Emma smiled her gratitude for this bit of commendation.
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” she said. “I think it will look better when I have finished it. It is to be a watercolour, you know.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” put in Elton. “It looks very well now; it will be truly magnificent when it is completed! And watercolour is the perfect choice—much better than crayon for such a portrait!”
“What do you think of it, Miss Smith?” said Knightley, more to put a stop to Elton’s panegyric than because he had any real uncertainty as to how Harriet would view Miss Woodhouse’s work.
“I think it is very beautiful,” said Harriet. “I do not know anyone who can draw so well!”
“Quite right,” said Elton, “There is no one who draws as well as Miss Woodhouse!”
Knightley decided that a complete change of topic would be needed to stem the flow of Elton’s compliments.
“I’m sorry to intrude with business into such a scene of artistic inspiration, but Isabella included a note with John’s last letter, saying that she was sending a parcel of used baby linen for Christmas boxes, to be distributed evenly between Donwell and Highbury. Will you let me know when the parcel arrives?”
“Of course. That is just like Isabella: she never forgets those in need, even when she is so far away.”
“But it is the less surprising,” said Elton, “when one considers how renowned Hartfield is for generosity. The voices of all the poor in Highbury resound with the praises of Miss Woodhouse. And Mr. Woodhouse,” he added as an afterthought.
Knightley could bear it no longer. He wished them all good day and took his leave.
“You wished to see me, sir?” said Mrs. Hodges, dropping a perfunctory curtsey as she entered the breakfast room where Knightley was just finishing his morning meal. Mrs. Hodges had been housekeeper at Donwell Abbey for twenty-five years, and Knightley always thought of her as “the great and grim Mrs. Hodges”—his boyhood appellation for her. She was a little more grey and her figure was considerably fuller than it had been when she had first arrived, but her face seemed changeless. Her countenance now showed a mixture of emotions: the deference she owed to an employer, the proud loyalty she felt to the master of Donwell, and the irritation she suffered in being summoned out of the kitchen when she ought to be supervising the kitchen maid’s first attempt at pickling walnuts.
“Yes, I did,” said Knightley. “I wondered how the spruce beer is holding out. You know John and Mrs. Knightley come for Christmas, and it is a particular favourite of theirs. And I wanted some sent to Hartfield as well.”
“Well, sir, I wouldn’t say there is a great deal left. Christmas is near two weeks off…we’ll just have time to make more. Is there anything else, sir?”
“Nothing. Oh, I presume the Bates’ have received a bushel of apples?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Hodges in a melancholy tone. She did not like Donwell produce being given away as freely as it was, but it was not her place to say so.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hodges. That will be all.”
Mrs. Hodges curtseyed and left, nearly bumping into Baxter as he entered the room with a note on a small silver tray.
“This came just now from Hartfield, sir,” he said, “And William Larkins desires to see you as soon as may be. I have put him in the library.”
“Thank you, Baxter,” said Knightley. He took the note and opened it; it was from Emma, to say that Isabella’s baby linen had arrived. He put the note into his waistcoat pocket and got up from the table. The library was at the other end of the house, and as he walked the long hallway he could hear only the sound of his own footsteps. It was a lonely sound. For years, the click-click-click of Homer’s toenails on the polished floors had followed him as he walked around the house. Perhaps he ought to get a puppy from Gilbert after all.
Larkins was standing by the fire warming himself as Knightley entered the library.
“Good morning, Larkins. I did not expect to see you this morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Knightley. I had not anticipated seeing you this morning, either, sir. However, it has come to my attention that the farmer Mefford has been very insulting indeed to the widow Hunt. I thought it only right that you should know.”
“In what way was he insulting?”
“She passed him on the road, and, being the kindly soul she is, she asked after his health. ‘Never better,’ said he, ‘And you?’
“’Well,’ she said, ‘I’m not as young as I once was, and this earthen vessel is beginning to crack here and there. Still, I forget how old I really am until I look in a mirror and see that I have a wrinkle for every year of my age.’
