Author's Notes: I have trouble thinking of anything besides Emma. Yesterday I went to see The Book of Eli for a bit a change. If anyone has seen the trailers, it's about one man's journey of faith through a post-apocalyptic world where water and shampoo are the most expensive commodities. It's about as far as you can get from civilized Highbury. But one scene has Denzel Washington intruding on the desolate property of an elderly couple, and who should appear at the door but (dun dun dun) Michael Gambon. I immediately thought, "Oh, it's Mr. Woodhouse!" Mr. Woodhouse, of course, turned out to be a machine-gun toting, grenade hoarding cannibal. I think it would be very funny to see what Emma would think if she could see what her father was doing in the film:
"It troubled her to no extent that he should have become so very wild. He had always been eccentric and withdrawn, preferring his own house to anyone else's. Yet he had retained a welcome manner and a strong sense of hospitality, which she was sorry to note had disappeared entirely beneath this novel veneer of violence. He was now more likely to shoot his visitors on sight and have them for dinner than to simply invite them to it. It was a most unfortunate business, and Emma felt the degradation keenly. Apart from seeing her father exert himself more than before, her only cause for rejoicing, although she tried not to think it, was that Mrs. Elton might one day pay a call."
Anyway, I've fixed some typos in the first chapter. There still is one that I saw before and can't find. I'm sure I'll catch it one of these days. In the meantime, here is Chapter II. Haven't gotten to Randalls, but I'm on my way!
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Chapter II
By Jenni
Mr. Woodhouse awoke the next morning in the same aggravation of spirits in which he had gone to bed. The fine weather and gentle, cooling breeze that chased away the previous day's languor, applied no balm to his troubled heart. He relived all the fears and unpleasant sensations he had experienced when Emma had first broken the news to him. Foremost in his imagination upon waking was the scene of his beloved daughter carted away weeping from her home, while he bid bitter farewell to his last and best companion, the delight of his eyes, the soother of every sorrow, and the solace of his old age. He next pictured her burdened by a pack of screaming children, broken and faded, while her oblivious husband wrote his letters in the next room. His mind was not one inclined to self-reflection. Terrible oppression and regret were all he saw of her future, which no knowledge of Emma's good sense, Mr. Knightley's superior being or Isabella's and Mrs. Weston's happiness could alleviate. Marriage had been the undoing of his own beloved wife. Therefore marriage was an evil.
He could not understand that these horrors were the product of his own dislike of change and his selfish desire to keep his treasures close at hand, and that Emma's children, far from being a burden, might in time provide the same comfort, pride, and happiness for her as she did for him.
That Mr. Knightley had promised to remove to Harfield made no impression on Mr. Woodhouse. He, who would never leave his own house, could not suppose any man to think differently. Mr. Knightley had an honest character, to be sure, and there could be no question of his truly meaning to honour his present offer to live at Hartfield, but he fuss of moving would prove too much, and he would change his mind when it came to the point.
Emma's presence at the breakfast table, dressed as she always dressed and buttering her toast as she always did, gave him hope that he might have dreamed the whole of their last conversation. She did not seem agitated or depressed. Her cheerful greeting allowed him to linger in his delusion some moments more; but when the bell rang to announce that Mr. Knightley had called to join their breakfast, she hurried away to greet him in the hall. They came in together, her arm wrapped under his, and both smiling so keenly at Mr. Woodhouse that he could no longer doubt his memory. Unease settled over him once again as he considered his old friend with warring feelings of pleasure in seeing his familiar presence at the table and ill-use at having his daughter stolen from him without so much as an apology. Mr. Knightley was all smiles and, "How d'ye dos," with no hint of remorse. He meant to have her, it was plain; and Emma was encouraging him to an alarming degree.
"Good morning, Mr. Knightley," said Mr. Woodhouse, with uncharacteristic gruffness. "Won't you have a seat?" He pointed not to the accustomed chair at his left, but to one at the far end of the table. Mr. Knightley was obliged for propriety's sake to take it, though he could not reach the sausages, toast, or eggs, and Emma had to ask the servants to fetch them for him. But it seemed this deliberate breach of hospitality was lost on Mr. Knightley. No discouragement on Mr. Woodhouse's part would alloy his joy. He would talk of nothing but weddings, and for all their years of friendship, he seemed cruelly determined not to notice his friend's discomfort on the subject. Reclining in his chair as if in his own home, looking so often at Emma with unchecked admiration, he was, "So delighted with her — so happy that he could not think — She was the best creature he had ever known — such attention to the poor — such innate goodness and patience and fortitude of character — Only sorry he had not asked sooner — might have saved himself and her some grief — they were most solicitous for his comfort —the wedding would not be planned until they could be sure of his blessing —Of course Hartfield was still his house — Mr. Knightley could never supplant him — did not Emma look lovely? — a fine complexion, beautiful eyes — the very pink of health — the wedding must be when John and Isabella were in Highbury for the holiday — No sir, not that anyone had presumed so far as to set a date, that is — Was not the weather very inviting? A walk was most tempting. — Delighted to have his approval! — Or at least hoping it would not be long in coming —A little exercise was the very thing he needed . . . "
Before Mr. Woodhouse was able to say much on the subject, either in its favour or against, Mr. Knightley was leaving the table. A quarter of an hour only had passed between his entry and his exit, and in such a short time he had shown himself to be so very attached to Emma; perhaps no man could be more so. How long had Mr. Knightley been coming to Hartfield, not to talk business, not to enjoy Cook's famous roast, not to play backgammon or to enlighten his neighbors as to the goings-on in town, but with the chief objective of admiring the lady of the house? And how long had Hartfield's mistress wiled away her afternoons and evenings looking out the drawing room window, searching the gravel walk for the one tall, familiar figure whose appearance would set her heart fluttering and absence produce a tract of sighs?
