by Joan Aiken
Chapter 16
It was now the middle of June, and the weather very fine; Frank was repeatedly at Highbury, and Jane had the greatest difficulty in persuading him that it would be wrong — disastrous — the greatest piece of folly imaginable — for him to walk alone with her through the copses, heaths, and hayfields, or along the lanes bespangled with wild-rose and honeysuckle.
“It is such a waste!” cried he. “Am I never to see you alone? Notes and tokens are fine, but it is your dear presence that I so desperately need and want! In this charming weather, in this delightful country? It is too hard, it is too unfair! Here have I made all these efforts to come to Highbury — persuaded my aunt and uncle to remove from Yorkshire, from London — and now all I get is a glimpse of you at some atrocious card party at the Eltons’!”
For Jane, miserably jealous and angry with Emma over the unkind joke in the letter-game, had resolved never to set foot in Hartfield again. With a rankling sense of injury she began to feel that Emma, wealthy, happy, cheerful, and free, was far better suited to Frank Churchill than she herself; they enjoyed the same kind of jokes, they were not fettered by the considerations of conduct, of propriety, of rectitude that prevented Jane from taking advantage of brief, stolen meetings with her lover; in short, she feared, now that Frank had had time to become thoroughly acquainted with Miss Woodhouse, that he had begun to regret his illicit connection, and to wish to be rid of it. And small wonder! Jane thought sometimes, remorsefully. For when he did succeed in a short private meeting it was only, more often than not, to receive cold words, reproaches, almost hostility. And this was the more unfair, she acknowledged to herself, because, in her present constricted existence, Frank was almost the only source of cheer and comfort. — She received, these days, fewer letters from Ireland, and must admit sadly that distance and the passage of time were playing their inevitable part in cooling and diminishing those once vital relationships. Colonel and Mrs Campbell wrote of a possible return to London in August; but this return had been deferred so often that another postponement seemed highly possible. — Whereas Frank’s attentions and solicitude never diminished; in between his assiduous calls at Hartfield, his walks and talks and ostensible courtship of Miss Woodhouse, he still found time for an immense number of little notes and tiny trinkets tucked into the crevice of the oak tree; the notes sometimes no more than a line, or a verse:
“‘One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain
Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the knight embracing Jane …’
Would that I had been that knight! But this may serve to show that I am ever thinking of thee, ever thine — F. C.”
Since Jane, remonstrating with Frank over the gift of the piano, had begged him never, never to compromise her in such a way again — as the cramped accommodation at her grandmother’s entirely precluded the possibility of concealing any new article — he exercised the utmost ingenuity in finding her objects of such minute size that they might be hidden in the finger of a glove or the fold of a handkerchief: a diminutive Chinese ivory dog “to watch over you” said Frank; a Venetian glass bead of glowing colours “which will one day be restored to its twenty-nine brothers; meanwhile accept it as an earnest of what is to come”; a pea-sized silk purse containing Maundy money, silver pieces of which the biggest was no larger than her finger-nail. She had to admit that his gifts were enchanting, and showed the most imaginative affection. Which made her own behaviour all the more unreasonable. But she could not help herself.
Meanwhile she found the life of Highbury more and more insufferably confined, stifling, and petty. How had Emma endured it for so many years? The course of conversation was always the same. Daily Jane was obliged to listen to conjectures from Mrs Cole, Mrs Goddard, Mrs Cox, Mrs Otway, regarding the probable alliance of Mr Churchill and Miss Woodhouse: “Such a good match! Such a charming young couple! So well suited!” — or sometimes, as an alternative, that of Mr Churchill and Miss Smith: “So very romantic as that would be! But, you know, his grand family would never permit it, for she is nobody!” Another source of speculation was a reported friendship between Mr Knightley and Miss Smith: “He has been taking a great deal of notice of her lately! And that, you know, he never did before.” This suggestion, coming out of the blue, caught Jane unguarded and gave her a wholly unforeseen wrench of anguish: “No!” she thought. “It cannot be true! He would never waste himself on that little ninny!” She was not, it seemed, quite prepared yet to forego her dreams of Mr Knightley.
