Chapter 11

        The parish committee met at The Crown, as usual, the next Wednesday. After an hour in conference they had nearly got through all the items slated for deliberation. They had discussed the distressing fact that the newly repaired bridge already showed a crack in its north side and debated whether the fault lay with the workmen, the architect, or Random Mischance. Knightley said he would undertake to speak to the Surveyor of Highways about it and see what ought to be done. Parish rates had been analysed: was the help given sufficient? Could any more poor be added to the rolls without rates being raised again? Elton referred often to the papers he had brought to support his opinions, which were, on the whole, reasonable, though he did seem to rely overmuch on the generosity of Hartfield for the support of the poor. And finally they embarked on the topic of the farmer Freeman’s draining a boggy field. 

        “Of course there’s no quarrel with Freeman reclaiming that land,” said Cole, “but it’s the harm it’s doing the river that’s the trouble.”

        “The river?” said Elton, stifling a yawn.

        “Yes,” said Knightley. “The field had three or four feet of peat on top of good soil. Freeman is taking the peat off so that he may use that field for crops. There’s no harm in that, but he is getting rid of the peat by throwing it into the river, which runs through his property.”

        “Yes,” put in Weston, “And the river’s getting blocked up a little downstream and fish are dying and so on.”

        Elton nodded a little absently and let the men argue the matter without any contribution from him. Weston thought that no lasting harm would be done, and Cole thought there might be. Weston said that as the river flowed through Freeman’s land, there wasn’t much that could be done about it. He had already spoken to Freeman and found him unwilling to stop putting the peat in the river. Cole thought that there must be some remedy for the situation and appealed to Knightley. As Knightley began speaking, Elton took out his pencil and, uncharacteristically, began making notes on a blank sheet of paper. Surprised but pleased at Elton’s diligence, Knightley gave his opinion that William Cox ought to be applied to. He might know of a law that would strengthen their hand.

        “Is there not a law about disrupting the course of a river?” said Cole, “Or one about fouling a water supply?”

        Weston’s view was that the mere threat of the law might be enough to deter Freeman, and the talk drifted into stories about miscreants who were warned off bad behaviour by well-worded threats. Elton appeared to find these fascinating, for he jotted down more notes as the talk went on.
“Well then,” said Knightley finally. “Cole will speak to William Cox about this matter and we can decide what to do on this subject next week. I think that closes our business today. And our timing is perfect—it appears the rain has stopped.”

        “Has it?” said Cole. “But only for a moment, I’ll wager. Dash it all, I meant to talk to Mrs. Stokes when I came in about changing the whist-club night to Thursdays. I’ll do it now before I forget.” He went out, leaving the door open.

        Weston went to the window, and as was his habit, threw up the sash and stuck his head out. The draught caused by the open door and window caught Elton’s papers which were stacked on the table in front of him. They flew up in confusion and then fluttered gracefully to the floor.
Unheeding, Weston gave his report. “Yes, no rain at present, though there are more dark clouds coming and the wind is still howling. Brrrrr…” He brought his head back inside and shut the window. Elton glowered but said nothing as he bent down to pick up the scattered pages. Knightley handed him the two which had come to rest nearest his foot, and Elton grunted his thanks.

        The men left the room together, Knightley pausing before going outside to ask John Ostler, whom he met in the passageway, about his father’s health.

        “Not so bad, Mr. Knightley, I thank you, but then not so good, either,” said John.

        “You’ll let me know how he gets on, will you?” said Knightley.

        “I will, sir, and thank you.”

        Knightley turned to go, but was stopped by Mrs. Stokes’ saying, “Mr. Knightley, I think you’ve left one of your papers behind. It was in the little parlour, on the floor.”

        Knightley took the page from her outstretched hand. It looked like one of Elton’s sheets of paper, but the words on it had nothing to do with parish business.

