“Oh, politics, most likely, or perhaps hunting. But then you are not like most men, are you? You would rather discuss farming methods, I think.”
“Certainly. You must know that I spent the entire dinner wishing that William Larkins was seated beside me so that we could discuss my new Romney Marsh ram and the chances of an early rhubarb harvest.”
Emma laughed. “I regret to say that I have no other acquaintance who can converse intelligently with you about rams. But if you like, you may slip out now and spend the rest of the evening with Tadgett, the gardener. He is quite as cheerful a person as William Larkins, you know, and he will be sure to tell you that the frost is likely to kill all the early vegetables.”
“All the early vegetables killed!” said Knightley. “And the early flowers, too, no doubt. How very disturbing! Thank goodness I have already had my dinner.
O how I am troubled!
Bamboozled, and bit!
My distresses are doubled.”
“That song always reminds me of Tadgett,” said Emma. “It would do for William Larkins as well—it might have been written for either of them. It sums up their view completely.”
“So it does. Some songs seem meant for certain people.”
“Oh, yes. There’s another song from The Beggar’s Opera that always makes me think of John,” said Emma. “You know the one:
The gamesters and lawyers are jugglers alike,
If they meddle, your all is in danger.
Like gypsies, if once they can finger a souse
Your pockets they pick, and they pilfer your house
And give your estate to a stranger.”
Knightley laughed. “I must tell that to John—he would find it amusing. Of course, he would take great pleasure in finding a song to fit you.”
“That should be a very easy task. He must know several songs that mention angels. But I must ask Miss Fairfax to favour us with some music now; she has answered enough of my father’s questions about her health for the present, I think.”
Miss Fairfax very properly obliged the company. It could not be denied that she was a superior performer; both by natural talent and by training her music was excellent. She sang “I Attempt From Love’s Sickness to Fly,” which to Knightley’s mind seemed the perfect song for Robert Martin. Poor Martin! If anyone could be said to be sick from love, it would be he. His pain was still raw and recovery any time soon seemed doubtful, as he was evidently blaming himself for Harriet’s rejection. Was it possible that he could ever forget Harriet enough to look at another woman; say, Mrs. Catherwood?
The song came to an end, and Knightley was pleased to see Emma urging Miss Fairfax to stay at the piano-forte and indulge them with more music, even requesting a particular concerto. The old Emma would have been too anxious for her own musical reputation to be pressing Miss Fairfax for another performance.
Knightley closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair and let the music of Mozart wash over him. It was not a song, but still it seemed to him to represent Emma perfectly. After all, it was beautiful and lively and …complicated. He had used to think he understood her, but lately he had been surprised by the complexity of her character. On the one hand, she had been wilfully blind in the matter of Harriet Smith and Robert Martin, but then she had unselfishly tried to make amends with Harriet when she realized her error. It must be unselfish, for Harriet Smith could be a tedious companion for a young lady such as Emma; she could not be spending so much time with Harriet merely for her own pleasure. Again, Emma was all consideration and tenderness for those she loved—her father and Mrs. Weston, for example, but Frank Churchill’s iniquities seemed of no account to her, even when his actions slighted the Westons. And though she still stayed aloof from the Coles and the Perrys, she was at last making an effort to befriend Jane Fairfax. It was all very puzzling.
The intricate melody ceased, and the fair performer received her just praise.
“You will play for us now, I hope,” said Knightley to Emma.
“Very well, but you may be sorry you asked.”
“How so?” Surely she could not think her own performance would be so inferior that those assembled would rather not hear her at all!
“I have determined to sing the song that most reminds me of you.”
“'Pastime With Good Company’, is it?”
“For you?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I think not.”
She seated herself at the piano-forte, and played the introductory flourish with a smirk on her face.
He could not help but chuckle when she began to sing.
“As I was going to Darby, Sir,
All on a market day,
I met the finest Ram, Sir,
That ever was fed on hay.
Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,
Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.
This Ram was fat behind, Sir,
This Ram was fat before,
This Ram was ten yards high, Sir,
Indeed he was no more.
Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,
Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.
The Wool upon his back, Sir,
Reached up unto the sky,
The Eagles made their nests there, Sir,
For I heard the young ones cry.
Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day,
Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.”
She sang her way though all fifteen verses of the old song, which expounded the enormous size of the mythical ram, and played the final notes with a triumphant grin at Knightley.
“Well, now,” she said when she had regained her seat and Miss Fairfax was turning over music to see what she might play next, “Was that not an apt choice for you?”
