Chapter 5

Knightley climbed over the stile and cocked an eye skyward. It was going to rain. He had known it would rain before he set out to look at the Langham path that cut through the home meadow, but he had convinced himself it would hold off for another hour. He wanted to be out of the house. Whatever he had tried to do that afternoon—reading, writing letters, drawing up a new lease—he had found his mind constantly wandering back to the problem of Emma, Elton, and Harriet Smith. Ought he to say something? Was there any way to discourage Emma or Elton without speaking? Should he talk to Mrs. Weston about Emma’s inappropriate friendship with Harriet? Or would it be best to let the matter go and allow the consequences to follow? 

At last he had decided that what he needed was to clear his mind by going to look at that path and see if it could be moved. Without even pausing to take his umbrella or great-coat, he had walked out into the blustery day.

Now that he was here, he regretted that he had been so impetuous. Before he could even begin to survey the land adjoining the home meadow, the first sprinkles of rain were felt. The clouds were dark and it was evident that this would not be a passing shower. There was nothing to do but turn around and go back.

Very quickly, the light drizzle turned into a heavy pelting rain, and long before Donwell Abbey was in sight the rain was pouring down. Just ahead was a large oak, and he hastened toward it for the partial shelter it could give. As he neared the tree he could see that someone else was taking refuge under its branches. The driving rain became large irregular drips under the tree’s broad leaves, and he took out his handkerchief and dried his face before turning to greet his fellow shelter-seeker.

He was a stranger with fair hair, young and well-dressed, who returned Knightley’s “How do you do” with a quiet “Very well, I thank you, sir.” The young man looked embarrassed and nervous, and Knightley hoped to put him at ease by asking if he was visiting in the country.

“No,” said the young man uncomfortably. “I fear I am now a resident of this parish.”

Knightley smiled. “Is it a very fearsome thing?”

The man blushed. “Not at all, sir. It seems a pleasant place. I only meant that it is rather mortifying as a resident to have lost my way. All the more as it is now my parish. Mr. Knightley will not think much of the new curate if he learns that I could not even find my own house after a walk.”

Knightley hesitated, reluctant to make the poor young man more unhappy than he already was. But of course, he really had no choice. He summoned a lighthearted smile and said, “As it happens, I am Mr. Knightley.”

The young man gasped and grew rather pale.

“And,” Knightley went on, “I fear you will not think much of me when you realize that I was so imprudent as to set off on a threatening day without so much as an umbrella. So you see, we have already shown our worst faces to each other and there is nothing more to dread.”

The young man bowed, with his eyes on the ground. “James Spencer, at your service,” he said.

* * * *

“I met the new curate yesterday afternoon, quite accidentally,” Knightley said to Dr. Hughes the next day. “We were both taking shelter under the same tree.”

Dr. Hughes leaned back against the pillows in his bed and nodded.

“Yes, so he informed me when he came to see me last evening. And what did you think of him?”

“Well…”  said Knightley slowly, and paused.

“Yes?”

“He seems rather timid.”

Dr. Hughes chuckled but made no reply.

“I have met many clergymen who were quiet or reserved, but none who were so very bashful. He did answer my questions, and I managed to learn that he was born in Norfolk, was up at Oxford, and was ordained three months ago. Beyond that, however, I know nothing but his name…not even the colour of his eyes, as I do not believe that he looked me full in the face even once.”

“And you have misgivings about his ability to ‘feed the flock of God,’ haven’t you?” Dr. Hughes usually knew what Knightley was thinking.

“I confess I have.”

“I think he will surprise you, Mr. Knightley. His manner may be hesitating, but you will find him to be a sound man. Very sound.”

“Very well. I trust your judgement, sir, and will reserve my own until I know Spencer better.”

“A wise policy, Mr. Knightley. Hasty appraisals are rarely accurate.”

“He will please William Larkins, at any rate; his greatest fear was that the new curate would be a handsome, pleasing young man who would discompose the feelings of the single young women of his parish.”

