John snorted and Knightley glanced at Isabella, waiting for the flash of understanding in her eyes. It did not come however, and Knightley remembered that in spite of her smile, she was not Emma, and could not often follow the conversation enough to enjoy the quips and jests of the brothers. Emma would have appreciated that last exchange, even if she might have attributed the words to Milton.
“Emma is delightful, is she not?” said Isabella.
Knightley started and felt his cheeks colour. It was not unusual for Isabella to praise her sister, but why had she chosen this moment to say such a thing? He had said nothing to provoke it—had he?
“I was telling John that she has been the easiest baby of them all; I think she may soon be allowed to come to us with the other children after dinner.”
“Oh! Yes,” said Knightley. “Little Emma. I confess I have thought her well able to extend her waking hours by enough time to join the family circle after dinner. She said ‘uncle’ to me the other day, and she must practice, you know, while I am here.”
It was madness to come and stay in this house and think that by doing so he could avoid thinking about Emma. She was everywhere—in the faces of her sister and nieces and nephews, in the letters she sent, in her sister’s lack of cleverness—he could not hope to keep her from his mind. Perhaps he ought to go elsewhere.
The hour was late when he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. There had been no real inducement to stay so long below stairs; John had retired earlier—not long after the rest of his family, in fact. Knightley had gone back to the library to read more of his book, not because of any real interest in the topic, but because he dreaded the possibility of lying awake in his bed for hours. At last he had closed the book and tried to feel that the day had been full and his efforts worthwhile. He was not successful in this; the day somehow did not seem complete without a goodnight to Emma, or a summing-up of the day’s events for the benefit of Madam Duval. He had a fleeting notion of standing at his window and talking to the cat back at Donwell, as he had used to talk at his window to Emma, but dismissed it. Talking to one’s beloved while she was not there might be just within the bounds of sane behaviour, but to philosophise aloud to a cat that was sixteen miles away was surely beyond the pale.
The sun shone in cheerfully on the breakfast table on the tenth morning of his stay. Knightley rather resented it; he felt that the weather ought to have a little more consideration for his feelings. Cold and rain seemed more appropriate to his state of mind, and he would have welcomed the opportunity to hibernate beside a warm fire with that stupor-inducing book on agricultural chemistry. But for days the weather had been obstinately warm and fine, and he could find very little excuse for staying indoors when the children begged him to come with them for their daily airing.
“You haven’t forgotten our guests this evening,” said Isabella to John as she poured him a second cup of tea.
“Guests?” Knightley asked before John could speak.
“Miss Winterbottom and Miss Snellsworth,” said John. “You’re bound to like one of them. Two spinsters, both of them with some money and not ill-looking. I fear they will fall out with each other when you choose only one of them, but of course you cannot help that.”
“John, dear,” said his wife, “You ought not to tease your brother. Mr. and Mrs. Naylor are coming, George. He is the MP for Knightsbridge, you know.”
“As long as it isn’t Mrs. Whitney,” said Knightley. “Or is it Mrs. Thompson by now?”
“No, of course not. I think even she has given up hope in that quarter.”
“The poor woman,” said Isabella.
“Well, my dear, she may come and visit you for consolation after George has gone back to Donwell. If he ever does…”
It was convenient that Knightley should have his mouth full of bread and butter at that moment, for he had no answer to that. Surely the wait would be over sometime or other—and then he would go home. Or abroad.
“How is little Henry this morning?” asked Knightley. “You said he did not look well to you last evening.”
“I did not quite like his looks when he awoke today,” said Isabella. “I think I will send for Mr. Wingfield.”
“He had no fever, had he?” said John irritably.
“No, but I thought his cheeks were more pink than they often are.”
“Perhaps you would like to send for Mr. Perry.”
Knightley winced at John’s thinly veiled sarcasm. Isabella, however, responded in all seriousness.
“No, I believe Mr. Wingfield’s care will be satisfactory. I will just go up to the nursery now and see how he is. If you will excuse me,” she added to Knightley, who inclined his head politely.
John gave his brother a sardonic smile when Isabella was gone. “He’s not ill, of course.”
“I daresay you’re right, but you know you ought not to speak so to your wife.”
“Oh, you think not?” John was not in a humour to take advice, and his face assumed that querulous countenance Knightley had known since childhood. Perhaps he ought to drop the subject and avoid unpleasantness; but then, no one else would tell John of his faults, and it seemed to be Knightley’s duty—again—to remonstrate with an erring friend. He would not receive it well now, but after reflection it might have an effect. Once more into the breach, he thought.
