Charity Envieth Not

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  He was thankful that the rain held off as he walked to Spencer’s cottage. Dr. Hughes had arranged a cottage for the curate to reside in and had installed an ancient, nearly deaf, but very competent maiden lady whom everyone called Old Maggie as housekeeper. Gratefully he stepped beneath the little ledge that projected over the door just as the heavens opened again. The door was opened by Maggie, of course, who gave a deep curtsey when she saw who it was and said in that loud voice peculiar to those who cannot hear much, “How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?”

  Knightley raised his voice to match her volume. “Very well, Maggie, I thank you. And you?”

  “’E’s in the parlour, sir. This way, if you please.”

  Knightley followed her in and gave her his hat, coat, walking stick and umbrella before she opened the parlour door and bawled, “’Ere’s Mr. Knightly, sir.”

  Spencer could be in no way surprised by Knightley’s entrance, having heard the shouted exchange at the door. He laid aside his book and rose to shake Knightley’s hand. Knightley was glad to see that though his manner could not be called easy, still he was not so timid and withdrawn as he had been at their first meeting. He motioned Knightley to a seat near the respectable fire.

  “Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Knightley?”

  “No, I thank you. My visit will be brief. May I enquire how you are settling in?”

  “Well enough, I think.”

  “You have a comfortable home here.”

  “Yes, Dr. Hughes has been very kind to arrange it all for me, even to fitting out the cottage with furniture.”

  Knightley looked with admiration at the sturdy, serviceable chairs and occasional tables and the bookcase crammed with books. Stacks of books were placed on the wooden crate next to the shelves; the crate, presumably, held more books.

  “It seems you will need another bookcase or two. You’re something of a scholar, are you?”

  “I do not think I consider myself a scholar, sir, but I do like to read.”

  “A very good thing in a clergyman. Which are your favourites?”

  “Well, when you came in I was reading the poetry of Mr. George Herbert.”

  “Ah, that is one of Dr. Hughes’ treasured volumes. I can see why he approves of you so highly.”

  “That is no good reason, sir. But Dr. Hughes has been most liberal and thoughtful. Not only did he organize the cottage and its furnishings, but he arranged for Maggie to be housekeeper.”

  “I’ve heard she is an excellent cook.”

  “Oh, indeed; and a wonder for scrubbing and polishing. And then her deafness makes for amusing conversations, as she always answers what she thinks I said rather than making any effort to really understand. Of course it makes it rather a loud household—passers-by must think we are perpetually quarrelling.” He smiled for the first time at Mr. Knightley.

  Knightley laughed. “No, everyone hereabouts knows Old Maggie. And if I may say so, you seem like you would be the least inclined to heated exchanges of any man I ever met.”

  “True, I am not really given to shouting or even loud bursts of feeling.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I believe Mr. Whitefield would think my sermons very lacking in fervour.”

  “You seemed more at ease in the pulpit last Sunday than you were in previous weeks.”

  Spencer blushed, but answered readily enough. “I fear that I have an inordinate dread of strangers, Mr. Knightley, which was the reason for the inferior way I conducted the first services. But now I have called on most of the parishioners, they seem a little more like friends.”

  “I am surprised that someone with a horror of strangers would so immediately and so thoroughly visit every house in Donwell.”

  “Ah, well, sometimes I cannot help being afraid. But I have determined that it will not stop me from doing my duty.”

  “I see. That is a worthy reason for Dr. Hughes to approve of you, and you have won my approval as well. But I did not come to embarrass you with flattery”—for another blush was creeping over Spencer’s face—“I came to see if you would like to share my carriage on the way to the Gilberts’ this evening.

  “Oh, are you of the party?”

  “I am. I thought that as the roads are muddy and Langham is two miles distant, you and Mrs. Hughes might consent to ride with me.”

  “Yes, thank you. I am glad you will be one of the company. I have not met the Gilberts yet; I knew no one but Mrs. Hughes.”

  “Oh, they are good people—not unreasonably fine or awe-inspiring.”

  “I did hear a mention of a Miss Gilbert and her companion—and I dread elegant young ladies.”

  “There is nothing to fear on that score. Miss Gilbert is the sister of the elder Mr. Gilbert, not his daughter. She must be over forty. She travels with an old widowed companion, who will, I’m sure, be a nice, motherly soul.”

  “That relieves my mind somewhat. I never know what to say to ladies.”

  “You might talk of books. If the lady has read the same books you have, then your way is clear. You may compare opinions for the rest of the evening.”

  “And if the lady has not read anything?”

  “Then you may expound at length on whatever book you have lately read.”

  Spencer smiled. “Do you not think that a summary of Mr. Herbert’s poems will be construed as more of a sermon than a lecture on literature?”

  “Well, if you frighten the lady away with a sermon, at least you will not be plagued with her for the rest of the evening.”

  “That is so. Very well, I shall attack her with ‘The Window’ then.”

  “Is that what you were reading when I came in?”

  “Yes. ‘Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word? He is brittle, crazy glass’, and so on. I found it very fortifying.”

  “Fortifying? That is a new commendation for a poet.”

  Spencer smiled again. “I suppose it is. I was a bit of a fool this morning and I felt very like ‘brittle, crazy glass’.”

  “A fool? How so?” Knightley had a feeling that Spencer often felt foolish over things he had no reason to be ashamed of.

  “I was visiting one of the farms, and I said something silly. I mentioned that my mother died several years ago and the farmer’s wife asked what she had died of. I was still rather nervous, I suppose, and without thinking I said, “It wasn’t anything serious." And the farmer laughed said “Wussock” under his breath.”

  “Wussock? What on earth is that?”

  “It’s an old word from the Midlands—it means idiot. I learned it from one of the college servants. It was rather a funny thing for me to say, but his calling me wussock stung a bit.”

  “It must have been Mefford—I can guess the name even though you will not gossip about him. He came from Cambridgeshire, and he’s rather a bad lot. Even so, I am surprised that he would insult you to your face.”

  “Well, I daresay he didn’t know I would understand him.”

  “That is no excuse for him. So instead of ‘rendering railing for railing’ you came back and read poetry?”

  Spencer gave a wry smile. “I sound very virtuous, don’t I? But my first impulse was to say that he was wet as tripe and a tatchy barley-bump—he’d know what that meant if he knew the other.”

  Knightley chuckled. “I wish you had said it. I’ve never seen him get back as good as he gave.”

  “It would have been a satisfaction. But you remember what Chaucer said about the Parson: ‘If gold rust, what shall iron do?’”

  “Hmmm, yes. I suppose it would be difficult to expect forbearance in your flock if you show none.” He stood up and offered Spencer his hand. “I must be off now, but I will see you this evening. The coach will be here at a little past seven.”

  “Do please come again, Mr. Knightley,” Spencer said, just as Dr. Hughes always did. And with him they were not idle words, either.

  8

  The carriage containing the three guests from Donwell sloshed its way to Langham through he
avy 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. Edmund 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 Duval, 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 travelled 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 as if 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 my 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 edifyin
g 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 reduce 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 in the world, 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.”