Charity Envieth Not

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  “I am not disturbing you, Mr. Knightley?”

  “No, Martin, not at all. I had thought to occupy myself with a favourite book this evening—I was trying to counter the dull winter weather with something humorous, but it is not as entertaining as I remembered it. You have saved me from several hours of tedious solitude. Do please be seated.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Knightley. I have often thought that bachelors are the least comfortable people in the country during long winter evenings.”

  “You cannot be too miserable,” said Knightley. “You have a kind mother and charming sisters to keep you company. I’ll not forget the very pleasant evening I spent at your house last winter; nothing could have been cosier.”

  “It is kind of you to say so, Mr. Knightley. But there are times when even such an agreeable domestic circle cannot answer all a man’s hopes.”

  “Oh?”

  “To speak plainly, Mr. Knightley, I had some thought of getting married.”

  And then Knightley remembered what Dr. Hughes had said about Robert Martin; he had been right, as usual.

  “And who is the lady?”

  “A Miss Smith—Miss Harriet Smith.”

  “The same Miss Smith who has been so much at Hartfield lately?”

  “Yes, the very same. She knew my sisters at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and she made a visit of some weeks to us last summer. I confess, Mr. Knightley,”—he flushed a little but went on in his straightforward way—“I have not been the same man since. I had not meant to settle quite so early in life, but as I cannot seem to do any of my work properly for thinking of her, I thought perhaps I ought to end my own misery and get married.”

  “And have you spoken to Miss Smith?”

  “No, Mr. Knightley. I wanted your advice first. Still, I think she would have me if I asked her. She appeared to enjoy my company very much…and there was a look in her eyes sometimes…I don’t know how to explain it. But, what is more to the purpose, my sisters and my mother believe she would not refuse my suit.”

  Knightley smiled. So here was the end of all Emma’s matchmaking!

  “It seems an agreeable thing for all concerned,” he said. “Miss Smith is a beautiful and sweet-tempered young lady and you are a fine, prosperous young man; that is enough for most people. But you said you wanted my advice about it.”

  “Yes, I had some matters that I wanted your opinion on. If you tell me I am unwise to take this step, then I will try to reconsider my plans…though I do not know if I really could bring myself to let her go.” He paused a moment and looked into the fire with a more sober expression than Knightley had ever seen on his face.

  “What are your concerns?” prompted Knightley after a few moments of silence.

  “First, whether I ought to be thinking of marriage at all—is it prudent? Am I too young? Can I afford it?”

  “I think your age has very little to do with your maturity. You are a good farmer and have a fine head for business as well. And you have an uncanny knack for getting good farm help—your shepherd is worth his weight in…well, silver, at least. Yours is easily the most prosperous farm of all the tenants in Donwell. To be truthful, I often forget what your age is. When people speak of a man marrying too young, they usually mean that he has the vices of youth—irresponsibility, impulsiveness, and general foolishness—and you are free of these. Or they may mean that he has not yet the ability to provide for a wife with no dowry—I am assuming Miss Smith will have none—but that does not apply to you, either. You make a clear profit every year, do you not?”

  “I do. Last year there was a profit of four hundred pounds, and this year is likely to be a bit more than that.”

  “No worries on that score, then. I suppose the only other matter that might merit consideration would be the arrangement of your household—would you and Miss Smith live in the house with your mother and sisters? All the ladies who bear the name of Martin are, to my knowledge, most amiable and kind, and Miss Smith is affability itself. However, I have heard that women who must suddenly share a house sometimes find it difficult to maintain perfect harmony.”

  “I have heard the same thing, Mr. Knightley, and what is more, so has my mother. We have all talked about it, and decided that if Miss Smith and I should marry, she and I would live in the empty cottage a stone’s throw from the main house. My mother and sisters proposed their moving there, but I thought they should not have to leave the home they have known for so long. I suggested that Har- that Miss Smith and I should live there until we have children. By then, one of my sisters may have married and Miss Smith might be more accustomed to household duties and would not find being mistress of the main house so daunting.”

  “You are proposing not to have any housemaids at the cottage?”

  “One of the maids will come at times during the day to help.”

  “That sounds very reasonable. I see you have thought it over very carefully. Had you any other worries?”

  “Yes, Mr. Knightley. I know that you have seen Miss Smith at Hartfield, and I wondered—do you think she is too young to marry? Ought I to wait until she is older?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I don’t know, really. I overheard someone the other day talking about a bride who was seventeen, and their companion said, ‘She is so very young to be getting married!’ I suppose it is rather a young age for matrimony. Miss Smith has not much experience of the wide world, Mr. Knightley, but I must say that I prefer her just as she is. There is something…sweet… about her innocence, and she is nothing like the artificial young ladies whose affected airs drive me to distraction.”

