Knightley entered the ballroom and blinked a little. He had never seen the room so well lighted or so tastefully festooned with greenery and ribbons. It was well filled with people already, even though it still lacked ten minutes until the hour the ball was to begin. He looked around for Emma, his eyes gliding over the assembled throng, lighting briefly on an Otway here, a Gilbert there—and then, like Troilus of old, he saw his Criseyde and his eyes stopped. Emma was there by the fire, and by the greatest good fortune, she was standing alone. She was smiling, watching something across the room. “In beauty first so stood she, matchless,” he thought.
For a moment he watched her, conscious of the double nature of his feelings toward Emma. She was the dear, familiar friend who teased him and received his own teasing, who knew him for what he was, and whose mind he could almost read—usually. At the same time, her beauty and elegance smote him in a manner that took his breath away and rendered him helpless, and he felt it would somehow be fitting for him to kneel at her feet and kiss her hand.
He moved toward her, but before he had taken many steps, it was evident that he had lingered too long. Frank Churchill and the Westons approached her and began an animated discussion, which ended with Emma going off with Churchill and Mr. Weston approaching Mrs. Elton and asking her to dance. Ah, so that was it. Mrs. Elton would be expecting to lead the way, and Emma must sink to being one of less consequence.
“How do you do, Mr. Knightley?”
It was Mrs. Cole, looking resplendent in a rather vivid green ballgown, wishing to exchange polite pleasantries. He was able to oblige her, even while noting from periodic sidelong glances that Emma and Churchill were standing together, talking.
At the stroke of the hour, the musicians began tuning their instruments.
“Well, Mrs. Elton,” said Weston, loudly enough that a quarter of the room could hear him, “what shall we dance to first?”
And Mrs. Elton, basking in the privilege of being the leading lady of the first set, deliberated for a moment before choosing “Miss Moore’s Rant” as the tune for the first dance.
As the musicians arranged themselves for playing and the dancers began to form two lines, Knightley moved to where a few chairs had been set out for the convenience of those who wanted to watch the dancing. It was crowded, as the card-players had not yet departed for the card room, but he stood where he might see Emma. He caught her looking at him once, twice. She was smiling happily at the prospect of the dance before her.
The first strains of music were heard, and the eyes of every dancer were on the lead couple, to see what steps were to be used in this dance. The figures chosen by Weston and Mrs. Elton were simple enough, and it was not long before Emma and Churchill began. He had determined beforehand that he need not observe that particular couple as they danced, but he found he could not help doing so. Emma was delightful to watch: lively yet graceful, confident without being showy. The sight reminded him of the night at the Coles’, when her dance with Churchill had suddenly illuminated the desires of his heart; it was at once a pleasant and a painful memory.
She danced her two dances with Churchill, and then had two with Weston and two with Edmund Gilbert. He could not stare at her without intermission, of course—his attention was often claimed by other people, for one thing—but he was able to look at her frequently. He saw very little to sustain the hopes that had been growing for the last fortnight. He could no longer delude himself into thinking that Emma was indifferent to Churchill, or he to her. He gave her marked attention, and even when the two of them danced with others, they often smiled at each other or exchanged remarks between the dances. The sense of foreboding that he had been dismissing was very real now. Whenever Emma caught his eye, she smiled at him, and he could not help an answering smile; to ignore her friendly glances would indicate that he was angry with her, and he most certainly was not. But it was an effort to do it.
As Emma finished her dances with Edmund Gilbert, Knightley surmised that they had now come to the last two dances before supper. He was rather glad of it. He had, for the last hour, been seated beside Mr. Whiting, a gentleman with a small estate near Langham. There was no harm whatever in the old fellow, but he did have a tendency to ramble on in his speeches, which were mostly of the plaintive sort, and to see hazards and dangers lurking in every commonplace occurrence. He was, in fact, very like Mr. Woodhouse in some ways, only rather more discontented.
There was the usual confusion and mingling of people and the babble of small talk as dancers found new partners, and then order gradually pervaded again as the company sorted itself into pairs. Emma was asked by Richard Hughes, and was unfortunately placed just below Mrs. Elton and William Cox in the set. Elton caught Knightley’s eye; he was asking Mrs. Perry to dance, and she was saying that she was promised to someone else. He saw Elton look around—most of the other ladies had partners, and were walking with them even now over to the set. The ball thus far had been remarkable for having an equal number of dancing men and women; Knightley wondered if there was a young lady who was too tired to dance and was sitting out—Jane Fairfax, perhaps? No, she was standing up with Churchill near the top of the set. The music began, and the lead couple began their dance. Emma would not be dancing for a little while—she was closer to the bottom of the set.
