“Did you not resent that threat?” said Richard. “Most of my acquaintance would.”
“No. I knew he was right. And I knew also that he would give the lot to John if I gambled another farthing.”
“So you gave it all up. And your friends?”
“I gave them up, too. They were a little resentful at first—they gave me a nickname with which I will not defile your chaste ears—but I don’t think they bore me any lasting grudge.”
“What happened to the friend who loved hazard?”
“He died last year. Abroad.”
“I see why you say I’ve been fortunate. Though it has cost me dearly.” Richard sighed. “I suppose I ought to start searching out vacant schoolmaster posts. God knows who will give me a reference after this…”
“Stop a minute,” said John and glanced at Knightley, who gave him the briefest of nods. “I think we may be able to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Yes,” said Knightley. “You must understand that we do this as much for your parents as for you, and I do not think I can express what our outrage will be if we find that you have misused our generosity.”
“Indeed, sir, I’ll not abuse your kindness, whatever it is!” said Richard earnestly. “I deserve nothing, I know, but I am exceedingly grateful for any help you could give!”
“Very well. John and I will advance you the entire sum you owe, on several conditions…pray be seated again, Richard”—for the young man had sprung out of his chair at Knightley’s words. “As I said, there are several conditions. First, you must resign your membership at the Union Club immediately.”
“Already done,” said Richard. “Several days ago.”
“And are you a member anywhere else?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. The second condition is that you must go home and give a full account of this business to your parents.”
Richard licked his lips, but nodded.
“The third condition is that when you are called to the bar, which my brother assures me you soon will be, you will live the life of a very frugal monk. You will repay us as quickly as you are able, and you will by no means live up to your income. And I hardly need add that there must be no more gambling of any sort. Can you meet all those conditions?”
“I can, sir. I only wish there were something else I could do to show my gratitude…my penitence…my earnest desire…”
“All right,” said John. “No speeches. Save them for the courtroom. Your conduct will show your sincerity. Don’t forget: ‘Some often repent, yet never reform.’”
“You will see me reform, I swear it,” said Richard. “And perhaps you might take the money to the Club yourself? I would rather not appear there again, for any reason.”
“By all means,” said John.
“I hope we did right,” said Knightley an hour later when Richard was gone.
“So do I,” said John. “But I believe we did.”
“I almost think he has punishment enough in confessing his idiocy to his parents.”
“Quite. It’s no wonder he stayed away at Christmas. It would have been torture for him to visit his father, knowing what misery his father would suffer if the truth were all told.”
“Yes. Avoiding the parental home is of great consequence to those in the throes of dissipation,” said Knightley, wondering suddenly if this was the reason for Frank Churchill’s non-appearance at Randalls. Could he be gambling away his expected inheritance, and feeling guilty enough to avoid his upright, honest father? Just the sort of thing he would do, thought Knightley. Expensive, useless, idle fellow. Nothing to occupy his time but following the racing calendar and gaming at some club whenever he is in town. I hope Weston is on his guard; Churchill may come to him for a loan under some pretence. And if he were ever to come to me for money…
“What is it?” said John.
“Hmm?”
“You look as if you regret helping Richard after all.”
“No, no. Richard is all right. But I tell you truly, John, if any other dissolute young man crosses my path and threatens the happiness of my friends, I will show no mercy—none at all.”
“Then heaven help the poor fellow.”
“Heaven won’t want to help him, either,” said Knightley.
17
Two days later Knightley stood on a little rise overlooking the home meadow, watching the workmen cut the new path toward Langham. The air was as cold as one might expect on a day in mid-January, but the sky was clear and the breeze carried the welcome song of throstles to his ears. There was really no reason for him to be standing there idly in the middle of the day; the men knew their work well enough and did not need an overseer. He stood there anyway, however, basking in the diminished strength of the winter sun and the feeling of satisfaction borne of agreeable circumstances.
Only the day before on the journey from London he had pondered whether there was any way to promote a friendship between Jane Fairfax and Emma—a friendship which he thought would be the most desirable thing in the world for both of them. Of course, Emma would have to initiate anything of that nature: Miss Fairfax was too reserved and unassuming to make any overtures herself. He had been unsure if speaking to Emma would help or hinder his object—in days gone by she had been unreceptive to any of his hints in that direction. He suspected that Emma thought of Jane Fairfax as a rival for the admiration of those of consequence in Highbury. Though Emma was, to his eye, much more beautiful, there was no denying that Jane’s accomplishments deserved all the praise they were generally given. Envy might well be lying hidden in the dark corners of Emma’s heart, and if it were so, open praise of the lady might only feed that monster. He had gone to Hartfield that morning still undecided as to the best course.
But to his surprise, Emma seemed to be making a beginning without any contribution from him. She had voluntarily started the subject of Miss Bates’ niece, and answered him pleasantly when he had enquired after Miss Fairfax’s health.
