“By no means,” said Mr. Weston. “The fire in the drawing room is much warmer, and the chairs are without doubt more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weston. I believe I had better have my cup of tea now—late hours do not agree with me. No, I thank you, Mr. Knightley, you need not accompany me—I would not take you away from your friends.”
Mr. Woodhouse bowed and made his way out of the dining room, leaving the men to talk about parish business for another quarter of an hour, until Weston observed that this was not a meeting at the Crown, but a dinner party—and moreover it was Christmas Eve. “We ought to be able to put aside these matters for a few hours, at least,” he said. “And Mr. John Knightley must find it all extremely dull.”
“Not at all, sir,” said John. “I have a keen interest in everything that relates to Donwell and Highbury. But as we have changed the topic, I may observe that wedlock seems to suit you very well. I don’t know when I’ve seen you look so flourishing.”
“Yes indeed, matrimony is splendid physic! Never felt better in my life.”
“I am surprised,” John went on, “that with such an example before them our two bachelors here have not been convinced to change their state as well.”
Knightley scowled at John, who grinned impudently back at him.
“Oh, everyone knows that Knightley will be a bachelor to the end of time,” said Elton dismissively. “On the other hand, I would like nothing better than to try marriage for myself.”
“Ha!” said Weston. “Got a lady in mind already, I’ll warrant. Well, what I say is, don’t hesitate if your mind is made up. A fine, well-set-up young man like yourself need have no reason for delay. You’ll amaze us all next week, I daresay, with an announcement. That would be a surprise for Highbury, now, wouldn’t it?”
John nudged Knightley and murmured, “Nothing would surprise me more.”
“What’s that you say?” said Weston, turning his gaze from Elton’s flushed and happy face to query John.
“I was merely agreeing with you, sir, that it would be a surprise,” said John. “A great and lasting one, if I am any judge.”
“Well, what do you say to rejoining the ladies?” said Weston, downing the last of his wine.
The men moved out of the dining room into the hall, and were about to enter the drawing room when John paused outside the door.
“I believe I will step outside for a moment and look at the weather,” said John.
“By all means,” said Weston, and followed Elton into the drawing room.
“How very droll Weston is,” said John to Knightley, who had stayed behind in the hall with him. “He wants Elton to marry Emma, then?”
“No, I am quite sure he does not. His perception in the matter of other people’s tender feelings is about the same as Emma’s.”
“Oh, that acute, is he? So he has no idea that Elton…Hmph. He merely wants everyone to be married—on principle, as it were. Well, he ought to have held his tongue.”
“You introduced the subject.”
“I don’t think everyone ought to get married. Only you.”
Knightley’s patience gave out. The topic of matrimony had become intolerable, and he refused to banter with John about it any more.
“Enough,” he said coldly and walked into the drawing room. The scene that met his eyes there was hardly likely to improve his temper: Elton was sitting on a sofa between Emma and Mrs. Weston, talking earnestly to Emma again. This time, however, there was no look of affable politeness—actual or assumed—on Emma’s face. She looked nothing but astonished. Knightley turned away; once he would have been amused by the scene, but now it was merely painful. He moved to the table in the corner where coffee was being served, and accepted a steaming cup from the servant. His eyes wandered back to the group on the sofa; he could only see the back of Emma from where he was, but her posture was rigid and tense. Perhaps he ought to intervene. But would it really do any good to forestall the inevitable?
All at once, Emma got up from the sofa and walked over to the empty chair beside Isabella. It could mean only one thing: Emma meant to give Elton a set-down. But Elton looked perplexed, not dejected; Emma’s reproof was quite lost on him. She was talking to Isabella now with an intensity that matched Elton’s—a sign that she meant to ignore him for the rest of the evening. Knightley had little hope that such a hint would be understood by Elton, but at least now Emma’s eyes were opened.
John came in then and said in a voice that all could hear, “Well! The ground is covered in snow, there is more snow falling fast, and the wind is blowing hard. This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “—something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.”
There was a moment of silence and then a volley of exclamations. Mr. Woodhouse’s face showed his complete alarm, and Knightley muttered an imprecation against John for being so unfeeling. There was only one thing for it—check the weather himself. Otherwise there would be no hope of calming Mr. Woodhouse or anyone else.
He walked out, relieved to be alone and feeling that the cold air would clear his head. It took only a moment to discover that John had been exaggerating. The snow was not in the least deep, barely covering the ground in most places. He walked all the way out to the Highbury road and a little distance along it, and it was the same all the way along. There were a few flakes of snow drifting down from the sky, but he could see some stars between the clouds, and it was evident that there would be no more snow falling that night. The wind was blowing, but not strongly, and there was certainly nothing to fear in travelling home.
John could be the most exasperating man! It was one thing to needle his brother about marriage, but quite another to intentionally stir up the fears of his father-in-law, and Isabella, too. He suspected that his own bad humour had contributed to John’s, but that did not excuse him. Altogether it had been a most aggravating evening and he would be very pleased to get home again.
To further allay any fears on the score of safety, he found the coachmen and asked them if they thought there was any cause for worry about the journey home. None at all, they said. He walked back into the drawing room—how very hot the room was!—and gave his report to the company. The relief on Isabella’s face repaid him for his exertions, and the agitation of Mr. Woodhouse was greatly reduced. It did not vanish, however, and he asked Knightley several times if he was quite sure that there was not more snow piling up on the roads at that very moment. Knightley assured him that there was not, and Emma did her best to pacify her father, but Knightley knew that nothing would make him really tranquil as long as he remained at Randalls. He took a few steps behind Mr. Woodhouse’s chair and beckoned Emma with a small movement of his head.
She came over to him, and he said quietly, “Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”
She nodded and matched his quiet tone as she said, “I am ready, if the others are.”
“Shall I ring the bell?”
“Yes, do.”
It was the shortest conversation he had had all evening, but it soothed his irritated feelings remarkably. For a moment it was as if he and Emma were the only adults present—the only ones with sense and compassion, who knew what ought to be done and were able to do it without hesitation. The others were like children, who lacked either the wit or the confidence to do what they ought.
It was only a few minutes until the carriages came, and Knightley and Weston escorted Mr. Woodhouse to his.
“Oh, there is indeed snow!” exclaimed Mr. Woodhouse. “And the night is fearfully dark! I am afraid we shall have a very bad drive. Poor Isabella will not like it. And poor Emma will be in the carriage behind. I do not know what we had best do—we must keep as much together as we can. Where is the coachman? James! Ah, James, you must go very slow and wait for the other carriage. Very slow. And wait for the other carriage. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Weston. Yes, the blanket is here; t
hank you, Mr. Knightley.”
John had conducted Isabella to the carriage, and when she was safely inside, he got in after her and the door was shut. Knightley and Weston were going back into the house when they passed Elton escorting Emma to her carriage. It took a few seconds for Knightley to realize what had happened. John ought not to be with Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse; he ought to be with Emma and Elton.
Oh mercy, thought Knightley. Emma and Elton shut up together all the way back to the vicarage. Elton will probably think this is the perfect opportunity…He sighed. Poor Emma.
14
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 warned 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?
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