“Oh, Mr. Knightley, so very kind of you to come and see us!—So sorry Jane is not here to see you—spending the day with dear Mrs. Elton. Such sad news—Mrs. Elton, I mean! Her sister—Mrs. Elton’s sister, that is, Mrs. Suckling—cannot come now until the autumn. Poor Mrs. Elton was sadly distracted—she had been so hoping to see Box Hill, with an exploring party—you know that she is very fond of exploring parties, and it was quite a common thing when she was at Maple Grove—she was so very eager to do the same with the Sucklings. And she was quite cast down at their being delayed; one often is, you know, when one has been anticipating a pleasure and then it is put off. And then she came to us yesterday—just before tea—stay, it was just after tea, I remember the buns being all eaten up so that we had none to offer her—and said she had a new plan—why should they not explore to Box Hill now, and go again with the Sucklings in the autumn? For, you know, there is no reason in the world why she could not see the same place twice. And she came to ask dear Jane particularly to accompany them—which is not surprising in the least, of course—and she asked me, as well, which was so very kind in her, I thought, as she had no need—only it was very obliging of her to ask me to go along.”
“It does sound very—” began Knightley.
“They have not absolutely fixed a day, but are hoping to go in the next week. And Patty says that she will stay with my mother while we are gone, and will even give up her half-day—if the excursion falls on a Wednesday—so that we may be easy. So very faithful, Mr. Knightley—Patty is—not always as careful as she might be about the plates, but a very good-hearted girl. We have been so thankful that she has persuaded her brother to forego his evenings playing cards at the Crow’s Nest and stop at home more. And then Mrs. Plover’s son—Patty’s brother said he plays with those young men and Mrs. Plover said the same, and I said, ‘My dear Mrs. Plover,’ but I did not know how to go on, because I did not want to worry her—and it may be that there is nothing wrong at that tavern—stories, sometimes, you know do exaggerate—”
Miss Bates talked on in this way for a full half-hour without once touching the subject of Frank Churchill. Knightley gave it up, excused himself with as much haste as was consistent with civility, and hurried to Donwell.
Larkins was waiting, and had been waiting for some time. He said nothing about Knightley’s tardiness, but his look was reproachful, and he set a rapid pace as they walked toward the Fisher farm.
“Haying coming along all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. Clover should be ready for cutting in a fortnight.”
“And how is Perkins? Still an apt pupil, is he?”
“Oh, yes. He brought his account-books to show me last week, and I was pleased to give them my full approval.”
“Is he still a regular visitor at the Foote farm?”
“No,” said Larkins, sighing. “I do not think there will be a match after all.”
The surge of joy Knightley felt on Spencer’s behalf was concealed immediately, and he endeavoured to speak as if he had only a mild curiosity in the matter. “Oh? What happened?”
“I cannot tell. I only know that he does not dine there anymore, and he is no longer making enquiries about improving his little cottage.”
“Well—”
A mumbled oath from Larkins interrupted him.
“What is it?” asked Knightley.
“Miss Castleman approaching,” said Larkins. Knightley looked up to see the small woman bearing down on them with determination. It was only a few moments until she was standing before them.
“Mr. Knightley, Mr. Larkins.” She gave them the briefest of curtseys. “You must do something about him, or I will not answer for the consequences.”
Both men stared at her.
“Him? Who, pray?” said Larkins.
“Him. The man who is following me.”
Knightley looked around, but could see no one. “Where is he?”
“Not in plain sight, of course,” she said impatiently. “He hides when other people are likely to see him. But he is somewhere, waiting for you to go away so that he may follow me again.”
The men looked at each other.
“Who is this man?” asked Knightley. “What is his name?”
“I don’t know, nor what he looks like, either. I keep telling my sister that it’s no good asking me these things—I never see him. But he’s there, all the same.”
“But if you have never seen him, how do you know there is such a man?”
“I know! I hear him sometimes—in the bushes, or behind a wall. And I feel his eyes upon me, watching me.”
“And what would you like me to do about him?”
“Why, discover him!” she said, as if it were obvious. “Use spies—traps—whatever means are necessary. Have the constable alerted.”
“But surely you are in no danger,” said Larkins. If this—er, man—hides whenever others are near… your sister, surely, is with you at the house.”
“I am alone in my room at night,” she snapped. “And I have a knife under my pillow, ready for him. But I thought you might like to have him taken away before it comes to that. Good day.”
She walked on abruptly, leaving the men to gaze at her retreating form.
“Mad?” said Knightley quietly.
“I fear so. She has always been…difficult…but there is no doubt her behaviour is getting more erratic and strange.”
