Chapter 16

14th January

Wellyn House

Brunswick Square

Dear George,

I wonder if you might spare us a short visit when the quarter sessions have finished with you. We are not far from Newington, after all, and there is a matter on  which I should like your advice.

Bella would like to know who is going to comb Madam Duvall while you are away at the quarter sessions. Isabella would like to know if William Larkins’ sister and all her children are well. John and Henry would like to know if you ever found the painted horse that they brought to Donwell to show you one day and left behind. I, however, don’t want to know anything except whether we may expect you next week.

Your uninquisitive brother,

John

You will come, won’t you?

*            *           *

Dinner was ended, the children were in bed, and Isabella had left the two brothers alone in the library to talk.

“You seem a little troubled,” said John, pouring his brother a drink and handing it to him.

 “Do I?” Knightley took the brandy and settled into his chair. “In what way?”

“You didn’t have much to say this evening.”

“Perhaps that is because we parted company a mere two weeks ago. Very little has changed since then.”

“Yes, I was afraid our dinner was likely to be a dull affair. I invited Mrs. Whitney to dine with us this evening in order to enliven the family party, but she was engaged elsewhere. However, we are secure of her company for tomorrow’s dinner, at least.”

Knightley stared at his younger brother, aghast, until John broke down and laughed.

“No, no, I was only joking. As dearly as I would love to see you married, I am not willing to put myself through such torture for the cause.”

“No; you never do put yourself to any inconvenience if you can help it,” said Knightley severely; he was not in the least amused by John’s little joke.  

“And such an unwarranted personal attack only strengthens my suspicion,” said John coolly. “You have something weighing on your mind. Come now, you didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice, did you?”

Knightley sighed. “I was not thinking about you at all—only pondering  that line from Timon of Athens: ‘Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.’”    

“I see. And is it often that a sentence from an obscure play--Shakespeare though it may be--dominates your thoughts to such an extent? Out with it; no more demurs. I conjecture something happened at the quarter sessions.”

Knightley nodded slowly. “There was a fellow brought up on a game-stealing charge. I recognized him—he was up before me last year, too. A poor man with a large family, and I let him off rather lightly last time—he didn’t seem a practiced hand. I thought it was only his great poverty that drove him to it. But there he was again today on the same charge. Mind you, he may have been in dire need both times. How can I know?”

“You can’t,” said John promptly. “Not without personal knowledge of the man.”

“No. But all the same, I wonder…did my leniency persuade him to try his luck again? Would he have tried some honest way to feed his family first if I had dealt more harshly with him the first time? Sibbes—of Blanchard Hall, you know—chided me for showing too much clemency. He said as a landowner I must be especially careful to enforce the game laws. Of course, Sibbes has always been ruthless on the bench, especially about game offences. He loves to hunt.”

“Yes. And since you are always afraid that you will act out of self-interest, you show more mercy than you would if the victim was not a landowner.”

“Do I?”

John  smiled. “You do. A crime against a poor widow gets a harsher penalty from you than an offence against a squire would. Ever the soul of honour, George.”

“Yes, well… the difficulty remains: how does one know whether to ‘temper justice with mercy’ or to exact the harshest penalty? Which best serves the accused? And their families? And the general population?”

John sighed. “You will hardly believe me, George, but it was just such a dilemma that I wanted your advice on. I had no idea it would be a philosophical bone that you were already worrying.”

“You might as well tell me about it.”

“It’s about Richard.”

“Richard?”

“Dr. Hughes’ son.”

“Oh yes. I thought he was doing well; Dr. Hughes told me he thought Richard would be called to the bar this term.”

“It’s likely he will be. However, he has begun to associate with unfortunate companions.”

“Undesirable, you mean?”

“Exactly. He has a friend—he told me the name but I’ve forgotten it—who is a member at the Union Club. I understand that Richard was invited along to a dinner with some of the fellows who frequent the place and they were all taken with him. He’s the sort of young man those dandies admire: intelligent, well-looking, and able to make a memorable bon mot. I think Lord Byron’s friends Hobhouse and Davies were among them. At any rate, he was invited to more dinners and more outings—they took him to Newmarket with them, too, once—and before long he was a member at the club.”

“The Union Club. Not very illustrious, is it?”

