But Emma was already in the house, going before them to tell her father of the impending pleasure of having his friends come to drink tea, and leaving the group to wander up the path to the house in their own time.
“Why, to own the truth,” said Miss Bates into the silence, “if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropped a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware.”
They were nearing the house now, and Knightley glanced at Churchill, who was brushing past him. It was only an instant, but he was sure Churchill looked conscious—perhaps slightly amused, too, but definitely not unaware. Knightley turned to look at Jane—why, he could not have explained—but she was behind the others, and so busy arranging her shawl that he could not get a clear view of her face.
“I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker,” Miss Bates was saying as she followed the Westons into the house, “and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she? Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming. Extraordinary dream indeed!”
Knightley and Churchill had both paused at the door to let Miss Fairfax enter first. Churchill seemed to be watching her face intently, as if to catch her eye. She did not look at either of them, however, as she passed between them and into the house. Dream, indeed! thought Knightley. Churchill was concealing something, and it was in some way connected with Miss Fairfax.
They collected around the large round table for tea, Churchill deftly seating himself next to Emma. There was no lack of conversation as they took their refreshment, for Weston and Churchill were full of ready speech and the ladies were equally capable of responding. Jane Fairfax seemed a little more quiet than usual, but as she was never very talkative, Knightley could not be sure. He watched her and Churchill carefully for any more signs of mutual intelligence, but he could perceive none.
The cups and plates were taken away after a time, but still they sat. After a little while, Churchill turned around to scan the small table behind him and then said, “Miss Woodhouse, have your nephews taken away their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”
“What a very good idea!” said Emma. “I believe the box is in the next room—let me fetch it.”
She was back with it directly, and the contents were spread out on the table.
“Now,” said Churchill, rapidly arranging several letters in a row in front of himself, “can you tell what this word is?” He slid the letters over in front of Emma. Emma paused only a moment before saying, “Really, Mr. Churchill, anyone could see that the word is horse without any effort at all! You must work a little harder on your puzzles if there is to be a game worthy of the title.”
“I apologise,” said Churchill. “I must do better.”
“Here is one for you,” said Emma, who had been assembling letters herself.
Frank toyed with the tiles for a moment, switching the order of several of them before declaring the word to be because.
“May I try one, Miss Woodhouse?” asked Harriet.
“Certainly,” said Emma, quickly collecting another row. “Here you are!”
Harriet studied the letters in front of her. “Let me see…R-I-S-S-S-S-O-C…oh dear! What can it be? Risk? No, that is not enough letters. Cristo…? No, that is not right, either.” Knightley, sitting next to her, heard all her murmurings.
“We miss the poor little boys dreadfully,” said Mr. Woodhouse on the other side of him. “And they must miss Hartfield, too.”
Weston, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, was employed in trying to work out a word that Frank had given him, and it fell to Knightley to say, “No doubt. And yet they must be quite happy to be home again with their Mama and Papa and the rest of their siblings.”
“Sirco…?” ventured Harriet. “No, that could not be.”
“I have it!” announced Weston, rearranging his tiles. “Include.”
“And Emma writes to them, you know,” went on Mr. Woodhouse. “They will not think we do not miss them, for I told Emma to mention it in the letter she wrote to them. ‘Dear Henry and John,’ the letter said. I think they must have been very pleased to receive it.”
“Yes indeed, sir,” said Knightley.
“Osic…? Oh, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I can discover the word.”
“Scissors, my dear Harriet. Try this one here instead.”
“L-W-B-O-E,” spelled Harriet. “Lob…?”
“Emma writes beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse, taking up a letter off the writing desk which was within an arm’s reach of him. “She is writing this to Isabella—such a fine hand, is it not?”
“And here is another one for you,” said Emma to Churchill with a smile much too intimate for Knightley’s liking.
“Blow!” said Harriet. “No, that leaves the E out of account.”
“Just a moment, Miss Woodhouse,” said Churchill, arranging another set and moving them in front of Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight glance around the table before giving the letters her attention. It did not take her long to discover the word. She smiled faintly but said nothing, and pushed the tiles back toward the centre of the table. They remained in a row instead of mixing with the others, and Harriet, tired of puzzling over the five letters in front of her, took Miss Fairfax’s word and began to study it.
“L-N-E-B-D-R-U. Drune…? Bend…?”
“And what do you say to this one, Miss Woodhouse?” said Churchill.
“Blend…? No. Oh, Mr. Knightley, can you tell what this word is?” said Harriet. “I cannot guess it at all.”
Knightley re-ordered the tiles, one by one, until the word was evident, even to Harriet.