It was Elton’s writing. Well, that explained why Elton had looked so studious during the meeting; he must fancy himself a poet whose first duty was to the Muse that inspired him at inopportune moments. Looking at it again, he saw that it appeared to be a charade. My first must show…

        Then Knightley became aware that Mrs. Stokes was still waiting for him to speak.

        “Thank you, Mrs. Stokes. I’ll see that this is returned to its owner."  

He had no wish to give the charade back to its owner personally and see Elton’s embarrassment (at least he ought to be embarrassed to be caught writing riddles during parish meetings) and hear his excuses. Instead, he went to the vicarage and gave it to the housemaid that opened the door. Then, reluctantly, he walked to Hartfield. It had been nearly a week since he had been there, and he must go and call on Mr. Woodhouse. He hoped that Emma might be out during his visit; he did not want to see her yet. He had met Robert Martin on the road that morning on his way to the meeting at the Crown, and though nothing was said about Martin’s disappointment, the grief on his face was almost enough to make Knightley fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for having given him so much encouragement.

He had often been annoyed by Emma’s faults, but this time he was really angry. How dare she! was the refrain that had been playing itself over in his mind during the last week. And his resentment was not toward Emma alone: Mrs. Weston, for example—why could she not have used a firmer hand with Emma when she was governess? That would have warded off this trouble. And Harriet—why must Harriet flatter Emma so much? It was the excess of Harriet’s adoration that had given Emma such an exalted view of her own powers. And then there was Elton. Elton’s admiration for Emma was supposed by her to be disinterested, as she thought he was pursuing Harriet. Emma no doubt took all his gallantries as literal truth, which only puffed her up more. He was also angry with himself. He ought to have said something sooner, or talked more seriously to her when she was younger and more impressionable …

He had not finished reproaching himself when he arrived at Hartfield. 

To his chagrin, both Emma and Harriet were there. Emma gave him a tentative smile of greeting, which faded when he gave her a civil, formal salutation and sat down near Mr. Woodhouse. He had intended to talk exclusively with Mr. Woodhouse, but that elderly gentleman drew Emma into the conversation almost at once.

“My dear Emma, we must ask Mr. Knightley if he has anything for Miss Smith’s book. Mr. Knightley is so very clever, I am sure he knows a score of riddles.”

 “This is the book of riddles and charades that Harriet is collecting, Mr. Knightley,” Emma said, taking a thin book from a side table. “Perhaps you may like to see it.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Knightley politely. This must have some connection with the charade that Elton had written. Presumably Mr. Woodhouse had also importuned him for a contribution, and Elton was obliging by writing one himself. The first few pages of Harriet’s book had several riddles and charades already copied neatly onto them, and they were ornamented very tastefully with little ciphers and trophies—Emma’s work, Knightley could tell. Most of the conundrums were well known to him, but one he had never heard before caught his eye:

         When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit,
        And my second confines her to finish the piece,
        How hard is her fate! but how great is her merit
        If by taking my whole she effects her release! *

He contemplated the hints for a moment, and then smiled briefly as understanding came. Hemlock, of course.

“I have tried to remember the riddles I knew when I was young,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “but my memory is not what it was. It is very strange that I cannot remember any of them except ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,’ and then only a part of it. But Mr. Knightley, I dare say, knows several.”

“I have no doubt that Mr. Knightley does know a number of charades,” said Emma. “They are all very likely highly instructive and exceptionally moral, and will improve everyone who reads them.” She spoke as if she were teasing him, but she was not really teasing. There was no humour in her eyes. “The collection would not be complete without a contribution from Mr. Knightley.”

Very well, then, he would contribute something that ought to instruct Emma—and Elton, who was sure to read the book as well—if only they had ears to hear.

“If you insist,” said Knightley, “I do happen to know a charade which is very much to the purpose. Quite instructive, as you have said. It is not too difficult. I will write it out for you, if you will give me a moment.” He crossed to the little table in the corner, where a pencil and paper were to be found, and quickly wrote:

My first denotes a muted song

With which the jaw can never tire

The next is a beast with horns quite long

And proves to be the new calf’s sire.