“Isabella bears it very well, but at the very least, you are setting a poor example for your sons. You know Father would never—”
“You are a fine one to give me advice on marriage. You don’t even have a wife!”
“I know.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but the hit was so direct that the words escaped before he knew. He sighed and stared at his empty plate, observing the delicate swirls painted around the edges, twisting and curling in beautiful confusion.
John paused—a lawyer’s pause, Knightley thought, calculated to best serve his eloquence.
“You are—”
Knightley looked up. John’s expression—it looked almost more like astonishment than anger—evaporated along with his reply and another pause replaced it. John was no longer looking in his direction at all—he was absorbed in a study of a stain on the tablecloth beside his plate.
“Oh, never mind,” said John, finally. “I will be in better temper this evening.” He quit the room abruptly, leaving Knightley to ponder his brother’s strange mood and conclude that it was the advent of the Naylors for dinner that was discomposing him.
14
For a morning in early July, the sky was remarkably gloomy. Finally, Knightley thought, there was weather to match his mood. There was a letter beside his plate—a note from Weston, by the look of it. Somehow he did not have the strength to read such a hearty, cheerful epistle as Weston usually sent and eat his breakfast too. He would finish eating first. When his plate was empty and he had taken his last sip of tea, he broke the seal and unfolded the page.
5 July
Randalls
Dear Knightley,
I trust this note finds you in good health. This is only to inform you that the Parish Council has determined that we must raise the poor rates for Highbury by one shilling per household. We think it likely that Mrs. Plover and Old John Abdy may soon need parish assistance, and it cannot be done without more in the coffers.
I have another piece of news, although you must not mention it to anyone as yet—my son Frank is engaged to Jane Fairfax. We were all surprised—the more so on learning that they have long been engaged! Evidently they plighted their troth at Weymouth last November, but kept it secret because of his aunt. Her death has removed the need for strict secrecy, and we were informed yesterday. Perhaps the whole business has not been conducted exactly as we would have desired, but Jane is a very good young lady, and we feel certain of their happiness together. As I said, the information is not yet general knowledge, but I thought you ought to be told, as it is known at Hartfield.
I remain, yours, & etc,
Weston
It took him a moment to grasp it. He read the words again. My son Frank is engaged to Jane Fairfax…long been engaged…Churchill was not going to marry Emma. She was free. Not bound to another. He closed his eyes and savoured the sensation of relief. Emma was not lost to him forever. He opened his eyes read the note again.
It is known at Hartfield…that last line of the letter broke into his happy dream. Emma knew. Her heart must be broken. She had believed Churchill to be devoted to her, and now she had discovered his duplicity. A sudden image of her, pale and listless—perhaps even weeping—sitting alone on the bench in Hartfield’s shrubbery, appeared before his eyes. He longed to be there, to offer some words of comfort or encouragement. Time would erase the regard she had felt—Churchill’s own misconduct would assist in that—but the feelings of betrayal, as well as the loss of one thought beloved, must be crushing.
He could not remain in London at such a time. He might be of service to her—remind her of the affection of all her friends, and encourage her to exert herself for her father’s sake. Or perhaps—a small hope asserted itself—she had been but lightly affected. Perhaps Churchill had not, as yet, completely captured her heart, and she was more perplexed than despairing. She must still feel herself deceived; and there is nothing like the discovery of being imposed upon to make one feel a fool. Whatever her state of mind, he must go and discover it for himself, rather than sit in John’s house and speculate. He would go home today. Now.
“I’m going back to Donwell,” he said to John abruptly.
“And when is this?”
“Immediately. After breakfast.”
“So suddenly?”
“Yes. I have—business to attend to. Something has come up.”
John stared at him. “I don’t think the rain will clear any time soon. You ought to go tomorrow.”
“Rain be— That is, I don’t mind the rain. I must get home.”
.
He rode home through the pouring rain, rejecting the impulse to gallop straight to Hartfield. To arrive there dripping, without having eaten anything, ostensibly only to tell them that all was well in Brunswick-square, must be seen as remarkable. The rain cleared while he was eating, and he set out eagerly for Hartfield.
He noticed nothing as he hurried along, his mind concentrated on Emma. If only he could be sure that she was there, able to be seen and talked to! If she had sequestered herself away in her bedroom, for example, what could he possibly—
“Mr. Knightley! You’ve returned!”
It was William Larkins, coming out of the laneway beside Croker’s place. Knightley groaned.
“I didn’t know you were back, sir! I was just going to write you a note, as there is something you ought to know about—”
“Not now, I beg you,” said Knightley. “Later—come to me later. I cannot stop now!”
