Charity Envieth Not

Chapter 8

        The carriage containing the three guests from Donwell sloshed its way to Langham through heavy rain. It was a miserable night to be going anywhere, and no doubt the weather had contributed to the agitation of Spencer, who had reverted to his former manner; twisting at his glove buttons and playing with the brim of the hat on his lap. Mrs. Hughes spent the short journey talking brightly to Knightley about the annual distribution of Christmas boxes among the tenants of Donwell, either not seeing Spencer’s unease or kindly leaving him alone to gather his courage. When the carriage discharged its occupants and they were ushered into the drawing room of the Hall, determination was warring with panic on Spencer’s face. So busy was he watching the young man that Knightley only vaguely attended to Gilbert as he performed the introductions. The only person not previously known to him was an overdressed woman aged about thirty, who was introduced as “Mrs. Whitney.” Knightley made his bow, and then turned his eyes to the curate. Spencer’s comportment was the same as it had been on the day Knightley had met him; his eyes were on the floor and his face was flushed a dark red.

        Mrs. Hughes was carried off immediately by Mrs. Gilbert to stand near the fire and talk. Young Mr. Thomas Gilbert, aged only eighteen, retired to a sofa to continue a conversation with his aunt, Miss Gilbert, which had evidently begun before the guests from Donwell had arrived. Knightley looked around for the elderly widow he had been expecting; she would be the one to bring Spencer back to equanimity. This other woman, Mrs. Whitney, was too close to being a fine young lady to do anything but increase the curate’s alarm. And where on earth was Mr. Whitney?

        He realized his error in a moment. Mrs. Whitney was the widowed companion of Miss Gilbert. Blast, he thought. And here was Gilbert coming over to them with Mrs. Whitney on his arm. She was fluttering a painted fan, which was odd on such a cold and stormy night. Good fires were a matter of course at the Gilberts’, but the room was not so warm as made a fan necessary.

        “Mr. Knightley,” began Gilbert, “I have discovered that Mrs. Whitney knows the John Knightleys.”

        “Indeed?” said Knightley, trying to smile pleasantly at her. It was hardly her fault that she was the wrong age.

        “Yes,” said Mrs. Whitney, simpering and fanning herself energetically. “I dined at their house two days ago. When I informed them that I was to come to the Gilberts’, Mr. John Knightley told me to be sure to give you his kind regards and a message…what was it?...something about hoping you are pleased with the first in his string. I am not certain I have remembered it correctly, but it was something very near that.”

        Oh mercy, thought Knightley and very nearly rolled his eyes. On his last visit to London, John had railed  him about still being a bachelor and threatened to send a string of impossible old maids his way until he chose someone—anyone—as his wife. Evidently a widow was close enough to an old maid to begin the parade.

        “Mr. John Knightley is such a droll man,” Mrs. Whitney continued with a giggle. “There is no understanding half of what he says. I was seated beside him at dinner, and he talked very seriously about a houseguest of his for a long time, a Madam Duvall, who he said slept most of the day away, was fond of mice, and caused the baby to sneeze whenever she came near. I was quite amazed at his description of the old lady, only to discover that it was a cat he was talking about! It was so very diverting!” She giggled again as the fan waved rhythmically in front of her face. Knightley could not be certain, but the scene painted on it appeared to depict Marius among the ruins of Carthage. He had never been more inclined to feel sympathy with poor Marius than at that moment.

 *     *    *

        Knightley was not really surprised to find Mrs. Whitney seated next to him at dinner. He was grateful that at least Spencer was placed beside Mrs. Hughes, and was recovering his spirits enough to converse quietly with her. It was, alas, his only comfort during that meal.

        “Your brother tells me that you are an improver,” said Mrs. Whitney as the fish course was being cleared. Her fan slid off her lap to the floor. “Oh, how provoking! I believe it is under my chair. Thank you, Mr. Knightley. As I was saying, your brother told me all about Donwell Abbey, and what an improver you are! You must have had Repton in, or that other man who is all the rage—Loudon, that is the name.”

