judgement.”
Knightley gave a short laugh. “My judgement is not so universally esteemed as you think. I was told very lately, after a debate that lasted twenty minutes, that I am quite prejudiced and no judge of anyone else’s situation. So, you see, I have little faith in my persuasive powers.”
Spencer sat up straight in his chair. “Who on earth had the effrontery to say such a thing to you?”
“Oh, a lady of my acquaintance—a connection of my family’s.”
“What an extraordinary thing to say to a gentleman.”
“Well, she was provoked, and, I think, rather attached to the subject of our debate.”
“I see. Something to do with tender feelings?”
“I hope it has not gone quite as far as that. But I fear she is in some danger of being captivated by a silly, worthless young man.”
“Oh, that sort. Good looking, too, I suppose.”
“Well, he has that reputation, but as our description of him rests solely on the authority of his relatives, we cannot be certain.”
“Have you not met the young man in question, then?”
“Well, no. But one can make a fair estimation of his character from the fragments of news that one hears of him—forever at some watering place or dancing attendance on rich relatives—and from his lack of attention to his real duties.”
“Perhaps he is not so bad as you think him. Charity ‘hopeth all things,’ you know. One may get hold of quite a false notion about a person, and then everything one hears about him only serves to make the impression stronger. But with a further knowledge of his circumstances some of his behaviour may be defended.”
“You take the young lady’s side, I see.”
“I did not mean to. But I have suffered before now under the preconceived ideas of others, and it pains me to see the same injustice being done to another. Perhaps the lady can distinguish in him something good that you cannot perceive, but which will become clear if you meet him yourself.”
Knightley snorted. “She has not met him, either! Which is why her seeming attachment to him is so strange.”
“Well, women have been known to fall in love with men by reputation alone. Izaak Walton, you know, wrote that George Herbert’s wife fell in love with him before she had even seen him; her father’s description of the man was enough for her. And by all accounts they had a happy marriage.”
Knightley found very little comfort in this anecdote.
“At any rate,” Spencer went on, “I do think you ought to reserve judgement until the man actually appears. You may be surprised to find him, if not perfect, at least estimable. Then you could be easy whether the lady was in love with him or not.”
“That would be worse,” said Knightley, frowning. “Then there would be nothing to stop her marrying him.”
Spencer had been on the point of taking a sip of his drink, but at Knightley’s words he lowered the glass and stared at him in surprise. “Then—” he stopped abruptly.
“Yes?”
Spencer shook his head. “Never mind. I had almost forgotten what I came to see you about, and I ought to ask you now before it slips my mind again. Can anything be done for the little Catherwood boy?”
“About his eyesight? I doubt it, but you might ask a medical man what his opinion is.”
“No, I meant is there anything we might do for the boy’s prospects? Some sort of trade or craft that he might be taught so that he can support himself when he is grown?”
“Oh! Well, he might do something in the literary way, I suppose, following in the footsteps of Homer and Milton.”
“That is possible, of course, if he is gifted with words. But if he is not?”
“A musician? That has been the traditional trade of many blind people.”
“That is a good thought. Perhaps when he is a little older I will see what can be done about finding a master to teach him.” He put the glass on the small table beside him and stood up.
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley, for your counsel and your hospitality.”
“Not at all. I enjoy our discussions; they always reveal some new aspect of your character.”
“I might say the same thing to you,” said Spencer with a smile that seemed too knowing for such an unworldly curate. “Good day.” He bowed and quit the room, leaving Knightley to puzzle out what he meant.