Knightley knew Carver from the quarter sessions and had even dined once at his house. He found him at home and at leisure, and from the comfort of a deep chair in the library told him Page’s story. He listened sympathetically to Knightley’s tale, and accepted without any difficulty the evidence that Sam Page was in Donwell on the day he had supposedly committed a crime in Kingston.
“Well, Knightley, there doesn’t seem to be any question that this man Gibbons mistook the matter, and it couldn’t have been Page who stole those things. Here, I’ll write a note to my man to have Page released. You can go and tell his brother that he’ll be free tonight. I’m glad, to say the truth. He seemed a decent fellow.”
“Yes, I believe he is. Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome to dine here this evening, you know. Garrett will be here—you know Garrett? Yes—well, he will be here at seven.”
“I had better not, but I thank you for the offer. Another time, perhaps.”
“As you say. I’ll see you at the Easter quarter sessions, then.”
Knightley took his leave and started back to Donwell with a mind free to give to his own thoughts for the first time all day.
The important question before him was this: was Emma’s heart already lost to Churchill? If at this moment she were asked to choose between them, whom would she prefer? Knightley had the advantage of established intimacy with her family. She regarded him highly, appreciated his friendship, and was pleased with his company: these were his assets. Then again, perhaps his familiarity with Emma was also a liability. After all, Churchill’s great charm was probably that he was new and young and handsome.
Well, suppose her heart was not yet given to either of them? Ought he to declare himself openly now in order to forestall Churchill? What would happen if he rode straight to Hartfield immediately, told her of his love, and asked her to marry him? It was a heady thought. By the time he went to bed tonight he would have his heart’s desire. He could look into her eyes and call her “my darling Emma.” He could walk with her in the garden—in his mind’s eye it would be a summer’s eve—and they could talk and laugh and tease without restraint, and then in some secluded spot…
No! He could not let himself imagine it; if there was any hope of his thinking rationally he must keep his mind from wandering down that path. For, of course, Emma was not likely to consent to marry him now. She would be both startled and bewildered by his proposal, and there was little doubt that she would regretfully—but definitely—refuse him. That would be the end of everything, for he could never ask her again: a lady must not be pestered by an unwanted suit. He ought to wait.
But then, what if Churchill spoke first? He was not worthy of her, and there was no one to caution her except himself. Perhaps he ought to speak—hazard everything on the chance that friendly affection would be enough to secure her. He could teach her to love him afterwards. Perhaps it was cowardly to hesitate. ‘None but the brave deserves the fair,’ he thought. But this was immediately countered with ‘The better part of valour is discretion.’
Well, he would not act today, at least. He would give himself another night to think it over. Perhaps by morning he would have some certainty about which course to take.
23
“Sir?”
Baxter’s light touch woke him. He groaned and struggled to open his eyes.
“Sir? Are you unwell?” There was a note of anxiety in Baxter’s voice.
Knightley could not remember the last time he had needed to be prodded awake. How long had he slept? Long enough, it seemed; the sunlight coming through the windows was bright and the fire in his room well established.
“I am well enough, Baxter; only a little over-tired.” In truth, he had lain awake much of the night, trying without success to determine what Emma’s reaction might be to any one of the possible actions he might take. The only thing he was certain of this morning was that he needed to see Emma again. He had not laid eyes on her since his revelation, and he wondered if observation alone could tell him how deep her affection for him might be. Perhaps it was foolish to be in her presence—he might betray himself by some word or action or even incautiously speak to her of his love before he was fully decided on such a course. It could not be helped, however. He was aching for the sight of her.
He was careful to pay no particular attention to his appearance as he dressed; Emma should not detect any change in him, no matter how trivial, until he was sure of her feelings. He was a little afraid of being summoned away on some urgent business while he was eating his breakfast, but Harry brought in nothing but the ordinary post. There was a letter from John, but Knightley deferred the reading of it until another time.
He set off for Hartfield almost immediately after breakfast. He was not much past the sweep-gate when the thought crossed his mind that he should have enquired after Page’s welfare. He had sent a message to the cottage last evening to say that Sam was free, but he knew he ought to call in person. Later, he told himself. After I see Emma. The possibility of there being some need that would require more of his time was a real threat, and he did not want to postpone seeing her. Still, it was not his habit to put off a visit to a sick tenant for his own selfish pleasure—and did he not want to be as unchanged in behaviour as in appearance?
He stood still, hesitating, conscience warring with desire. His eye fell on the curate’s cottage. Of course! He could ask Spencer—very briefly—if there was any news; he was sure to know if John had taken a turn for the worse. Most likely there had been no such change, and he could then visit Hartfield with a clear conscience.
Old Maggie answered his rap on the door.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?”
“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Spencer for just a moment,” said Knightley in his loudest voice.
“Yes, indeed, a very fine day, sir. Do come in, sir.”
She took his hat and walking stick and motioned him past the parlour.
“He’s in the study, sir—been writin’ his sermon all morning, he has. You’ll be wantin’ a bit of a chat with him, sir—I’ll bring the tea directly.”
“No, I thank you, Maggie, I cannot stay!” he shouted desperately. “I will go and come again when he is more at leisure!”
