They had reached the end of the gardens by this time, and the ladies sat on the stone bench beneath the fairy oak while Knightley told them the legend associated with it—a fair maiden, having fallen asleep on the bench, woke to find a lock of hair missing, stolen by fairies who took it for some purpose of their own. As payment for the pilfered curl, they left the periwinkles that grew around the base of the tree.
Ten minutes of rest there were enough, and they moved on across the other side of the garden toward the lime walk. Miss Fairfax remained silent, leaving Knightley free to plan his questioning. He had a sudden fear that he might be liable to accusations of meddling; he had once rebuked Emma for doing so. But no, he would not persuade anyone to anything—he would not be Cesario to Martin’s Orsino, pleading the cause of a friend to a lady. Shakespeare had shown what might happen with that—the lady falling in love with the messenger! Quite impossible in this case, of course, but it was just as well he would not be attempting anything of the sort. He would only determine, as far as he could, if Harriet was attached to anyone else, and encourage Martin, if the opportunity arose, to ask again.
“Look at the beautiful china asters!” said Harriet. “They are Mrs. Goddard’s favourite, but her blooms were very poor this year. She was quite disappointed.”
Miss Fairfax stopped to look at them. “They are my favourite, as well,” she said. “These are lovely.” She stooped to touch her fingertips over the tops of the flowers.
“Oh!” said Miss Bates. “Jane, we ought to ask Mr. Knightley—we had a question—remember Mrs. Dixon’s letter? Something about Mr. Dixon growing clover in a field instead of it lying fallow—on the home farm, I mean—and the land steward had persuaded Mr. Dixon to it, saying ‘a change is as good as a rest’—remember, Jane? We did not know just what she meant, and you said, ‘Perhaps we should ask Mr. Knightley when we go to Donwell.’ And here we are and I declare I have not thought if it once until now. Do you know what he meant, Mr. Knightley?”
“I believe I do,” said Knightley, and embarked on an explanation of the depletion of the soil’s richness, and the new discovery that a rotation of crops worked just as well to replenish soil as letting it lie fallow for a year did.
“And I suppose it brings more profit to the farmer, as well,” said Harriet unexpectedly.
“Indeed,” said Knightley. “It is one of the best ways for a farmer to increase his profits, along with the draining of fields, and alternating which fields are used for grazing cattle and sheep and which for growing corn.”
They walked slowly, and it was ten more minutes before they reached the cooling shade of lime walk. They were about to enter the avenue when Miss Bates looked back.
“Oh, look!” she said. “Here come Mr. and Mrs. Elton! Jane, I wonder what they have been seeing in the garden? Mrs. Elton, Mr. Elton—I hope you have been enjoying yourselves—such a delightful place! Very warm—flowers always show to best advantage in sunshine—No, not tired at all! Mrs. Elton, have you seen the shrubbery? Very fine!”
“I have indeed, Miss Bates,” said Mrs. Elton. “It reminds me very much of Maple Grove, only the one at Maple Grove is a little larger, I think. But it is the same distance from the house…”
“Miss Smith,” said Knightley quietly, “I have been telling you about the management of fields—come and let me show you where there are drainage works going on even now on the estate.”
They separated from the others, who were still listening to Mrs. Elton hold forth on the subject of Maple Grove’s gardens, and started down the lime walk together. Now, how to begin the subject of the state of Harriet’s affections? An uncontrived conversation would be best, he thought. He would encourage her to talk about herself, and perhaps there would be a natural opening to ask the question. He was glad to notice that the others, although they followed them down the walk, did not join them, and they had as much privacy as they were likely to ever have.
He asked Harriet which were the favourite flowers of Miss Nash, Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, the three teachers at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and when that topic was exhausted, he enquired which of the three had been her favourite teacher. Although she answered at length (she could not decide which teacher had been her favourite, as they all had their merits), no opportunity to bring up the subject of tender feelings arose from her reflections on these subjects.
They reached the low wall at the end of the avenue, and Knightley pointed off to the left. “If you look over in this direction, Miss Smith, you may see the Fisher farm—the land around it has lately been drained to create another smallholding.”
“Oh! Yes, I see!” said Harriet.
“It will not be a very large place,” Knightley went on. “Not nearly as big as Abbey Mill Farm.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I suppose you enjoyed your stay in the country last summer?”
“Oh! Yes, indeed.”
“And have missed it, sometimes, perhaps?”
“Yes, indeed. That is—not so very often. Miss Woodhouse has been so kind. When I am at Hartfield, I never think of my time in the country. I’m sure I never wish to be anywhere else.”
“Do you not hope someday to have a dearer tie?” said Knightley. “Is there no place that lies nearer your heart than Hartfield?”
She blushed slightly, but before she could speak, a movement nearby caught his eye and he looked up—Emma was walking toward them. It was perhaps the only time he was not altogether glad to see her. Another minute of conversation would have told him what he wanted to know, but it was impossible while Emma was near.
