Emma in Love (9 page)

“John has right on his side,” said Mr. Knightley, after Emma looked to him for an answer. “If a decision in favour of the woman and her family taking up residence
in old Abdy's barn leads to an examination of morals and marriage, we are best out of the matter.”

“But if she can be proved to be blameless—” cried Emma, who was by now more exercised by the fate of one she had not even been aware of, a few days earlier, than she had been in her life before by any issue. “What then, if it can be shown? Surely she can bring her family to Highbury—”

“The strongest argument against permitting the renovation of the building,” said John Knightley; and here a mountainous cloud of smoke came from his pipe, investing him with an air at once ridiculous and oracular, “the conclusive argument must lie in the law.”

“Ah. Yes,” said Mr. Knightley, but he did not dare look at Emma.

“The statute which forbids trespass on land that is due to be enclosed,” said the lawyer from within the smoke. “To contravene the law would be to bring the matter to assizes, brother George. And the case would almost certainly be lost.”

“That settles it,” muttered Mr. Knightley. His eyes had not followed his wife; and now he shuddered as the door to the library was shut with a loud clamour. The two brothers Knightley stood alone, facing each other in the room.

“I forget,” said John, puffing. “Is the dinner party tonight, or tomorrow night? I had an idea I might go to
visit the land just added to Donwell, and take Henry and John with me: Henry has said he wishes to be a surveyor when he is older; we can measure it out together and return late at night.”

Mr. Knightley said the dinner was due to take place on the following day. “I am sure your absence would be much remarked on,” he said in a mild tone as the two men parted and went their separate ways.

Emma's very good opinion of Mr. Knightley was severely shaken by the scene in which she had reluctantly participated in the library. He did not have the courage of
her
convictions; that was the beginning and end of it; but she did not wish to accept so great a gulf in their ways of thinking.

Mr. Knightley's fixture at the Abbey had been as certain as the constellations, to Emma, all her sentient life: how he had directed his farm, his sheep and his library had never once occurred to her. It had not seemed pertinent, to the way in which she esteemed – and even, as she told herself, was in love with him. Mr. Knightley was himself: the Abbey, which had stood there as long, in Emma's childhood, as its squire, was
administered invisibly, and ran according to the laws of Nature rather than of man.

For this reason, her spouse's parsimony and moralising tone on the subject of his tenants had come as a rude shock. Perhaps he would speak differently to her, later, and only wished to placate the legal mind of his brother John. But he had never shown the least desire to agree with the lawyer before. No, these were Mr. Knightley's own views. And Emma thought the less of him for them.

She took a shawl and determined to walk down to old Abdy's cottage. She would see for herself: if there was one thing Emma hated, it was concealment or secrecy, and a brief interview with young Abdy's wretched sister would suffice. On the way home, she would make a detour to the Vicarage. The invitation to dinner on the morrow would bear all the charm of spontaneity, if delivered by the mistress of Donwell Abbey herself. The fact of Miss Bates's chattering about the event – but Emma did now dread how Miss Bates chattered – should not detract too much from the lateness of the call to dine with the first family of Highbury. Mrs. Elton would be only too delighted; it was true that Mr. and Mrs. Knightley had a month back suffered an al fresco repast in the Vicarage garden, which only a fierce burst of rain had prevented from going on far too long. It was time the Eltons, for all their aspirations and pretensions, were invited to dine within the Abbey walls.

Thinking of Mrs. Elton's forthcoming and undoubted pleasure at Emma's inclusion of their young French friend, not to speak of the unlimited kindness shown by the hostess in inviting Mrs. Smallridge, Emma found her thoughts straying rapidly from the indignation she had felt at Mr. Knightley's prejudice, and returning to the vexed subject of Jane Fairfax and a possible betrothal between the poor governess and the dashing Captain Brocklehurst.

Emma could not say why, but these thoughts were especially delicious to her: she could picture Miss Fairfax on the day when Highbury Church bells pealed out; she could go so far as to see the happy couple settled in Yorkshire, with Jane not worried one whit by the proximity of Frank Churchill; she saw them dine by candlelight, in a house as ancient as, but a good deal smaller than, her own. Beyond that, prudence and delicacy could not take her. But the urgency with which she contemplated her duties in the matter assured her it was fortunate she had decided to call at the Vicarage on her way back from visiting the poor. For if she went one half day more without actually speaking to Jane Fairfax, Mr. Knightley would tease her horribly at her insistence on matchmaking for people she did not even find the time to see.