“No, not to worry sir; no trouble to me at all, sir.” She opened the door of the study and announced Knightley. Spencer was sitting at his desk, but rose to greet Knightley with a faint smile and gestured toward a chair.
“I heard you tell Maggie you could not stay long, sir,” he said when the servant withdrew. “I am sorry about the tea. You may escape whenever you wish and I will explain to Maggie that you were obliged to go.” He spoke quietly, and Knightley noticed that there was only one book open on the desk beside a virgin sheaf of writing paper, and the quill was still in its stand. Something was amiss.
“Oh, I think I may stay long enough for a cup of tea,” said Knightley, sitting down. “I came to ask if there was any news about John Page this morning.”
“I don’t know. I have not heard anything.”
“Did you know he was ill?”
“Oh, yes—I beg your pardon—I ought to have explained more fully. I did know he was ill, but have heard nothing of his condition since late last evening. Had you any reason to suppose he was worse?”
“No, no…It was only that I was passing and thought I might enquire…”
“Of course. I am usually informed of such things, so I think we may be easy about him for the present.”
“Good. I am sorry to have interrupted your work.”
Spencer looked at him blankly for a moment and then gave a light laugh. “Oh, yes, my sermon. I was not getting on very well—a distraction is quite welcome. I…slept poorly last night.”
So that was it. Yes, Spencer did look tired; it was no wonder his manner was so subdued.
“I slept poorly myself,” offered Knightley, “and I would be hard pressed to do any work at my desk this morning. I feel unequal even to m
aking an attempt. At least you are endeavouring to do what you ought.”
He expected his words to call forth a slight blush and a self-deprecating remark, but Spencer only nodded.
“You do appear to be exhausted,” said Knightley. “Perhaps you ought to have risen later in the morning.”
The sound of Old Maggie’s clumping footsteps could be heard in the passageway, along with the rattle of china.
“I would have liked to do that,” said Spencer, “but as Maggie is not aware of how loud she is…” His eyes twinkled briefly.
“I can imagine,” said Knightley as the door opened and the tea was brought in.
They were silent as Maggie poured the tea. Knightley glanced at the curate who was watching the proceedings with an expression that could almost be called morose. His spirits were definitely dejected, and it seemed to Knightley that something more than lack of sleep was to blame. Likely there was some difficulty about a parishioner, or perhaps he had received bad news from Norfolk. Things must be very bad for Spencer to keep staring mutely into his teacup, even after Maggie had left them alone again.
“I saw Mrs. Catherwood and her son yesterday at Page’s cottage,” said Knightley, hoping to see a spark of interest in his eyes.
Spencer nodded but made no answer. Knightley began to feel dread. If that did not bring a smile to his face, there must be something terribly wrong. Well, there was nothing to be lost by asking a forthright question.
“Are you ill?”
Spencer looked up and gave a short laugh. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am.”
“In a manner of speaking?”
“‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’”
“You’ve had a hope deferred, I take it.”
Spencer nodded again and looked out of the window. Knightley studied the pattern on his teacup. The only hope he knew of in Spencer’s case had to do with Mrs. Catherwood. Probably he had encountered some impediment to his marriage plans. Perhaps he had an overbearing father or grandfather who threatened to cut him out of his inheritance if he married a widow with a blind child.
“Is there any possibility of a change in circumstances?” Knightley said after several moments. “Is it the sort of trouble that my influence can do anything to lighten?”
Spencer stirred and said, “No, nothing, I thank you.” He was silent for another moment, but then took a deep breath and said, “I suppose I ought to have told you, Mr. Knightley—I had thought of taking a wife.”
“There was no need.”
“Do you mean that I was not obliged to tell you, or that you already knew?”
“Both.”
Spencer digested this news with only a blink of his eyes. “And did you also know that the lady was Mrs. Catherwood?” At a nod from Knightley, he sighed and said, “I did not know my interest was so apparent. I hope I have not acted unbecomingly…”
“Not at all, not in the least. But am I correct in surmising that there is some impediment to the marriage?
“Yes, a very great one: I made her an offer, and she declined it.”
“No!” The word broke from Knightley with such force that Spencer stared at him. “Forgive me—I did not mean to startle you. I confess I am greatly surprised.” Was there some sort of curse on the men of Donwell? First Martin, now Spencer…
“You do not think I was a fool for offering, then?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“She told me I did her great honour—very great honour, she said—by asking, and that I was all that was generous, but that she was certain I would regret my choice before long, and she could not allow me to forfeit my happiness for the sake of my noble ideals.”
“Noble ideals? She thinks love nothing but a noble ideal?”
Spencer gave a wry smile and looked into his teacup again. “I fear she thinks I offered for her out of pity. It is my own doing—I went about the business in a very clumsy way. I knew I had very little to recommend myself…small income, unpolished manners, dull conversation…”
Knightley opened his mouth to protest this description, but Spencer put up his hand and said, “I know—and I am thankful for your good opinion, Mr. Knightley; but even you must admit that I am not the sort of man likely to quicken the pulse of any young lady. I, at least, am well aware of it.”
