Charity
Envieth Not
or
George
Knightley, Esquire
Chapter 1
The moon had just risen as Knightley left
the grounds of Donwell Abbey
and walked the familiar road to Hartfield. He had left his
brother’s house in London
“You might have stayed a few more days, George,” John had said as the groom brought the horses around to where they were standing and checked to see that the luggage was securely loaded onto one of them. “The children would have liked you to see the Royal Menagerie with them.”
“Had I only my own inclination to consult, I would stay until Christmas. But the Quarter Sessions are approaching and William Larkins is anxious that I come and approve his plan for moving that fence on the north side of the sheep pasture before he dismisses the workmen that have been building the new barn. And I must see how Hartfield is sustaining the loss of Miss Taylor.”
“Yes.” John smiled wryly. “I do not envy you the task of cheering my father-in-law. Though you and Emma together might just do it—temporarily, at least. I fear you will be entirely surrounded by morose and irritable people: Hartfield will be sober for several weeks at least, and William Larkins and Mrs. Hodges are never cheerful.”
“Not exactly never, John. There was a day last spring…”
John snorted. “I suppose all the sheep had twin lambs, pleasing Larkins with the thought of profit and Mrs. Hodges with the thought of lamb cutlets?”
“Not quite. It was the cows that had twin calves, and even then Mrs. Hodges only smiled because the asparagus was early.”
John groaned even as he smiled. “I do not know how you can bear with them with such good humour. It seems to me that you spend a good deal of your time smoothing over fractious tempers or putting up with difficult and tedious people.”
“No more than is good for me.”
“And you are sadly in want of rational conversation.”
“Not at all. I have told you that Cole is on the parish committee for Poor Relief, and he is a good fellow. And I have Gilbert and Dr. Hughes. Dr. Hughes, particularly, is well-read and intelligent. And then I am often surprised by good conversation when I am not looking for it. Young Martin came the other week to discuss the new rams he had bought and found me reading the road surveyor’s report of that bridge near Highbury. We had a most interesting talk on the subject of roads, bridges, and improvements.”
“And Weston is settled there now, as well.”
“Yes, though I’m not sure any newly-married man is good for rational conversation. I recall you, for example, seven years ago—”
“No, no, that is enough of that. You had better be off now, or you will be too late to give Isabella’s greetings to Hartfield.”
And so he had travelled home and eaten his dinner and was now going to raise the spirits of Mr. Woodhouse and Emma. He might have deferred his visit to the morrow, but he felt that a visit to Hartfield was as necessary to his mood as it was to theirs. After the noisy cheerfulness of his brother’s house, Donwell Abbey seemed lonely and silent—even more so than usual. A little bit of conversation at Hartfield was just the thing he needed.
The road was well lit by the nearly-full moon, and the weather was just right for an evening in late September. The weather would certainly not hinder the final days of work on the new barn, in spite of William Larkins’ gloomy predictions. His brother’s words came back to him and made him smile: I fear you will be entirely surrounded by morose and irritable people. John pitied him, he knew, for living alone at Donwell with no connections nearby—unless one could count the Woodhouse family as connections. But even so, he was usually content. His brother’s home was not too distant for frequent visits, and Hartfield was so familiar to him as to be almost a second home. Mr. Woodhouse could not take the place of a father with him, but he was the sort of man that one must respect, and it felt good and right to Knightley that there was such a man in the neighbourhood for him to pay deference to. Even his brother, who at times allowed Mr. Woodhouse’s weak understanding and nervous temperament to vex him, knew the real generosity and goodness of the old man’s heart. Knightley’s father had been Mr. Woodhouse’s friend and advisor, and the son had taken up the mantle when he became the master of Donwell. It was a satisfaction to him to be of use to the fussy, kind-hearted old gentleman.
This usefulness extended to the daughter; it lifted Emma’s burden a little when he was there to calm Mr. Woodhouse’s fears and make him cheerful with small, happy items of news. You and Emma together might just do it … Yes, he feared that the loss of Miss Taylor would be such a blow to Mr. Woodhouse that Emma alone would not be able to do much to prevent his lamentations. And Emma herself would be feeling melancholy after the loss of such a friend. Not for the first time did Mr. Knightley wish that there was another companion in Highbury for Emma. Her loss was the heavier of the two.