        “Not at all. I believe my brother meant that I work to improve the buildings on the estate and the land for farming. The gardens are laid out very much as they have been for centuries.”

        “Oh.” Her face registered such disappointment that he felt he ought to soften the blow.

        “Donwell Abbey is the sort of house that is best complemented by the old styles. The main part of the house is nearly unchanged from the days, centuries ago, when it really was an abbey.”

        “But surely you must wish to see it brought into modern times. Have you any groves of trees? Yes, I thought you would. Those old groves are so unhealthy—they preserve dampness, you know—and they obstruct the views.”

        “Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned enough to prefer that kind of obstruction.”

        “I see that you—oh! I declare, my fan is gone again—under the table this time—I am so sorry to trouble you again—Can you see it? Thank you, Mr. Knightley, you are very good. Well, I see that as a bachelor you are loathe to change a familiar landscape. But the day may come, Mr. Knightley, when you cease to be single.” She dropped her eyes and allowed a faint blush to colour her cheeks. “There may someday be a mistress at Donwell Abbey who prefers the modern style and who persuades you at the last to pull down that grove.”

        Never, thought Knightley. The lime walk was one of his favourite retreats when he had something to think over. He had been known to pace it for hours when an important decision had to be made. And Emma liked it.

        “The French have it that an ordered garden reflects an ordered mind,” he said. “They have not yet given up their formal flower beds and shrubberies.”

“Ah, the French,” said Mrs. Whitney, nodding her head meditatively. “You have seen their gardens, I suppose, when you had a Tour on the Continent?”

        “No, we were at war with France from the time I was seventeen until I was twenty-five, and by then my father’s health was failing. I regret that I have never travelled further than Scotland. Still, I have seen engravings and heard descriptions of French gardens by those who have traveled there.”

        “Oh, if only you had been able to go abroad, as I have! Mr. Whitney took me to the Isle of Wight, and I assure you it was a revelation to me! I was never the same afterwards.”

        A revelation of what? thought Knightley, but his curiosity did not remain unsatisfied for long.

        “I learned,” said Mrs. Whitney, putting down her fork and bringing her fan into play again, “that travelling on one’s own does not give one the true sense of a place. The romance of a scene can only be appreciated when…” here she paused, looked away, and seemed to expect to be prompted. Knightley could not bring himself to do it.

        “…When,” she said at last, “one is with one’s beloved.”

        “I see,” was all the response she got.

        “Of course, I have no heart for travel now,” she continued sorrowfully. “With Mr. Whitney gone, all the wellsprings of passion in me have dried up. I feel old before my time. I don’t suppose I will ever meet anyone who can call them forth again.” Her head drooped sadly, and Knightley wondered with some panic if she was about to cry. He saw her glance at him to judge his reaction, and he had a premonition that he was about to be asked if she could borrow his handkerchief. The sight of Spencer at the other end of the table gave him a sudden inspiration.

        “Do you read at all, Mrs. Whitney?”

        Her head came up again, her expression all eagerness for any subject he should introduce.

        “Oh, my, yes. Widows have all too much time for reading. As do bachelors, I daresay.”

        “Not as much as I would wish, I’m afraid. I was only thinking of a book in my library that I thought might be a help to you.”

        “Really? And what book is that? I should adore to hear all about it! Please, do tell me!”

        “It is a most edifying volume by that excellent divine, Jeremiah Burroughs, entitled The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment. As you have so kindly expressed such an interest in the book, allow me to share with you the principle arguments of his thesis…”

        He was saved.

*                  *                *
         The ladies withdrew before he had exhausted the subject, and he assured Mrs. Whitney that he could finish his recital of Burroughs' salient points for her when the whole company reassembled. She nodded, but he thought that he would be very surprised if she came anywhere near him for the rest of the evening. His advice to Spencer had been sound after all. Who would have guessed, when his clergyman tutor all those years ago had insisted he read the book very thoroughly and make a précis of its contents, that it would be so very useful at such a time!