“The reclaimed land for the new smallholding will probably be used first for wheat or oats,” he said, raising his voice a little, “and then for grazing sheep. What was once wasted land will be useful.”
He smiled at Emma as she approached, telling her with his eyes that he had not so much as mentioned Robert Martin to Harriet—she would be suspecting him of it, he thought, with them standing in full view of Abbey Mill Farm.
“Hello, Emma,” he said to her. “Had you a pleasant walk?”
“Yes,” said she as they started back up the lime walk. “Mr. Weston and I traversed the whole length of the gardens. I had not remembered just how fine they are. It is not merely that they are well-tended, but the plants are so perfectly suited to their situations, and the colours blend delightfully.”
He was pleased—more than pleased. Emma would not flatter, and to hear such honest admiration from her lips was enchanting.
“And the house, too,” she went on. “I had forgotten half the wonders which I saw again today—the way the light comes into the breakfast room, and the prospect from the windows of the drawing room—there are so many charming spots.”
Would she say something about the library? He waited, hoping to hear a commendation of his favourite place.
“You are very silent, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma.
“Must I speak? I would rather listen to you go on talking if you will keep saying such delightful things.”
She raised her left eyebrow and said, “And who would not? Ah, the joys of hearing Emma Woodhouse express her opinions! I cannot blame you.”
He laughed at her.
“It seems everyone has found their way to the lime walk,” said Harriet.
“And a good thing, too,” said Knightley. “It is nearly three o’clock, and Baxter will be looking for us to go in and eat.”
They had time for three more turns in the lime walk before Baxter appeared, and then they all went in gratefully to the cool and comfortable dining room.
The cold meat and salad were on the table, and the servants were little in evidence. Knightley had instructed Baxter to keep the footman Harry in the background, and he could see him hovering uncertainly near the door. In spite of this, the meal went off well. Knightley would have enjoyed it more if the predominant topic of conversation had not been Churchill—Mrs. Weston’s fears about his non-appearance, Mr. Weston’s relative unconcern, Mr. Elton’s opin
ion (seconded and elaborated on by his wife) that Mrs. Churchill must have had another sudden attack, and Emma’s adding that this seemed the most likely explanation.
“What else shall we see?” said Mrs. Elton when they had finished eating. “Mr. Knightley, is there something else to see?”
“I would like to see those fish ponds,” said Weston. “You would like to see them too, would you not, my dear?”
“I would,” said Mrs. Weston, “If Mr. Woodhouse will not miss me.”
“I will be staying with him,” said Emma. “I would like to see the collections and books that he has seen this morning, and he will be pleased to show them to me. Will you not, Papa?”
“Indeed, my dear. You will be very interested in everything.”
It was just what ought to be done, of course: Mrs. Weston needed some exercise and a little reprieve from her attentions to Mr. Woodhouse, and Emma would not neglect her father. All the same, he was disappointed. His faint hope of walking with Emma alone in his own gardens disappeared altogether.
“You may like to see the clover field as well, ma’am,” said Knightley to Mrs. Elton. “It has not yet been cut, though I think it will be tomorrow.”
There was a general pushing back of chairs and collecting of belongings then, and while Mr. Woodhouse and Emma retreated into the drawing room, the rest of the party drifted out of doors again. Knightley and Miss Bates were the last into the garden; they were delayed by Miss Bates’ stopping to rhapsodise over a very fine landscape painting in the passageway, and by their slow progress past the roses. They came upon the Eltons sitting under the beech trees.
“Ah, Knightley, Miss Bates,” said Mrs. Elton. “Is Jane not with you? I told her she would come with us to the fish ponds, but I do not see her now.”
“Dear me, Mrs. Elton, I do not know! Perhaps she has gone with the Westons somewhere—shall I try to find her? They could not be far.”
“I think not, Miss Bates,” Knightley said, hoping he was promoting Jane’s real wishes by obstructing Mrs. Elton’s plan. “If you go to find her, then we may very likely lose you, and that would not do. I will show you the way to the fish-ponds now, and when we see Miss Fairfax again, you may escort her there yourself if she would like to see them.”
“Oh! That is a very good plan, Mr. Knightley—indeed it is,” said Miss Bates. Mrs. Elton did not look so satisfied, but as Knightley began to walk immediately, she could not do anything but follow along, and a judicious question by Knightley about Maple Grove quite restored her spirits.
There was no possibility of silence on a walk with Miss Bates and Mrs. Elton; Knightley had almost no occasion to talk, which suited him perfectly. Elton did not talk, either, but Knightley fancied he was content to have his wife converse with Miss Bates. Converse, perhaps, was not quite what the women did—Mrs. Elton made pronouncements, Miss Bates agreed with them and then added her own ramblings, which Mrs. Elton waited through until she could interrupt and make another pronouncement.