To such discourse, Jane’s only alternative was the Eltons’ ill-judged malice against Emma, and Mrs Elton’s officious and wholly exasperating attempts to hustle Jane into some undesired teaching post. — The fact that her own conscience told her she should no longer be a charge upon Colonel Campbell’s purse made these ministrations no easier to bear.
And if she mentioned the subject to Frank, he simply brushed it aside; his attitude to this matter was another source of almost unbearable irritation. “Teach? You? What nonsense! The idea is not to be thought of!”
“But it has been thought of,” said Jane stiffly and angrily. “The whole of my education has been directed to that end. It has been thought of, and it must be thought of.”
“Well, I, for one, refuse to think of it,” said Frank, and he tickled her wrist with a buttercup — they were walking over Highbury Common with Miss Bates, the Westons, and the Eltons.
“Mr Churchill!” cried Mrs Elton ahead of them, turning round, “shall you be in Highbury next Friday? I purpose that day for our exploration to Box Hill — I am relying on you to make one of the party! It is to be a fête-champêtre, you know — we shall carry shepherds’ crooks and play on pipes, and the ladies will wear wreaths of wild-roses round their hats. It was to have been this week, but one of our carriage-horses fell lame — so vexatious!”
Frank promised to be one of the party to Box Hill, though he disclaimed any ability to play upon pipes, and as none of the other guests invited possessed the requisite skill, that part of the programme had regretfully to be abandoned.
Jane felt small expectation of pleasure from the affair, having learned that Emma was to be one of those present: Frank’s manner to Emma in public was now that of the acknowledged suitor, and hers one of gracious encouragement and acceptance; each, to Jane, was about as agreeable as salt upon a wound.
But before the Box Hill excursion lay another social hurdle which Jane would also gladly have avoided, though she saw no means of doing so. This was an invitation to all his friends in the village from Mr Knightley to walk out to Donwell Abbey, partake of a nuncheon, and pick as many of his strawberries as they wished.
“So very kind!” cried Aunt Hetty. “And indeed the Donwell strawberries are the best in the country. Not that I may partake of them myself — you know how sadly unwell they make me — but if you and I, Jane, pick hard for an hour or so, we shall be able to carry home enough to make at least half a dozen pots of preserve for Grandmamma — and you know strawberry is her very favourite!”
So there was no avoiding the day at Donwell. Mr Knightley’s manner to Jane, ever since the evening of the letter-game at Hartfield, had been so distant, so grave, so unbending, that she felt herself utterly cut off from his favour and former cordial friendship. No more mention had been made of horseback riding excursions. So a day spent at his house must be penitential, not pleasurable, for she saw no means in the world of regaining his esteem.
The day, indeed, proved exactly what she had expected. Donwell Abbey was a beautiful old place, rambling and cool, low and sheltered; its ample gardens, extending down to an encircling stream, were justly famous; there was a lime avenue, and a handsome view to the river where lay the Abbey Mill Farm, nestling under a tree-clad escarpment.
And the weather was almost unbearably hot.
“That, you know, is where the Martins live,” said Aunt Hetty, pointing to the farm, after they had picked as many berries as
they could, and were strolling, to grow cool, in the shade. “I recall, at one time, there was talk of Harriet Smith marrying Mr Robert Martin — Mrs Goddard said he had offered for her indeed — Miss Smith was very friendly with the Martin sisters — but I daresay Miss Woodhouse will have dissuaded her from the match. She could do better for herself, no doubt! Mrs Cole has been saying — Mr Frank Churchill — or, I have sometimes thought, Mr Knightley — he did dance with her, you recall, at the Crown, and that seemed so very — and there he is, indeed, walking with her now —”
Oh, this insufferable place! thought Jane. Never, ever free from somebody’s observation! A neighbourhood of voluntary spies! Every act, every word is noticed, is heard!
