I ought really to be congratulating Emma, as she has gained a splendid partner in life, who will provide her all that she needs to mature into the role of wife and mother and chief benefactress of Donwell. When I consider how many young women marry into a great estate, only to find that their new husbands are debauched and worthless (and I hear of many such cases in my profession), I am extremely happy for her.
Contrary to what you might have expected, however, your information did not take me wholly by surprise; I was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind. Your behaviour during your stay in Brunswick-square was indicative of such a state, and I am gratified to have my suspicions confirmed.
Your most perceptive brother,
John
24 July
Donwell Abbey
Dear John,
If I did not know you better, I would have thought from your letter that you did not admire Emma at all! While being entirely too flattering to my person (do not think I do not appreciate it,) you did not praise her near enough. You must write again and make it a better letter than that.
You will be glad to know that Emma thinks you write like a sensible man –yes, of course I showed her your letter, and will from now on, just as I have no doubt that Isabella reads all the ones I send to you. Emma and I are fairly like a married couple already, except that she still retains the formal mode of addressing me as Mr. Knightley. I asked her to call me George, but she says she cannot do it. She shall, though: I will not consent to living out the rest of my days as a husband whose wife calls him “Mr. Knightley” in private as well as in public! I will take your advice on that matter, if you can think of a way to speed the change in her mode of addressing me.
In a very few days, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse can visit the Westons and see for himself that all is well, Emma and I will tell Mr. Woodhouse of our plans. It will need all of the support you and Isabella can give the notion to reconcile his mind to the idea.
Emma tells me that Miss Smith is to stay with you until you come to Surrey, and if you had hoped to send your thoughts on my notes about the asylum by her, you had better send them by post instead. We cannot wait long to begin setting up the Refuge (I have begun to call the place that in my own mind; whether it will stick as a name is another matter.)
Yours, etc.
George
17
“Mr. Spencer to see you, sir.” Baxter’s announcement broke into Knightley’s thoughts as he sat at his desk in the library, ostensibly looking over Rooker’s plans for the autumn planting of the kitchen gardens, but really daydreaming in time to the summer shower which had broken over Donwell.
“Spencer! You got my message, I see. Are you soaked through?”
“No, thank you, sir. My umbrella is large. I am thankful to see it rain—for the sake of my little garden, which was looking very parched.”
“I suppose my news is all over Donwell now.”
“Oh, yes. I have been told by four different people. I hope you intended to make it known.”
“Yes. We had the spreading of the news ordered like a military campaign. Miss Woodhouse and I determined to keep it to ourselves until Mrs. Weston had her baby, so that Mr. Woodhouse would not be overwhelmed with anxieties. After Mrs. Weston recovered enough to receive visitors and Mr. Woodhouse had seen her and the baby for himself and been assured of their good health, Emma told him of our plans.”
“And how did he receive the news?”
“Not very well. A pity, but no more than we expected. I came to Hartfield a half-hour later to plead my own case. I think he was a little mollified by hearing my praise of Emma, but not much. The next day Emma told Mrs. Weston, and we knew that once that happened, all of Highbury would know within twenty-four hours.”
“The word spread to Donwell very rapidly.”
“Oh, I told Larkins yesterday myself. I thought it the best way to ensure a quick distribution of the news.”
“And how did he take your announcement? He seems no friend to change.”
“I believe he almost fainted. He would have liked to give the impression that he was not surprised, I’m sure, but he was too stunned to dissemble. He actually sat down under the weight of the shock and had to be given a glass of water.”
“He seems to have recovered.”
“Oh, yes. As soon as he realized he was in possession of knowledge that no one else in Donwell had, he perked up amazingly.”
“I suppose you are pleased that the secret is out?”
“I am. I was not made for subterfuge, Spencer. It wearies me.”
“Yes. There is an openness about your character that seems inconsistent with concealment. Now, about that message you sent—you said you wanted to see me about Miss Castleman?”
“Yes, yes. I heard from Clatworthy yesterday; he has found a disused gaol in Leatherhead—it was abandoned because of its small size, but it is dry and clean—or will be when someone has brushed out the cobwebs. He says it does not much look like a prison—more like a secure room. Better still, there is a woman there who once worked in a madhouse and is willing to be the guardian until our asylum is ready.”
“Would Mrs. Hunt be the one to pay her?”
“No. I will consult with Dr. Hughes about whether the parish can help with the cost, and if not, the expense—it is not much—will appear in the Donwell accounts as ‘general benevolence.’”
“You are very good.”
“It all comes of a conscience that will not let me sleep unless I do what I feel is my duty. My father began the training of it, Dr. Hughes continued it, and I may say that you have done your share in maintaining it.”
“I? I have always thought myself a poor excuse for a parson. Not eloquent, not good in company, prone to attacks of nerves and the fear of man…”
“You have spoken and lived the Truth among us, and we have been challenged by it—the more so, perhaps, because you are not a practiced politician. You are not, pardon me, eloquent enough to be a charlatan.”