“No. Respectable enough, but really it is little more than a gaming-house.”

“I see. He’s begun to gamble.”

John nodded his head and traced the rim of his glass with his finger. “Sometimes on horses, but usually on games of chance—chiefly ‘hazard’, I fancy.”

“Does his father know?”

“No.”

“And have you said nothing to dissuade him?”

“You know I have.”

“Then what do you want my advice about?”

John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s beginning to be a tangled mess. I knew nothing about any of this until just before Christmas. Richard came to me the week before I left for Surrey and told me that he had just lost ₤500 at hazard.”

Knightley’s eyebrows went up. “He had that much cash available?”

“No, he did not. He had exactly ₤20 and was therefore in debt for ₤480, with no way to raise the money. I suppose Dr. Hughes might have been able to cover it, but he was frantic that his father not find out.”

“That explains why he did not come home to Donwell for Christmas. Dr. Hughes said he had accepted an invitation from friends in Somerset for a holiday visit. I thought it rather odd at the time, but now everything becomes clear. Well, what did you tell him?”

John looked a little sheepish. “I lent him the money myself. Better I than the money-lenders. That is a slavery I could not countenance.”

Knightley nodded in agreement. “I probably would have done the same. And do you think he will repay you? I imagine he will.”

“That is not the worst of it. Last week—the day I wrote to you—Richard came to see me again. He was very distraught and yet I could hardly get a word out of him. At last he confessed that he had taken the money I lent him and gambled it, hoping to get enough to pay me back rapidly.”

“Good God!”

“Of course he lost it all, and another ₤300 besides.”

“Do you mean to say that he is now in debt for—” Knightley paused to add the amounts together—“₤1,260?”

“Precisely.”

Knightley shook his head, finding no words.

“And so you see my difficulty. I had some doubts about giving him the money in the first place; and now to find out that he only used the money to dig himself deeper into debt….”

“And it seems madness to lend him any more.” Knightley finished. “Does Dr. Hughes know anything now?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He will have to be told.”

“Of course he will.”

“It will be a terrible blow for him.”

“I know,” said John, leaning his head back against the chair and staring at the ceiling. “The thought of it made me feel ill for three days.”

Knightley smiled sympathetically. John’s usual demeanour was that of a dispassionate, rather nonchalant man, and those who knew him little never guessed at the warm heart beneath the façade. Emma saw it, of course, and had remarked on it only two or three weeks ago. “John tries to be a cynic,” she had said as she watched him play with baby Emma, “but his affection overpowers his inclination too often for him to make the attempt successful.” Emma was always quick to appreciate devotion to family. Which made her attitude toward Frank Churchill all the more confusing. She ought to see that his behaviour was completely at odds with his professions of filial affection, and that he was nothing but a―

“So what do you advise?”

John’s words recalled Knightley’s thoughts to the problem at hand.

“I don’t know without thinking it over,” he said. “Give me a night. At least.”

“Every evening I have hoped that the answer would be easier to see in the morning,” said John forlornly, “but the problem is just as ugly when the sun comes up as when it went down.”

*        *     *      *

John was already at breakfast when Knightley came down for it the next morning.

“Sleep well?” John asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Nor did I.”  John moodily stirred sugar into his tea. “It will do Richard no good if I discover that he has been sleeping soundly for the last several weeks. Well, did your musings at midnight enlighten you as to a solution?”

“I only wish they had. If it were only Richard to consider, it would be a different thing.”

“Yes. But there is Dr. Hughes—and Mrs. Hughes, for that matter. We cannot leave them out of the reckoning.”

Knightley buttered a hot roll. “Has Richard been to see you since last week?”

“No. I told him he would be sent for when I had something to tell him. Though I made him promise he wouldn’t see Smith in the meantime.”

“Smith?”

“Money-lender.”

“Ah.”  Knightley took a sip of his chocolate. “Did you tell him about what happened….?”

“No, of course not. That’s for you to tell—if you choose.”

“I suppose so.” Knightley put down his cup and looked at his brother. “Do you think this was the momentary lapse in judgement of a good fellow who is rather easily led? Or is it the beginning manifestations of a character going bad?”

