Charity Envieth Not

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  “I have no doubt that Mr. Knightley does know a number of charades,” said Emma. “They are all very likely highly instructive and exceptionally moral, and will improve everyone who reads them.” She spoke as if she were teasing him, but she was not really teasing. There was no humour in her eyes. “The collection would not be complete without a contribution from Mr. Knightley.”

  Very well, then, he would contribute something that ought to instruct Emma—and Elton, who was sure to read the book as well—if only they had ears to hear.

  “If you insist,” said Knightley, “I do happen to know a charade which is very much to the purpose. Quite instructive, as you have said. It is not too difficult. I will write it out for you, if you will give me a moment.” He crossed to the little table in the corner, where a pencil and paper were to be found, and quickly wrote:

  My first denotes a muted song

  With which the jaw can never tire

  The next is a beast with horns quite long

  And proves to be the new calf’s sire.

  The whole’s a virtue some despise

  But makes one exalted in Heaven’s eyes.

  “There,” he said, coming over to Emma and giving her the paper. “Can you tell the answer?”

  Emma read the whole aloud, and then applied herself to deciphering its meaning.

  “Hmmm…” she said. “'A muted song with which the jaw can never tire.’ Well, I suppose a jaw would never tire if it didn’t move, but then how could you have a song if you didn’t move your jaw? Well, leave that for the present. A beast with long horns…the calf’s sire…that would be a bull. Something-bull. ‘The whole’s a virtue…makes one exalted…’ A virtue? You were quite serious about this being an edifying riddle!”

  Knightley’s grave eyes met hers, and she looked back at the paper.

  “I’m sure I must be mistaken,” said Harriet timidly, “but the part about being exalted in heaven’s eyes reminds me of the text Mr. Elton read out on Sunday, from St. Luke: ‘He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’ But of course ‘humbleth’ is too many syllables.”

  “Humble…muted song…hum…bull…yes, of course! Harriet, you have found it out!” Emma’s face beamed at Harriet with delight; Like a proud mother, thought Knightley.

  “Have I?” said Harriet. “I do not believe I have ever found out the answer to a riddle before.”

  “Well, Miss Smith, it is to your credit that it was your familiarity with Holy Writ that gave you the clue,” said Knightley civilly.

  “As to that, sir, it was only that Mr. Elton had read it out recently, else I might not have remembered it so quickly.”

  “Never mind, Harriet,” said Emma. “It is a worthy addition to your collection, and one that particularly belongs to you—not only because you discovered the answer but because it is a virtue that you display to perfection. There are few who would tax you with arrogance, whoever else might be accused of it”—this said with a slight glance in his direction.

  “I am glad the charade has your approval,” said Knightley drily. “I hope it may prove useful to those who read Miss Smith’s collection.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but here’s Mr. Knightley for you.”

  Dr. Hughes looked up from his book at the housemaid’s announcement and his eyes brightened.

  “And how are you, Mr. Knightley?”

  “Well in body, though rather agitated in mind. I was hoping that conversation with you might give me a more tranquil spirit.”

  “Then I am afraid you will be disappointed, I am not in the best of tempers myself.”

  “I am very sorry—and greatly surprised—to hear that, sir. I do not think I have ever seen you otherwise than uncomplaining and patient. What has troubled you?”

  “Oh, everything. The pain in my leg has subsided a great deal, but it still hurts and I am tired of lying in this bed, tired of reading, and tired of every visitor beginning the conversation by asking if my leg is improving.”

  Knightley grinned sheepishly; he had entered the room ready to enquire after that very thing.

  “Of course,” Dr. Hughes went on, “it is very reasonable for them to ask; it is what I should ask if I were visiting an invalid. But you have no idea how annoying it is to answer the same question time and time again.”

  “I shall go away and come another time if you prefer,” said Knightley.

  “Not at all; you have improved my ill-humour by coming. Sit down. And I had something I wanted to say to you.”

  “What is that?”

  “You know, of course, that Mefford has given up his lease and will be moving.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Mefford came to see me yesterday, asking if there was something that could be done for her son, Harry. He is nearly twenty, you know, and has never really taken to farming. And she fears that her husband will not be able to lease another farm elsewhere. She wondered if he might go into service somewhere, and if I knew of an open position hereabouts.”

  “Were you hoping there was a place at Donwell?”

  “I know there is a place at Donwell. Betty, our housemaid, told Mrs. Hughes this morning that one of your footmen has given notice. His older brother has died and he is needed at home—I think his father is a corset-maker.”

  “William Larkins called at the vicarage this morning, did he?” smiled Knightley.

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt the information came through him. You did not know it?”

  “No. Baxter had not yet mentioned it to me.”

  “Well, will you ask Baxter if young Harry could take Thomas’s place?

  “He’s certainly tall enough for a footman, but—forgive me—my impression of him is that he is better fitted for feeding poultry than serving it at table.”

  Dr. Hughes chuckled. “No doubt. But he may learn.” Seeing that Knightley still hesitated, he added, “I can well believe that he is not an ideal choice for the position from your point of view, but from his point of view, nothing could be better.”

