“You seem determined to think ill of him,” said Emma, reverting, as usual, to a change of subject when she could not refute his point.
“Me! Not at all. I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal—that he is well grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.”
“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him,” said Emma, smiling, “he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest—one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill. We shall think and speak of nobody else.”
The idea of, say, Mrs. Hodges thinking and speaking of nothing but Frank Churchill as she went about her duties made him smile in spite of his vexation. Such an exaggeration tempted him to retort in kind, but he stopped himself. It was better to be the voice of reason in this dispute.
“You will excuse my being so much overpowered,” he said. “If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”
“My idea of him,” said Emma, ignoring this bit of good sense, “is that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of everybody, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to everybody, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each. That is my idea of him.”
Good heavens! thought Knightley. She was absolutely determined to admire this fellow. Without ever having laid eyes on him she had decided his personality, his talents and his manners! Her idea of him, indeed!
“And mine,” he said in a tone that sounded less reasonable than he liked, “is that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! At three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the practised politician—who is to read everybody's character, and make everybody's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority! To be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”
“I will say no more about him. You turn everything to evil,” said Emma, picking up the embroidery that she had laid aside when the argument began. “We are both prejudiced: you against, I for him. And we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.”
“Prejudiced!” Of all the ridiculous accusations! “I am not prejudiced.”
“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”
Prejudiced! thought Knightley, still fuming at the word. She imagines that I spend all my time thinking up malicious slanders against the man!
“He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another,” he said, irritated beyond caring what his tone conveyed.
Emma looked at him for a moment in surprise and then turned her attention to her needle. “Well then, let us talk of something else. Has William Larkins returned to Donwell since his Christmas visit?”
Knightley took a deep breath and willed himself to put aside his annoyance and answer calmly.
“Yes, he has. He came back from his sister’s house with such evident relief that he was almost cheerful. I am to meet with him this afternoon—in an hour, to be exact—to discuss the winter planting of vegetables in the hot-beds at the Abbey.”
“And your new tenants have come?”
“Yes. The farmer presented himself at the Abbey yesterday. He seems a decent fellow—earnest and dedicated. Not much of a sense of humour, though, from what I could see.”
“Rather like William Larkins himself, then.”
“I suppose so, except that he is twenty years younger, and I doubt that he is quite as full of amusing information.”
William Larkins came to the Abbey and left again an hour later, having received his instructions about what should be sown in the hot-beds and having imparted the news (“I think you should know, Mr. Knightley…”) that Robert Martin’s best ram was injured and not likely to live, that the maid at Starling Farm was engaged to a labourer from Langham, and that the little boy living with his widowed mother at the Foote farm was blind.
It was this last bit of information that Knightley sat musing on as he was once again alone in his library with Madam Duval purring contentedly on his lap. He remembered once, years ago, that there had been a child in Highbury that was subject to fits, and the family had been almost shunned by the parish in consequence. But the child had died and the family moved away and no one seemed to remember it anymore. He hoped Donwell would not be too disturbed by the presence of this sightless child in their midst. It took so little to unsettle people. Look what the thought of Frank Churchill’s advent was doing to even such a generally steady female as Emma. She was more than steady; she was clever—the cleverest woman he knew, in fact—and she had firm principles and a good heart. And with those characteristics, her view of the young man was completely unaccountable. No one could doubt Emma’s devotion to her own father; she showed him unceasing kindness and consideration, even though he could be a very tedious companion. How then could she treat so lightly Churchill’s indifference to Weston, a man who was by no means a tedious companion, and who, if not due a visit before now, was certainly owed one on the occasion of his marriage? Knightley could not understand it.
She could not possibly share the unspoken sentiments of the Westons and wish to marry the man. Could she? His brow furrowed as he considered the idea. Suppose Churchill was both good looking and a smooth talker? With her scant knowledge of the world she just might be taken in. In his mind’s eye he could see a dandified fop (ludicrously dressed in the fashion of twenty years ago) prancing up to Emma and uttering flattering nonsense, and Emma (no doubt taken in by the show of worldly sophistication) smiling graciously and allowing his attentions. No, no, that would never be. The prancing alone would make her laugh. Ah, but what if he walked without prancing—say he had an ordinary, manly gait. The apparition in his mind changed accordingly to one which strode purposefully up to Emma and said his piece with insinuating cleverness (still, however, dressed like a macaroni). Emma might be in some danger from a fellow like that.
