Charity Envieth Not

Chapter 6

 

11^th November                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Wellyn House                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Brunswick Square

Dear George,

Thank you for yours of the 2^nd. We are all well here; that is to say, Isabella is as usual and the children are very healthy. Little Bella’s fourth birthday was last week, and she was presented—rather against my inclination—with a white French cat. It is made much of by everyone but myself, and though it is confined to the nursery most of the time, Bella brings it down every evening after dinner so that it may pay its respects to the rest of the family. Bella asked me what name the cat should have and I suggested “Madam Duval”—out of Evelina, you know. I fear the joke is lost on everyone here.

I hauled myself over to the Club last night for the annual dinner—thank God only one dinner is required all year. Good food is a weak substitute for poor company. I ought not to speak so harshly, I suppose; the fellows are not so bad. But the talk is everlastingly the same: the War, politics, Prinny, the theatre and all the other sort of gossip that sends me to sleep over the port.

I met up with Graham and he asked to be remembered to you. He has suddenly inherited an estate in Northamptonshire—cousin died unexpectedly, apparently, and the whole lot was entailed to Graham. He’s in a quandary, though, as to how to make the estate pay. He says it’s in a poor state, the previous owners having lived in London and relied on a worthless bailiff to manage the place. He wants your advice. I told him there was nothing you liked so much as arranging everyone else’s business. I think he believed me.

Thank you for the kind invitation to stay with you at Christmas. You know as well as I that it would be too difficult for Mr. Woodhouse to have Isabella anywhere else but Hartfield at Christmas, but I appreciate your offer of hospitality. It makes little difference, really, as we will see you every day. The boys continually ask how many days must pass before they can see Uncle Knightley again.

Isabella sends all her kind wishes, as usual, and I remain,

Your favourite brother,

John

*        *      *      *     *      *

 

“Ah, my dear Mr. Knightley!” said Mr. Woodhouse. “It is indeed a delight to have you dining here once again. How weary you must be after that dreadful fair in Kingston! And here is Mr. Weston returned from Town as well, as you see. I am sure you must both be extremely thankful to be home.” Mr. Woodhouse would have been wrung to the depths of his soul if he had been required to leave his home and travel elsewhere, and he had the utmost pity for anyone else obliged to do so.

“I am very glad to be dining here again, sir,” said Knightley. “I regret that I have been engaged for so many days together which prevented me from calling at Hartfield.”

“It is always so dismal when you cannot come, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, faintly reproachful. “Emma and I miss you so.”

Knightley looked around for Emma. There she was, dressed in a new green print gown that brought out the rich hazel of her eyes.

“And here is Mr. Elton come,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley…” He gave a courtly little bow and moved off to welcome the vicar as he entered the room.

Knightley went over to Emma. For once she was standing alone; Harriet was talking to the Westons.

“You look very well,” he said. “That is a new gown, is it not?”

“It is,” Emma smiled—her natural smile, with all its openness and sincerity, “but I am surprised that you perceived such a thing. You never noticed whether a gown of mine was new or not before, I am sure.”

“I have never needed to. Miss Bates has always informed me when you had a new gown.”

Emma laughed. “I see. How did you fail to hear about this one, then?”

“I have not been near the Bates’ for several days; in fact, I have not had leisure to call on anyone.”

“Ah! Well then, I must give you all the news that Miss Bates would otherwise have informed you of. Mrs. Weston has a new silver teapot which Mr. Weston brought her from Town, the bridge is finally completed, and”—lowering her voice—“Mrs. Bates has a cold. My father has not heard of it yet. Pray don’t mention it to him; it would disturb his comfort so.”

“No, of course I will not.”

“There must be other news as well...Oh! Mrs. Saunders was delivered of a baby girl yesterday, and Mrs. Plover’s son was…but then you would know about him already.”

“Yes. Have you visited Mrs. Plover? Is she well?”

Emma’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “Well enough, I suppose. I wish she had a better son. She manages to keep from relying on the parish, but only just. I do not believe she would be able to do it without the help of her neighbours.”

“And the help of Hartfield,” added Knightley, “for I know what you do. Well, will you let me know if I may be of service to her?”

Emma smiled and nodded. She did indeed look very well this evening, Knightley thought, and he was on the verge of telling her so when he remembered that he had already said it once.

“Well now, Elton!” Weston hailed the vicar from across the room. “What took you so long to get here? I’ve never known you to be the last to arrive at a Hartfield gathering.”

“I was detained at the Bates’,” said Elton with a polite smile on his face but a note of frustration in his voice. “Mrs. Bates has caught a bad cold and Miss Bates was very worried about it.”

Blast the man! thought Knightley, as Mr. Woodhouse’s face revealed his dismay. Cannot he learn when to keep silent? Mr. Woodhouse’s peace will be cut up for the entire evening now.

“Emma, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse in consternation, “Should not Perry be sent for? Should we not send a message for Perry to see Mrs. Bates? And we ought to send her some beef-tea. Oh dear, oh dear. Poor Mrs. Bates!”

“I’m sure Mr. Perry has been to see her already,” said Emma soothingly, “Has he not, Mr. Elton?”

