“I am the soul of benevolence. Come, sit down. I am extraordinarily pleased to see you.”
Knightley looked suspiciously at his brother. “Is there some sort of single female you have invited to dine with us tonight? Mrs. Whitney, perhaps?”
“Rest easily, dear brother. Mrs. Whitney will not trouble you with her presence on this visit; she is too busy planning her wedding.”
“Wedding? Is she going to be married? To whom?”
“Thompson.” John’s eyes twinkled.
“Thompson? But his wife has scarcely been dead a year! And they were most devoted to each other. Surely he has not fallen for the minor charms of Mrs. Whitney!”
“No, of course he hasn’t. I am certain he has never thought of marrying again. Mrs. Whitney, however, is sure he is in love with her, and it is only a matter of time before he falls at her feet.”
“But has he given her any indication of regard? What exactly are her hopes founded on?”
“On such common polite nothings as would make you laugh if I enumerated them for you.”
“Suffering from delusions, is she?”
“Nothing quite so grim. Isabella tells me it is not uncommon for ladies who fall in love with a gentleman to look earnestly for some sign of returned regard; and looking so industriously, of course they find it. She says she scarcely ever finds a woman in love who does not believe that the man is at least beginning to return her affection.”
“Interesting.”
“And Isabella would know,” John went on, “for she is the recipient of endless confidences from all the ladies in our set—especially the younger ones.”
“Is she?”
“Oh yes. She is so kind, you know, and not inclined to gossip maliciously or spread tales.”
“And I daresay her advice is very good,” put in Knightley. “At least, if I were a young lady I think I would follow her counsel.”
“And you would be prudent to do so.” John looked to be sure the door was shut before saying quietly, “She is not as clever as some women, you know. But she has wisdom, and that is better than wit. She is quite simply a good woman.”
“Yes, she is,” said Knightley. “And as your older brother, may I say that she is too good for you?”
“I know it. Too kind, too patient, too indulgent...”
“And how do you account for such unmerited devotion on the part of a wise woman?”
John grinned. “Love is blind.”
Love is blind. The phrase kept coming to mind throughout the rest of his short visit to London and all the way back to Donwell. The evening of his return found him still pondering the quotation, and wondering whether the truth of it had any bearing on the relations, whatever they were, between Churchill and Emma. If Emma was in love with Churchill, would she be blind to his faults? She certainly endured her father’s foibles with equanimity, although they were hardly serious faults of character. But would she refuse to see anything but good in Churchill? If there was some sort of connection between the man and Jane Fairfax, would Emma see it? And would she understand it for the dangerous thing it was?
Noises in the hall outside his library door surprised him, and he looked at the clock. Just after nine o’clock—who could be calling at this hour?
Baxter entered the room apologetically. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a party of men who wish to see you.”
“Who is it, Baxter?”
“Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Burton the constable, and an unknown”—Baxter coughed—“person.”
“Something official, no doubt?” said Knightley.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Well, send them in, and bring a few more candles. The sun will be setting before long.”
“Very good, sir.”
In a moment the three men were ushered in—the stranger, looking sullen, Burton, looking weary, and Gilbert, with a gleam of triumph in his eye. Knightley could see that the unknown man’s hands had been tied together, and Burton nudged him into place in front of Knightley.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you so late, Mr. Knightley,” began Burton, but Gilbert interrupted.
“It’s my doing,” said Gilbert. “Burton wanted to secure him for the night and bring him over to you in the morning, but I was anxious to have the thing settled and persuaded him to come tonight. I caught Hubbard here—that is to say, Perkins caught him skulking around the stables and found that he was making off with a new bridle. There was a bit of a scuffle, I understand—Perkins has a lovely black eye—but a couple of the stable lads lent their aid and they tied him up with this rope and brought him to me, and now I’ve brought him to you. I’ve no doubt he’s responsible for some of these thefts around Langham.”
“What makes you so certain of that?” asked Knightley.
“Why, we found this on him,” said Gilbert, pulling out a watch from his waistcoat pocket and dangling it from its chain in front of Knightley.
“That’s mine, that is,” said the man.
“Of all the foolish lies—it belongs to my son! You see here—engraved to him and given to him by his grandfather.”
“It’s mine,” said the man, stubbornly. “He gave it to me.”
Gilbert laughed. “Utter nonsense! You ought to think of a better tale before you go up before the assize judges—oh, yes, my man, that watch is worth more than five shillings, and you will have to be tried at the assizes.”
Knightley coughed. “I do believe you are being too hasty, Gilbert. Have you asked your son about his watch since you caught this man tonight?”
Gilbert paused in confusion for a moment before saying, “No, of course not. I knew Hubbard could not possibly be telling the truth.”