Knightley sighed. “I told my brother when she came back to stay in Donwell that I feared there might be bloodshed in the parish before long. I said it in jest, but…”
“Yes,” said Larkins. “Perhaps we ought to see if something can be done. Would Dr. Hughes—or even Mr. Spencer—have any wisdom on the subject?”
“I believe Dr. Hughes is visiting the Gilberts today, but I will speak to Spencer when we have finished at Fisher’s place.”
“How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?” said Old Maggie in her piercing voice.
“I have come to call on Mr. Spencer.”
“Very well, thank ye kindly,” said Old Maggie, “although my bad shoulder has not improved with the good weather as I hoped it would. I’ll show you in to Mr. Spencer.”
Knightley wondered if Spencer had ever been tempted to say something outlandish to Old Maggie just because she would never know. He would hardly be able to restrain himself if she were housekeeper at the Abbey.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley,” said Spencer when Knightley was ushered in to the parlour. “I hope I see you well. Please—” he gestured toward a chair, and Knightley dropped into it.
“I am quite well, although I have had a most unpleasant encounter this afternoon, which I wanted—No, before we delve into that subject, I have a better piece of news for you.”
“Oh?”
“Mrs. Catherwood is not to marry Perkins.”
Spencer gaped at him, eyes wide. “Are you certain?”
“Larkins told me, and I have never yet found his information unreliable. He does not know what happened between them, but whatever preparations Perkins had been making have stopped, and there are no more visits to the Foote farm.”
“Oh!”
Knightley had expected smiles, at least, but Spencer looked grave and perplexed.
“Are you not pleased? I would have thought—”
“Yes, yes, I am…although—No, I…” Spencer ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “I don’t know what I am.”
There was silence for a moment as Spencer studied the floor in front of him. Knightley felt all the disappointment of one who rejoices to give a gift, only to see it rejected by the recipient.
“I was making good progress,” said Spencer, “in accepting a match between Perkins and Mrs. Catherwood. I had resigned myself, I think, and I had no hopes with regard to myself at all. And now—” He got up from his chair and walked over to the window. “If she does not marry Perkins, then I will be waiting—again—for another man to claim her hand and divide her from me forever.�
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“But what if there is no other? What if she remains single?”
“If she remains unattached, then I will have the greatest difficulty putting down the hopes that will rise up—that are rising up, even as we speak. I have no grounds for hope—I could not ask again—and is it not better that she should marry and be happy than for both of us to be alone?”
Knightley sighed. “I understand. I did not see it when Larkins told me the news—all I could think was how I would feel in the same place—and relief was the uppermost emotion. Not very rational, I suppose.”
Spencer turned from the window and returned to his seat with a small smile. “Rational or no, relief was my first feeling, too. My heart is unfortunately much lighter than it was ten minutes ago, no matter what logic would dictate. It is easier to have her unclaimed by me than claimed by someone else. We had better change the topic of our conversation before I lose all common sense and decide to ask her again.”
“Yes, and that reminds me of the reason for my visit. I was accosted by Miss Castleman today.”
Spencer frowned. “I was hoping to consult with you about her, sir.”
“What is your opinion?”
“I believe her to be insane—or nearly insane, and quite possibly a danger to herself or others.”
“Have you heard her speak of someone following her?”
“Yes. And she has accused me of being in league with him.”
“You? She is mad, then. But what is to be done with her? I do not know what the widow Hunt would say to the idea of her sister being locked away in a madhouse.”
“I would not like to see that myself. Have you visited a madhouse?”
“No.”
“I have.” The expression on Spencer’s face was eloquent.
“I will ask my brother his opinion,” said Knightley. “I seem to recall him telling me of a case which involved insanity of some sort, and there was a book—lately written, I think, about the problem of madness and treatment for those afflicted with it.”
“Good. Perhaps someone will establish an institution not far from here that will be devoted to the humane treatment of those with a mental affliction. And if my foolish hopes with regard to Mrs. Catherwood get the better of me, I may be applying for admission as well.”
“You will be in good company then—I will probably become an inmate there myself.”
Spencer looked at him soberly. “Is it that bad, sir?”
“Yes,” said Knightley. “I dare not think about it much.”
The sympathy in Spencer’s eyes was too much; Knightley bid him good day and went out.
“It’s a pity Mrs. Weston is not here, Knightley. You’ve not been here at Randalls for a fortnight, I think. Mrs. Weston will be sorry to have missed you. She’s visiting old John Abdy—she tells me he cannot leave his bed anymore, poor man.”
“That is a great pity—he always seemed such a kind man. It must be a comfort for him to have visitors.”
“Oh, yes, and he has plenty. Miss Bates goes to see him regularly, of course—you know he was clerk to her father for many years—and so does Mrs. Perry, and any number of others. By the bye, Knightley, you’ve been invited to this Box Hill expedition, have you not?”