John considered the question for a moment. “I hope my fondness for the boy is not distorting my view, but I think he is a good fellow at the core. I believe he was genuinely distressed at the disaster he brought about by losing the ₤500, and was so eager to pay me back and get it all put right that he took the risk of gambling with what I had given him.”

“It is hard to believe he is as stupid as all that—what chance did he think he have of suddenly winning so much?”

“He said something about it when he came to tell me of the great calamity, but he was so incoherent I could hardly understand him. Something about understanding the odds and thinking it would make a difference.”

“Oh, I know what he meant, especially if he was playing hazard. I think I would like to speak to him. Perhaps you ought to ask him to come this evening.”

The door of the breakfast-room opened to admit Isabella, who bestowed a friendly smile on her brother and a tender one on her husband. Isabella’s smile was so like Emma’s that it gave him a start, and it struck him that this was what Emma would look like when she smiled tenderly at someone. Against his will, his mind called up the vision of the dandified young man that did duty for Frank Churchill in his imagination, and the Emma in his mind smiled tenderly at the vision. Something about the look in her eyes made him catch his breath. Then the young man smiled back at Emma—the sardonic, superficial smile that such a man would have—and Knightley found himself gripping the butter knife with unaccustomed intensity. That fellow was no good for Emma; no good at all.

This unsettling image was dispelled by a servant bringing in the letters: three for John and one for Isabella. Isabella’s was addressed in a hand he knew very well.

“Dear Emma is always so faithful to write,” said Isabella, opening her letter and beginning to read. “I see Mr. Elton is still away in Bath… Emma says that young Mr. Spencer has been preaching in Highbury church…he is very shy, but seems to be quite sincere…Mrs. Weston is very well…Oh! Jane Fairfax will soon be in Highbury. Miss Bates has had a letter from Jane saying that she will be there within a week.”

“That seems a very sudden visit,” said John. “How long has it been since she was last in Highbury?”

“It must be nearly two years,” said Isabella. “What a lovely thing for dear Emma!”

“How do you mean?” asked her husband.

“It must be very agreeable for her to have another companion, since she has lost Mrs. Weston. Miss Smith is a charming girl, but Jane Fairfax is such an excellent young woman that it must be to Emma’s great advantage to keep company with her.”

“Yes,” said Knightley, “No doubt it would be a great advantage, if only it could be contrived.” But as he finished his breakfast, he wondered if Emma might not, after all, begin to appreciate the worth of  Jane Fairfax. She had lately not only tried to improve Harriet, but to make amends for her own mistakes. She might now even be of a mind to improve herself. If so, the companionship of such a genteel and accomplished young lady could only assist the endeavour. Perhaps during Jane’s stay in Highbury, Emma might see the benefits of friendship with an intellectual equal. And Jane, too, might learn to be more open and less reserved if Emma befriended her. If Emma could overcome the young lady’s reticence—which was about the only fault her disposition had—a closer acquaintance would be very satisfactory for both of them. And a new friendship might very well drive away all thoughts of Frank Churchill from Emma’s mind. Yes, Jane Fairfax’s visiting Highbury at this time was a very good thing.

*        *      *       *       *

Knightley had not seen Richard for several months, and that evening he thought that he had never seen a man’s demeanour so completely changed in so short a time. Richard was used to be open, confident, and cheerful; now he stood in front of the library fire twisting the ring on his finger and looking humbled, restless, and altogether wretched.

“Do, please, sit down, Richard,” said John.

“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Richard and gingerly lowered himself into the nearest chair.

“You’re not looking very well,” said Knightley.

“No, I suppose not. I haven’t slept well for…a long time.”

The Knightley brothers exchanged faint smiles.

“I am glad to see you take a serious view of the matter,” said Knightley.

“How could I not?” said Richard. “Believe me, Mr. Knightley, I know too well that I have disgraced my own name and my family’s name, and I am surprised that Mr. John Knightley has even allowed me to enter his house this evening.”

“And yet I know many a young man who would merely curse his luck and shrug his shoulders and find a willing lender in order to try again,” said Knightley. “You are not quite the disgrace that you could be. At least, not yet.”

Richard’s eyes were on the floor. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I will never gamble again. Nothing would induce me to play for money, even once.”