The cat suddenly leapt off his lap and huddled under the chair as Baxter came into the library and said, “Mr. Spencer to see you, sir. Are you at leisure?”
“By all means, Baxter, send him in. How do you do, Spencer? Come and sit near the fire. The snow is gone, but the wind is still biting; I know, for I was out in it today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley. Yes, perhaps I will take a little something to drive away the chill. Thank you.”
Spencer took the glass that was offered him and sat down in the chair that Knightley indicated. “I suppose you haven’t heard the latest gossip around Donwell.”
“If it concerns anyone connected with Randalls then I am already well-informed.”
“The Westons? No, it has nothing to do with them. No, it is concerning Mrs. Catherwood.”
“Mrs. Catherwood,” repeated Knightley, searching his memory for anyone by that name.
“She is the widowed sister of Edward Foote, your new tenant,” supplied Spencer.
“Ah, yes. I had not heard her name before.”
“I passed Mrs. Catherwood and her son on the road today and stopped to say a few words of greeting to them. I went down on one knee to talk to the little boy, as one does with children, you know, and I put out my hand for him to shake, and he ignored it. I noticed then that he was looking towar
d me, but not at me.”
“He is blind,” said Knightley.
“You know, then?”
“William Larkins told me a half-hour ago.”
“Yes, of course,” said Spencer with a half-smile. “I saw him coming away from the Abbey—I ought to have guessed that he would have told you.”
“I am quite sure the whole parish is aware of the fact by this time. I hope there will not be any trouble about it.”
“Trouble?”
“You know the superstitious ideas that fester in the country. Some people think that any malady is a visitation of judgement on the sufferer. I only hope that Mrs. Catherwood may not suffer any harassment from pious simpletons. ”
Spencer looked startled. “I confess I had not thought of that. I was only struck by the difficulty of Mrs. Catherwood’s situation—to bring up a fatherless boy is a difficult thing for any woman, but when the boy is blind as well! His prospects must be very bleak.”
“Yes, they must. You shame me, Spencer. I was so mindful of my own affairs that I gave the situation no more thought than to hope it would not cause uneasiness in the parish.”
“Could it really upset the populace to any extent?”
“I think it could. If folk really think that the boy or his mother have done something so wicked that they merit divine retribution…”
“But that is absurd! Of all the mystical nonsense— Pious simpletons, you called them? Simpletons, yes, but pious... Humph! If they were truly devout they would remember ‘neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents’—that was about the man born blind, remember. I wish someone might broach the subject with me. I’d give them a lecture they’d not soon forget!”
Knightley had never seen Spencer speak so forcefully. He’d not imagined that the curate could ever be angry; it seemed too far outside his nature. But there were depths in him, evidently, that had been hidden heretofore.
“Well,” said Knightley, “A sermon or two on the topic may go a long way in influencing the general opinion. If you preached with that look on your face, you may be sure the parish would take notice!”
“Whether they take notice or not, they shall certainly hear the truth on this matter. And surely if you undertook to speak to any disruptive troublemakers, your arguments on the subject would convince them of their error. No one would consider disputing your judgement.”
Knightley gave a short laugh. “My judgement is not so universally esteemed as you think. I was told very lately, after a debate that lasted twenty minutes, that I am quite prejudiced and no judge of anyone else’s situation. So you see, I have little faith in my persuasive powers.”
Spencer sat up straight in his chair. “Who on earth had the effrontery to say such a thing to you?”
“Oh, a lady of my acquaintance—a connection of my family’s.”
“What an extraordinary thing to say to a gentleman.”
“Well, she was provoked, and, I think, rather attached to the subject of our debate.”
“I see. Something to do with tender feelings?”
“I hope it has not gone quite as far as that. But I fear she is in some danger of being captivated by a silly, worthless young man.”
“Oh, that sort. Good looking, too, I suppose.”
“Well, he has that reputation, but as our description of him rests solely on the authority of his relatives, we cannot be certain.”
“Have you not met the young man in question, then?”
“Well, no. But one can make a fair estimation of his character from the fragments of news that one hears of him—forever at some watering place or dancing attendance on rich relatives—and from his lack of attention to his real duties.”
“Perhaps he is not so bad as you think him. Charity ‘hopeth all things’, you know. One may get hold of quite a false notion about a person, and then everything one hears about him only serves to make the impression stronger. But with a further knowledge of his circumstances some of his behaviour may be defended.”