He had hardly slowed his pace to speak to his bailiff, and left him standing still with an open mouth, staring after his master. No matter, thought Knightley, he could explain later. No, come to think of it, he would not explain such a thing to Larkins. Larkins was not owed any elucidation of his master’s conduct. It would be good for him to be content with mystery now and then.
At last Knightley arrived at Hartfield and managed a breathless greeting to the hall porter who showed him into the dining room. The sight of Mr. Perry conversing quietly with Mr. Woodhouse sent a chill through him. Had Emma fainted or become overcome with grief upon hearing the news of Churchill's engagement? If Mr. Perry's visit was due to her low condition...
His fears were allayed, however, by the cheerful greeting he was given by both men, and by Mr. Woodhouse’s saying, “Dear Emma is taking a turn in the garden, I believe, Mr. Knightley, or she would join me in expressing our happiness to see you returned from London at last. Will you sit with us here and take a bowl of gruel? It has been a very damp day.”
“No, I thank you, sir. I prefer being out of doors, I think; perhaps I will go and find Emma, and pass on her sister’s greetings.”
“By all means, Mr. Knightley. She will be very glad to see you.”
Would she? If she were sitting on a bench, weeping, would she still welcome his arrival? And if that was indeed her state, ought he to go away quietly or to attempt to comfort her?
He saw her as soon as he went through the garden door; she was walking toward the house, having just emerged from the shrubbery. With a little sigh of relief, he closed the door behind him and strode towards her.
Their greetings were subdued and unnaturally hesitant. He thought she looked more anxious than despondent, which was a little puzzling.
“And how are our relations in London?”
“They are all very well.”
“When did you leave them?”
“Just this morning.”
“This morning! Then you had a wet ride.”
“Yes.” He grimaced at his own short answers. He was not in a humour for idle chatter, and yet to plunge into the topic of Emma’ feelings would be a breach of delicacy that he was not prepared to hazard.
“I was taking the air a little,” said Emma, “since Mr. Perry is here to sit with Papa.”
“I hope you will not object to my walking with you,” he said. “I just looked into the dining room, and finding I was not wanted there, thought I should prefer being out of doors.”
“By all means,” said Emma, and turned back toward the path into the shrubbery. She said nothing further, and he paced along beside her, wishing she might say something—anything—that would make clear what she was thinking. She kept her face a little averted from him, and he half expected to see tears on her cheeks; though she was silent, he felt that she was not calm, and he determined to remain quiet until she should choose to speak.
At last she turned towards him with a slight smile and spoke. “You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprise you.”
There was something in her tone that spoke of resolve, and something in the smile which told him it was forced; she was going to broach the subject now, and he could only applaud her courage.
“Have I? Of what nature?”
“Oh! The best nature in the world—a wedding.”
She stopped there, as if waiting for him to enquire who was going to be wed. He ought to save her the pain of saying the words.
“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already.”
“How is it possible?” She spoke with much emotion; she looked at him fully then, and she was blushing.
“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”
“You probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you have had your suspicions. I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution. I wish I had attended to it, but—” she sighed and spoke more quietly. “I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”
There it was—her admission that she was sorrowing. He had the opening now to comfort her. He would have given anything to be able to embrace her and feel her head on his shoulder. He grasped her hand gently and put her arm through his own. He pressed it close to himself.
“Time, my dearest Emma—time will heal the wound.” He spoke quietly but fervently. “Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your father's sake—I know you will not allow yourself—” He must impress upon her how fully he empathised with her, how outraged he was on her behalf. “The feelings of the warmest friendship—indignation—abominable scoundrel!” He stopped himself from saying that he would gladly call out the man who had so played with her heart. But it would be no help to merely rehearse Churchill’s sins. Much better to remind her that she had only a little more time to endure his presence. “They will soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She deserves a better fate.”
He was rewarded with a grateful look from Emma, and with a steadier voice when she spoke. “You are
very kind, but you are mistaken, and I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”
“Emma! Are you, indeed?” She was unharmed? Oh, no—his wishes were making him misinterpret. “No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so much. He is no object of regret, indeed! And it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason. Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to deserve. He is a disgrace to the name of man. And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature.”
“Mr. Knightley, I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse. But I never have.”
She paused, as if waiting for him to speak. He did not know what to say. Ought he to express his relief? Applaud her evaluation of her own conduct? Before he could decide, she went on.
“I have very little to say for my own conduct. I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased. An old story, probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for” –she let out a sigh here—“let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing. I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another. It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except that I was not blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him.”
Lend Me Leave Page 19