“That is very good to hear,” said John, “though you are right in saying that we have no reason to trust you in this matter. You seem very sincere, and I am inclined to believe you. But then you seemed very sincere when I lent you that ₤480, too.”

“I was sincere, sir. When I took that money I had no notion—none at all—of spending it on more gaming. I took it around to the Club, you know, but before I could pay the debt I ran into Davies.” He paused and looked at Knightley. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him. Lord Byron’s great friend.”

“That’s right. He told me not to be a fool and pay all that money when I could double it very easily in a few hours.”

“And you believed him?” said John.

“He made it sound so very simple,” said Richard. “He has lived by gaming for upwards of eight or ten years, and lived very well. He told me that it is quite easy to win at hazard, if you know the laws of chance.”

“It sounds like double-talk,” said John.

“Not at all,” said Knightley. “You have not been exposed to enough gaming, dear brother. Winning at hazard is chiefly a matter of mastering the odds. You cannot control the throw of the dice, but you can take advantage of the fact that it is easier to throw some numbers than others. There are, for example, six chances in thirty-six of throwing a seven, but only three chances in thirty-six of throwing a four. Once you are adept at calculating the probabilities, your chances of winning improve considerably.”

“Yes, that was what he told me,” said Richard. “And he said he would advise me at play.” He lifted his eyes to Knightley’s face. “It seemed a sure thing, and I was so desperate to be in the clear, and to spare my father—my parents—the knowledge of my folly, that it seemed the best course.”

“Why did you not stop when you began losing?”

“Davies told me that he often loses at the beginning of an evening and then his luck turns. And I have seen it myself, watching others play.”

“And,” said Knightley, “the more you lost the less likely you were to be able to pay back the money by any other method. How else could you ever get hold of more than a thousand pounds?”

Richard winced at this reminder of the enormity of his debt but nodded in agreement. “By the time I had lost several hundred pounds I felt the only course open to me was to keep on and hope my luck would change.”

“But you did stop eventually,” said John.

“Yes. It was Davies that called a halt. ‘Not a lucky night,’ he said. ‘Best to try again another day.’ He had the grace to apologize for interfering, and said he would introduce me to Smith and get me a good rate of interest, but I told him I had to see someone first.” He looked at John. “I knew nothing would ever be really right again, but I meant to do what I could. I came to confess, at least, what I had done. I did not know what you would say, but I comforted myself that there’s a big, dark river runs through London, and at the worst I could…”

“That would hardly make things easier for Dr. and Mrs. Hughes,” said Knightley.

“Nor for me, by my father’s reckoning. At any rate, I made my confession and have been waiting ever since to be led away to the Marshalsea, to rot along with all the other insolvent debtors.”

“Oh, I think the Club will give you a little time before calling in your debt,” said John. “I’m sure they expect you to find a bill-broker or money-lender, as most of the members do.”

“That is something I shall not do,” said Richard firmly. “I have contemplated the idea in the last week—though of course I did nothing about it, as I had promised you I would not—but I soon realized that such a step would do nothing but keep me out of gaol…for a time. Most of the fellows who begin borrowing never seem to get clear, and they often end by flying to France or Spain. And even if I were, by some miracle, able to raise the money to pay the original debt, it would have grown enormously if a bill-broker had put his fingerprints on it.”

“Exactly,” said John.

“I am determined to earn the money needed honestly,” said Richard. “It may take a lifetime, but I know I may earn something as a schoolmaster or a clerk. I hardly think I will be called to the bar now; such a weakness in my character might well make good men shrink from adding me to their number. All these months I knew I was doing what I ought not, but had not the strength of mind to resist as long as I was able to remain solvent.”

“Your excursion into the world of gaming has ended very fortunately,” said Knightley.

“Fortunately, you say?” said Richard. “I can scarcely imagine how it could be worse!”

“It could be far worse,” said Knightley. “You might have kept winning.”

Richard stared at the older man with his mouth slightly agape.

“When I was up at Cambridge,” went on Knightley, “I became friends with a man whose passion was gambling. He was a good fellow in many ways—generous, amusing, and quite a scholar—but he did love gaming. I had never bet on anything in my life, my father’s notions on the subject being quite strict. But I was persuaded by him and his other friends to play with them. His specialty was hazard, and he taught me well. I won frequently. One night I won ₤600.”