The whole’s a virtue that some despise

But makes one exalted in Heaven’s eyes.

“There,” he said, coming over to Emma and giving her the paper. “Can you tell the answer?”

Emma read the whole aloud, and then applied herself to deciphering its meaning.

“Hmmm…” she said. “’A muted song with which the jaw can never tire.’ Well, I suppose a jaw would never tire if it didn’t move, but then how could you have a song if you didn’t move your jaw?  Well, leave that for the present. A beast with long horns…the calf’s sire…that would be a bull.  Something-bull.  ‘The whole’s a virtue…makes one exalted…’ A virtue? You were quite serious about this being an edifying riddle!”

Knightley’s grave eyes met hers, and she looked back at the paper.

“I’m sure I must be mistaken,” said Harriet timidly, “but the part about being exalted in heaven’s eyes reminds me of the text Mr. Elton read out on Sunday, from St. Luke: ‘He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’ But of course ‘humbleth’ is too many syllables.”

“Humble…the muted song…hum…bull…yes, of course! Harriet, you have found it out!” Emma’s face beamed at Harriet with delight; Like a proud mother, thought Knightley.

“Have I?” said Harriet. “I do not believe I have ever found out the answer to a riddle before.”

“Well, Miss Smith, it is to your credit that it was your familiarity with Holy Writ that gave you the clue,” said Knightley civilly.

“As to that, sir, it was only that Mr. Elton had read it out recently, else I might not have remembered it so quickly.”

“Never mind, Harriet,” said Emma. “It is a worthy addition to your collection, and one that particularly belongs to you—not only because you discovered the answer but because it is a virtue that you display to perfection. There are few who would tax you with arrogance, whoever else might be accused of it”—this said with a slight glance in his direction.

“I am glad the charade has your approval,” said Knightley drily. “I hope it may prove useful to those who read Miss Smith’s collection.”

*     *    *   *    *

“Excuse me, sir, but here’s Mr. Knightley for you.”

Dr. Hughes looked up from his book at the housemaid’s announcement and his eyes brightened.

“And how are you, Mr. Knightley?”

“Well in body, though rather agitated in mind. I was hoping that conversation with you might give me a more tranquil spirit.”

“Then I am afraid you will be disappointed, I am not in the best of tempers myself.”

“I am very sorry—and greatly surprised—to hear that, sir. I do not think I have ever seen you otherwise than uncomplaining and patient. What has troubled you?”

“Oh, everything. The pain in my leg has subsided a great deal, but it still hurts and I am tired of lying in this bed, tired of reading, and tired of every visitor beginning the conversation by asking if my leg is improving.”

Knightley grinned sheepishly; he had entered the room ready to enquire after that very thing.

“Of course,” Dr. Hughes went on, “it is very reasonable for them to ask; it is what I should ask if I were visiting an invalid. But you have no idea how annoying it is to answer the same question time and time again.”

“I shall go away and come another time if you prefer,” said Knightley.

“Not at all; you have improved my ill-humour by coming. Sit down. And I had something I wanted to say to you.”

“What is that?”

“You know, of course, that Mefford has given up his lease and will be moving.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Mefford came to see me yesterday, asking if there was something that could be done for her son, Harry. He is nearly twenty, you know, and has never really taken to farming. And she fears that her husband will not be able to lease another farm elsewhere. She wondered if he might go into service somewhere, and if I knew of an open position hereabouts.”

“Were you hoping there was a place at Donwell?”

“I know there is a place at Donwell. Betty, our housemaid, told Mrs. Hughes this morning that one of your footmen has given notice. His older brother has died and he is needed at home—I think his father is a corset-maker.”

“William Larkins called at the vicarage this morning, did he?” smiled Knightley.

“Yes, I’ve no doubt the information came through him. You did not know it?”