It would be unfair to assume that such feelings were altogether unfamiliar to Mr. Woodhouse. Who is to say that in his youth he had not started at the sight of some very fine eyes? Perhaps he had even gone so far as to think of risking his health riding through the rain to see a lady. But glancing backwards to events at such a distance removed from his present knowledge and understanding, he could not single out one fond memory that would bend his heart towards the lovers. He saw only that Mr. Knightley had caught some of the marriage fever stirred up by Frank Churchill, had settled upon Emma, and that she—being rightly flattered—had not thought it through.
"Will you come with me to visit Mrs. Weston?" asked Emma, who had remained at the table. "I dare say you will like the baby when you see her."
"I have never seen Mr. Knightley behave so strangely," said he. "Such a stream of words, my dear! I think all this talk of marriage has gone to his head and made him run a bit mad. You had better abandon your scheme at once."
"Nonsense, papa. Your dark looks made him nervous. You are not accustomed to seeing him so discomfited, but it is his nature. There is one occasion when he was most agitated that I have heard him speak in starts. "
Mr. Woodhouse observed a slight blush upon his daughter's face, but thought he had better not inquire lest he revive some precious memory that would only solidify her resolve.
"He is so very anxious to have your approval," she continued. "Yet you made him sit at the opposite end of the table and stared at him all throughout breakfast as if he were on display in a glass case. Such a greeting for an old friend like Mr. Knightley! No wonder he left as soon as he did."
"You are right, my dear. I was perhaps too ungracious just now. I hope he will forgive me for it. But it is too great a shock, my dear, to sensible Mr. Knightley so carried away with this illogical talk of weddings."
"But there is nothing illogical about it, papa," cried Emma, with great feeling. "He and I are of equal rank in society and nearly equal wealth. In marrying, we shall incur no loss of friendship or comfort, but only stand to gain by that closer connection which will draw all our nearest relations to us more frequently. He is so eager that both you and I be happy that he would do anything in his power to achieve it. What other husband would not exercise his superior claims and take me from you? What other son could be more dutiful, more loving, more attentive?"
"You are right, my dear. And he was so expressive on the point. I had no idea he felt so much. But I still think it a bad idea, one hastily conceived. I wish you would not talk of it as being decided."
"Very well, papa, I will not mention it again today. I will only be your attentive and loving daughter. But I must go to Randalls. I am expected there, and I must go early, for if I wait too long Mrs. Weston shall be tired from all her visitors."
"Oh poor Miss Taylor! You see what it is to be a wife, my dear?" said Mr. Woodhouse. "Young people put very little stock in the advice of their elders, fancying us to imagine all sorts of disasters and mishaps, but there is nothing to replace the reason of experience. Do anything rather than marry young. You give up all freedom, all independence, all good health and subjugate yourself entirely to the wills of your family."
"But, as you were so generous as to point out last night, Mr. Knightley is not marrying young," said his daughter. "And as for subjugating one's own whims to those of . . . well, I promised you I would not speak of it again today."
She was smiling still, but he thought she was not in spirits as she was before. He was not insensible that his own severity of manner may have put her out of humour, but could not bring himself to apologize for it. He had given her the best advice he had to offer, and only hoped it would take. Young people might do as they pleased, but happily most possessed impressionability in equal spades so that all would be well if one might only convince them that they pleased to do the opposite.
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All the sage words Mr. Woodhouse had at his command that morning did not prevent Emma from meeting Mr, Knightley at the appointed place by the hedgerow. The greetings were constrained by disappointment. Each had hoped for better. He had stayed at Hartfield only a quarter of an hour. They had agreed the night before that he would stay longer to arrange the settlement if the interview went well, but in the event itself Mr. Knightley had seen quite quickly that an extension would have been more likely to hinder their cause than help it. Allies were what they required. He knew Emma was to visit Mrs. Weston. He would be happy to escort her.
"Oh, why did we tell him?" cried Emma, when they had walked for a while. "Why did we not keep it to ourselves just a little longer? Such things he said about you! And how saucily I almost replied!"
"Almost and not saucy is the word you must think of," said Mr. Knightley. "I have never known you to be undutiful, even on such a point. Your fortitude is admirable, my Emma. Do not let concerns for your own conduct add to our troubles."
"And that is perhaps the first time you have told me not to be vigilant of my own conduct," she replied, which caused Mr. Knightley to color. She felt that he did not want to be teased again and so frequently about their many past arguments. He would be serious.
"Anyway it is no more than we expected," he continued. "And your father has not outright forbidden it."
"But he is unhappy. More so than I estimated. I hear nothing but, 'How old is poor Mr. Knightley!' and 'Dear Emma, you do not know what you are about.' I thought he would trifle over the complications of setting up two households and then desist when we made it absolutely certain that you would come to Hartfield. But he does not. One would think we had planned an elopement."
"Let us talk sensibly. An elopement would take several days to plan and several more to execute. A fortnight at least."
Emma laughed at him, very naturally placing her right hand upon his shoulder as if to check his calculations. Her hand was gloved, but still she felt the strong muscle shift as he turned towards her, and once had had done it, she could not recover her former state of absolute composure. His attractions as he stood before her were too strong. His towering figure had too much to recommend him. The smile she had once wished he would wear more often was now omnipresent, and together with the light in his handsome eyes, they drew her irresistibly closer. But they were on a public road, in view of the several passersby, and though their easy manner of speaking might produce some speculation, they felt unequal to doing anything which would incur any malicious gossip. Randalls was their destination, and could not be reached soon enough.