“I would have preferred something more like ‘Genteel is My Damon, Engaging is His Air’.”
“Oh, nonsense! Your farm looms far larger in your thoughts than does your air. I have no doubt that your dreams are full of large farm animals—England’s biggest ox, for example, or a horse strong enough to drag a house.”
“I have never once dreamt of a large farm animal.”
“Then what do you dream of?”
You. The thought came unexpectedly, inexplicably. He would never have remembered her part in his dream of the night before if her face had not worn the same expression then as now. He opened his mouth to answer her question, and then realized he had no idea what to say. For a long moment he hesitated, and then the sound of the piano-forte came to his relief. He turned his attention to Miss Fairfax and gladly put aside the whole confusing muddle.
18
Knightley liked the Coles. While not genteel enough for Emma’s taste, they were nonetheless hospitable, amiable, and full of genuine friendship. In spite of their recently increased means they had neither snubbed former acquaintance nor assumed superior airs. It was characteristic that Cole was the only man on the parish council who called him “Mr. Knightley”, instead of plain “Knightley”. Knightley could not decide whether it was mere habit left over from the days when the difference in rank had been more marked, or whether Cole still saw himself as much the inferior. Knightley was slightly the elder of the two men; perhaps that had something to do with it.
The Coles had lately enlarged their home to include a grander dining room and a library, and it was into the latter that Knightley was shown the morning after the dinner at Hartfield. Cole was seated behind his handsome new desk, reading a letter, but he smiled as he rose to greet his visitor.
“Good morning, Mr. Knightley. You’ve come about that bridge, haven’t you? I thought so. But here is a piece of news you won’t have expected.” He waved the letter at Knightley, who took it and read it silently.
Dear Cole,
I write to inform you that I am the happiest of men, having been so fortunate as to win the heart and the hand of the beautiful and accomplished Miss Hawkins of Bath. I intend to be in Highbury next week, on or about the 2nd‚ and stay long enough to prepare the vicarage for its
new mistress.
Yours in haste,
P. Elton
“Quick work, eh?” said Cole.
“Very quick,” said Knightley. Hardly a month had passed since Elton had offered for Emma, and here he was engaged to someone else! He had never supposed that Elton had any real devotion to Emma, but it seemed unbelievable that even a man of shallow feelings could recover from an attachment to Emma with such unseemly haste.
“I confess myself rather surprised,” said Cole. “I had thought that Elton’s interests had been more local in nature.”
Of course, Cole knew. Everyone knew.
“Well,” said Knightley lightly, “perhaps it’s a case of ‘repente amor victum mihi’, and he has been caught unawares and swept away.”
“Perhaps,” said Cole, without much conviction.
“At any rate,” said Knightley, returning the letter, “the tea-parties of Highbury will be much enlivened by this news. I suppose there is no reason for secrecy, is there?”
“No. He would have said something it if he didn’t want the engagement known. And he must have assumed that I would tell Mrs. Cole, and that she would tell Miss Bates…”
“Indeed,” said Knightley. Elton would know that once Mrs. Cole told Miss Bates, every soul in Highbury and Donwell would be in possession of that knowledge by sundown. And no doubt he would be only too pleased to have his conquest published.
“I suppose we shan’t know any more about the fair young lady until Elton comes next week,” said Cole. “He’ll be too busy holding her hand to write more letters.”
“Let us hope that when he arrives, his state of bliss will be such that the difficulties with the bridge will be as nothing to him.”
“Ah, the bridge. You’ve talked with the surveyor, then?”
“Yes. The bridge will have to be repaired again.”
“As we suspected. Can it be done quickly?”
“Two weeks, the surveyor said—if we had able workmen.”
“Well, it could be worse, I suppose.”
“It could. I had been afraid he would say that the whole thing would have to be demolished and built again. The thing we must be sure of this time is that the workmen are really skilled.”
“That was the trouble, then?”
“So the surveyor said. Do you know anyone that might have enough knowledge to undertake the job—hire the stonemasons, oversee the work, and so on?”
“I think Carson might do it well. I’ll speak to him.”
“Good. Let me know how you get on, will you? I must be going—I have some business at Hartfield.”
“Hartfield,” repeated Cole. “I say, Mr. Knightley, do you mind if I ask your advice about a rather delicate matter?”
“Not at all.”