        “Well, Knightley,” said Gilbert who was seated near him, “On Saturday next there will be a small shooting party here to thin the population of pheasants on the estate. You would be most welcome to join us. I think you bagged more birds than anyone last year. And that dog of yours put all of our dogs to shame. You lost him, though, didn’t you?”

        Knightley nodded.

        “Have you got another dog yet? I mean, another one like that?”

        “No, not yet.”

        Homer, the best pointer he had ever had, had died the year before. Of course there were other dogs at Donwell, but none that had access to the house. It seemed even to himself a foolish thing that he could not bring himself to get another dog, but the empty spot on the library hearth seemed to belong only to Homer.

        “If it is only a matter of finding a dog to suit, my spaniel had a litter of puppies last week. You’re welcome to any of them.”

        “I thank you…but not yet.”

         Gilbert nodded. “I had a dog like that once, too,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “Went with me everywhere, slept by my bed…my wife complained that I talked more to the hound than I did to her.”

        Knightley smiled slightly. “I’m afraid I talked poor Homer’s ear off as well. The library is a much more silent place than it used to be.”

        “Yes,” said Gilbert. “Funny how an animal can take the place of a confidant.” He picked up the decanter and offered it to Knightley, who shook his head.

        “Well,” said Gilbert, pouring himself a little more, “if the silence becomes too oppressive, let me know. I’ll save a pup for you.”
*       *     *      *

        That night the rumble of thunder awakened Knightley from his nightmare. Without lighting a candle he could not be sure of the time, but it seemed to him to be the very darkest part of the night. It had been an extraordinary dream, and had seemed so very real!

        He had dreamt that it was morning, and that Baxter was waking him by telling him that the parish council had been persuaded by Elton to pull down the lime walk at Donwell. The workmen were already there, ready to begin felling the trees. All Knightley needed to do was to go quickly to the walk and tell them to stop, but everything conspired to prevent him. He could not get dressed because Baxter could find no shirt for him, and when Knightley impatiently looked for one himself, he could not find one, either. He pulled on an old coat instead of a shirt and left the bedroom. But Larkins was just outside the door, pleading with him to go over the accounts at just that moment, “for you know, Mr. Knightley, ‘business is the salt of life,’ as the old saying goes. Mrs. Hodges says that she has very little salt left.” For some reason, Knightley felt he had to take the time to explain that the salt in the old proverb was not literal salt. It took a little while to convince Larkins of that, and even longer to convince him that he would have to go over the accounts some other time. Finally Larkins left and Knightley got as far as the top of the stairs.

        There was Dr. Hughes, with his leg still broken, proposing to descend the stairs by hopping gently down on his good leg. Of course, Knightley could only offer to help him, but their progress was agonizingly slow. As they reached the bottom, he was accosted by Mrs. Whitney who needed help finding her fan. She looked so distressed that Knightley made a cursory search around the ground floor rooms to see if it was anywhere about. She followed him as he hunted for it, talking all the time about her sad life as a widow and how she really ought to be mistress of an estate like Donwell. He felt acutely his lack of a shirt and pulled the coat as tightly around him as he could, but knew that she could tell that he was not fully dressed. At last Knightley managed to excuse himself and escaped out of the house. He tried to run to the lime walk, but kept tripping over stones and bushes that seemed to spring up out of the ground. At last he could see the trees and the workmen already hacking at a tree with their axes. Elton was there, looking on, fanning himself with Mrs. Whitney’s painted fan. Knightley tried to shout at the men to stop, but his voice made no sound. Before he could reach them, the trunk was severed and the tree crashed to the ground.

        He woke up then, sweating and panting, and lay there for a moment wondering if any of it had really happened. A second rumble of thunder made him realize that the sound of the tree falling had been made by thunder. The lime walk must be safe, then, and Mrs. Whitney was not really waiting for him downstairs. The relief he felt was overwhelming. Still, it was over an hour before he fell back into an uneasy slumber.