He was nearly to Hartfield now; the knowledge that Emma was labouring alone to bring her father to contentment while feeling rather dismal on her own account had hastened his steps. A few moments later, the hall porter, a dignified elderly servant, answered the door to his knock and greeted him with his usual quiet, “Good evening, Mr. Knightley.” As he took Knightley’s coat, he added, “I thought you might come tonight, sir.”
The footman announced him as he walked into the drawing room. The faces of the two occupants of the room brightened with unfeigned pleasure at the sight of him. Mr. Woodhouse was seated, as usual, near the blazing fire, and Emma was evidently arranging the playing pieces on the backgammon table in preparation for a game with her father. She came forward to meet him with a smile and a lively greeting, and he fancied there was even a little bit of relief in her expression as she led him to the empty chair near her father and bid him be seated.
“All well here, I trust?” he asked, as Emma put the backgammon aside. “I left Isabella and John in excellent health and spirits not three hours ago.”
“How good of you to come and tell us so, Mr. Knightley!” said Mr. Woodhouse. “But the children? How are the dear children?”
“They are all in excellent health, sir.”
“Poor Isabella, my poor dear Isabella,” murmured Mr. Woodhouse. To a stranger this remark would have been puzzling enough, following as it did on the heels of a good report, but to Knightley, who understood it, it gave gentle amusement. Emma’s eyes rested lovingly on her father, but there was humour in them, too.
“And had poor Isabella a headache while you were there? She often has a headache, you know, Mr. Knightley, though she never complains.”
“I do not believe she had any. She said that she has had very few since they returned from South End. And that little Bella’s throat was much better as well.”
“Oh! That miserable South End and that sea-bathing! They had much better not have gone. Sea-bathing with a weak throat! Perry said that he had never heard of such folly. And the baby, too—so young, and so liable to infection! Are you sure, Mr. Knightley, that the baby caught no infection at South End?”
“Perfectly sure. All the children are in remarkably good health. The boys are strong and healthy fellows. I took them to the park one day, and Henry rolled his hoop the length of it with no assistance from anyone.”
“Did he, indeed? Well, he is a clever boy, to be sure.”
“And little Bella,” said Emma, “is it true that she knows her alphabet already?”
“In truth, she does know it, and can recite it whenever she is called upon. She’s a precocious little thing. She reminds me of Emma, sir, when Emma was a child.”
“Yes, Emma was always very quick, was she not, Mr. Knightley? You were like your dear mother, Emma. It is no wonder that Isabella’s children take after her.”
After Mr. Woodhouse was satisfied that the Knightleys in London were in no worse health than they were when he had last seen them, he was at leisure to express his concern for Mr. Knightley’s comfort, as he had walked all the way from Donwell Abbey on such a dark and damp night. Knightley made his usual protests against such solicitude, as it was perfectly unnecessary, and then gently broached the topic of Miss Taylor’s marriage.
“Ah! Poor Miss Taylor!” said Mr. Woodhouse immediately, his countenance clouding over again. “’tis a sad business.”
Knightley looked at Emma to see how she took the mention of this change in her life. Her elegant posture did droop a little at this reminder, though her face retained the smile it had been wearing. Poor Miss Taylor, indeed! thought Knightly. No one in this room needs sympathy less than she! He would do what he could to comfort Emma, at least. An appeal to her love for Miss Taylor and her desire for Miss Taylor’s happiness would do more than anything else to reconcile her.
“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please,” he said, “But I cannot possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence! At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please, than two.”
Emma’s left eyebrow lifted, as it always did when she was about to tease him. “Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature! That is what you have in your head, I know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”
He grinned and opened his mouth to respond to this, but was checked by Mr. Woodhouse’s breaking in with, “I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed. I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”
Emma quickly reassured her father that she had herself in view, certainly not him, and that it was all a joke, anyway—Mr. Knightley liked to pretend to find fault with her, and that was what the joke was about. Knightley watched this familial interplay with quiet amusement. He knew she wished his reminders and reprimands were all mere teasing, though she knew very well they were not. However, these few well-chosen words from Emma quieted Mr. Woodhouse’s fears and brought him back to complacency. Even so, Knightley judged that his nerves were not in a state that made it possible to tell Emma now—again—that he had only her own good in view when he brought her faults to her attention. Instead, he merely clarified his own statement, saying that anyone who had only one person to please instead of two must find it a gain.