“Blunder!” she exclaimed.
Knightley glanced at Jane; there was a blush on her cheek. Here was evidence indeed of something between her and Churchill. He had made some blunder connected with that “dream” and Miss Fairfax knew it. Had Emma not seen Jane Fairfax’s consciousness at the word? How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! Disingenuousness and double-dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.
Harriet, encouraged by the discovery of one word, had begun to study a set of letters abandoned by Weston. “Cleb…? Ebel..? No, that could not be right.”
Churchill seemed very well satisfied with himself, and was once more assembling letters into a row. Miss Fairfax was answering a question of Weston’s and ignoring the flirting—for it could not be called anything else—that Churchill and Emma were engaged in. The sly and demure look Frank gave Emma when he presented her with a new, short word, and the amusement that the discovery of it gave
her, even as she said, “Nonsense! For shame!” could only denote some sort of attachment. He wondered that he could sit and look on with so much outward composure while his heart was being crushed.
“I will give it to her—shall I?” said Churchill with a quick look across the table.
“No, no, you must not,” said Emma, still amused enough to laugh, but eager to prevent him. “You shall not, indeed.”
Churchill ignored her and handed over the word to Miss Fairfax with sedate civility. “May I entreat you to study this one, Miss Fairfax?”
Knightley looked furtively as often as he could toward the five little letters that evidently held such meaning, and it was not long before he could make them out: O-X-D-I-N—Dixon, of course. He watched Jane’s face and saw the moment she deciphered the word. She was displeased, he could tell, and when she looked up and saw that Churchill and Emma were watching her, she blushed very deeply and said, “I did not know that proper names were allowed.” She pushed away the letters almost angrily and seemed to shut out those across the table by turning to her aunt.
She said nothing, but her aunt must have sensed her impatience, for she said, “Ay, very true, my dear, I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going, indeed. The evening is closing in, and Grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night.”
Miss Fairfax was most willing to depart, and stood immediately, but Mr. Weston, having pushed back his chair, was blocking her path. She was forced to stay where she was for the moment. A sudden movement caught Knightley’s eye—it was Churchill, quickly thrusting another set of tiles toward her. She brushed them aside without looking at them, and moved away as Weston allowed passage.
“My dear Jane,” said Miss Bates, “have you got your shawl? It is not on your chair—I would have thought it was on the back of your chair, but it is not—so glad I remembered about it, for I would not have you out in the damp of the evening without your shawl! Might rain—have you seen it? My dear sir, have you seen Jane’s shawl? Did one of the servants—oh, very likely—My dear Mr. Churchill, you are too good—we do not know where it is…”
Miss Bates’ voice was lost in the babble of the other guests who were collecting themselves and their property in order to leave. Dusk was setting in, and between the dimness of the light and the bustle of people in the room, Knightley could not see how Churchill and Miss Fairfax parted.
At last they were all gone—even Harriet, who had walked back to Mrs. Goddard’s with Miss Bates and her niece. Emma helped Mr. Woodhouse settle in to his chair by the fire on the far side of the room while Knightley began putting the alphabet tiles back in their box. He was curious to see if he could discover what the final word was that Churchill had pushed toward Jane; they had mixed a little with the other letters but he thought that the P, A, D, and N were part of that group, although he could not be sure. He put them all back in the box and closed the lid.
Emma was in danger; there was no doubt now. Frank Churchill was flirting with Emma while he had some private understanding with Jane Fairfax. He was surprised at Jane Fairfax, but he had no trouble believing that Churchill might have deceived her or influenced her in such a way that her behaviour could be explained.
A servant came in bringing candles, and Emma beckoned Knightley to his usual seat by the fire beside which Mr. Woodhouse had already nodded off.
“Papa was so very pleased to have visitors,” she said, folding a small blanket and tenderly draping it over the old man’s legs. “I am thankful they agreed to come.”
She was a good daughter, always thinking of her father’s welfare. A good daughter, a good woman—far too good to be treated so by Churchill. He must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an anxious friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger without trying to preserve her. It was his duty.
“Pray, Emma, may I ask in what lay the great amusement—the poignant sting—of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other.”
“Oh! It all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.” She was embarrassed, and would not meet his eyes. There was something she was ashamed of. He tried to draw it out of her.
“The joke seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill.”
She did not respond to this; instead she restored a stray cushion to its proper place, adjusted the fire-screen to a precise angle, and then opened her workbox and ferreted in it for some unknown item. It would not do any good to press her; he knew that now. Her confusion and the acknowledged intimacy seemed to declare her affection engaged. And with it being so, any interference was fruitless. It would bring only resentment toward himself—perhaps he would lose even her friendship. The thought made him sick.
