I prithee send me back my heart
Since I cannot have thine
For if from yours you will not part
Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on’t, let it lie
To find it were in vain;
For th’ hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie
And yet not lodge together?
O love, where is thy sympathy
If thus our breasts thou sever?
It was at this point that Knightley heard another voice—a male voice—Churchill’s voice—take up the song and softly sing in harmony with Emma.
But love is such a mystery
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I’m best resolved
I then am most in doubt
Then farewell care and farewell woe
I will no longer pine
For I’ll believe I have her heart
As much as she hath mine.
Knightley fought to keep a frown from his face as the song ended. How impudent of the fellow to make Emma share her applause with him! Of course he made a show of begging pardon for his intrusion, and of course Emma expressed warm admiration of his singing. He was all that was charming as he deprecated his own voice (and he did so at length), but all his denials did not keep him from getting up from his chair and standing beside Emma to sing another song with her. Knightley could have wished his voice much worse than it was, and his singing without so much expression.
Why should thy cheek be pale,
Shaded with sorrow's veil?
Why should'st thou grieve me?
I will never, never leave thee.
'Mid my deepest sadness,
'Mid my gayest gladness,
I am thine, believe me;
I will never, never leave thee.
Emma looked up at Churchill and smiled. Knightley felt his jaw tense.
Life's storms may rudely blow,
Laying hope and pleasure low:
I'd ne'er deceive thee;
I could never, never leave thee.
Ne'er till my cheek grow pale,
And my heart pulses fail,
And my last breath grieve thee.
Can I ever, ever leave thee!
The last lines were sung by Churchill with his eyes on Emma’s face.
Never, ever leave thee, indeed! thought Knightley. The sort of thing a libertine always says! Don’t you trust him, Emma. He is exactly the sort that would leave you, in spite of fine words and soulful looks!
Emma resigned her place at the pianoforte to Jane Fairfax and went to sit in one of the chairs further back in the room. Knightley was prepared to see Churchill follow her and claim the seat next to hers, but he did not; he stayed at the pianoforte, ready to sing with Miss Fairfax. It appeared that the prospect of exhibiting his fine voice was more appealing to him even than remaining at Emma’s side.
In spite of Churchill’s contribution to the music, it was a delight to hear Miss Fairfax. For several minutes he listened to “Soave sia il vento” with no other thoughts intruding. Knightley’s Italian was imperfect, but he knew enough to appreciate the sentiments of the song: a tender adieu that wishes the winds to be gentle and the waves to be calm for the departing lovers. He imagined Frank Churchill to be departing forever from England’s shores, and found that under those conditions he would have no difficulty wishing him as well as the words of the song did other young men.
If only he could be kept away from Emma! Knightley had not spoken a word to her since Churchill had arrived this evening. It looked as if those few words they had exchanged at the start of the evening were all he was going to have. Stay, Churchill was occupied; why should he not talk to her now? He glanced back to see that she was sitting alone; she was. He rose quietly and moved to the empty seat, glad to see her smile as he approached.
“Miss Fairfax sounds extremely well tonight; do you not think so?” he said softly.
“Yes, indeed. I have not heard her perform this piece before, but it is very beautiful.”
“It is written for a trio, but as there are only two singers, she has arranged the piece a little to compensate for the missing soprano. It is not an easy thing to do.”
“Her abilities are certainly very high.”
“And her voice, too. Even the highest notes are perfectly clear and strong.”
“Yes,” said Emma.
They listened for a few more moments before Emma said, “You showed great kindness in sending your carriage for her and Miss Bates. I know how much they are obliged to you.”
“It was a mere nothing, and you know it. How can the offer of my carriage be supposed to demand any sacrifice on my part?”
She smiled at that—too reasonable to give him more credit than he deserved.
“I often feel concerned,” she said, “that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose.”
“Quite out of the question,” he said, smiling, “Quite out of the question. But you must often wish it, I am sure.” Of course she could not act on her inclination, but the generous impulse should be applauded. And here was proof that she had increased in sympathy toward the Bates’.
Emma smiled at him in return and listened silently to the music for a moment. Then she said, “This present from the Campbells—this pianoforte—is very kindly given.”
“Yes, but they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”
She seemed extraordinarily pleased with his reply, but said no more. They listened together in silence to a second offering by Jane Fairfax and Churchill. It was another beautiful piece in Italian that tested the range of its vocalists. Miss Fairfax acquitted herself well in that regard, but Knightley could tell that her voice was suffering near the end of the song, and he saw the relief on her face when it was finished.
“That will do,” he muttered. “You have sung quite enough for one evening; now, be quiet.”