“She said it half in jest, Mr. Knightley, but Mefford said, ‘Ah, well, at least we know there’s nothing wrong with your eyes!’
“It really was most unkind, Mr. Knightley, for as you know, the widow Hunt is not very wrinkled at all. She went away crying bitterly.”
“You were there, then?” said Knightley.
“No, but the Shaw boy was. He heard it all. Something must be done, Mr. Knightley.”
“Yes. But I cannot evict him merely because he insulted Mrs. Hunt—or any number of other people, for that matter.”
“No, sir. But you know that he has not paid his rent in full for the last three quarters—in fact, he paid less than half last quarter. And I have it on good authority that he means to pay very little on Christmas Day when this quarter’s rent is due.”
“Good authority?”
“Mr. Sloan heard it from John Farnsworth at the ‘Dog and Duck’. His wife told me. I know there have been no evictions at Donwell for decades, but I truly think it is called for in this case.”
Knightley looked into the fire and sighed. He agreed with Larkins in theory, but the thought of putting Mrs. Mefford and young Harry Mefford out of their home right before Christmas made him reluctant. Could nothing else be done? And then he remembered something Gilbert had done with one of his tenants.
“There is one thing left to try,” said Knightley. “We shall draw up a document for Mefford to sign, saying that he intends to give up his lease at the next quarter day—that is, in two weeks—as he is unable to meet the rent. If he signs it, Donwell will be free of a bad tenant without having to evict him; even if he does not it may show that we are serious about collecting the rent due. He may give up the rest of what he owes. If he neither signs the document nor pays the rent, then I will have to evict him.”
“Mr. Knightley! So good of you to come!”
“I was just passing, Miss Bates, and thought I would enquire after your mother’s health. Is she completely recovered from―?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Knightley, I believe the cough has gone at last. I will just tell her what you said, for she is a little deaf, you know. Mother, Mr. Knightley has come to enquire after you, to see if your health has improved. To ask after your health. Isn’t it kind of him? Not but what you are always kind, Mr. Knightley, and Mr. Elton, too. Mr. Elton was here not a half-hour ago. Such kind friends! I am sorry you missed him—you must enjoy each other’s company so! Clever men always do enjoy talking with each other, I think. I am exceedingly sorry you missed him. However, you both call so frequently—you are so very good to us!—that I would not be surprised if you happened to meet each other here quite accidentally some day.”
Knightley coughed and asked if Miss Woodhouse had called recently. Miss Bates hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Miss Woodhouse called on us—not long ago. She calls whenever she is able—she has much to occupy her time, you know, Mr. Knightley. She is so careful for dear Mr. Woodhouse, and of course she cannot leave him often. And then she has been painting a portrait of Miss Smith—did you know? Mr. Elton says it is the finest thing he ever saw, which is not surprising at all, is it? Miss Woodhouse is so very skilled at taking portraits! I do quite long to see this one. Mr. Elton says that it is complete now—he saw the finished picture last evening. Mr. Knightley, I declare
, you are still standing! You must come and sit down and take a little something.”
“No, Miss Bates. You are very kind, and there is nothing I should like better than to sit with you for a few moments, but I really must be getting on. I allowed myself to come and enquire after your mother because I have been anxious about her, and I am very glad to know she is well.”
Miss Bates had too much to say to allow him to leave that very instant, but it was not long before he was descending the stairs and able to think. If Elton was in Highbury this morning, Knightley could put off his business with Cox and visit Hartfield without fear of having to listen to Elton flatter Emma. He would go now and see the finished portrait and bring back the baby linen to Donwell, assuming it was not too large and awkward a bundle. He felt ridiculously pleased with the idea of being alone with the occupants of Hartfield. Ah, no, Harriet would probably be there. Still, it would be rather comfortable than otherwise.
He had not gone far when a voice came from behind him: “Going to Hartfield?”
Knightley turned to see Elton catching him up.
“Yes, I am. And you?”