  Knightley knew just what Martin meant. Hadn’t he felt exactly the same about Emma after his evening of conversation with Mrs. Whitney? Although there was something in Martin’s concern that was valid: Harriet was not an intelligent girl, and there would be no companionship of the mind in that marriage. There was always a tendency to dissatisfaction when one partner was much more intelligent than the other; he saw something of that kind almost daily with Emma and her father.

  “Do you think,” said Knightley cautiously, “that you might tire of Miss Smith’s company after a time if she did not fully share your interests in reading and commerce and so on?”

  “Tire of her company?” said Martin. Clearly such a thing was inconceivable to him. “I think she does share my interests, sir. She was very happy to listen when I read aloud, and was always interested in what I had to tell her about the farm and so on.”

  Knightley could not argue the point with him without being rather insulting to Harriet, and he felt sure that a good relationship with his best tenant would be destroyed if he called the girl dim-witted to his face. She was not the sort of girl he would have picked for Robert Martin. She would bring nothing to the marriage—no money, no connections worth having, no skills, no cleverness. On the other hand, there was no harm in her, either. She was not vicious, shrewish, selfish, or deceitful. She had a simple goodness, and would likely make an adoring wife and doting mother. And she was very pretty, too. A man might do far worse.

  “I do not think waiting for Miss Smith to be older will materially change anything,” said Knightley. “In my opinion you have no reason to wait.”

  Martin grinned—he could not help it—and said, “It is a very great relief, sir, to hear you say that. That was my own opinion, but of course I am biased by my own wishes. Miss Smith seems perfectly suited to me…that is,”—his face darkened a bit with doubt again—“she was last summer when she stayed with us. She moves in rather different circles now than she did then. I have begun to wonder if perhaps I am not worthy of her—in regard to her place in society, I mean. I am only a farmer, when all is said and done, while she receives invitations to dine with the first families of the neighbourhood. I would not wish to bring her down to a level beneath her deserts by marrying me.”

  Knightley chuckled. “Put away your fears, Martin. You will be raising her to your level by marrying her. She may dine
at Hartfield, but that does not essentially elevate her station. You are not beneath her in any way. I predict a very happy union between you. As I said before, she is the very soul of amiability, and she is very beautiful. Furthermore, she is the sort of girl who will have eyes for no one but her husband. I think you a very lucky man.”

  There might have been something a little wistful in Knightley’s tone, for Martin smiled and said, “Perhaps you ought to think of matrimony for yourself, Mr. Knightley.”

  Knightley groaned. “Not you matchmaking as well! If you tell me that you know a lovely young widow for me, I will―”

  “Oh no, Mr. Knightley,” protested Martin. “I would never presume such a thing.”

  “I am glad to hear it. I only wish everyone had your delicacy. At least I am safe in your company. Let us hope your felicity in marriage will occupy your mind so entirely that you have no leisure for arranging the happiness of anyone else.”

  “If I knew Miss Smith would accept me, I think I would be so happy that I could not think of anything else. But I have such fears sometimes. When I think of the way we talked and laughed together, nothing seems more certain than our marriage. And yet—what if she should refuse? How could I bear to meet her on the road and merely lift my hat to her and say, ‘Good day, Miss Smith’ and keep walking?”

  “Nonsense, Martin. Miss Smith will be very pleased to give you her hand in marriage, I am sure. I look forward to calling on you both at your new cottage in about two months’ time.”

  Knightley went to bed that evening feeling that a heavy burden had been lifted. Robert Martin’s proposal to Harriet would solve all the problems he had been fretting about for the last two months. He was quite sure that Harriet, with her pliable will and her fond regard for Martin, would be very happy to become Mrs. Martin. Emma, of course, would miss her friend, but would not mind letting her companion go when she realized what a good match Harriet was going to make. The friendship would gradually drop and its bad effects on both of them would cease. Possibly Emma might find another companion that would be more suitable. And with Harriet gone, Emma would stop unconsciously encouraging Elton. It might embarrass both Emma and Elton to find how far they had misunderstood each other, but it was better than an outright proposal and rejection. Perhaps the salutary humiliation they both needed might not have to be so explicit. All in all, he could not have asked for a neater solution to the entire problem.

  The next day brought more good news: Larkins announced that Mefford had signed the document, giving up his lease.

  “At first Mefford refused to sign it, Mr. Knightley, which I had rather expected. So I said, ‘Very wise of you, I’m sure. You’ll never be able to get another lease if you give up this one.’

  “’What do you mean?’ he said.

  “And I said, ‘Landlords have a way of enquiring how prospective tenants managed their last farms. And I must say that as you have done so poorly with the farm here, no landlord would be likely to offer you another lease.’

  “Then he said a rude word, Mr. Knightley, and told me that it was a rotten farm to begin with and that no one could have done anything with it, that the rent was unreasonable for such a place, and that any landlord with half a mind would understand that. So I told him that if he could believe such a thing, then it was well for him that he was not going to give up the lease and test his assumption. I believe that stung his pride, Mr. Knightley, for he snatched the document out of my hand and signed it and said, ‘We’ll see about that.’ So you are free of a bad tenant, Mr. Knightley, and without any real unpleasantness.”