“You take the young lady’s side, I see.”
“I did not mean to. But I have suffered before now under the preconceived ideas of others, and it pains me to see the same injustice being done to another. Perhaps the lady can distinguish in him something good that you cannot perceive, but which will become clear if you meet him yourself.”
Knightley snorted. “She has not met him, either! Which is why her seeming attachment to him is so strange.”
“Well, women have been known to fall in love with men by reputation alone. Izaak Walton, you know, wrote that George Herbert’s wife fell in love with him before she had even seen him; her father’s description of the man was enough for her. And by all accounts they had a happy marriage.”
Knightley found very little comfort in this anecdote.
“At any rate,” Spencer went on, “I do think you ought to reserve judgement until the man actually appears. You may be surprised to find him, if not perfect, at least estimable. Then you could be easy whether the lady was in love with him or not.”
“That would be worse,” said Knightley, frowning. “Then there would be nothing to stop her marrying him.”
Spencer had been on the point of taking a sip of his drink, but at Knightley’s words he lowered the glass and stared at him in surprise. “Then—” He stopped abruptly.
“Yes?”
Spencer shook his head. “Never mind. I had almost forgotten what I came to see you about, and I ought to ask you now before it slips my mind again. Can anything be done for the little Catherwood boy?”
“About his eyesight? I doubt it, but you might ask a medical man what his opinion is.”
“No, I meant is there anything we might do for the boy’s prospects? Some sort of trade or craft that he might be taught so that he can support himself when he is grown?”
“Oh! Well, he might do something in the literary way, I suppose, following in the footsteps of Homer and Milton.”
“That is possible, of course, if he is gifted with words. But if he is not?”
“A musician? That has been the traditional trade of many blind people.”
“That is a good thought. Perhaps when he is a little older I will see what can be done about finding a master to teach him.” He put the glass on the small table beside him and stood up.
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley, for your counsel and your hospitality.”
“Not at all. I enjoy our discussions; they always reveal some new aspect of your character.”
“I might say the same thing to you,” said Spencer with a smile that seemed too knowing for such an unworldly curate. “Good day.” He bowed and quit the room, leaving Knightley to puzzle out what he meant.
16
14th January
Wellyn House
Brunswick-square
Dear George,
I wonder if you might spare us a short visit when the quarter sessions have finished with you. We are not far from Newington, after all, and there is a matter on which I should like your advice.
Bella would like to know who is going to comb Madam Duval while you are away at the quarter sessions. Isabella would like to know if William Larkins’ sister and all her children are well. John and Henry would like to know if you ever found the painted horse that they brought to Donwell to show you one day and left behind. I, however, don’t want to know anything except whether we may expect you next week.
Your uninquisitive brother,
John
You will come, won’t you?
“You seem a little troubled,” said John, pouring his brother a drink and handing it to him. Dinner was ended, the children were in bed, and Isabella had left the two brothers alone in the library to talk.
“Do I?” Knightley took the brandy and settled into his chair. “In what way?”
“You didn’t have much to say this evening.”
“Perhaps that is because we parted company a mere two weeks ago. Very little has changed since then.”
“
Yes, I was afraid our dinner was likely to be a dull affair. I invited Mrs. Whitney to dine with us this evening in order to enliven the family party, but she was engaged elsewhere. However, we are secure of her company for tomorrow’s dinner, at least.”
Knightley stared at his younger brother, aghast, until John broke down and laughed.
“No, no, I was only joking. As dearly as I would love to see you married, I am not willing to put myself through such torture for the cause.”
“No; you never do put yourself to any inconvenience if you can help it,” said Knightley severely; he was not in the least amused by John’s little joke.
“And such an unwarranted personal attack only strengthens my suspicion,” said John coolly. “You have something weighing on your mind. Come now, you didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice, did you?”
Knightley sighed. “I was not thinking about you at all—only pondering that line from Timon of Athens: ‘Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.’”
“I see. And is it often that a sentence from an obscure play—Shakespeare though it may be—dominates your thoughts to such an extent? Out with it; no more demurs. I conjecture something happened at the quarter sessions.”
Knightley nodded slowly. “There was a fellow brought up on a game-stealing charge. I recognized him—he was up before me last year, too—a poor man with a large family. I let him off rather lightly last time—he didn’t seem a practiced hand. I thought it was only his great poverty that drove him to it. But there he was again today on the same charge. Mind you, he may have been in dire need both times. How can I know?”
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