“Well,” said Emma, starting a new subject, “You want to hear about the wedding, and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks. Not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.” Emma glanced at her father—she could not honestly say that there had been no long faces. “Oh no! We all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.”
Perhaps Mr. Woodhouse thought Emma sounded rather heartless, for he shook his head and said, “Dear Emma bears every thing so well. But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for.”
Emma’s determined cheerfulness wavered at this—the truth of her father’s words could not be denied. She turned away, but not before Knightley saw tears forming in her eyes.
“It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” he said. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it.” He meant to show her that he understood her feelings, and could never think her wanting in affection for her friend. It was, in fact, that affection which would be the most material help in soothing the pangs of separation; the more Emma thought of Miss Taylor’s happiness, the less she would regret her own loss. So he said all he could on the subject of Miss Taylor’s comforts and advantages, and was rewarded by the return of a smile to Emma’s face and the good omen of a raised left eyebrow.
Knightley walked home to Donwell less content than he had been on the walk to Hartfield. The marriage of the Westons was undoubtedly a good thing for them, but he foresaw that it would be a bad thing for Emma. Though not as firm in her authority as she might have been, Miss Taylor had been a good companion and teacher for her charge; she had instructed her commendably in the art of being a gentlewoman, had nourished her love of her father and her compassion for the poor, and had given her right principles to live by. Those principles had taken root in Emma; when once convinced that something was her duty, she would do it, regardless of cost to herself. Emma really was, in many ways, an admirable young woman. But she might be still more admirable than she was. She could be a very knowledgeable and accomplished woman indeed, but she had not disciplined herself to read, practice, or study when she did not feel like it, and Miss Taylor had not forced her. He felt that her intellect was often wasted on trivial matters. She was clever, but there was no one around her but himself who would oppose any scheme she had. He had no doubt that the scheme she had spoken of tonight would be diligently pursued. Probably nothing he could have said would have deterred her, but had he goaded her into it by any misspoken word? How had it started? Ah yes. She had taken credit for the Westons’ marriage, saying that she had planned it four years ago and that as it was the greatest amusement in the world, she would continue to make matches for other people. Amusement! He bit his lip in frustration. Meddling in the lives of good, honest men and women all for the sake of her own amusement! And then when he had protested that the Westons’ marriage was really not due to her own endeavours but that she had merely made a lucky guess, she asserted that she had at least smoothed the progress of the courtship and assured its successful conclusion.
“A straight-forward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational unaffected woman, like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns,” he had told her. “You are more likely to have done harm to yourself than good to them, by interference.”
Mr. Woodhouse had also urged Emma not to make any more matches, though it was more on his own account than anyone else’s. But Emma would not be dissuaded by either her father or himself, and there was no one else to check her. She had declared that she meant to make a match for Mr. Elton, the vicar, and Knightley was sure that however weak her determination proved to be when she planned a course of improving study for herself, it would be firm in this enterprise.
Mr. Woodhouse had suggested that an invitation to dinner would be far more helpful to Mr. Elton, and Knightley could not help laughing as he concurred. But the more he thought about it, the less humorous he found it. Deprived of Miss Taylor’s steadying influence, she would be more headstrong than ever; deprived of Miss Taylor’s society, she would amuse herself with employments unworthy of her intelligence and abilities. For years—since Emma was about twelve—he had thought that if he had a wife she might be a help to Emma. The right sort of woman…virtuous but also lively, domestic but intelligent, able to appreciate and meet Emma’s wit…such a woman would be an ideal companion for Emma no less than for himself. But no such woman had crossed his path, and he was not prepared to let a lesser woman take the title of mistress of Donwell Abbey.
He sighed as he walked through Donwell’s sweep-gate. He had some little hope that he had been able to raise the spirits of those at Hartfield, but his feelings were rather more depressed than they had been two hours ago.
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