“But he may be,” said Knightley. “Burton, would you take the accused into the corridor and wait with him until I call for you?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Burton, and led Hubbard out of the room.
Knightley waited until the door closed behind them before he said, “Your son told me several months ago that he had lost his watch.”
“Oh!” Gilbert looked perplexed.
“You have not seen him with it recently, have you?”
“No—but he has been wearing the new watch—he bought it himself, Mr. Knightley, a month or two ago—he told me that he was afraid of damaging the one his grandfather gave him and he would rather wear this more common one as a regular thing. I thought it rather a fine sentiment. Surely he must have just misplaced his grandfather’s watch on the day you spoke with him, and found it again afterwards.”
“It is possible, of course,” began Knightley, and then stopped. He wondered if he ought to get Edmund to confess to his father in the same way he had persuaded Richard to confess to Dr. Hughes. Confound these young men who got into scrapes and caused their fathers grief!
“You think it is not likely?” said Gilbert, troubled. “You know something, I think, beyond what you are telling me.”
Knightley sighed. “I do, but I would wish your son to tell you first.”
“Do you think he would? If I asked him outright, do you think he would tell me?”
“I don’t know. Still, I could tell you my suspicion without betraying any confidences. I believe he lost his watch playing at a game of chance.”
“Oh.” Gilbert’s face clouded. “That puts a different complexion on it—and on a number of other things, too. Well, I’ll ask him—in such a way that he is not tempted to lie.”
“I’m sorry,” said Knightley. “It’s all very unpleasant.”
Gilbert gave him a keen look. “You think there’s more to it than a few games of hazard or commerce.”
Knightley nodded reluctantly. “But I have no absolute knowledge or evidence of anything more, only a feeling.”
“I imagine your feelings about such things are usually right.”
“I suppose I am often right—I don’t know about usually. At any rate, we still have the matter of Hubbard’s stealing the bridle to deal with. I would be i
nclined to bring him before the quarter sessions.”
“Do you think he has anything to do with the thefts around Langham?”
“I do. Holding him over may well decrease the number of crimes committed, even if he cannot be found guilty for other thefts. And if there is more than one thief—which I think likely—his arrest may serve as a warning to them.”
Hubbard was duly charged with theft and told that he would remain in the custody of Mr. Burton until the next quarter sessions, when he would be tried for his crime. The men departed, leaving Knightley to contemplations even less agreeable than those he had been entertaining before they came. He could imagine Gilbert’s feelings on the discovery that his son had, at the very least, been deceiving him. Perhaps he should ask Dr. Hughes to pay a call at the Gilberts’ in the near future—he could sympathise.
The song had it wrong: ‘I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter’, it ran, but in this part of England it seemed that sons were the ones to cause problems. Daughters were like Isabella and Emma, and even Harriet and Jane Fairfax—good and innocent and kind—and able to be imposed on. If Churchill were trifling with Emma or with Jane Fairfax…well, there would be another father to make unhappy: Mr. Weston would have to be told. What was the matter with young men these days? Knightley could not help a dour smile at that thought—he sounded like Mr. Whiting. He felt rather ancient all of a sudden.
9
Knightley went to Hartfield after dinner the next day. As usual, he deliberated over his motives for going—was he going to see Emma and bask in her presence in spite of the obvious foolishness of that action? Or was he sacrificing his own comfort and peace of mind for the sake of kindness to Mr. Woodhouse, and therefore Emma? Was he being noble or foolish? And was there really any other alternative? He came to his usual conclusion—that he really had no choice but to go, foolish for himself or not.
He arrived just as the little company at Hartfield had decided that Emma and Harriet should take their evening walk a little earlier than usual, in case the clouds on the horizon might turn to rain later on. Mr. Woodhouse, never quite easy when Emma was from home, was greatly relieved by his coming in time to act as escort to the young ladies. Knightley could not refuse to accompany them, and could not be sorry for the time spent in their presence, even if his own heart would pay the price in the end.
The first part of their walk was unremarkable. They ambled down the lanes around Highbury, Knightley walking between the two ladies. They talked of little matters: new students at Mrs. Goddard’s school…the progress of the gardens at Donwell and Hartfield… Emma’s idea, to which Mr. Weston had concurred, for a small and select party of friends to take a morning drive one day to Box Hill…Madam Duval’s triumph over another mouse…
There was silence for a few moments, and then Harriet said, “I suppose the little boys are happy to be at home again, Miss Woodhouse, but I will be sorry not to see them every day as I have been doing.”
“They will regret not seeing you daily as well, Miss Smith,” said Knightley. “When they were recounting their stay in Highbury to their parents, they spoke of your kindness to them; and when John told them they were to see the Diorama next week, their first wish was that Aunt Emma and Miss Smith could see it with them.”