“Well then, he pleases me and William Larkins. That means there are two in his favour already. Oh! And there is a third; Mrs. Martin told me yesterday that she highly approves of him as well. She discovered that he was born in the parish of Diss, in Norfolk, which is where her grandfather was born. Evidently being born in Diss is a guarantee of good character.”

Knightley smiled. “The Martins are all well, I trust?”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Martin brought some Madeira wine which she said was remarkably healing. Robert was with her. He has done very well with his sheep, has he not? He has high hopes for the selling of his wool at the Kingston fair on Saturday next.”

“Indeed, I only wish my own flock were prospering as well. But then his whole farm is very well-managed. His father was an excellent farmer, of course, but it is to young Martin’s credit that the farm has not declined at all—if anything, it has improved since he has taken the lease.”

“I don’t suppose you know if he means to marry soon?”

Knightley looked surprised. “No, I do not. Has he said something?”

“Not directly. I would not be astonished however, to know that he has something of the kind in contemplation. A man in love usually has an aspect of great abstractedness, and there is further evidence of it when he stops talking about sheep and cattle and begins talking about improvements to the furnishing of his house.”

“I confess I have never noticed such a thing.”

“Ah, well, you see, Mr. Knightley, you’re not married. Never even thought of it, I think.” He looked rather steadily at Knightley.

Knightley was a little taken aback, not at the words, but at the searching look, and did not know how to respond. But in a moment Dr. Hughes went on, more naturally.

“I have been the repository of the lovelorn confessions of countless young men over the years. I suppose it is only natural that I should develop a consciousness of these things.”

“I only remember my brother suffering the agonies of uncertainty over Isabella,” said Knightley. “Perhaps subtler signs were present as well, but the thing I remember most is his real anguish as he said one day, ‘What if she should not love me after all?’ I suppose all young men seem insufferably cocksure to their older brothers, but those weeks of apprehension took away all John’s conceit. He grew exceedingly humble. Unfortunately, once he was in no doubt of his love’s being returned, his usual demeanour was restored.”

 Dr. Hughes laughed. “Lovesickness is a good remedy for arrogance. If only we could prescribe it as Mr. Perry does his medicines! I can think of half a dozen people who would benefit from such a treatment.”

At this moment the housemaid entered and dropped a deferential curtsey to Knightley.

“If you please, sir, there’s a servant downstairs with a message for you,” she said.

Knightley rose and followed her downstairs to where his footman was waiting in the hall.

“Yes, Thomas?”

“Mr. Baxter wishes to inform you, sir, that Constable Burton is waiting to see you at Donwell Abbey. He has two men with him, sir. Mr. Baxter thought you would wish to be informed.”

“Yes, thank you, Thomas. I will come directly.” Knightley dismissed the servant with a courteous nod and climbed back up the stairs to Dr. Hughes’ room.

“I must go, sir. The duties of a magistrate await me in my own drawing room. It must be somewhat important—whoever it is did not care to wait until my usual day at the Crown.”

“Goodbye, then, Mr. Knightley. Come again soon.” It was not spoken out of mere politeness, and Knightley knew it.

It was only a short walk back to Donwell—hardly long enough to wonder who might want him so urgently. It was someone from Highbury, obviously, as Burton was the constable for that parish, and if there were two men with him it was probably the victim of a crime and its suspected perpetrator. He hoped it would not be something very serious.

Baxter met him at the door. “I have shown them into the drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you, Baxter.”

The three men rose as Knightley entered the room. There was Burton, of course, a farmer called Mitchell, and a young man whom Knightley recognized by sight but could not immediately put a name to. He greeted them as they bowed and then asked how he might be of service.

“Well, now, Mr. Knightley,” said Mitchell. “I want William here committed and tried at the petty sessions. He’s committed a felony, he has, and he must pay for it.”