She looked quickly, unhappily towards Mr Knightley, pacing along the lime walk with Harriet on his arm. — He had not spoken to her, Jane, all day, except briefly to bid her good-morning. — Well, Harriet certainly could not do better than Mr Knightley, though surely he will find her conversation utterly lacking in substance? Still, they seemed now to be finding topics of conversation, to be talking together very comfortably.
With remorse, Jane took Aunt Hetty’s arm and drew her to a seat under a spreading beech-tree. There Mrs Elton pounced upon them.
“Aha, my dear Jane! Now you must listen to this! A Mrs Smallridge, own cousin to Mrs Bragge, a friend of my sister Selina, a lady well known at Maple Grove — delightful people! Charming situation! — and she is in need of just such a clever young lady as yourself — very best circles of society — not at all far from Bristol — you would be given the very first consideration (even although you are not able to play the harp) — treated as a person of consequence; indeed you shall, you must take this opportunity! I will brook no denial. I will not indeed! Pray, now, my dear, dear Jane, now do, do authorize me to write off by return of post — only heard from Selina this very morning — must close with such an offer immediately —”
Jane, repeatedly thanking, declining, shaking her head, felt in despair as if she were trying to fight off a cloud of stinging gnats. It was torture. Glancing past Mrs Elton, she saw Emma pass by with Mrs Weston and caught Emma’s eye; almost, she felt she saw there a glance of friendship, of commiseration.
When a remove was made to the house, Jane was immensely relieved; they were all invited in to a shadowed, cool dining-room, where cold meat, fruit, and cake were laid out, and then they might carry their food to eat it where they chose.
Emma’s father, old Mr Woodhouse, had been indoors all morning by a fire; he would not go out, for he found the hot sun deleterious, but had been well entertained with books of engravings, cameos, shells, corals, and drawers full of coins and medals. Jane was happy to go and sit with him for a while — she had always been fond of Mr Woodhouse — and listen to his simple admiration of these simple things.
In the distance she heard the voice of Mr Weston, reassuring his wife:
“Nonsense! my dear, the black mare is as steady a mount as could be wished. No, depend upon it, Frank’s lateness will have been caused by some crotchet, some sudden whim of Mrs Churchill; be sure, that is all it will be. The boy will arrive soon enough, mark my words.”
Frank’s lateness, which would once have distressed Jane, now seemed, if anything, a relief, the removal of one cause of stress. And the look on the face of Mr Knightley, she observed, appeared to denote that he, for one, would be perfectly happy if young Mr Churchill failed to arrive entirely.
After the meal they were all to go out of doors again, and now Mrs Elton recaptured Jane and was even more unflagging in her unwelcome applications.
“Excuse me,” Jane said at last, driven beyond endurance, “I see Miss Woodhouse over there — I have something I wish to say to her —” knowing well that Mrs Elton, who daily slandered Miss Woodhouse to the top of her powers, would never choose to follow her into that company.
Miss Woodhouse was strolling towards a side entrance that led into the house; Jane followed, and caught her withindoors.
“Miss Woodhouse! Will you be so kind, when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home? My aunt is not aware how late it is; but I am sure my grandmother will want us; I am determined to go directly. When they come in, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone? I know Mr and Mrs Elton will drive my aunt home.”
Emma’s sympathy, her kindly interest, were caught directly.
“Certainly, if you wish it? But you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?”
“Yes, what should hurt me? I walk fast, I shall be at home in twenty minutes.”
“But it is too far — let my father’s servant accompany you — let me order the carriage —”
“Thank you — thank you — no. I had rather walk. And for me to be afraid of walking alone — I, who may so soon have to guard others!”
And, when Emma still tried to dissuade her: “Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me will be to let me have my way.”
“I do understand you, perfectly,” said Emma, and saw her out of the front door with all the zeal of a friend.
“Oh, Miss Woodhouse!” exclaimed Jane, from a full heart, “the comfort of being sometimes alone!”
She saw on the other girl’s face a sudden flash of startled comprehension, which showed that if Emma had not always given much thought to Jane’s situation, she at least did so now.