But the auditors around the instrument had not noticed the strain on her voice, or else were less considerate than they ought to be. Several clamoured for another song, and Churchill promoted the notion by hunting through the stack of music on the pianoforte to find a song which might be supposed to be less taxing. He seized one and said, “I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second.”
“That fellow thinks of nothing but showing off his own voice,” said Knightley to Emma. “This must not be."
Miss Bates was passing by just at that moment, and he reached out his hand and touched her arm to attract her notice.
“Miss Bates,” he said quietly, “Are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go and interfere. They have no mercy on her."
Miss Bates had evidently been worried about Jane already, for she said only briefly, “Yes, thank you, Mr. Knightley!” before she hastened to Jane’s side and begged her to come away from the instrument and rest herself. There could be no resisting Miss Bates, and the audience gave up their entreaties and began to talk again among themselves.
Knightley felt rather smug in having captured the seat next to Emma. For a little while he would have her all to himself. He wanted to talk to her about the Coles, to see if her idea of them had changed at all by being a guest in their home. He wanted to talk to her about Jane Fairfax, to hear again some evidence that she was beginning to appreciate her true worth. He wanted to talk to her about—oh, anything. Anything at all. As long as she would smile at him and look at him with her hazel eyes and raise her left eyebrow now and then when she teased him.
“Well now, what do you think of
the furnishings in the room?” he said. He knew they were elegant and wanted to hear her say so.
“Very fine. Much finer than I would have—”
She stopped to listen to the voices that had begun to murmur around them; Knightley caught the word “dancing” among the babble.
“A dance!” Emma exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “I had hoped there would be one!”
All around the room the word “dancing” was heard as the idea was taken up, and when once Cole began moving chairs to the outer edge of the room, Knightley knew it was inevitable. For a moment he was conscious of a pang of disappointment—there would be no long talk with Emma, then. But the delight on her face made it impossible to regret it completely. It was rare enough that Emma had the opportunity to dance, and she ought to have that pleasure now and then. Knightley stood reluctantly and moved his chair to the outer edge of the room; as he returned he was arrested by the sight of Churchill making a slight bow to Emma and asking her to dance.
His heart stopped. He ought to have known—ought to have guessed—that it would happen, and done something to prevent it. He ought not to have left her side, or perhaps got someone else to ask her. He stood there cursing himself as she took Churchill’s arm and walked with him to the top of the set that was forming. He suddenly felt as if Churchill was taking away the loveliest creature on the face of the earth, and he wanted nothing more than to walk up to him with a drawn sword and say, “Unhand that young woman!” He ought to have asked her himself. That would have prevented this catastrophe. He frowned. The idea of his asking a lady to dance seemed to suggest a train of thought, but he couldn’t quite remember…he couldn’t think with all the bustle around him…it was something about…that if he ever brought himself to dance with someone, it would mean…something…
He became conscious that once again he was standing alone, staring at Churchill and Emma, and willed himself to look away. Mrs. Cole was standing nearby, alone. Resolutely he composed his features into an expression of polite interest and approached her with a handsome compliment about the new pianoforte on his lips. She received it graciously, and for a few moments they talked of the performers and the music. His attention was divided, however. Again and again he caught himself looking toward the dancers, until Mrs. Cole said, “Do you not dance, Mr. Knightley? Shall we find you a partner? I think Miss Fairfax is—ah, no, young Mr. Gilbert has asked her.” She smiled archly as the music began. “I fear you are cut out, Mr. Knightley.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, watching Churchill and Emma lead off the dancing. “I believe I am.”
The eyes of all in the room were on the couple as they met and retreated, turned and crossed—the other dancers waiting patiently for their turn to begin the figures, the observers at the edges of the room looking on with admiration, and Knightley, who, seeing suddenly what he had never seen before, could hardly hear the music for the clamour in his own mind condemning him as the blindest fool in England. How could he have been so unconscious of what was in his own heart?
He was in love with Emma. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; the most lively, the most entrancing creature in the world. He cared more for her happiness than anyone else’s—even his own. He remembered his mother’s proverb and smiled bitterly. The most precious jewel is always the one that was lost. The cherished jewel was now slipping through his fingers...or, more accurately, dancing off with Frank Churchill. And it was all his own fault. What had he ever done to make her love him? He should have been trying to woo her for the last year, to slowly move her from her present regard for him to love. It might not have been very difficult. He knew that she treasured their friendship; she always looked to him to advise her, and his opinion did have weight with her. He was the only one of their circle that she could not get the upper hand over, and though she chafed at it, he knew she liked the challenge he presented. And her teasing was almost always for him alone. He had been so close to having all he could have hoped for in a life’s companion, but like an imbecile he had been unaware of his real feelings and wasted the opportunity.