Knightley looked at the young man. Ah yes, William Plover, that was his name. A character rather notorious for petty pilfering and small damages to property. William looked back at Knightley with impudent eyes.

“What exactly was the felony?” said Knightley.

“Stealing eggs,” said Mitchell. “It mayn’t sound like much, but it’s an indictable offence, and I want him taken for it. He’s stolen a quantity of small things from all the farms hereabouts, and this time I caught him red-handed. He was in my poultry house—and that’s trespass, too—and he was filling this here sack that Mr. Burton is holding with my eggs. And I said, ‘Now then, you thief, you’re caught this time, anyway,” and I had my lad run for the constable and he came and took him in hand and we’ve come straight to you for justice.” Mitchell paused here, out of breath with the speed of his narrative and with the energy of his indignation.

“Is this so?” Knightley questioned William.

William shrugged.

“I take it that you admit your guilt,” Knightley said sternly. “All right. Mr. Burton, would you be so good as to take William into the hall and wait with him there until I ask you to return? Thank you.”

The men were silent until the door was shut again.

“Will you commit him?” asked Mitchell. “You know he is a troublemaker and must be stopped. No amount of warnings and threats have had any effect on his behaviour thus far. He doesn’t believe he will ever be prosecuted.”

            “I know,” said Knightley. “Does he work at all?”

“A little,” Mitchell sniffed. “Odd jobs for a few farmers.”

“He has a mother, hasn’t he?”

            “Yes. A poor woman with a bad foot who deserves a better son.”

“You realize, of course, that if he is committed the support of his mother will fall upon the parish? And the rates will have to be raised if any more people are given parish help.”

Mitchell paused. “I had not thought about that,” he said. “Nevertheless, there ought to be some kind of justice done.”

“Indeed there ought. I could commit him to the petty sessions, but I must tell you that I think it unlikely that he would be imprisoned for such a crime. I could fine him, but then there will be even less money in his mother’s house. And I have no doubt she would suffer more from it than he would.”

“True enough,” said Mitchell, whose zeal had noticeably flagged.

“However, there is one thing which may be sufficient to check his criminal activities. I think it is the best solution for now.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and asked the men to return to the room.

“William Plover,” said Knightley, “I am inclined to have the judges at the petty sessions hear this case.”

William looked unconcernedly at the magistrate, not believing that Mr. Knightley was really inclined to do any such thing. He knew he was unlikely to be imprisoned for stealing eggs. It was only another empty threat, and threats did not bother him.

“There is a particular need just now for more men in His Majesty’s Navy. Napoleon is not yet defeated. The penalty given for your sort of theft is often conscription into the army or navy. You could send home a little money to your mother, you know, that way, and the experience may teach you a few things you are lacking.”

William’s eyes lost their contemptuous look as the meaning Knightley’s words sank in. This was not an empty threat, it was rather a real and sinister one. He would have no one to witness to his character if he were brought to court, and as he would not be able to pay a large fine, the justices might very well think he ought to be entered in the lists of soldiers or sailors as his punishment. He began to look actually worried.

“Please, sir,” he said, speaking for the first time, “don’t send me on. I’ll make satisfaction, truly I will.”

“Will you pay Mr. Mitchell the worth of the eggs you stole?”

“That would be sixpence,” put in Mitchell.

“I will, sir.”

“I think there ought to be something more,” mused Knightley. “Have you a job, Mitchell, that young William might labour at for a day or so?”

“I do, Mr. Knightley. I have a wall that wants repairing, and I know he can do it.”

“Very well. William Plover, I find you guilty of theft. Your punishment is to pay Mr. Mitchell sixpence and to mend his fence in a manner that satisfies him.”

“Yes, sir,” said William.

“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Mitchell.

The men bowed and left. Knightley could see them walking away through the drawing room window. He hoped he had done enough. William’s widowed mother ought not to suffer any more for her son’s sake. He hoped she was doing well enough now. He would ask Emma about her; Emma would know.