“And so I informed him,” went on Mr. Whiting, who had never paused in his narrative, “that James told me that there were gypsies about. ‘Well, that explains why there are chickens missing,’ I said. I did, indeed; I do not believe in mincing words. I have no time for such thieves and idlers. No time at all.”
Mr. Whiting’s thin voice droned on while Knightley watched Elton make his way over to where they were seated with the others who were observing the dance. Instead of sitting down, however, Elton walked about—Knightley could almost have called it strutting instead of walking—and spoke a word or two to various people. In another moment, he saw something that explained it all: Harriet Smith was still sitting down. Elton’s refusal to dance with her meant that there was no one else to ask her. It was intolerably rude for Elton to ignore Harriet in this way, but the disgrace would have been much less if he had left the ballroom altogether. To flaunt his discourtesy like this was contemptible.
He looked for Emma; she was closer now, but facing away from him, and he could see only the slightest part of her face. She was smiling and saying something to Richard. Good, safe Richard, who would be ineligible to marry until his debt was fully repaid.
Elton sauntered into view again; he was now saying something to Mrs. Hughes, who was seated close by Harriet.
“Insufferable!” escaped Knightley’s lips.
“Very true, very true,” said Mr. Whiting. “And I don’t think there is a farm near Langham that has not suffered from those marauding gypsies. This is the time of year, you know, when they start their travelling, and there’ll be bands of them roaming around until the autumn. And the magistrates do nothing—nothing at all—to eradicate the problem—that is—” he paused, suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking, “some magistrates have done nothing.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
The sudden silence of Mr. Whiting enabled him to hear, even over the noise of the music, the voice of Mrs. Weston, who had left her seat to ask Mr. Elton if he did not dance.
“Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”
“Me! Oh no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no dancer.”
“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance, I shall have great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.”
“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.”
Elton turned around and looked at Harriet as if he were surprised to see her there. “Miss Smith! Oh! I had not obser
ved.” Knightley saw him glance at his wife, who was almost directly before them. She, in her turn, had turned her head to see the scene and was smiling back at him—a rather conspiratorial smile.
“You are extremely obliging—and if I were not an old married man—but my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your command—but my dancing days are over.”
It was a deliberate insult. Aimed at Harriet, of course, but also including in its scope Mrs. Weston, who after a faltering “Oh!” returned to her seat, and Emma, whose face he could not see, but the set of whose shoulders were eloquent enough to him. Elton strolled along past the observers, and to Knightley’s disgust, dropped into the seat next to his.
“Well, Knightley, are you enjoying the dance? I suppose you had your fill of these amusements when you were young.” Elton glanced at his wife, who was grinning triumphantly at her husband, and he returned the look before turning back to Knightley. That Elton should feel no shame in such an action made him seethe with anger. The man had done an appalling thing, and yet felt triumph instead of remorse.
“Perhaps you have chosen the better way in deciding to sit out,” resumed Elton, “rather than endeavour to evade undesirable dancing partners.”
“Excuse me,” said Knightley briefly, and stood. He took a deep breath and strode over to Harriet. She looked up at him with watery eyes.
“Miss Smith,” he said, “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
A little gasp of surprise preceded the smile that spread over her face. She nodded and he held out his arm to her. She rose and took it, and he led her to the bottom of the set. They stood opposite each other, waiting their turn to begin, Harriet’s eyes now bright with pleasure and her face displaying a most winsome smile. He could see for an instant what Robert Martin had seen in her; a beautiful girl, easily pleased and completely unassuming. A conceited girl would have let mortification and resentment make her sullen all evening, but Harriet had brushed aside the sting and now looked as happy as she could be.
He hoped Emma would be glad of this. He looked at her. She was just about to begin dancing, but their eyes met and he could see the gratitude in her heart. He had told Spencer once that if he ever danced in public for the sake of a woman, it must be due to true love. And he had been right, for here he was, dancing—not with his love, perhaps, but for her. Or would he have offered to dance with Harriet if she had not been Emma’s friend? He did not know; he would like to think that his chivalry was enough to have prompted the action regardless. At any rate, there was no more time to ponder the question. He must observe the dancers so that he would not embarrass Harriet and himself by blatant missteps or wrong turnings. In a very short while, it was their turn to begin.
