“I saw her answer; nothing could be clearer.”
“You saw her answer!” What strange creatures women were. To write a refusal letter and then show it to a friend…Rubbish! Harriet would have done no such thing! The thought of Harriet Smith composing her own letter was preposterous. He turned and faced Emma.
“You wrote her answer, too.”
The quick downward cast of her eyes confirmed it.
“Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.”
“And if I did,” retorted Emma, “which, however, I am far from allowing—I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprised indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over.”
“Not Harriet's equal!” The words came out louder than he had meant them to, but he could hardly believe what he was hearing. He had hardly thought Emma could be so deluded about Harriet as that! Perhaps if he reasoned with her she might reconsider—she did respect his judgement. He could tell Martin to try again, and Emma could encourage Harriet to accept him this time. He took a deep breath, sat down, and then said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone, “No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation.”
He explained as clearly as he could that Harriet had no claims to any high connection, and that she was unlikely to receive a better offer than Robert Martin’s; indeed, she would probably never get another one anywhere near as good. He even appealed to Emma’s good sense, saying that he had been quite sure that she would see the match favourably.
But it was all in vain. Emma was certain that Harriet was the natural daughter of a gentleman, and that this made her eligible for a match with a man of what Emma called “good society.”
“Whoever might be her parents,” said Knightley patiently, “whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it was good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had encouragement.”
There. Perhaps the thought of breaking the heart of an honest man would change Emma’s mind.
She paused before she spoke again, and he began to hope. But when she did speak, it was only to reiterate the commendations of Harriet that Knightley had given—that she was pretty and good-tempered—and argue that these alone were enough to make Harriet admired and sought after by many men of the sort Emma approved of.
“I am very much mistaken,” she said, “if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”
“Upon my word, Emma,” he said quietly, “to hear you abusing the reason you have is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do.”
It cost him something to say those words; he was more disappointed in her than he could express, and he was more earnest in this reproof than he had ever been before.
It grated on him all the more, then, when she said in a teasing tone, “To be sure! I know that is the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and choose. Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.”
This ludicrous statement almost made him laugh—almost.
“And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to look about her.”
She would have plenty of time, Knightley knew. She would likely have an entire lifetime to wait for an offer of marriage from a gentleman. He told Emma this. Why would she not listen to him? She knew nothing about men! He tried to explain to her that it was very unlikely that a gentleman would wish to ally himself with a girl in Harriet’s position, no matter how beautiful she was; that a man of sense would not choose a silly wife; and that Harriet was being puffed up by Emma to expect something that had no likelihood of coming to pass.
“Let her marry Robert Martin,” he concluded, “and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life; or, at least—for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other—till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing master's son.”
Emma refused to reply directly to this, saying that there was no use arguing over something about which they thought so differently. There was a note of triumph in her voice as she declared that Robert Martin had been repulsed so definitely that there was no chance of him renewing his suit, and though she might have influenced Harriet a little in her decision, his manner, appearance, and education were so bad that Harriet would not be disposed to think much of him now that she knew what real gentlemen were.
“Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” said Knightley, getting angry again. Emma knew nothing of Martin, nothing at all, and it exasperated him to hear her abusing him. “Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand.”
Emma looked away again; she had nothing to say to that, of course.
Knightley sat for a few moments in silence, confounded, irritated, despondent, and feeling wretchedly guilty for having encouraged Martin to expect a positive answer to his proposal. What on earth could he say to the man? He had no doubt that Martin could find a better wife in time, but he would suffer much in the meantime.
Emma fidgeted uncomfortably. “The weather is certainly good for December, is it not?” she said.
He ignored her. Only an hour ago he had been so thankful for the way Harriet’s marriage was going to do away with the problem of Elton, Emma, and Harriet, and now that infuriating circumstance was going to go on and on.
Stay, why should he not say something about that? Things had gone so far now, at least he might induce her to give up the attempt to match Harriet with Elton.
“Robert Martin has no great loss,” he began, “if he can but think so, and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to yourself, but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have—and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain.”