 

By morning the rain had mellowed into a light drizzle, but the ground was still so muddy that Knightley rode one of the Crown horses over to Hartfield to give them the greetings Isabella had included in the letter he had received from John the day before. Knightley was amply repaid for his kindness by the heartfelt gratitude of Mr. Woodhouse, and by the refreshing sight of two beautiful and wholesome young women, Emma and Harriet, sitting together with their embroidery. The spectre of Mrs. Whitney with all her affected nonsense had been haunting him all morning—the share she had in his nightmare had been perhaps the most horrifying part of it.

When all the little items of news in John’s letter had been talked over, Mr. Woodhouse said, “And now, Emma, we must ask Mr. Knightley if he knows where the book is.”

Knightley turned an enquiring face to Emma.

“Papa is speaking of the book John and Isabella gave him last year, The Antiquities of England and Wales. Harriet is interested in seeing the engravings of Reading Abbey. The book ought to be in the library, but we could not find it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I fear my memory is not what it was—and then my eyes are not as good as they once were. But I thought that as you kindly arranged some of my books for me a month or two ago, I thought perhaps you might remember where we might find that particular book.”

“I believe I do, sir. If you will excuse me one moment, I will go to the library and look.”

It did not take Knightley long to find the book, though he could scarcely blame Emma or her father for not knowing where it was. He ought to have remembered that it was one of the few books that Mr. Woodhouse did peruse on occasion and put it in a more prominent place.

“Ah, you have found it,” said Mr. Woodhouse when Knightley reappeared with the book. “I am very grateful, Mr. Knightley. I do not know what I should do without you. And now, Miss Smith, if you will sit in the chair beside mine, I will show you the engravings we were speaking of.”

 “You look very tired,” said Emma to Knightley as her father opened the book eagerly and read to Harriet the titles under each picture. “I’ve seen you twice stifle a yawn. Are you quite well?”

“Oh, yes. I am rather tired, I suppose—the storm woke me last night.” He did not want to tell her about the nightmare. She would appreciate the humour in it, but then she would tease him about Mrs. Whitney. John was bad enough about matchmaking; to have Emma harassing him about finding a wife was somehow even more dreadful.

“You ought to have rested this morning, then, instead of coming here. To ride out in the rain in order to get chilled and wet when you are already tired must make you ill.” 

He smiled and shook his head at her. “Emma, Emma, I have people enough fussing over my health.” He glanced at Mr. Woodhouse. “Have the goodness to let me take care of myself.”

“Ah, but do you take care of yourself? You are always busy about parish business or the home farm or visiting tenants or helping Papa. If you fall prey to nervous exhaustion from too many parish meetings, who will scold you for taking too much upon yourself?  William Larkins, I am sure, never thinks of such a thing. As long as you can go over the accounts with him he will think you are fit enough.”

Knightley remembered Larkins’ behaviour in his dream and laughed. “Never mind, Emma. If I ever do suffer from nervous exhaustion, I promise to come to Hartfield to be coddled by you and your father. Will that satisfy you?”

“I suppose it must,” she smiled back, though the concern in her face was not entirely gone. “But prevention is better than cure, and as Papa said, we could not do without you.”

He inclined his head in thanks, and was about to tell her that she, at least, looked very well, when Harriet broke in.

“Miss Woodhouse, was it St. George’s Chapel that Mr. Weston was telling us he had seen? Or was it another chapel of the same name?”

She turned to answer Harriet, and Knightley watched her as she conversed with her friend. Emma did indeed look very well. She was all that was graceful and poised, and another woman with such elegance might have been haughty and cold. But Emma’s affectionate nature for those she loved prevented this. Indeed, she seemed to be even improving in her solicitude for others. She had always been attentive to her father, of course, but now she was even careful for his own health. And he could see in the way that she looked at and spoke to Harriet that she was sincerely fond of the girl. It may have been a sort of maternal interest—he had seen that same look on Isabella’s face often enough as she spoke to her children—but there was plenty of benevolence in her attentions. However misguided Emma’s notions were, there was no doubt, as she had once protested, that she meant to do Harriet good.