“No. Baxter had not yet mentioned it to me.”

“Well, will you ask Baxter if young Harry could take Thomas’s place?

“He’s certainly tall enough for a footman, but—forgive me—my impression of him is that he is better fitted for feeding poultry than serving it at table.”

Dr. Hughes chuckled. “No doubt. But he may learn.” Seeing that Knightley still hesitated, he added, “I can well believe that he is not an ideal choice for the position from your point of view, but from his point of view, nothing could be better.”

“I am not likely to suffer as much from his inexperience as Baxter is,” said Knightley. “I will ask Baxter if he is willing to train him. Heretofore I have had nothing to do with the hiring of under-servants.”

“No, I imagine not. If you give it good consideration, I will be content.”

“Very well, I will think on it.”

“Thank you. That is one burden less. Now, if you could only find a balm for broken hearts you would remove another cause of my troubled state.”

“If you mean Robert Martin, I heartily wish I had a cure. Healing his heart would remove my aggravation as well.”

“How so?”

Knightley hesitated. As angry as he was with Emma, it pained him to think of others censuring her too. She was quite mistaken, but there was still a great deal of goodness in her. People would be apt to forget that. Of course, the rector was the very last person who would spread tales about others; telling him about Emma’s folly would not be making it public. But then he didn’t really want to discuss Emma’s misdeeds even with Dr. Hughes; he wanted him to think well of Emma.

“I don’t think I can explain it fully to you, sir. But I do feel most sincerely for Robert Martin.”

“Anyone must. I confess I had rather it happened to almost anyone else.”

“Will he confide in Spencer, do you think? He is about his own age.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Dr. Hughes with a touch of impatience. “He very well might.” He looked away from Knightley and out the window with a rather cross expression, which was such a contrast to his usually cheerful countenance that Knightley wondered if perhaps he really ought to go. But before he could move, Dr. Hughes sighed and said, “Forgive me. You see now another reason for my peevishness. When Spencer first came, I was distressed that he was not more generally liked by the parish. I knew his worth and was unhappy that his merit was unseen by most. Now, however, his kindness and humility have earned him the respect he is worthy of. I should be pleased and yet…and yet I fear now that the parish will come to prefer him to me. Is that not a disgraceful confession? That I should be envious of my curate! I may say that I had no idea of the state of my heart until I realized that my vanity was wounded at the thought of ‘my flock’ preferring another.”

“An entirely reasonable and natural feeling, I should think,” said Knightley. “I am sure I would feel the same. But you have nothing at all to fear, sir; your flock will never favour another over you. They have loved you too well and too long to give your curate the preference.”

“That may be true. And also true, as you have said, that it is natural for me to feel as I do. But there is a higher Law, which I have violated. ‘Charity envieth not,’ you know, and therefore I know that I am lacking in charity. It is a frightful admission.”

“’O! beware, my lord, of jealousy’,” murmured Knightley.

“Indeed. The Bard knew what he was about when he wrote that.” Dr. Hughes looked out the window again, but now he looked contemplative instead of annoyed. After a moment he sighed again and then looked at Knightley once again. “Your brother and sister arrive soon, do they not?”

“On Saturday. I will be very glad to see them again.”

“You will ask them to visit me, will you not? Tell Mrs. Knightley that I want to see all the children.”

“My dear sir,” said Knightley, rising to go, “You could not evade seeing them if you wanted to. Nothing would induce my sister to leave her children behind when she calls on old friends. And they will be at the Abbey frequently—you know they always visit Donwell every day. They can be so much noisier there than at Hartfield where their Grandpapa likes tranquillity.”

“Good. I am glad the Abbey will have children’s voices echoing down its halls, however briefly. It needs a little life in it; you are too much alone there.”

Knightley opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. It was not worth arguing over. He bowed and bid the rector good day.

                   __________________________________________________________________________________________________

* This charade was written by Jane Austen