Alone in Donwell Lane, enjoying the wonderful solace of the silence around her, Jane was saddened by the reflection that, had circumstances turned out otherwise, she and Emma Woodhouse might indeed have become such good friends as, at that moment, they almost seemed.
Once well away from the Abbey, Jane pulled out a letter from her reticule and re-read it, as she slowly paced along. It was from Rachel: a letter overflowing with joy to announce that she and Matt Dixon were now the delighted parents of a son. “If it had been a daughter, dearest Jenny, we should have named her after you; but as he is a son we have christened him little Sam, and only hope that he may grow up as dear, good, beloved and clever as his uncle. My father and mother are overjoyed at being grandparents, and have agreed to remain with us here at least until October. — Matt sends his best love to you, Jenny dear, and so do I; when, when will you come to make the acquaintance of this newest Dixon?”
Joyful news, there could be no question; justification of all her actions; and yet, with it, somehow, Jane felt that a door had closed; her relation with Rachel could never again be quite what it had been; Rachel and Matt were now cemented together into a proper married pair. And Jane’s connection with Matt? That was gone, entirely — forgotten — blotted out. He was lost to her for ever.
Having reached which point in her reflection, she heard the sound of hoofs, and, rounding a bend in the lane, saw Frank Churchill before her, mounted on the black mare. He looked hot, and decidedly out of spirits.
His greeting of Jane lacked the usual unfeigned delight.
“But what are you doing here? — I do not understand? — Is not this rather singular? Besides, I had hoped to see you at the house, at Donwell — what will people think?”
“Oh, think — think!” cried Jane, out of all patience. “What do I care what people think? No,” she corrected herself. “I do care. But — Mrs Elton was not to be borne — and Mr Knightley is so angry with me — I am sure he has discovered our secret — and it was so hot — and that odious woman has found yet another situation which she insists I must accept —”
“Will you not return with me now to Donwell?” said he, only partly attending.
“Are you mad? Not on any account! What would people think then? No — no — you go on to Donwell — talk to Miss Woodhouse — have a pleasant day —”
“How could I do so? I suppose,” he said, but not at all graciously, “I suppose I must accompany you back to Highbury. It is not at all right that you should walk this lane alone — neither safe nor proper. Remember what happened to Miss Smith!”
“And you think it would be proper for me to be seen walking along the lane in your company?” cried Jane furiously. “Is it not enough that my friends — people whose esteem I really value — already look on me coldly, and — and —” a strangled sob choked her utterance. After a moment she said more calmly, “Please leave me, Mr Churchill. I am in no need of your escort and do not wish it.”
“Thank you,” said he in an accent of deep mortification, remounted his mare, and rode on towards Donwell.
Gulping back her tears, Jane completed the walk to Highbury.
The picnic to Box Hill, on the following day, could hardly, under such auspices, have been expected to be successful; and it was not. In the first place, the party was too ill-assorted. Emma and the Eltons were hardly on speaking terms, Mrs Weston, a kind, good-humoured lady and a peace-keeper, remained at home, for she was within ten days of her confinement. Mr Knightley displayed gloomy disapproval towards Frank Churchill, who seemed unaware of it, and towards Jane, who was all too conscious of it. Mr Weston, good-natured and a little foolish, was wholly unaware of these undercurrents. Harriet Smith seemed nervous, Frank dull and depressed, Emma rather bored. Only Miss Bates was her cheerful self. And the weather was as hot as ever.
Over the cold collation, which they ate sitting upon the grass, Frank perked up and began to flirt outrageously with Emma. She responded in kind. It was very plain, Jane thought, that Frank’s silly gallantries were simply intended to hurt and annoy herself; but what could be Emma’s motive? In the normal way she was too well-bred to act as she was acting now. Once or twice, intercepting a saucy, teasing look which seemed directed at Mr Knightley, Jane wondered if Emma’s wish was to pique that gentleman; if so, she was certainly successful, for his aspect became more and more lowering as the day proceeded.