And yet…he could not leave it there. He would feel a far greater grief if her welfare were injured by his neglect. He would not be able to sleep at night if he felt he might have prevented some evil by speaking, and had yet said nothing for fear of creating a rift. The memory of it would haunt him all his days.
“My dear Emma,” he said, for once—perhaps for the last time—not concealing the tenderness he felt, “do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”
She looked up at him. “Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax! Oh yes, perfectly. Why do you make a doubt of it?”
“Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?”
“Never, never! Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me!” This was not one of her expedient denials, he was sure. She was genuinely surprised at the thought. “And how could it possibly come into your head?”
“I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them; certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public.”
“Oh, you amuse me excessively!” She was genuinely diverted—she was doing her utmost to stifle a giggle. She sat down and her left eyebrow lifted as she said, “I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry to check you in your first essay—but indeed, it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you. And the appearances which have caught you have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings rather of a totally different nature—” She paused, struggling for words. “It is impossible exactly to explain; there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is capable of being communicated which is sense, is that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference.”
Her confidence in her own opinion shook him. He knew he could say nothing to convince her of his suspicions. She did know something he did not—her laughter over the word Dixon was evidence enough of that—and perhaps she thought it would explain away whatever he had seen. But how could she possibly say that she could answer for the gentleman’s indifference unless… No, he would not believe it of her. She would not enter into a secret engagement with Churchill; he refused to entertain the possibility.
She was still smiling over Knightley’s supposed stupidity in imagining an attachment, and was in a mood for teasing him; she would be asking him questions in a moment about what had given him the idea. He could not discuss it while his heart was raw—she would laugh at something that was not remotely comical, and his irritation of spirits would be impossible to hide. It was warm in the room, far too warm; he was wretched enough without adding physical discomfort to his woes.
“I will be off, then,” he said, rising. “Give my farewells to your father when he wakes.”
He fancied that she looked a little disappointed at his leaving so
soon, but he could not help it. He wanted to be alone, to think through this new misery in solitude.
He sat for an hour in the library that night with Madam Duval on his knee, thinking over the whole depressing situation. He was convinced that Emma had not seen all that he had observed. She had not seen the looks that Churchill had given Miss Fairfax, or, at least, she had not recognized their import. She did not know men like he did. Churchill had somehow convinced her of his affection—he had said or done something to make her believe that she only was in his thoughts. There was damage done to her heart already. If Churchill did not marry her, he would be open to the charge of raising false expectations. But, of course, he would marry her—an heiress of such beauty and such pleasing temperament was a prize too rare to be passed by.
“She is blind,” said Knightley to Madam Duval. “She is blind and I cannot say anything more to her. If she marries him, he will be happy with her for…a month? Two months? And then he will take a mistress—he is the sort to whom that would be natural behaviour. Emma will be miserable, Madam, and I will be able to do even less for her than I can now. She will be far way, in Yorkshire, broken-hearted, and I will be here at Donwell, broken-hearted.”
The cat sat silently, looking as solemn as he felt.
“No,” he amended, “I am wrong to predict those things with such certainty. I have one slight hope, Madam: time may yet reveal his faults to her—‘Be sure your sin will find you out,’ you know. If an engagement between them is delayed, perhaps he may become so obvious that even she will see his true character.”
10
Churchill went back to his aunt and uncle in Richmond the next day. Weston brought news of this to the weekly parish meeting at the Crown, and Knightley therefore sat through most of the meeting wondering whether he should be dissatisfied or pleased. Logic dictated that he ought to be disappointed: if Churchill had stayed, he might have made some mistake which showed his true colours. However, Knightley could not reason himself into any feeling but relief that the man was out of Highbury. Emma was safer with him in Richmond; for that matter, Jane Fairfax was, too. What had Churchill said to Jane Fairfax? Was there some deception being perpetrated on that poor girl? He would love to be a magistrate in this case, asking pointed questions and ferreting out the truth from all the evasions and polite nonsense. If he could only ask Miss Fairfax for simple information to make the matter clear! He could not, of course. He could only listen and observe and hope for chance remarks to fall on his ear and enlighten him. He would never have known that Churchill had made some kind of blunder if Miss Bates had not—Yes, Miss Bates, of course! Her chatter might be very illuminating. He determined to call on the Bates’ as soon as he was finished at the Crown. He was due to see the drainage works with Larkins very shortly, but a brief call—fifteen minutes or so—would do no harm. Of course, Miss Bates might equally say something which would be the final and permanent crushing of his hopes, but it was probably better to know the worst sooner rather than later.
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