“She looks a little pale, I think. But she is quite as elegant as ever, and I hope she will have a very pleasant stay with her aunt and grandmother.”
There was no hint of jealousy in that speech. Cautiously he said, “I have always thought she was a very well-looking young woman.”
“Well-looking? You are very sparing in your praise! She is certainly handsome; she is better than handsome!”
Yes, the state of affairs in Highbury was entirely agreeable: Emma was showing signs of admiration of the one young woman who would make an excellent companion for her, Elton was still away, and there was no sign at all of that Churchill fellow.
“Mr. Knightley!”
Knightley turned to see who had hailed him; it was Robert Martin coming over the stile toward him.
“Good day, Martin,” said Knightley, advancing to meet him. “How do you do?”
“Pretty well, Mr. Knightley, I thank you.”
There was no smile in Martin’s eyes to match the one on his face, but then there never was anymore. A certain sort of settled resignation marked his manner, as if he had done battle and come to a tenuous peace, but he had not so far recovered as to become cheerful.
“I meant to ask you—did you lose that ram after all?” said Knightley.
“No, Mr. Knightley. I thought we would, but he pulled through.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I see you’re moving that path.”
“Yes, the home meadow was wanted as pasture this spring. I wouldn’t have moved the path if it would inconvenience anyone, but you see it is only a few steps further around to the right.”
Both men watched as the workmen paused in their labour to help a woman with a small child find her way around the piles of earth and vegetation where the new path was being cut.
“I suppose that is Mrs. Catherwood,” said Knightley. “I think I should recognize anyone else.”
“Yes. She takes her son for a walk almost every day. Poor little fell
ow.”
“And how is she—how are they—settling in, do you think?”
Martin hesitated, and Knightley’s heart sank.
“I presume there is some ill-feeling in the parish toward the boy?”
“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that,” said Martin. “And if there had been any such thing, the sermon Mr. Spencer preached two weeks ago would have snuffed it out. I’ve never seen him so severe about anything.”
“People took it to heart, did they?”
“They did. It’s a bit of an honour now to do something for the boy.”
“Good. But there is still something, isn’t there, that is difficult for the Catherwoods?”
Martin’s brow furrowed. “I’m not one to tell tales, Mr. Knightley.”
“No, you are not. But I may be able to help, if I know what it is.”
Martin gave a short laugh. “I don’t think you could be of any assistance with this problem, sir.”
“You’ve not been sworn to secrecy, have you?”
“No, nothing like that. My sisters have befriended Mrs. Catherwood, and I hear things through them.” Martin deliberated with himself for a moment, and then shrugged. “I suppose I could tell you. It seems that her brother’s wife—Mrs. Foote, you know—is not the easiest of women to live with.”
“I see.”
“She seems to be unhappy about having to host her husband’s sister as well as a blind child.”
“How did Mrs. Catherwood lose her husband?” said Knightley.
“A sudden illness, I believe, about two years ago. She lived with her mother until recently, but her mother died—in September, if memory serves.”
“Poor woman,” said Knightley with feeling. “Her circumstances would be difficult enough even without uncomfortable domestic arrangements.”
“Very true, Mr. Knightley.”
Knightley watched the retreating figures
“She ought to marry again,” said Knightley.
Immediately the look of compassion on Martin’s face vanished and was replaced with a stoic, even defiant, expression.
“Have I said something amiss?” said Knightley.
Martin’s eyes looked determinedly across the meadow but his voice wavered a little as he said, “Mr. Knightley, you once asked me to refrain from matchmaking where you were concerned. With respect, sir, I would ask you to do the same.”
Knightley was stricken. “Truly, Martin,” he said, “I had no intention of matchmaking! It was but an idle comment. I had no notion of hinting such a thing to you.”
Martin nodded, but his eyes still did not meet Knightley’s. “I beg your pardon, sir. I ought not to have assumed you meant anything of the sort. It is only that my mother said something to me the other day about it, and it cut me to the heart—to think that she thought I could so easily set aside—” He swallowed and fell silent.
Not for the first time did Knightley wish he could beg forgiveness for the part he had played in Martin’s blighted hopes. He had been right when he had told Emma that a man could not be more disappointed than Robert Martin.
“I ought to have waited,” said Martin, low. “I ought to have been more certain of her regard before I asked.”
Guilt threatened to engulf Knightley. “Martin, I—”
“Please, sir,” interrupted Martin, “do not blame yourself for the advice you gave me—I am certain I would have spoken to her before long, regardless of what you said. The fault was mine…and impatience has brought about its own penalty.”
Dr. Hughes was sitting in a chair by the fire in his own drawing room when Knightley was shown in, and he smiled at the surprise on Knightley’s face.
“Downstairs!” exclaimed Knightley. “My dear sir, I had no idea you were so far mended! I would have thought it would be several weeks yet before you could use the stairs.”