“Oh, yes. He came twice today, I believe.”

“There, Papa! You know that Mr. Perry is very attentive to Mrs. Bates. I was sure he would not neglect her. And when Mr. Perry calls here tomorrow we may ask him what we may do for her. We will suggest beef-tea and he will tell us if that is what we ought to send.”

“And I will call on the Bates’ tomorrow, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Mrs. Weston, coming over to him. “I shall bring you a report of her health. A cold, you know, if carefully watched, is seldom very serious. She has a strong constitution, as well, sir. I think we need not be uneasy for her.”

“No indeed!” said Emma. “Miss Bates loves her mother so much that it is natural she should be nervous at the slightest symptoms of ill-health, but we who have seen her come through many a cold may safely trust to Mr. Perry, I think.”

“You must be right, of course, my dear Emma,” sighed Mr. Woodhouse, endeavouring to be comforted by her logic. “My dear Mrs. Weston, I am sure you are right; you always are. But it is a dangerous season.”

A new topic of conversation was needed now, and Mrs. Weston took the responsibility of finding it.

“Mr. Knightley, how does the new curate at Donwell get on?”

There was a pause as Knightley felt the eyes of the entire company on him. In his opinion, Spencer was not getting on very well. Knightley had now sat through two of Spencer’s sermons and the experience had been rather painful. The poor young man had read his sermons with a quiet voice and faltering manner, never once lifting his eyes to the congregation. For a parish used to the masterful and eloquent sermons of Dr. Hughes, Spencer was an enormous disappointment. Furthermore, the first Sunday he had actually left out a whole set of responses through sheer nervousness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Knightley saw Elton smirk. No doubt he had heard reports of the curate’s sermons. He determined to represent Spencer as well as he could.

“Not so badly,” he said. “Dr. Hughes tells me that he has visited half the families in the parish already—he began visiting the day after he arrived! And his sermons are very…thoughtful.” Now that he had said it, it struck him that it was entirely true. The content of the sermon had been thoughtful, however feeble the delivery had been. “He is young yet,” Knightley went on, “But he is very sincere. I think the parish may consider itself fortunate to have him.” Elton’s eyebrows went up at that, and even Knightley knew he was overreaching what he really felt. It was best to leave the subject altogether.

“Mrs. Weston, I have heard rumours that you have a handsome new silver teapot. I do hope Weston brought you a matching sugar bowl.”

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Knightley sat at the breakfast table the next morning with his eyes on his egg but his mind recalling the previous evening. He was thoroughly impatient with Elton. His sneering attitude toward poor Spencer was disgraceful, and the way he fawned over and flattered Emma was scarcely less so. Knightley would not interfere. Let him offer for Miss Woodhouse and be refused. It would do him good.

It would also do Emma good. She would find that her manner was not always flawless, and she would be disappointed in her scheme to marry Harriet to Elton. She must be disabused of the notion that she could arrange the lives of everyone in Highbury as if she were a master chess player, moving and positioning the pieces at will.

Then again, it was no wonder she had the idea that she could do so with poor Harriet admiring and supporting everything she said or did. Last night had been specimen enough of that. “Yes, Miss Woodhouse…You are so clever, Miss Woodhouse!...Of course, Miss Woodhouse…Do you think so, Miss Woodhouse?” The silly girl could not even make up her mind whether or not to eat peaches, even though she owned that she disliked them! Miss Woodhouse must advise her first.

Knightley pushed his plate away and looked out the breakfast room window at the trees which were now completely bare. It was impossible to be annoyed with Harriet. The girl was transparently free of design in all she did. Emma might have seen through a girl who meant to flatter her for her own advantage, but Harriet’s artless veneration pleased her. Harriet was only too grateful to be directed and Emma thought herself a philanthropist for directing her. And, unfortunately, Emma’s direction would not make Harriet a better  woman. Harriet would most likely be the wife of an artisan or shopkeeper, and she needed to learn how to be a capable manager and a resourceful housewife. But all she would learn from Emma would be how to sit in polite society without reproach, how to dress with taste and elegance, and how to play backgammon. Much good that would do her!

Knightley rose from the table and walked over to the window to look at the sky. It was grey, but not threatening. A solitary robin perched in the tree just outside. Knightley watched it as it hopped along the branch and then flew away.

Emma and Harriet…It was a sorry business for both of them. The only thing to be done was to enlist help. If those Emma respected most—the Westons or the London Knightleys—united with him in discouraging the friendship, Emma might gradually let the acquaintance drop. He ought to return that book of plans for cottages to Weston; he would bring it back that afternoon and speak to the Westons about Harriet at the same time.

*    *    *    *   *

He had almost reached Randalls when he met Weston on the road.

“Coming to see me?”

“I was returning your book to the library at Randalls, and thought I might spend a congenial hour in the drawing room with you and your lady. But I see you are off somewhere.”

“I have some business with William Cox. I ought to have been there a half hour ago, otherwise I would go back to Randalls with you and help to enliven that congenial hour.”

“Perhaps I ought to call tomorrow instead.”