Knightley admitted this with a reluctant nod.
“However,” Spencer went on, “I thought that perhaps her situation—her love for her son—she would be willing enough to be my wife. I spoke too much about the practical advantages of the match, and she must have assumed I offered only out of a sense of duty. It is true that her situation was what first excited my compassion, and I suppose I went on thinking that my primary motive for offering was dispassionate benevolence.”
“But it was not?”
“No. Not in the end. I do not think I understood my own heart until she refused me. Then I knew that I loved her.”
“Do you think that if you told her—it is not usual, I know, but perhaps if you spoke to her once more—”
“I think not, sir. It is very likely she would not have me even if she thought I offered only out of the very deepest love. After all, whatever I was, I am still. She may have been very glad of the excuse that she did not want to accept the charity of a conscience-stricken benefactor. More than that, she might feel that I was trying to compel her against her will, or even that I was inventing this new information about the state of my heart; after all, what man in love would have said nothing about it when he proposed marriage?”
“Surely she would not think you were telling a falsehood, Spencer. It is so far outside your character that it would not even occur to her; I am certain of that.”
“Perhaps; but who can guess what a woman will think?”
This remark found its way straight to the heart.
“No one,” said Knightley glumly. “No one ever knows.”
Spencer looked at him for a long moment, and then heaved a deep sigh. “I will do what I ought to have done all along: pray for another man to marry her. It is a husband she needs, not….me.”
The helpless feeling that swelled within him whenever he thought of Martin had appeared again for Spencer.
“I wish there was anything I could do,” Knightley said.
A slight smile hovered around Spencer’s mouth. “I suppose I ought to ask you to look out a husband for Mrs. Catherwood, but I cannot yet bring myself to take even so feeble a step to bring it to pass. And when someone finally does win her hand, I do not know how I will be able to conduct the ceremony.”
“‘Jealousy is cruel as the grave.’”
“It is. It is cruel even when the object of one’s envy does not yet exist. And yet…Well, ‘charity envieth not.’ True charity will guard my heart from such a state, I trust. Only—” Spencer smiled again. “I believe there will be some difficulty in cultivating enough love for a non-existent person to make this cruel jealousy disappear.”
“You have my full sympathy, Spencer.” More full than you know.
“I am sorry to have taken so much of your time, Mr. Knightley; I did not mean to burden you with my troubles.”
“Not at all—‘bear ye one another’s burdens’, and so on. And who knows?” Knightley added lightly. “You may yet have opportunity to bear some of mine.”
“I do hope you will allow me the privilege,” said Spencer, rising as Knightley did. “You would be assured of my understanding.”
There was so much significance in his tone and such a knowing look on his face that Knightley could almost believe that Spencer knew his secret, and he faltered for a moment. If he really knew— But it was impossible, of course. He thanked the curate and went off to Hartfield to indulge in the sight and presence of his lady-love. He did not, however, walk quite so quickly as he had before.
“And so,” said Knightley to Madam Duval, “I spent an hour in Emma’s drawing room without making a fool of myself. I had been afraid that knowing my own heart would make
me uncomfortable and ill-at-ease in her company, but in fact, everything seemed to go on as comfortably as it did before. Mr. Woodhouse had another letter from his banker for me to interpret, and Emma and Harriet talked to each other much of the time; no doubt those things aided in the appearance of normalcy. Still, I was thankful it went off so well.”
Knightley was sitting in the library with the cat curled up at his feet. The fire danced in its grate in front of them, the glow making a cheerful spot in the otherwise dark room. It was a setting that seemed to invite the sharing of confidences, even if it was only with a cat.
“I have come to a decision, Madam,” he went on. “I will not venture an immediate proposal of marriage. When I saw her today—I have told you, haven’t I, that she is the most beautiful, most entrancing, most adorable creature in all the world?—I knew to a certainty that she is the complete mistress of my heart; I am not, however, the master of hers. I watched her carefully today, and there was nothing at all in her words or demeanor to show that she felt any more for me than she would for a brother. A much older brother.”
He reached for the glass of spruce beer on the table beside him and took a sip before continuing: “John reminded me in his letter today that I will be thirty-eight next week. Emma is twenty-one. When I was twenty-one, men who were thirty-eight seemed to be very nearly grandfathers. I don’t say she is anticipating my descent into senility in the coming months, but I can well understand her not conceiving of me as an ideal husband. And as it happens, Churchill is leaving in exactly five days; it is my earnest hope that when he is gone, she will see him for what he is: an egotistical, inconsiderate blockhead who is utterly unworthy of her notice.”
The cat looked up at him; his voice had become harsh. “You think me uncharitable, Madam? Well, perhaps I am. Spencer, poor fellow, is already trying to tolerate—nay, love—the possible future bridegroom of Mrs. Catherwood. And that is another reason for restraint; I have no wish to become the third rejected bachelor in Donwell. Surely Emma has even less reason to marry me than those women had to marry their suitors; there is no reason to think she would accept my offer. And what is more, presenting her with such a decision to make could only distress her. I am persuaded that not only would she reject me, but she would feel badly over it—and our future relations would be most awkward. It is best that I say nothing.”
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