“It will be,” said Dr. Hughes. “Richard fairly carried me down the stairs this morning and will have to tote me up again later, like a sack of meal. But he was determined that I should see the first snowdrops, and I may say that I was entirely ready for a change of scene. I was able to walk a little in the garden today—he brought me this rosewood cane, you see.”
“Very handsome,” said Knightley. “I wish it were a warmer season, for your sake, so that you might sit in the garden and recover your strength.”
“That would be delightful. I have often found that a garden can be very healing, to the spirit if not to the body.”
“Indeed,” said Knightley, remembering that only the night before he had dreamt that he was walking around the gardens, talking with Emma, and had woken with a remarkable sense of peace and well-being. He had been surprised that merely dreaming about a garden could effect such tranquillity of spirits.
“I met Richard in the lane and he told me you were asking for me.”
“I was,” said Dr. Hughes. “I had wondered at your keeping away from me—only that one brief call since you came back from the quarter sessions—but when Richard arrived yesterday it all became clear.”
“He spoke to you, then?”
“He did.” Dr. Hughes paused to clear his throat, and then said, “My dear Mr. Knightley, the debt we owe to you and to Mr. John Knightley is beyond anything—”
“Oh, never mind that, sir,” interrupted Knightley. “I understand your feelings—truly, I do—but we did no more than you would have done for us had we ever been in Richard’s position.”
“Oh, but—”
“Tell me faithfully, now,” said Knightley earnestly. “You would have done the same, would you not?”
“Well…” Dr. Hughes hesitated, looked at Knightley, and gave a rueful smile. “I suppose I would.”
“Exactly. You would also have some gracious and subtle way of avoiding thanks, whereas I can only, in my unpolished way, forbid the expression of gratitude. Therefore, to spare my feelings, you will be good enough to let the matter rest.”
“You are denying me the opportunity of delivering the speech I have been preparing since yesterday, you know.”
“Good. You ought not to have spent your time on such a thing. A sermon would have been the better thing to prepare; your leg is evidently mending so well that you will be back in the pulpit before long.”
“Will you join us for dinner this evening? I will eat in my own dining room tonight, and would be very pleased to have you with us to mark such a great event. And I might be able to slip in bits of my speech between the courses.”
“I do thank you, sir, but I regret that Hartfield has the prior claim on me tonight.”
“Tomorrow evening, then?”
“With very great pleasure.”
The one advantage of being seated next to Miss Bates at dinner was that absolutely no thought was needed to keep a conversation going—a nod or murmur now and then was all the contribution one needed to make.
“And as I was telling Jane, Mr. Knightley—at breakfast, I believe—yes, it was, for she was eating her bread—generally she has only the one piece of bread with butter for her breakfast—just the one, if you can imagine such a thing—even my mother has two—But as I was saying, I told her that she ought to have eaten more of the mutton the night before, as she had the smallest piece—at least, I think it was the smallest—there were two that were very like, and perhaps the other one was a little thinner—but however, it was not enough for her, I am sure. She has not the appetite of a sparrow, and has not eaten a full meal since—oh, it must have been Thursday last, when we had some pork, but that was the last of it, and now there is nothing in the larder but mutton. But mutton is so very wholesome for an invalid—Mr. Perry says so—and she is not absolutely an invalid—and we are so very fortunate that there is a good bit of mutton in the larder, and we do not lack for anything, Mr. Knightley.”
He let Miss Bates talk on while he watched Emma. It was a good sign, he thought, that Emma was showing an interest in Miss Fairfax. He could see her asking questions of her and listening intently to the answers
. What they were speaking of he had no idea—Miss Bates’ chatter effectively drowned out the low voices of the well-bred young ladies—but he caught the word “Weymouth” and presumed the topic must be Jane’s recent travels. He was pleased: Emma was cultivating Jane Fairfax for her own sake and on her own initiative. He could have wished Miss Fairfax a little more energetic in her responses, but perhaps in time she would be more open with Emma.
Mr. Woodhouse and Knightley lingered only a very few minutes in the dining room after the ladies had retired; neither wanted any more to drink, and Mr. Woodhouse much preferred his comfortable seat by the drawing-room fire. He had no sooner settled into this seat than he drew Miss Bates and her niece into conversation; he had overheard enough at dinner to make him extremely anxious on the score of Miss Fairfax’s appetite.
As much as he respected both Miss Bates and Mr. Woodhouse, Knightley was happy to have a little respite from conversing with them, and he sat down next to Emma with a small sigh of relief. The gleam in Emma’s eye meant she knew exactly what he was feeling, and found it amusing.
“I was remiss, Mr. Knightley,” she said. “I ought to have invited another gentleman so that you might have had more masculine discussion this evening.”
“Masculine discussion? Come now, Emma, tell me: what is it that you think gentlemen talk about?”
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