The words she is loveliness itself came into his mind. Someone had said that about Emma recently…who was it? Mr. Woodhouse? No, not him. He frowned in concentration. It was the sort of thing that Elton would say, but Elton was not quite rash enough to say such a thing to Knightley—yet. Where had he been when he had heard those words? They were quite true. Her hazel eyes sparkled when she was being mischievous and shone when she looked at her father. And her voice was lovely, sweet without being affected and clear without being shrill. If it wasn’t Elton, then who…

“Mr. Knightley, if you will look so sternly you must at least tell us what it is about Mrs. Weston’s plan that you disapprove.”

Knightley came out of his reverie with a start. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma with a raised eyebrow, “What is it that offends you? Ought the pupils to have no celebration at all? Or is it only the particulars of the entertainment that you distain? I perceive the latter is the true reason for your censure.”

Knightley was completely at a loss. He had no idea what they had been talking about. Something about a celebration, evidently, but what on earth was he to say? He shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile as complacently as possible.

“Very well then,” Emma continued when he said nothing, “We shall apply to you to draw up a list of Christmas entertainments suitable for Mrs. Goddard’s pupils.”

“But pray, Mr. Knightley,” interjected Mr. Woodhouse, “do not recommend snap-dragon as one of the diversions. I tremble to think of the consequence if one of the young ladies were to burn herself! Whoever can have invented such an amusement? Plucking raisins from burning brandy! Such folly!”

“Have no fear, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Knightley. “I have no inclination to do any such thing—no inclination at all. Miss Smith would be a far better judge of what Mrs. Goddard’s pupils would enjoy, and I suggest that Emma should take the advice of her friend in such matters. She will not propose anything untoward.” He inclined his head with a smile to Harriet.

 “Thank you, sir,” said Harriet, flushing with pleasure but without the usual giggle, as Knightley noted with approval. Emma’s lessons in manner were evidently having some effect

“My dear Emma,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “perhaps Mr. Knightley would take tea and a little something to eat… perhaps a dish of gruel?”

“No, thank you, sir,” said Knightley, rising. “I would greatly enjoy a longer visit here, but I must get back to Donwell. I have a letter to write.”


___________________________________________________________

6th  December

Donwell Abbey

 

Dear John,

 Where on earth did you scrape up an acquaintance with Mrs. Whitney? I cannot believe that you, who cherish sensible conversation, invited that woman to dine at Wellyn House. And if she is the first in a string of similar potential brides, I beg to inform you that I will quit Donwell Abbey immediately and retire to Northamptonshire where I will handle Graham’s estate business for him.

Speaking of Graham, tell him that Lord Carrick’s bailiff in Scotland wants a new situation in a warmer climate. As you know, many of the Scots have done wonders with their estates, and Lord Carrick  in particular has a model system in place. Of course his bailiff will want a large salary, but I wouldn’t think Graham would mind that. 

Mr. Woodhouse and Emma are very well, and both send all the usual wishes to you and yours. I was going to say more about this business of a “string of old maids” but must close this  epistle now—someone needing my counsel as a magistrate has just been announced. If you dare to send another woman in this direction I will never write to you again.

Yours in brotherly  friendship—for now,

 George

 

 

 8th  December

Wellyn House

Brunswick Square

 

Dear George,

So Mrs. Whitney is not to your taste? I am very sorry to hear it. I thought that you would at least admire her fan.  It will do you no good to run to Northamptonshire—Graham has a spinster sister who lives with him and is every bit as charming as Mrs. Whitney. I don’t suppose you know if Lord Carrick’s bailiff is a single man? If he is, Graham will probably hire him sight unseen, grasping at the opportunity to get his sister married. I suppose I ought not to have told you this—I  ought to have let you go to Graham’s and discover his sister for yourself. I shall do better another time… 

Yours in the eternal friendship of brotherhood, 

John

 

 

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