Knightley did not bother to follow what was being said; his mind was on his earlier conversation with Miss Smith. She had said that when she was at Hartfield, she did not want to be anywhere else. That seemed perfectly in accord with what he knew of her character: she was the sort to be content with her present circumstances, whatever they were. Her affections would likely be attached to anyone who showed kindness to her—Mrs. Goddard, Miss Woodhouse, or Mr. Martin—and he could not imagine her resisting the sincere devotion of an honest heart. Of course, when he had asked about any dearer ties, she had blushed. What did that mean? There was no way of knowing, of course, but he thought it was likely that she was only surprised at such a topic being addressed by him. All in all, it seemed doubtful that she was very attached to anyone at present, and that Martin had a chance, if the occasion arose for him to renew his addresses. Things in that regard could be considered quite satisfactory.
After the fish ponds were looked at, explained, and approved, Mrs. Elton wanted to see the orchard, and it was an hour before they got back to the house. The Westons were just entering the house as their little group reached the terrace, and they found, as they joined the others in the drawing room, that Churchill had arrived after all. The pleased satisfaction Knightley had been feeling evaporated. How long had that fellow been sitting with Emma?
“But where is Jane?” said Miss Bates, who had been peering into the corners of the room. “Is Jane not yet returned?”
“She asked me to tell you that she must go home,” said Emma. “She has been gone for an hour or more—she thought her grandmother would be worried, and did not wish to disturb anyone’s pleasure by informing them of her departure. I offered her the carriage,” she said, looking at Knightley, “but she preferred to walk.”
“Well! She must have been—it is very right that—it really is time to be going,” said Miss Bates. “I wonder I did not think of it.”
“That is too bad,” said Weston. “I wish she had taken the carriage—it was very warm to be walking, poor girl.”
“Yes,” said his wife. “I do wish we had known.”
“Ah, you see what happens when young ladies are without their mentors,” said Mrs. Elton. “I would have advised her what to do. Well, Miss Bates, you may travel home in our carriage, and we will scold her properly together.”
“And what about tomorrow?” said Weston. “How shall we arrange travel for our Box Hill excursion?”
Knightley was thankful to see Weston take charge of the travel to Box Hill. Mrs. Elton’s idea was that the Elton carriage should stop at the home of each participant and add new people as they went along, until it was a sort of parade. Weston, however, said that they could not put the Eltons to so much trouble; therefore Knightley, Weston and Churchill would go to Hartfield and accompany Emma and Harriet’s carriage to the Eltons’; they would be ready with Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton had to be content with this, and as the expedition was to be launched from the vicarage, her self-importance was satisfied enough that she made no protest.
“And have I persuaded you to join the expedition tomorrow?” asked Emma, turning to Churchill.
Churchill smiled. “Well, if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
The smile Emma gave him in reply was a knife-thrust to Knightley’s heart. He had a sudden conviction that they had been talking very cosily while the others had been in the gardens; there was no diminishing of friendliness between them—rather an increase, if such a thing were possible. They were more sure of each other’s regard than they had been before. He had been a fool to entertain any hope.
“All arranged, then,” said Weston. “Unless there is a positive summons from Richmond, we shall all meet together tomorrow morning.”
“I fear that every last hope is gone,” said Knightley in the library that evening. “Utterly and completely gone.” The cat sat gazing at him, as if waiting to hear more. “I was thinking, Madam—I wonder if the Abbey would make a good asylum for gently-born people of diminished mental capacity? I would be the first inmate, of course. You could stay on as well, to give the residents someone to talk to.”
The cat broke her stare and began to lick her paw.
“No? Well, perhaps I should follow Spencer’s example and leave the country—‘make an honourable retreat’. Only, would it be honourable? Or would it be self-serving? I could not possibly do her any good at a distance. And there is still the chance to do some good, I think. There might be some difficulty—some dilemma—something for which she might need advice. I cannot bear the thought of being far away if there is the slightest chance that she might need me. And after all, being away did not help Spencer.” He got up to poke the fire, and then paced over to the window and looked toward Hartfield.
“I do not know what to do, Emma. You have the distinction of making me more perplexed and undecided than I have been in a score of years. To stay here is… difficult. To leave would be harder still. Was ever any man so conflicted?”
; The sun had not yet set; he could still see every tree and shrub and flower clearly, as clearly as Emma must have seen them as she looked out this very window. “I hope you had a pleasant day, Emma. You never looked more beautiful than you did when I saw you in this room. I fear the image will never completely leave my mind. It seems that—” he checked himself. “I forgot—I am not to make any speeches to you. I beg your pardon, Emma. My feelings seem to assert themselves before my mind remembers its duty. Goodnight, Emma.”
12
Knightley had never set out on a party of pleasure with more reluctance. He could foresee no real enjoyment, and there was a strong possibility of pain. He would, in fact, have given a great deal to stay home. Still, he had given his word, and could not doubt that his presence would be a help to the party in some way—he might help to ward off the importunate solicitude of Mrs. Elton toward Jane Fairfax, or assist Miss Bates in walking over the hill. He had a fleeting wish that he could rescue Emma from some terrible danger, but there was not likely to be any opportunity for that.
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