“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 Elton’s attraction 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 desirable. 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 logical, reliable, and manageable realm.
5
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, young and well-dressed, with fair hair and a rather plain face. He 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 light-hearted 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. “Peter 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 all 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?”
“Marry? No, I do not. Has he said something?”
“Not di
rectly. 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.
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