“Oh, I am bound for Hartfield as well,” said Elton cheerfully.
It was impossible for Knightley not to sigh, but he managed to do it quietly.
Miss Bates would have been a little surprised to see how silently the two clever men walked along together. Knightley was loathe to say anything at all, lest Elton turn it into yet another compliment to Miss Woodhouse. Elton was lost in his own thoughts—happy thoughts, if the look on his face signified anything. Knightley felt a sudden pang of pity for the man.
When the men were shown into the drawing room, Mr. Woodhouse was slumbering peacefully in his chair by the fire and Emma and Harriet were seated near him, talking. The finished portrait was on its easel, and after the first greetings—which woke Mr. Woodhouse—the men were invited to come and admire it. Elton, though he had seen it the night before, was just as fulsome in his admiration as if he were looking at it for the first time, but Knightley felt Emma’s eyes on him and knew that she was waiting for his verdict.
“Beautiful,” said Knightley, and was rewarded with her smile of relief. “It ought to be given pride of place. How will you frame it?”
“That is the difficulty,” said Emma. “Of course the frame must be got in London, but who is to get it for us is less certain.”
“Could not Isabella—“ began Knightley, but Emma shook her head, and Mr. Woodhouse added,
“My dear Mr. Knightley, you forget that Isabella has a delicate constitution, very delicate indeed. To ask her to stir outside her own home in the fogs of December would be most reckless. It must not be thought of.”
“I will be in London in January,” said Knightley, “though that is several weeks away and you may not think much of my taste in choosing a frame.”
“No sir,” said Emma with a smile and a lifted eyebrow, “I have no faith in your taste. Ever since the day you told me I ought to have one of those bonnets that were decorated with stuffed birds I have been certain that I can not trust your judgement on matters of that sort.”
“If I had known that my incautious remark would be thrown up in my face regularly for the next five years, I would certainly have kept my opinion to myself,” said Knightley, grinning back at her. “And in order that I might not make another blunder that I will be reminded of monthly—if not weekly—for years to come, I gladly withdraw my offer of assistance in getting the picture framed.”
"Might I be trusted with the commission?” said Elton. “What infinite pleasure I should have in executing it! I could ride to London at any time, you know. It is impossible to say how much I should be gratified by being employed on such an errand."
“Oh, Mr. Elton, you are too good! That is really very kind of you, but of course you have many duties and responsibilities that keep you here. I could not endure the thought of you giving up so much of your time for such a thing. And I well know that it is a tedious sort of task for a man; I would not give you such a troublesome office for the world!”
“Upon my honour, Miss Woodhouse, it is no trouble to me! I greatly enjoy a ride to London, and shopping is my delight!”
Knightley rose and moved off toward the window. He was afraid that the others would hear his teeth grinding if he stayed next to them any longer. In a few moments all was settled: Elton would take the drawing to London, choose the frame, and give the directions. Emma had offered to pack it up that evening, and it would be ready for him the next morning. She assured Elton that the picture could be rolled and encased in such a way that it could be safely fixed to his saddle, and that he would hardly know he was carrying it. Elton was energetic in his assurances that it would not matter whether he had to carry it fixed to his saddle or held in his arms or clenched in his teeth—this last being a jest at which Emma and Harriet laughed appreciatively—it was enough that he should be allowed be of service in this small way.
Knightley turned away from the window and looked at Emma. Surely she must see this as it was meant: open flattery to herself. But no, Emma was looking at Harriet with a delighted, knowing expression that showed exactly who she thought the compliment was intended for. Harriet flushed with pleasure; she obviously shared Emma’s view. How easy it would be to set them all straight! A few plain words would do all that was needed: “Emma, Elton wants to marry you, not Harriet. Elton, Emma is planning for you to marry Harriet. Harriet, I’m afraid your hopes with regard to Elton have no foundation.” But of course he could not say such things. He would never be forgiven by any of them.