Spencer laughed. “I must learn to see my deficiencies in that light.”
“Now then, will you come with me to see Dr. Hughes?”
“No, I thank you. I will rather pay a call on the Martins; I am invited to take tea with them.”
“Give them my regards, if you will.”
“Of course, Mr. Knightley.”
The rainshower had exhausted itself before he went to the rectory, and he spent the rather muddy walk there wondering if anything could be done for Martin. He had been pretty well convinced that day when they had picked strawberries at Donwell—how long ago that seemed now!—that Harriet was as likely to marry Martin as anyone else who might ask. He greatly wished that he could find a way to bring the two of them together, but no flickers of inspiration lighted his mind. He found Dr. Hughes in his garden, leaning on his cane and looking over his flowers.
“My dear sir!” he said when he saw Knightley. “I heard the news this morning. I wish you joy, with all my heart.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Knightley, shaking the offered hand. “I am already far happier than I deserve to be.”
“That is the proper attitude for a bridegroom to take—very fitting and becoming. When is the wedding to be?”
“I do not yet know. It rather depends on when we can persuade Mr. Woodhouse to think it something other than a tragedy. He will grow reconciled in time, and I know he will be happy as soon as the fatal step is taken, but Emma cannot bring herself to name a wedding day yet. She knows such an action will be painful to her father. I cannot force her to do so against her conscience. And so we wait, for now.”
“A wise proceeding,” said Dr. Hughes, beginning to walk back slowly toward the rectory. “Impatience will bring about more problems than it solves in this case.”
“I am almost content. I have won her heart and her hand is pledged. The chase has almost ended…the pursuit is almost done.”
“My dear fellow, you must not think of matrimony in that lig
ht. The real pursuit has not yet begun. The pursuit begins with marriage.”
Knightley stopped walking. “Whatever do you mean?”
“It is only once a man is married that he has the ability—the freedom—to pursue his wife. Finding a wife is only the beginning. The pursuit of her heart, in the deepest sense, the pursuit of joy with her and in her, the pursuit of the deepest love… those things commence in earnest after the wedding. For pity’s sake, do not abandon the chase just when you have license to do it freely! There now, you have heard my lecture on marriage; you will be spared any more unsolicited advice from me. We shall move on to other subjects. I suppose you have heard of the peregrinations of Miss Castleman—poor woman.”
“I have, and I think I may have hit upon a solution to the problem: we have found a place in Leatherhead where she may be decently and kindly confined, and someone to watch over her, until such time as the new asylum is ready. The cost will not be high, but it will be something. What do you think about the parish taking on the expense? It is, in a way, for the benefit of the people here, as many of them are nervous about her, and those that are not afraid are spending much of their time trying to help Mrs. Hunt with her.”
“Oh, I think the parish may well offer that kind of assistance. And since you would not let me help with Mrs. Matthews, I should be honoured to help with this, if the parish funds cannot spare the needed money. I know you would do the same,” he added as Knightley started to speak, “but you have a wife to consider now.”
“Well, we will see if more help is wanted. There may be no such need.”
“Robert Martin is off to London tomorrow—he has a new buyer for his wool, I believe, and is going to negotiate an agreement.”
“Is that so? Well, I hope he may have a fine day for his journey.”
Martin was going to London. Harriet was in London. Away from the scene of former associations, there was great likelihood that Martin would speak again and be accepted—if they were thrown together. A jumble of ideas gradually shaped themselves into a solid plan. Knightley finished the rest of his visit with a distracted mind, and he received the good wishes of Mrs. Hughes with only half his attention.
“There now,” said Knightley to Madam Duval late that night, and putting down his pen. “I have finished laying the trap for Martin and Harriet—although to call it a trap is a little misleading. I should rather say that I have been energetic in my efforts to secure the happiness of them both. The proposals for the new asylum are written up, and I will ask Martin to take them to John for me, along with this letter. Tell me, Madam, do you think this will raise any suspicion in John’s mind?
“Dear John,
“Robert Martin is coming to town on a matter of his own business, but as he will be there regardless, I am asking him to deliver these papers to you for your approval. I beg you will have the goodness to invite Martin to dinner. He has no friends in London, and a little society—for he knows Miss Smith—would be just the thing for him.
“Trusting you remain the ‘sober, godly and righteous’ married man I will emulate before long,
“George
“I have sent a note to Martin tonight,” Knightley went on, “asking him to come ‘round to Donwell before he leaves tomorrow. If all goes according to my expectations, it will not be long before Mr. and Mrs. Martin take their place in the family pew on Sundays.”
He put the letter down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “I hope Emma will not object to the union. I hope she will not divine my part in it—I could not bear her to call me a matchmaker when I have scolded her for doing the same! And after all, I am only giving Robert the opportunity to ask again, not dictating to him what he ought to do. Perhaps her own happiness will enable her to think generously of her friend’s choice. She does not speak of Harriet much any more. Of course, Harriet is not in Highbury at present, but I suspect that Emma has realized the truth of what I told her before about Harriet’s suitability as a companion, and the friendship is lapsing. It would be a blow for her to admit it, though, and I have said nothing.”