Emma laughed—a rather brittle laugh—and said, “Oh, no, Mr. Knightley, I have no plans in that direction.”
He ignored this blatant falsehood and went on. “Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as anybody. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims as you can be with Harriet's. He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes. And from his genera
l way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away.”
He paused here; was this the time to tell Emma that Elton was hoping to marry her? Somehow, he could not—the great awkwardness of telling her and the uncomfortable conversation that would follow were beyond him just now. No, the Misses Carson would illustrate his point just as well.
“I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand apiece.” There, if that would not convince her, nothing would.
Emma gave another false laugh and said, “I am very much obliged to you. If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with match-making, indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.”
Enough! He could no longer torture himself by listening to such obvious lies and observing such a perfect example of self-delusion.
He rose abruptly and said, “Good morning to you.” Without waiting for an answer, he left the room, resisting with great difficulty the temptation to slam the door shut behind him.
11
The parish committee met at The Crown as usual the next Wednesday. After an hour in conference they had nearly got through all the items slated for deliberation. They had discussed the distressing fact that the newly repaired bridge already showed a crack in its north side and debated whether the fault lay with the workmen, the architect, or Random Mischance. Knightley said he would undertake to speak to the Surveyor of Highways about it and see what ought to be done. Parish rates had been analysed: was the help given sufficient? Could any more poor be added to the rolls without rates being raised again? Elton referred often to the papers he had brought to support his opinions, which were, on the whole, reasonable, though he did seem to rely overmuch on the generosity of Hartfield for the support of the poor. And finally they embarked on the topic of the farmer Freeman’s draining a boggy field.
“Of course there’s no quarrel with Freeman reclaiming that land,” said Cole, “but it’s the harm it’s doing the river that’s the trouble.”
“The river?” said Elton, stifling a yawn.
“Yes,” said Knightley. “The field had three or four feet of peat on top of good soil. Freeman is taking the peat off so that he may use that field for crops. There’s no harm in that, but he is getting rid of the peat by throwing it into the river, which runs through his property.”
“Yes,” put in Weston, “And the river’s getting blocked up a little downstream and fish are dying and so on.”
Elton nodded a little absently and let the men argue the matter without any contribution from him. Weston thought that no lasting harm would be done, and Cole thought there might be. Weston said that as the river flowed through Freeman’s land, there wasn’t much that could be done about it. He had already spoken to Freeman and found him unwilling to stop putting the peat in the river. Cole thought that there must be some remedy for the situation and appealed to Knightley. As Knightley began speaking, Elton took out his pencil and, uncharacteristically, began making notes on a blank sheet of paper. Surprised but pleased at Elton’s diligence, Knightley gave his opinion that William Cox ought to be applied to. He might know of a law that would strengthen their hand.
“Is there not a law about disrupting the course of a river?” said Cole, “Or one about fouling a water supply?”
Weston’s view was that the mere threat of the law might be enough to deter Freeman, and the talk drifted into stories about miscreants who were warned off bad behaviour by well-worded threats. Elton appeared to find these fascinating, for he jotted down more notes as the talk went on.
“Well then,” said Knightley finally. “Cole will speak to William Cox about this matter and we can decide what to do on this subject next week. I think that closes our business today. And our timing is perfect—it appears the rain has stopped.”
“Has it?” said Cole. “But only for a moment, I’ll wager. Dash it all, I meant to talk to Mrs. Stokes when I came in about changing the whist-club night to Thursdays. I’ll do it now before I forget.” He went out, leaving the door open.
Weston went to the window, and as was his habit, threw up the sash and stuck his head out. The draught caused by the open door and window caught Elton’s papers which were stacked on the table in front of him. They flew up in confusion and then fluttered gracefully to the floor.
Unheeding, Weston gave his report. “Yes, no rain at present, though there are more dark clouds coming and the wind is still howling. Brrrrr…” He brought his head back inside and shut the window. Elton glowered but said nothing as he bent down to pick up the scattered pages. Knightley handed him the two which had come to rest nearest his foot, and Elton grunted his thanks.