Rather abruptly he walked back to the group around the fire and said, “I received your note about the baby linen, Emma. Is it the sort of bundle I can bring back with me or will I need a horse and cart?”
“No, it is not so very large. You may carry it very well under your arm.”
“Or clenched in my teeth?”
Emma laughed. She could see Elton’s absurdity.
“Even that, I suppose, if you were very determined. Isabella would, however, be somewhat startled to learn that her charitable gifts were transported in such a manner.”
“Have you much preparation to make for John and Isabella’s visit?”
“Not really. They will occupy the rooms they always do. It is fortunate they stay here instead of at Donwell. I cannot think Mrs. Hodges would enjoy the addition of five children to the usually empty Abbey.”
“Empty?”
“Well, nearly empty. I suppose the children will visit you every day as they did before, but Mrs. Hodges will think that a lesser evil than having them resident. As it is she will have very little preparation to do.”
“Well, I did ask her to brew more spruce beer; it should be just ready when they arrive. I shall have some sent on here, too—I know how you like it.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Knightley. That will be delightful. Do you like spruce beer, Harriet?” asked Emma, suddenly aware that she and Mr. Knightley had excluded the others from their conversation.
“Oh, yes, very much. That is, I have not drunk it often. But I believe I like it.”
“And you, Mr. Elton?” prompted Emma.
“I regret to say that I have not tasted it above once. It did not seem to agree with me then, but I daresay I would like it if I tried it again. I drank it at a coaching inn; perhaps the quality was inferior to what is generally drunk.”
“Very likely,” put in Knightley. “I have never had tolerable spruce beer at an inn.”
“Perhaps I might have my housekeeper make me some. I should very much like to drink it again. Is it very difficult to brew?”
“Not at all. It is very like brewing ginger beer. It can be made with sugar or treacle—I much prefer it made with treacle. But be sure to tell your housekeeper to cut off the resinous part of the spruce before boiling it; that will prevent it being bitter.”
“I must put that down so that I remember it,” said Elton, taking out his pocket-book and drawing t
he pencil from its holder. “Let me see…oh, I must sharpen this.”
“There is a knife on the table there,” said Emma, and Elton went over to the table to sharpen his pencil. “No good,” he said after a few moments. “There is not enough lead left in it.”
“Never mind, Mr. Elton,” said Emma. “Here is another in my pocket that you may use.”
Elton left the old bit of pencil on the table and beamed as he took Emma’s, looking for all the world like a knight receiving a token from his lady just before a jousting match. The image of Elton seated on a charger in full armour—still with that silly smile on his face—was enough to keep Knightley in a good humour while he slowly repeated his brewing advice and Elton wrote down every word.
“Thank you,” said Elton when he had finished. “I am sure I will enjoy spruce beer that has been properly brewed. I will set my housekeeper to making some as soon as possible. I am afraid I must be going now, but I will return tomorrow immediately after breakfast for the portrait. Miss Woodhouse, how may I thank you for the privilege of getting a frame for it?”
“That is very gallant of you, Mr. Elton, to turn your kind service to us into an occasion requiring your thanks! Miss Smith and I are both very sensible of the honour you show to my little portrait of her.”
Knightley watched Harriet as Elton took his leave. Her face was still glowing with happiness; she was sure of Elton’s regard for her. Oh Emma, he thought. You are doing your friend no favours at all. She will be badly hurt before all this is finished.
He was rather glad that the noise of Elton’s going woke Mr. Woodhouse from the doze into which he had fallen, for he felt that he could not talk to Emma or Harriet just then without betraying some of his thoughts. Therefore he talked to Mr. Woodhouse exclusively and determinedly until he could use the approaching dinner hour as his excuse and go away.
10
It was the following evening that Knightley, trying to amuse himself with Tristram Shandy, was surprised by Baxter entering the library and announcing Mr. Martin. Knightley put down his book with very little regret and greeted his tenant with something of relief in his manner. An intelligent, friendly conversation was a much better prospect than another evening alone.
Charity Envieth Not Page 9