The day was fine; the morning's wind had dropped and the few clouds, which had threatened to turn from white to a darker hue, now strayed away altogether. The
lanes were filled with flowers, which gave off a heady scent. Emma thought she had never found Highbury's humble environs so lovely.— No wonder indeed that young Abdy's sister wished to settle here, after life in a choking city such as Bristol, where smoke from chimneys brought a haze undesirable to any person country-bred. Emma was disposed to contravene Mr. Knightley's decision and give the unhappy woman tenure of the old barn here and now. Did this not in any case free her brother for his duties at the Crown Inn? And thus relieve the parish from supporting the family, while he cared for his old father? Emma's mind was never far from being practical. The Abdy sister would nurse the old man.— Once this was fixed, Mr. Knightley was certain to approve the plan.

As she rounded the bend in the lane which would bring her to Abdy's cottage, Emma saw to her annoyance that Frank Churchill, alone this time and on foot, approached. He paused from time to time and plucked a flower from the hedge: by the time he was standing close up to her, an armful of blooms, prettily enough arranged, as Emma had to admit, were encircled by wide leaves and tied with a rustic stem.

“Mrs. Knightley! There is no one I would rather encounter on so magical a midsummer's walk as this!” And with these words came a low bow, and the bouquet was thrust into her hands.

“I thank you, Mr. Churchill. But it really is not convenient. I am on my way to visit old Mr. Abdy. Then I proceed to the Vicarage. Wild flowers wilt so easily – I think it is best you take them back to Randalls. Mrs. Weston will be well pleased with them – she much prefers Nature's offerings to hothouse blooms.”

Frank Churchill, despite Emma's attempting to thrust the bunch back at him, did not extend his hands but stood instead, head to one side, and contemplating what he saw with undisguised admiration. “May I say, Mrs. Knightley, that marriage suits you exceedingly well? We have not had a chance to speak to each other – I do not count our brief glimpse by Miss Bates's house—”

Here Frank fell silent, as if to demonstrate his grief at any mention, however fleeting, of the aunt of the woman he had loved and then abandoned.

“I thank you again, Mr. Churchill. But I must depart. The sun is hot, and old Abdy will need to rest. I shall miss him altogether.”

Emma found herself much annoyed by the encounter with Frank Churchill. His look of blatant appreciation only served to remind her of the flirtation she had permitted him to embark on with her, and particularly on the occasion of the picnic at Box Hill. She decided he was by no means as handsome as his brother-in-law Captain Brocklehurst.

“Mrs. Knightley, you have said you intend to call on
the Vicarage when you have performed your commendable charity – commendable indeed, in a heat such as this! May I ask of you one favour – a small favour indeed, but I do not know what else to call it—”

Emma resumed walking; she had returned the flowers to Frank with some firmness, but he was not deterred from walking close to her side in the narrow lane. The thatch of old Abdy's cottage came into sight. It was as derelict, Emma noted with a sinking heart, as it had been in winter: did not Mr. Knightley's factor consider building up a new roof for the poor old man in the fine weather, that he might find relief from his rheumatic gout when frost and rain came again? Concerned with this matter, Emma walked on in deep thought: she did not at first hear or understand Frank Churchill's request.

“Mrs. Knightley! You are known throughout Highbury for your open, generous nature. This is so little to ask of you. But the pleasure – the reassurance – it would afford—”

Emma saw the bouquet was yet again proffered. She frowned.

“Ragged robin. Campion, and speedwell. Foxgloves and wild strawberry, lords and ladies so erect and orange as they stand—”

Emma stared at her companion. It occurred to her that sudden wealth and change of circumstances could
have altered Frank Churchill beyond recognition. It was certainly strange to her that he should recite the names of flowers to her. Yet there was some charm in his knowing them, she had to admit.