Harriet could not be called an elegant dancer, but she was very enthusiastic. Knightley enjoyed watching her delight. He hardly spared a thought for his own dancing—he saw Emma watching him once, and it crossed his mind to wonder if she thought him vastly inferior to Churchill. Well, it was no matter. He was doing this to spare the feelings of Harriet, Mrs. Weston, and Emma, and in a small way, to show up Elton. It amused him that the name of the tune to which they were dancing was “Revenge.” The second dance seemed a continuation of the first, and was just as enjoyable. How long had it been since he had danced? Five years, he thought; the last ball had been one in London that John had made him attend.
Supper was announced. Gradually the assembled company funnelled themselves into the passage. The men escorted the partners they had had for the last dance, and Knightley was particularly thankful that Churchill had been dancing with Jane Fairfax and not Emma. Knightley ushered Harriet into the corridor and through it to the supper-room at the other end. A glimpse of the room showed that Churchill was already seated next to Miss Bates and her niece, and so there was no question of trying to keep Emma from being seated next to him. Emma was, in fact, just sitting down with Richard Hughes and his parents.
“Well, Miss Smith,” said he, “will you bear me company during the supper? There are some empty seats over there—quick, before Mr. Otway sees them and steals them from us!”
Harriet giggled and showed surprising agility in threading her way through the crowded room to the empty chairs.
It was a fine supper; Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes had outdone themselves. But it was not merely the white soup, ham, roast lamb, cheesecakes, millefeuille, and other dishes that made the supper unexpectedly agreeable, it was the company of Harriet. Perhaps it was because Emma was not there overshadowing her friend with her brilliance, but Harriet seemed much less empty-headed than he had thought her. To be sure, her understanding was not quick, and she would never rise to the level of witty banter, but she showed genuine interest in what he said, and there did not seem to be a particle of self-conceit in her. They began by talking of his little nephews, for whom she expressed great affection, and that led to discussion of the whole Knightley family, their London home, London itself, and the curiosities, amusements, and exhibitions to be seen there. Harriet had never visited the great metropolis and was well entertained by his descriptions of Astley’s and the Royal Menagerie.
She was in the middle of asking him questions about the Tower of London when they became aware that the supper was over and people were going back to the ballroom. He thanked her for her company and she curtsied very prettily and they went back into the ballroom where people were standing around in little knots, talking. One of the Miss Coxes greeted Harriet, and he left them together.
He noticed Emma then, standing alone and beckoning him with her eyes. He walked over to where she was standing.
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” were her first words, “for your kindness to Harriet. That was well done of you.”
He knew he had done right, and the satisfaction of that had been reward enough for him, but to have Emma thanking him from the heart with such a look of gratitude on her face was pure felicity.
“No need for thanks, Emma,” he said. “Any man ought to have done the same. Elton was unpardonably rude—such behaviour is absolutely intolerable. And not only his behaviour—I saw his wife’s part in the incident. The looks she gave—I could hardly have believed that a woman with any feeling at all could be so cruel.”
“I could scarcely credit my ears,” said Emma. “I had not thought them as malicious as this.”
“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet. Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?”
She had never yet told him outright that Elton had asked her to marry him and that she had refused, and he wondered if she would tell him if given the opportunity. She looked a little startled at his words, and he could not help smiling as he waited for her to speak. She was a perfect lady, however, and did not open her lips, though her gaze faltered. He became more explicit: “She ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may be.” He waited for her to confirm what he implied, but her training held good. She would not break the firm rule that a lady should never speak of a rejected suit, in order to spare the feelings of unlucky suitor. Elton did not deserve such consideration, but Emma was not about to stoop to his level. “To that surmise, you say nothing, of course,” said Knightley, letting it go, “but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet.”
She did not hesitate at all before saying, “I did, and they cannot forgive me.”
He could not approve of that, or of the lies she had told in denying it, but he would not make the mistake of chiding her again; she knew what he thought, and she seemed already to regret her actions.
“I shall not scold you,” he said, smiling. “I leave you to your own reflections.”
“Can you trust me with such flatterers?” she asked. “Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?”
He was heartened. She was no longer supremely confident in her own understanding; perhaps there had been a lesson learned through all of this. But here was an opportunity to give her a word of sincere pra
ise, and he took it.
“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit. If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.”
“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!”
He could not have asked for a more satisfactory explanation from Emma’s lips. She had acknowledged his judgement of someone else to be superior to her own. It must have cost her something to say it. And after all, she was not always wrong. He would admit his own error in judgement.
“And in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself. Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.”
She looked pleased to hear him say this, and he would have said more if they had not just then heard Mr. Weston calling out, “Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing? Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!”
“I am ready whenever I am wanted,” Emma returned, smiling.
Knightley bowed to the inevitable: his comfortable talk with Emma was over. Well, he would part from her pleasantly.
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