“Not at all, not at all. Do go and call on Mrs. Weston; she will be glad to see you.”

So Knightley went on and fifteen minutes later he was seated in the drawing room, embarking on the subject of Emma and Harriet.

"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” he began, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing."

"A bad thing!” Mrs. Weston was truly surprised. “Do you really think it a bad thing? Why so?"

Knightley’s heart sank. She had not seen anything amiss, then. Bother! He would have to convince her. "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." 

"You surprise me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel! Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley."

Knightley grinned at that. They had “quarrelled” over Emma several times in the past—always good-naturedly—but Knightley, at least, had been serious about trying to correct the faults in Emma’s education.

"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle."

Mrs. Weston protested that it made not the slightest difference, for she knew Mr. Weston to be entirely on her side of the question. They both agreed that it was fortunate for Emma to have secured a female companion after she had been used to it all her life.

“Mr. Knightley,” she continued, “I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone that you do not know the value of a companion; and perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life.”

I do not know the value of a companion? thought Knightley. But Mrs. Weston was still speaking.

 “I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know."

Well, at least Mrs. Weston saw something less than ideal in the friendship. Perhaps he could build on this. He reminded her that Emma had always had great plans for improving reading, but had never actually read the books, in spite of Miss Taylor’s urging. He knew he was on firm ground by saying that anything requiring industry and patience would never be mastered by Emma. Mrs. Weston, however, seemed to be reluctant to grant him that point, and so he elaborated.

"Emma is spoiled,” said he, “by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her."

"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley,” laughed Mrs. Weston, “to be dependent on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held."

“Yes, said he, smiling. “You are better placed here; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from her, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor.”

"Thank you,” said Mrs. Weston, acknowledging his humour with a graceful incline of her head. “There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston."

"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him."

"I hope not that. It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter."

"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.” However unlikely that appears to be at the moment, he added silently.

“But Harriet Smith,” he continued, “I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing everything. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life. They only give a little polish.”

“I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!”

“Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty.”

“Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”

A sudden vision of how Emma had looked the night before came into his mind. Yes, she was beautiful. She was very beautiful.

“I do not know what I could imagine,” he said after trying for a moment to improve on the vision and failing, “but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend.”

“Such an eye! the true hazel eye—and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure. There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‛the picture of health;’ now Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?”

    “I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I think her all you describe. I love to look at her;” (even now he was strangely reluctant to put the picture of her out of his mind) “and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of her intimacy with Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.”

   “And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times."

It was useless; he could see that. The Westons would not aid him in separating the two young ladies. He gave way amiably, therefore, and said that he would not plague her about it any more, but would instead wait for the Christmas visit of John and Isabella, who would be sure to think as he did.

Mrs. Weston, however, dissuaded him from even that plan of action, saying that she did not think that Emma would listen to John and Isabella even were they to disapprove of her friendship with Harriet, as Mr. Woodhouse completely endorsed it. Furthermore, Isabella was easily worried and might fret over her sister.

This was all very true, and Knightley realized that there was nothing for it but to sit silently by and let Emma do as she pleased. He promised to keep quiet. It vexed him very much to leave her to her fate; his impulse was to protect her even from her own folly.

“I have a very sincere interest in Emma,” he said, explaining his wish to intervene as much to himself as to Mrs. Weston. “Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her.”

“So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently; “very much.”

“She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for.” That was a thought; what would Emma be like if she had seen such a man? Perhaps she would alter as John had when he had fallen in love with Isabella: apprehension and uncertainty would make her humble. “It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object,” he said, thinking aloud. “I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.”

“There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution, at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state I assure you."

Mrs. Weston managed to say it very naturally, but Knightley knew from that way that she looked at her hands as she said it that she had other thoughts she was not expressing. He had been too closely acquainted with Hartfield for too many years not to be able to read the expressions and mannerisms of its inmates. It did not take him many moments to surmise what she was not saying; she likely had some young man in mind that would tempt Emma to break her resolution of remaining single, and he would be very much surprised if the young man was not Frank Churchill.

However, there was nothing he could say about that if Mrs.Weston said nothing, and although he himself had started the topic of Emma being in love, for some reason the thought of Emma marrying was one he was disinclined to dwell on. For the second time in two days he felt he ought to change the course of the conversation.

“What does Weston think of the weather?” was the first thing that came into his head. “Shall we have rain?”

Knightley stayed another quarter of an hour before excusing himself. He had plenty of time on the walk home to review the frustrating conversation. Oddly enough, the words that most needled him were “You are so much used to live alone that you do not know the value of a companion.” But I do, he agued with the ghost of Mrs. Weston. I do know the value of a companion. I may live alone but I have not yet retreated entirely from the world and become a hermit! Not know the value of a companion, indeed! One would think that to live alone condemns a man to be insensible to all human feeling and friendship! Ridiculous! There is nothing wrong with living alone.

“It is not good that the man should be alone.”  The words darted into his mind, startling him and halting his steps for an instant. He was not prepared to do battle with that quotation. Very deliberately he pushed the whole subject out of his mind and strode on toward Donwell.

 

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