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 a curious thing, 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.”
“An
d I am exceedingly grateful that neither you 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.”
15
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 disappoint-ment.”
“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 feel sorry 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 extraordinar
y.”
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 everybody 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.”
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