Knightley paused to take a drink. “About a week later I received an urgent summons to Donwell. I hurried home, fearing for my father’s life, and was relieved to be told, on my arrival, that my father was waiting for me in the library, not in bed. But my relief was short-lived. My father had heard about my gaming and was more angry than I had ever seen him. I excused myself as well as I could and added that I had at least won more than I had lost. ‘That is what frightens me,’ he said. ‘If you had lost I would have scolded you and then trusted to your good sense to prevent you indulging in such folly again. But since you won frequently I will tell you that if I hear of you gaming again, or going to Newmarket or any other races, I will have no qualms in leaving the entire estate to your brother John.’ Donwell is not entailed, you know, Richard; it was my father’s, to dispose of as he saw fit. ‘I’ll not have the estate gambled away,’ he said.”

“Did you not resent that threat?” said Richard. “Most of my acquaintance would.”

“No. I knew he was right. And I knew also that he would give the lot to John if I gambled another farthing.”

“So you gave it all up. And your friends?”

“I gave them up, too. They were a little resentful at first—they gave me a nickname with which I will not defile your chaste ears—but I don’t think they bore me any lasting grudge.”

“What happened to the friend who loved hazard?”

“He died last year. Abroad.”

“I see why you say I’ve been fortunate. Though it has cost me dearly.” Richard sighed. “I suppose I ought to start searching out vacant posts for schoolmasters. God knows who will give me a reference after this…”

“Stop a minute,” said John and glanced at Knightley, who gave him the briefest of nods. “I think we may be able to help you.”

 “Help me?”

“Yes,” said Knightley. “You must understand that we do this as much for your parents as for you, and I do not think I can express what our outrage will be if we find that you have misused our generosity.”

“Indeed, sir, I’ll not abuse your kindness, whatever it is!” said Richard earnestly. “I deserve nothing, I know, but I am exceedingly grateful for any help you could give!”

“Very well. John and I will advance you the entire sum you owe, on several conditions…pray, be seated again Richard”—for the young man had sprung out of his chair at Knightley’s words. “As I said, there are several conditions. First, you must resign your membership at the Union Club immediately.”

“Already done,” said Richard. “Several days ago.”

“And are you a member anywhere else?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. The second condition is that you must go home and give a full account of this business to your parents.”

Richard licked his lips, but nodded.

“The third condition is that when you are called to the bar, which my brother assures me you soon will be, you will live the life of a very frugal monk. You will repay us as quickly as you are able, and you will by no means live up to your income. Can you meet all those conditions?”

“I can, sir. I only wish there were something else I could do to show my gratitude…my penitence…my earnest desire…”

“All right,” said John. “No speeches. Save them for the courtroom. Your conduct will show your sincerity. Don’t forget that old saying: ‘Some often repent, yet never reform.’”

“You will see me reform, I swear it,” said Richard. “And perhaps you might take the money to the Club yourself? I would rather not appear there again, for any reason.”

“By all means,” said John.

*             *            *

“I hope we did right,” said Knightley an hour later when Richard was gone.

“So do I,” said John. “But I believe we did.”

“I almost think he has punishment enough in confessing his idiocy to his parents.”

“Quite. It’s no wonder he stayed away at Christmas. It would have been torture for him to visit his father, knowing what misery his father would suffer if the truth were all told.”

“Yes. Avoiding the parental home is of great consequence to those in the throes of dissipation,” said Knightley, wondering suddenly if this was the reason for Frank Churchill’s non-appearance at Randalls. Could he be gambling away his expected inheritance, and feeling guilty enough to avoid his upright, honest father?

Just the sort of thing he would do, thought Knightley. Expensive, useless, idle fellow. Nothing to occupy his time but following the racing calendar and gaming at some club whenever he is in town. I hope Weston is on his guard; Churchill may come to him for a loan under some pretence. And if he were ever to come to me for money…

“What is it?” said John.

“Hmm?”

“You look as if you regret helping Richard.”

“No, no. Richard is all right. But I tell you truly, John, if any other dissolute young man crosses my path and threatens the happiness of my friends, I will show no mercy—none at all.”

“Then heaven help the poor fellow.”

“Heaven won’t want to help him, either,” said Knightley.