“I have heard of two different expeditions—one that Emma was planning, and one of Mrs. Elton’s contriving. Which one did you mean?”
“Oh, you have not heard, then? There is but one exploring party now; the two groups have combined into one. It was my idea—seemed silly for there to be two separate parties, and these things are always more enjoyable when there are more people along. I proposed to Mrs. Elton that we ought all to go together, and she thought it was a good idea, too. You’ll come, I hope?”
“I would be delighted to be of the party. Have you fixed a day?”
“No, not absolutely. Soon, however. Within the next week or two, at any rate. I’ll send you word.”
“Is it a large party?”
“No, not at all. Only the Eltons and the Bates’—Miss Bates and her niece, I mean—and Emma and Miss Smith. And you and I, of course. Mrs. Weston will stay with Mr. Woodhouse.”
“And Emma had no objection?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort. Why should she object? I explained my reasons and she said nothing to contradict me. Everyone knows the advantage of a larger party.”
Poor Emma, thought Knightley, with feelings divided between compassion that she would have to bear the company of Mrs. Elton—he was sure that she would not view Weston’s interference with equanimity—and pride over her graceful acquiescence to a scheme which she could not but deplore.
15 June
Wellyn House
Dear George,
Your letter arrived this morning. Sorry to hear of Mrs. Hunt’s troubles with her sister—she does indeed sound mad. The book I had told you of is Tuke’s Description of the Retreat. The “Retreat” it describes is up in York, which is, I take it, too far and too expensive for someone of Mrs. Hunt’s means. I agree that Miss Castleman ought to be committed to some institution, although there is no county asylum in Surrey. You will probably need to look out a private madhouse, but they vary extremely from one to another. I suppose we have been fortunate in Donwell not to have had to deal with insanity much before this. There was old Barnhill, of course, but he was harmless, and his family watched over him carefully. I will ask a few people here who might know of an acceptable situation—preferably one that follows Tuke’s model.
I trust this information will have no nearer application than Miss Castleman; I have heard that those who live alone in large houses are far more prone to madness than other people.
I long for news of Mrs. Elton (you may tell her so, if it will raise me in her esteem). Do the Sucklings come soon? I want to hear their verdict of the Abbey.
In the firm conviction of a sound mind,
John
17 June
Donwell Abbey
Dear John,
Thank you for the information regarding Miss Castleman’s situation. I will present it all to Dr. Hughes. Do let me know what you discover about private asylums &c. I am in no danger of requiring the same care unless I am driven to distraction by interfering and wearisome relations who live in London.
The Sucklings have deferred their visit until the autumn. It will be amusing, when they do finally deign to come, to discover what they think of all of us, having known us only by report through Mrs. Elton’s letters. I do not think Emma’s character fares very well in those letters, but mine does—or it will this week, at least. I have no doubt that Mrs. Elton is writing to her sister even now that “Knightley”, that most thorough humorist, has created a plan exactly calculated to please her in the wake of the misfortune caused by a lame carriage horse. The story is almost good enough for me to save until I can tell it to you in person, but Emma will probably allude to it in a letter before then, so I might as well tell you now.
Mrs. Elton had designed an “exploring party” to Box Hill, to showcase her magnificent talents for organizing and superintending excursions (she did not say as much, of course, but her motives were all too apparent). One of the horses needed for this scheme turned up lame the day before yesterday, and she could not get over it. I called on Elton at his home about some parish business and found Mrs. Elton there instead. She complained about the postponed gaiety for ten minutes until I suggested—half in jest, and mostly to stop her moans—that they had better explore to Donwell and eat my strawberries, which Rooker had told me were nearly ripe. I rather expected her to laugh at the notion, but she was delighted by the idea, and promised me—many times over, in fact—to come. Within five minutes she had reshaped the outing according to her own notions. If she had her way (and she was no doubt surprised that I would have any idea besides hers), it would be a romantic gypsyish party, complete with donkeys, large hats (for the ladies), be-ribboned baskets, and some sort of “simple table” spread in the shade to accompany the eating of strawberries. She
also styled herself “lady patroness” of the party, and wanted to invite all the guests herself, telling me that she might be safely authorised to do so, since she was a married woman.
I took more pleasure than I ought in telling her that there was only one married woman I could ever allow to invite what guests she pleased to Donwell. She thought at first that I meant Mrs. Weston, but when I told her that I was referring to the future Mrs. Knightley, she was all smiles again. (I forbid you to assume anything based on that statement of mine or to mention it to any living soul, including myself.) So long as no one yet existing got the preference to herself, she was able to smile and let me issue the invitations to my own party—although she was quite willing to lend her housekeeper to Donwell for the occasion, and to advise Mrs. Hodges in the event of any difficulty that might arise.
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