“To give this bouquet to Jane – to Miss Fairfax, as you are visiting the Vicarage. These – yes, dear Emma – we are old friends, please permit me – these were her favourite flowers, in summer. But spring, naturally, she loved most of all. The primrose! The violet! These come late and sparsely to Yorkshire, if at all. She will understand.— You do not speak—”

Emma, arriving at the gate to old Abdy's cottage, was too astonished at first by Frank Churchill's request to notice the condition of the wicket gate, which hung from its hinges, each spar of wood in the final stages of rot. Her reaction – what succeeded her surprise – was anger; and she did not care if he knew it. That she should be taken advantage of, as a go-between! It was monstrous; disgusting! She did not know how to reply.

The path to the cottage door was overgrown with weeds. Young Abdy, yawning and rubbing his eyes, came down it to open the gate; it was not easy to know, from his bemused expression, whether he welcomed the mistress of Donwell's visit or not, on so hot an afternoon as this.

“I am come to enquire after your father,” said Emma,
and as she spoke the door to the cottage opened once more and a young woman, exceedingly white-skinned and as freckled all over as a robin's egg, came out into the glare of the sun. Emma almost immediately disliked her; but she suppressed the feeling, for she knew that appearances could be misleading: she had no wish to be as prejudiced as Mr. Knightley, and with more grounds than he for her dislike. But Abdy's sister – as she surely must be – had a face so disagreeable, and a manner of walking, as she approached, so lewd and disrespectful, that Emma found it hard to keep her eyes on her throughout the introduction effected by old Abdy's son.

Frank Churchill, at least, was put in his place by the arrival of the two younger Abdys by the gate to the cottage. Murmuring his excuses – and still holding the bouquet – which, as Emma noted with some amusement, wilted already – he walked off at a brisk pace whence he had come. Back to Randalls, as Emma supposed, for the lane would take him there in ten minutes.

Emma was asked to step indoors, where, as she also saw with some misgivings, the arrival of the daughter had done little to bring order or cleanliness to old Abdy's hovel. There was little chance the daughter's care would assuage the pain or discomfort of the old man. A hen ran in as they stood talking; and the hen was followed by two children, both boys, as speckled and ill-mannered as their mother. Scuffling broke out, and little
effort was made to remove the cause of Emma's annoyance from the room.

Despite all this, she allowed herself to be led to the end of the garden, where was a barn as mouldering as the cottage itself. Representations were made, on behalf of his sister, by young Abdy.

Emma, after visiting the old man upstairs and saying she would despatch James with calf's foot jelly, took her leave of the Abdy household and continued on her way.

She could not help regretting, as she went, the impulsive manner in which she had promised young Abdy – and thus his sister – that they should use the barn and reconstruct it as they pleased.

For it occurred to her quite forcibly that Mr. Knightley might well be right, in his estimation of the dangers of encouraging a young woman so unsuitable to the gentilities of Highbury, to settle here. There had not even been a mention of a lawfully-wedded husband, father to the boys, and to a sickly-looking girl, already housed on a pile of hay in the barn.

Emma knew herself to be in the wrong. But it was a matter of principle with her, that the cottagers at Donwell should not go in want. These thoughts were, however, very soon succeeded by wonderment at the impertinence of Frank Churchill's request, and this in itself followed by further and extensive thoughts on the subject of Captain Brocklehurst. Frank might still be in
love with Jane Fairfax; the difficulty lay in guiding the rightfully intended pair down the aisle of St. Mary's Church in the parish of Highbury.

The lawn to the Vicarage was steeply sloping, and bordered with shrubs neatly trimmed. A dovecote had been introduced, since the bachelor days of Mr. Elton – causing, as Emma, with some amusement recalled, references to the marital harmony of the parson and his wife, by that lady; not to mention additional reminders of the glory of Mrs. Elton's house of origin, Maple Grove. As well as this, a stream, which ran with some force in the most precipitous part of the garden, meandered at the base with its contingent of water-lily pads; these, as Emma was also unwillingly made to think, had been imported from that splendid mansion in the vicinity of Bristol, from a pond “twice the capacity of anything in Highbury”; and
were not even to be equalled by the aquatic plantings of Mrs. Elton's friends, family and neighbours, the Sucklings and the Bragges.