The dance seemed to go on and on and on. Mrs. Cole moved away to talk to someone else, and Knightley was left standing alone to watch his dearest Emma whirl and bound and weave in and out of the other dancers and smile at her partner. He was thankful no one else came to talk to him; he could not have said anything intelligible. All he wanted was to get home and to think.
After two dances, the lateness of the hour prompted Miss Bates to express her wish of getting home. This ended the dancing and gave Knightley something to do: he ordered his carriage for Miss Bates and her niece and escorted them out to it. He saw them off and then started back to the house, passing Churchill with Emma on his arm as they went out to her carriage. They said goodnight to him and he returned it with as much heartiness as he could summon up.
At least the dreaded evening was over. No more bustle and noise, no more agitation and turmoil. The guests were melting away into the night to take their repose in their own peaceful homes with those they loved the most. He would be back at the Abbey soon, too, with his…cat. Well, he had no one to blame but himself.
“Wussock,” he muttered.
22
“Good evening, sir,” said Baxter as he took Knightley‘s greatcoat. “I trust you had a pleasant evening.”
“Very pleasant,” returned Knightley, out of habit; it was not until the words left his mouth that he realized they were untrue. It seemed too much effort to correct them.
“Will you be retiring immediately, sir?”
“No, I believe I will sit in the library for a little while first.”
“Certainly, sir. I will send Harry to tend to the fire. Would you wish any refreshment, sir?”
“None, thank you. And I will see to the fire myself. You need not wait up for me.”
There was a slight pause before Baxter said, “Very good, sir.”
The library was dark and cold; Knightley stirred up the fire which had almost expired and lighted a candle from the one he had carried in with him. He sank into the chair nearest the fire and began his mortifying reflections.
The fact that he was in love with Emma had been confronting him for some time, but he had pushed it away and given other names to the emotions that ought to have enlightened him. He had blundered on, deaf to the pleadings of his heart until the revelation of them burst on him in a surprising and, it must be said, inconvenient way. No doubt he had appeared as a complete imbecile tonight, standing there in a trance and unable to do anything but watch Emma as he acknowledged to himself for the first time that it was not because he was a partial old friend that he admired her dancing and her figure and her liveliness—it was because he wanted her for himself.
What on earth could have kept him from realizing that Emma was exactly the sort of woman he had always wanted in a wife? Intelligent, good-hearted, witty, loving…and so very, very beautiful. Incomparable. Why could he not have seen it and secured her love before Churchill came?
True, she had not always been a woman. His memories of her as a child were a little dim, although he could clearly recall being sorry when told that the Woodhouse girls had lost their mother. Isabella was twelve then, the same age he had been when his own mother had died. His mother would have liked Emma. She had been a pretty child, a clever child. She had also been wilful enough to make him anxious about her as she grew. He smiled as his memory brought forward the scene ten years earlier when John had come to him begging for his aid with his courtship of Isabella.
“You have no idea,” he had said, “of the difficulty of conversing with Isabella while her father and sister are in the room. That little Emma—she seems to know exactly what I’m about and contrives to embarrass me in any way she can by her questions and her knowing looks. And Mr. Woodhouse—you know how he goes on, asking question after question about the most trivial, commonplace—”
“John—”
“I know, I know. I do respect him, George. A mor
e benevolent man never lived. But as he doesn’t seem to know what I am doing there, and Emma does—I am perpetually parrying the queries of both and can say precious little to Isabella.”
“And where is Miss Taylor all this time?”
“Oh, she is sometimes there, too, of course, but naturally she can only command the attention of one or the other of them, leaving one free to torment me.”
“You could ask Isabella to walk with you in the garden.”
“I did, last week. Emma immediately asked if she could join us, and Isabella was too soft-hearted to deny her. She made a very intrusive third. George, you must come with me when I go to Hartfield and distract the attention of Emma and Mr. Woodhouse.”
So he had done it, and been diverted beyond his expectation by little Emma’s precocious banter and delightful sense of humour. As time went on, he was never quite satisfied to leave Hartfield unless he had seen Emma and talked with her a little. It was not only that she amused him; he was sincerely interested in her welfare. She had great promise, but he could see the wilfulness that was not checked, either by her father or by Miss Taylor. She was never disobedient or impudent to them; she was clever enough to get what she wanted without that. She was also clever enough to surmise that Knightley seemed to want a hand in her upbringing, even though he had no authority to enforce any of his ideas, and she took great delight in letting him know that she was allowed to do something that his judgement would have denied her.
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