  “You look uncommonly pleased, Mr. Knightley,” said Baxter the next morning.

  Knightley smiled. “I suppose I do, Baxter.” He had been thinking of Robert Martin’s face, illuminated with joy, as he had said goodnight the other evening. He could pardon Emma for feeling that she had a hand in the Westons’ match, for he felt the same now about Martin and Harriet. He wondered how long it would take him to propose. Not long, he guessed. Perhaps in a day or two Emma would be confiding to him that Harriet would not be single much longer.

  Suddenly, he wanted to be the one confiding the secret to her. He had to share the news with someone, and as it concerned Emma’s protégé, it would surely do no harm for her to know what was coming. If he left now, he could probably be there when Mr. Woodhouse took his morning walk and he could have a word with Emma alone. Ah, no, Harriet would probably be there. He hesitated, but the chance that he would find a way to talk to Emma anyway proved irresistible and he yielded to his first impulse.

  He called at Hartfield, and by some miracle stroke, Harriet was not there. He sat down with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma and helped to talk away Mr. Woodhouse’s fears on the subject of Miss Smith’s health—“she ate pickled onions when she was here for dinner yesterday. I tried to dissuade her from it, and I am sure she was very quiet all the evening. And now she is gone to Mrs. Goddard’s again, and I fear it is due to ill-health, though she would not own it.”

  “But Papa, Harriet is only gone to fetch a few of her things, and she is coming back directly to spend several days with us. And she has eaten pickled onions all her life, and it has never disagreed with her before.”

  “If she had a good breakfast this morning,” said Knightley, “then I think her health must be well enough. Do you not agree, sir?”

  “I suppose so, Mr. Knightley. And she did eat a good breakfast, I think, did she not, Emma?”

  “Yes, indeed, Papa.”

  “Well, it must be as you say, Mr. Knightley. But all the same, I do not think she ought to have eaten the onions.”

  Having restored Miss Smith’s health, they talked over other small items of news until Knightley was sure that Mr. Woodhouse had given up the idea of having a walk at all that day. But at last Emma mentioned that perhaps he ought to take his walk now, and after making his usual lengthy apologies and explanations, Mr. Woodhouse agreed and allowed Knightley to get him his great coat and open the garden door for him.

  At last Knightley was alone with Emma, and he opened the subject immediately by praising Harriet’s beauty and good nature, and then giving Emma the compliment she wanted: “You have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle,” he said. “She really does you credit."

  "Thank you,” said Emma. “I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not everybody who will bestow praise where they may. You do not often overpower me with it."

  No, thought Knightley. I know better than to give you even more flattery than you are currently receiving! However, he said merely, “You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?"

  "Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she intended."

  Aha! thought Knightley.

  "Something has happened to delay her,” he said. “Some visitors perhaps." One visitor in particular…

  "Highbury gossips! Tiresome wretches!"

  "Harriet may not consider everybody tiresome that you would,” said Knightley, and Emma conceded the point by looking away.

  "I do not pretend to fix on times or places,” Knightley went on, “but I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage."

  "Indeed! How so? Of what sort?"

  "A very serious sort, I assure you,” said Knightley, smiling.

  "Very serious! I can think of but one thing—who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant?"

  “I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter: Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey Mill this summer seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.”

  “He is very obliging,” said Emma, “but is he sure that Harriet means to marry him?”

  “Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do?” said Knightley, and went on to tell of Robert Martin’s visit two d
ays before, giving Martin all the praise he was due. It was a good sign, he thought, that Emma smiled through this explanation. In spite of the fact that she would lose her companion, she could already see that this marriage was a good thing.

  “Now,” he concluded, “as we may fairly suppose he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard's today… and she may be detained by a visitor without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.”

  “Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, “how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?”

  “Certainly I do not absolutely know it, but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?” His heart sank a little; was he not going to be the bearer of news after all?

  “Come, I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was refused.”

  “What?”

  “He wrote, and she refused him.”

  Refused him? Impossible! He could see Robert Martin’s earnest face in his mind’s eye and he began to feel a knot growing inside him. Could the girl not see what she was rejecting?

  “Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her,” he said, standing up and feeling his face grow red with indignation. “What is the foolish girl about?" He took a couple strides away from her.

  “Oh, to be sure,” said Emma, “it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her.”

  Knightley did not know which was more absurd: her ridiculous assertion or the fact that she thought she knew anything at all about men!

  “Nonsense!” he said, beginning to pace the floor, “A man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? Madness, if it is so, but I hope you are mistaken.” He could imagine Martin’s despair if it was really true. It must be a mistake. It must be! Martin had left the Abbey so expectant and happy...