The cat had long since lost interest in his explanations and gone to sleep. Knightley stretched, rose, and went over to the window.
“It has been a long day, Emma, and made longer by the fact that I only saw you for an hour. What a brilliant woman you are, by the bye, for contriving to make your father think that Mrs. Weston expects a visit from him every day! It is good for him to look forward to that daily journey and believe that he is performing a valuable service to the Westons. Your brilliance is one of the things I praise when I say admiring things about you to your father, although I think I must withhold this particular example of your cleverness. He loves to hear me praise you, and the other day he even brought up the idea of our marriage—sometime in the years to come—in order to hear me extol your virtues again, I think. He told me I will make a very good, yielding husband. I may be that, Emma, but I will not be yielding in one thing: I will not wait two years, Emma, nor even a year, to marry you. You will find me to be absolutely adamant on that point.”
Three days later, Martin came to Donwell with a beaming face that Knightley could interpret before he said a word. He waited impatiently through Martin’s conscientious report of how he had delivered the papers to John until there was no more to be said on the topic.
“And now, Mr. Knightley, I ought to tell you the progress of my own business.”
“Ah, yes,” said Knightley with a smile playing around his lips. “You had good success with the wool merchant?”
“The wool merchant? No—no—that is not the business I meant. You see before you an engaged man, Mr. Knightley.”
“Is it Miss Smith?”
A shade of annoyance passed over Martin’s face.
“Of course,” said Knightley quickly. “Of course. I beg your pardon. How did it happen?”
“Well, sir, I saw Mr. John Knightley in his chambers, as you told me to. He was most civil—hoped I would not find London wearying—asked if I had plans for the evening—invited me to Astley’s, where he and Mrs. Knightley and their two eldest boys were going, along with Miss Smith. I knew propriety ought to forbid me from accompanying them, but Mr. Knightley was so very urgent in his request, saying the place would be crowded, and he would welcome my help with the little boys, and he was afraid Miss Smith, not being used to London, would be over-awed by the crowds—in short, he made me feel I would do him a real service by going, and so I agreed to it. They stopped at my inn on the way and took me in their carriage with them. Har—Miss Smith was there, and bashful, I think, to have me there. But she smiled at me…” Martin paused for a moment, lost in the memory of that smile.
Knightley cleared his throat.
“The family had a box,” resumed Martin, “and we watched the entertainment—I was nearly as amused watching Miss Smith’s diversion as the little boys’—and I was diverted, too, for I had never been at Astley’s. And when we quitted the box, Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley took charge of little John, and asked me and Miss Smith to look to Henry—as well they might, for the press of the crowd was incredible. And Miss Smith was rather uneasy, and she said, ‘Oh, Mr. Martin, it is a comfort that you are with us—I should be quite terrified—do you think we will be all right?’ And when they returned me to the inn, they invited me to dine with them the next day. I could not refuse, and said that I would. And so I came to dinner, and afterwards, when the children joined us, Miss Smith and I were playing with little Henry. And he asked me if I had a wife, and I said I did not, and he said that Miss Smith had no husband, either, and that I ought to marry her. I said that I would be happy to, if Miss Smith did not object, and she blushed and murmured that she did not. So we were engaged.”
“I do not think I have ever heard so many words from you at one time, Martin,” said Knightley, grinning. “I am thankful to be one of the first to hear the story—doubtless you will leave out most of the details after repeated tellings.”
“I wanted
to ask you, sir—is there anyone besides Mrs. Goddard that I should speak to? Is there anything you might propose more fit to be done than to apply to her for information about Miss Smith’s relations or friends?”
“I cannot think of anything.”
“Then I will endeavour to see Mrs. Goddard in the course of this day. I hope you will not take it ill if I excuse myself, sir. I have a vast deal that needs to be seen to.”
“Not at all, Martin. I may say that I know exactly how you feel.”
Emma took the news of Harriet’s engagement very well indeed after he was able to convince her that it had actually taken place. She wondered aloud if he had misunderstood Robert Martin and had thought him speaking of Harriet when it was really the dimensions of ‘some famous ox.’ He smiled at that expression later that afternoon when he walked to Randalls. Fancy her remembering that time—nearly a year ago now—when she had mistaken his description of the Durham bull for that of some unknown lady! She must have loved him even then, to have had such a trivial thing imprinted on her memory.
He was shown into the drawing room at Randalls and was surprised to see only Frank Churchill. He met him with such benevolent feelings as he would have once believed were impossible, and shook his hand with sincere goodwill.
“My father and Mrs. Weston—and Miss Fairfax, too—have gone to see what the baby looks like when she sleeps,” said Churchill. “The nursemaid decreed that the room was too crowded, and I—as the person of least importance—was put out. I shall have to take my turn later this evening. Be seated, if you will; I am certain the others will return before long.”
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