“Oh! That is the place you told me of, Mr. Knightley, when we were eating supper at the ball. I do wish I might see it someday. And the Tower, and the Marbles, and the parks, and all the other remarkable things.”
“Do you think London a more interesting place than Highbury?”
“Oh, indeed it sounds delightful!”
“Do you think you would enjoy living amid the bustle of London?” Knightley could only think how bewildered Harriet would be—her gentle demeanour was perfect for Highbury, and even more perfect for Abbey Mill Farm—but he hated the thought of her caught up in the noise and crowds of Town.
“I think, Harriet,” interjected Emma, “you would perhaps prefer to have your home in the country, and only make occasional visits to London.”
“Oh, yes,” said Harriet. “I should much prefer that.”
And you would have had it, thought Knightley, if you had married Robert Martin.
“I am happy to hear you say so; that is just as it should be,” said Emma, and there was a note of satisfaction in her voice that indicated to Knightley that she had some scheme in mind for Harriet, and that Harriet’s answer had perfectly accorded with it. He wondered if Emma had talked Harriet into falling in love with some other man—the object of this new scheme. It could hardly be Martin; Emma would not look so satisfied if it were. Once again he felt impatient with her for preventing the best possible match for Harriet. Martin was still the best suitor for Harriet, and it would not be difficult to persuade Martin to ask again, if only he could be sure that Harriet would accept. It would take so very little to sway her mind; just a few carefully-worded questions might be enough to make her think. He might ask her one now—ask her what size of house she preferred, for example. If she described a house that was similar to Abbey Mill Farm…
He was just determining how best to word his question when Emma said, “I suppose we ought to be turning back.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Woodhouse, so we should,” said Harriet.
“This path on the left will bring us back to Hartfield, past Mr. Munnings’ fields, will it not?” asked Knightley.
“It will indeed,” said Emma. “Shall we take it?
“Oh, may we?” asked Harriet. “There are the dearest little calves in one of the fields that I should like to see.”
“Then by all means,” said Knightley. They turned into the path together, and after going on for a minute or two, Knightley remembered his question. He cleared his throat to begin, but was prevented by a booming voice behind them.
“Hello there!”
They turned around to see the Westons and Frank Churchill, along with Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, all out walking together. The two groups joined together with greetings and explanations. It was the greatest good fortune that they had all happened to convene in this way; the other party had met and merged only a little while before. They would all go on together now. Knightley concealed his irritation as well as he could; his question would have to wait.
They all walked slowly on to Hartfield, Knightley keeping as near Emma as he could to prevent Churchill’s taking possession of her, as he would be apt to do. Just as they reached the gates, and Knightley rejoiced that they would part from these companions and he could ask his question, Emma suddenly said, “Will not you all come in and drink tea with my father? It is just the sort of visit he would welcome—to see so many of his friends at once would delight him very much.”
“Of course, of course, nothing we would enjoy more, eh, my dear? Frank? Yes, by all means, let us all go in and drink tea with Mr. Woodhouse.”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse is so kind—we should be delighted, should we not, Jane? Dear Mr. Woodhouse—I do not believe we have drunk tea with him since—I know you have not, Jane—it is quite right that we should join the others. I suppose your grandmamma might wonder where we are, although we did not absolutely tell her we would be back early—I daresay she will assume we have gone for a long walk, which would surprise her very much, as we have not—you know—but then she would be pleased to know that dear Jane was able to—if only she will not worry. But she may conjecture that we have met with friends, as indeed we have—and I believe we shall be able to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging invitation.”
“Hello, Perry!” said Weston as the apothecary rode past and tipped his hat to the party.
“Is that a new horse?” asked Knightley to the Westons. “Whatever happened to the chestnut he had?”
“Oh, he sold it last week,” said Weston. “He wanted a younger animal, I believe, and this black certainly was worth the price.”
“By the bye,” said Churchill, “what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?”
Mrs. W
eston was close enough to catch the question, and replied, “I did not know that he had ever had any such plan.”
Churchill turned to her, puzzled. “Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”
“Me! Impossible!”
“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?”
“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”
“Never! Really, never! Bless me! How could it be? Then I must have dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”
“Why—” said Miss Bates at Knightley’s elbow, but another voice interrupted.
“What is this?” said Weston. “What is this about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”
“Oh—” began Miss Bates.
Churchill chuckled. “No, sir, I seem to have had it from nobody. Very odd! I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars; but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.” There seemed to be an exaggerated easiness in Churchill’s statement—something about his tone or his manner that suggested deviousness. “I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away,” went on Churchill, “and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.”
“I believe—” came from Miss Bates.
“It is odd though,” said Weston, “that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! And his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other— only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shows that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”
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