“Now that the dining room is complete, Mrs. Cole is anxious to have a dinner party. She has set her heart on returning the hospitality of the Westons and gaining a better acquaintance with the Gilberts…and of course, we are depending on your company, and that of the Coxes as well. But she wonders if she should venture to invite the Woodhouses—we have never dined at Hartfield, you know, and greatly as we would enjoy the company of Mr. and Miss Woodhouse at our dinner, we would not wish to offend them by presuming intimacy with them. Then again, not to extend an invitation to them may be interpreted as a slight, particularly when all their friends will be invited. It is difficult to know which would be most agreeable to them.”
“I see your difficulty,” said Knightley.
“I hoped you might. I thought that perhaps with your knowledge of Hartfield you could advise us as to the best course.”
Knightley thought rapidly. Emma ought to come to the dinner; it would do her good to have a better acquaintance with the Coles and see that they were not so far beneath her as she thought they were. And the dinner would be a good deal more interesting if she were there, contributing beauty and wit to the party.
“I think you ought to invite Hartfield,” said Knightley. “If you particularly solicit the presence of Mr. Woodhouse and show great sensibility for his comfort, I think there will be no suspicion of presumption.”
“You think so? Mrs. Cole thought of ordering a screen for the benefit of Mr. Woodhouse—so that he would be protected from any draughts of air, you know.”
“That is precisely the sort of thing that would put—Hartfield—in charity with you, and with the invitation.”
“I will tell Mrs. Cole, then. I thank you, Mr. Knightley. You said you had business at Hartfield…I ought not to keep you.”
It was pleasant walking to Hartfield with the knowledge that Elton would never again be found loitering there, flattering Emma and deceiving himself. He had not thought the vicar likely to renew his addresses to Emma, and there was clearly no danger of that now. And what would Emma make of Elton’s approaching nuptials? Knightley did not know whether or not she reproached herself for being the instrument of disappointed hopes, but this news would certainly do away with any guilt she might feel. It was not often that Emma was completely surprised at anything, but this announcement was sure to astonish her. He anticipated seeing the expression on her face.
Of course she would ask him all about the lady, and there was not much he could say. He had the same questions himself. What sort of woman would engage herself to Elton after such a short acquaintance? Was she a desperate young lady, not fastidious enough to insist on solid worth in a suitor? Or perhaps she was of a romantic turn of mind: Elton’s person and manners were good enough that a young lady might be swept away by them. He shook his head. Neither a reckless woman nor an overly romantic one would be good companions for Emma. But then it probably did not matter so much anymore, now that Jane Fairfax was in favour. What a relief it was to see Emma on friendly terms with her!
The pleasure of that thought sustained him through the rather trying ordeal of attempting to explain financial matters to Mr. Woodhouse. The simple old gentleman could not understand his banker’s queries any more than he could answer them. But Knightley was accustomed to helping Mr. Woodhouse in his business dealings, and knew what course to take. After going through the formality of an explanation, he persuaded Mr. Woodhouse that the changes he was authorizing were not only inevitable but would also make his daughters’ inheritance more secure. Nothing appealed to Mr. Woodhouse so much as an increase of security, and he was willing, even eager, to sign his name to the documents put before him.
“Well, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma when the business was finished, “have you recovered from the dissipations of yesterday’s gathering? I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“A very pleasant evening,” he said. “Particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women, sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence.”
Emma smiled at these words of praise and said, “I am happy you approved, but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”
Mr. Woodhouse was quick to assure his daughter that, if anything, she was too attentive, but Knightley was not to be put off. She had shown special attention to Miss Fairfax after years of neglect, and he wanted her to know that he marked that and approved it highly.
“No,” he said, “you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.”
She did understand him; he could tell from the sly look on her face. She could not pretend that she had always taken care to make Miss Fairfax’s visits pleasant.
“Miss Fairfax is reserved,” she said, defending past conduct by implication.
“I always told you she was—a little,” said Knightley. “But you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve
which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.”
“You think her diffident,” said Emma coolly. “I do not see it.”
What was this? Was Emma saying that she was not disposed to approve of Miss Fairfax after all? He moved to a chair closer to her.
“My dear Emma, you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening.” Had all her friendliness been a mere pretence?
“Oh, no,” said Emma. “I was pleased with my own per-severance in asking questions, and amused to think how little information I obtained.”
His heart sank. She was not beginning to admire Miss Fairfax, then.
“I am disappointed,” he said, and fell silent. He did not want to say too much.
“I hope everybody had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, who was, as usual, lagging behind the course of their conversation. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends. And Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”
“True, sir,” said Knightley in spite of his melancholy. How could spending an evening in company with Emma be anything but agreeable? He glanced at Emma, and added, “And Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.” Now, what would she say to that?
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