The men left the room together, Knightley pausing before going outside to ask John Ostler, whom he met in the passageway, about his father’s health.
“Not so bad, Mr. Knightley, I thank you, but then not so good, either,” said John.
“You’ll let me know how he gets on, will you?” said Knightley.
“I will, sir, and thank you.”
Knightley turned to go, but was stopped by Mrs. Stokes’ saying, “Mr. Knightley, I think you’ve left one of your papers behind. It was in the little parlour, on the floor.”
Knightley took the page from her outstretched hand. It looked like one of Elton’s sheets of paper, but the words on it had nothing to do with parish business.
My first must show the treasures the wealth and display of rulers kings
Lords of the land earth, their riches and ease
cheese
trees
fleas
please
It was Elton’s writing. Well, that explained why Elton had looked so studious during the meeting; he must fancy himself a poet whose first duty was to the Muse that inspired him at inopportune moments. Looking at it again, he saw that it appeared to be a charade. My first must show…
Then Knightley became aware that Mrs. Stokes was still waiting for him to speak.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stokes. I’ll see that this is returned to its owner.”
He had no wish to give the charade back to its owner personally and see Elton’s embarrassment (at least he ought to be embarrassed to be caught writing riddles during parish meetings) and hear his excuses. Instead, he went to the vicarage and gave it to the housemaid that opened the door. Then, reluctantly, he walked to Hartfield. It had been nearly a week since he had been there, and he must go and call on Mr. Woodhouse. He hoped that Emma might be out during his visit; he did not want to see her yet. He had met Robert Martin on the road that morning on his way to the meeting at the Crown, and though nothing was said about Martin’s disappointment, the grief on his face was almost enough to make Knightley fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for having given him so much encouragement.
He had often been annoyed by Emma’s faults, but this time he was really angry. How dare she! was the refrain that had been playing itself over in his mind during the last week. And his resentment was not toward Emma alone: Mrs. Weston, for example—why could she not have used a firmer hand with Emma when she was governess? That would have warded off this trouble. And Harriet—why must Harriet flatter Emma so much? It was the excess of Harriet’s adoration that had given Emma such an exalted view of her own powers. And then there was Elton. Elton’s admiration for Emma was supposed by her to be disinterested, as she thought he was pursuing Harriet. Emma no doubt took all his gallantries as literal truth, which only puffed her up more. He was also angry with himself. He ought to have said something sooner, or talked more seriously to her when she was younger and more impressionable …
He had not finished reproaching himself when he arrived at Hartfield.
To his chagrin, both Emma and Harriet were there. Emma gave him a te
ntative smile of greeting, which faded when he gave her a civil, formal salutation and sat down near Mr. Woodhouse. He had intended to talk exclusively with Mr. Woodhouse, but that elderly gentleman drew Emma into the conversation almost at once.
“My dear Emma, we must ask Mr. Knightley if he has anything for Miss Smith’s book. Mr. Knightley is so very clever, I am sure he knows a score of riddles.”
“This is the book of riddles and charades that Harriet is collecting, Mr. Knightley,” Emma said, taking a thin book from a side table. “Perhaps you may like to see it.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Knightley politely. This must have some connection with the charade that Elton had written. Presumably Mr. Woodhouse had also importuned him for a contribution, and Elton was obliging by writing one himself. The first few pages of Harriet’s book had several riddles and charades already copied neatly onto them, and they were ornamented very tastefully with little ciphers and trophies—Emma’s work, Knightley could tell. Most of the conundrums were well known to him, but one he had never heard before caught his eye:
When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit,
And my second confines her to finish the piece,
How hard is her fate! But how great is her merit
If by taking my whole she effects her release!
He contemplated the hints for a moment, and then smiled briefly as understanding came. Hemlock, of course.
“I have tried to remember the riddles I knew when I was young,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “but my memory is not what it was. It is very strange that I cannot remember any of them except ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,’ and then only a part of it. But Mr. Knightley, I dare say, knows several.”
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