  “I am not likely to suffer as much from his inexperience as Baxter is,” said Knightley. “I will ask Baxter if he is willing to train him. Heretofore I have had nothing to do with the hiring of under-servants.”

  “No, I imagine not. If you give it good consideration, I will be content.”

  “Very well, I will think on it.”

  “Thank you. That is one burden less. Now, if you could only find a balm for broken hearts you would remove another cause of my troubled state.”

  “If you mean Robert Martin, I heartily wish I had a cure. Healing his heart would remove my aggravation as well.”

  “How so?”

  Knightley hesitated. As angry as he was with Emma, it pained him to think of others censuring her too. She was quite mistaken, but there was still a great deal of goodness in her. People would be apt to forget that. Of course, the rector was the very last person who would spread tales about others; telling him about Emma’s folly would not be making it public. But then he didn’t really want to discuss Emma’s misdeeds even with Dr. Hughes.

  “I don’t think I can explain it fully to you, sir. But I do feel most sincerely for Robert Martin.”

  “Anyone must. I confess I had rather it happened to almost anyone else.”

  “Will he confide in Spencer, do you think? He is about his own age.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Dr. Hughes with a touch of impatience. “He very well might.” He looked away from Knightley and out the window with a rather cross expression, which was such a contrast to his usually cheerful countenance that Knightley wondered if perhaps he really ought to go. But before he could move, Dr. Hughes sighed and said, “Forgive me. You see now another reason for my peevishness. When Spencer first came, I was distressed that he was not more generally liked by the parish. I knew his worth and was unhappy that his merit was unseen by most. Now, however, his kindness and humility have earned him the respect he is worthy of. I should be pleased, and yet…and yet I fear now that the parish
will come to prefer him to me. Is that not a disgraceful confession? That I should be envious of my curate! I may say that I had no idea of the state of my heart until I realized that my vanity was wounded at the thought of ‘my flock’ preferring another.”

  “An entirely reasonable and natural feeling, I should think,” said Knightley. “I am sure I would feel the same. But you have nothing at all to fear, sir; your flock will never favour another over you. They have loved you too well and too long to give your curate the preference.”

  “That may be true. And also true, as you have said, that it is natural for me to feel as I do. But there is a higher Law, which I have violated. ‘Charity envieth not’, you know, and therefore I know that I am lacking in charity. It is a frightful admission.”

  “'O! beware, my lord, of jealousy’,” murmured Knightley.

  “Indeed. The Bard knew what he was about when he wrote that.” Dr. Hughes looked out the window again, but now he looked contemplative instead of annoyed. After a moment he sighed again and then looked at Knightley once again. “Your brother and sister arrive soon, do they not?”

  “On Saturday. I will be very glad to see them again.”

  “You will ask them to visit me, will you not? Tell Mrs. Knightley that I want to see all the children.”

  “My dear sir,” said Knightley, rising to go, “You could not evade seeing them if you wanted to. Nothing would induce my sister to leave her children behind when she calls on old friends. And they will be at the Abbey frequently—you know they always visit Donwell every day. They can be so much noisier there than at Hartfield where their Grandpapa likes tranquillity.”

  “Good. I am glad the Abbey will have children’s voices echoing down its halls, however briefly. It needs a little life in it; you are too much alone there.”

  Knightley opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. It was not worth arguing over. He bowed and bid the rector good day.

  12

  Knightley was glad there was nothing to take him to Hartfield in the days leading up to Saturday. Almost against his will, his anger at Emma was beginning to ebb away. She had been wrong—very, very wrong—and she would not admit it; he hoped that his steady disapproval might in a sober moment make her reconsider her actions. But he was tired of being at odds with her. He kept thinking of things he wanted to tell her or ask her, only to remember that he was supposed to be preserving a dignified reserve toward her. He was afraid that the more he was in her company, the more impossible it would be to maintain an adequate show of displeasure.

  For this reason he did not come to Hartfield until Saturday evening, to ensure that his brother’s family arrived first. In a room full of people—Mr. Woodhouse, Emma, John, Isabella, the five children and, with any luck, two nursery maids—he hoped there would be no reason to talk much to Emma. He could be grave and civil from a distance.

  He was unlucky. When he arrived at Hartfield, he found the drawing room much emptier than he wished it. Mr. Woodhouse was sitting by the fire with Isabella, and Emma was standing near them, holding the baby. Of John and the other children there was no sign.

  “My dear sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rising with Isabella to greet him, “how are you on this dreadfully cold night? I hope you have not caught a chill.”

  “I am very well indeed. And Isabella, it is good to see you again in Surrey.”

  “Thank you, George. We are very pleased to be here again. John is upstairs, but I expect he will join us very shortly. And the children, too.”

  “They tolerated the journey well, I hope?”

  “Oh yes. They enjoyed the ride in the carriage immensely, and have been resting since we arrived.”

  “My dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, seating himself again, “you ought to have rested, too. It is a frightfully long journey.”

  “I could not rest, Papa, when I was longing so to talk to you and Emma,” said Isabella, taking her seat as well.

  “Well, that may be so, but I fear you will suffer for it. But you said something about Mr. Wingfield a moment ago. Do tell me what it was he was saying to you.”

  Knightley’s eyes drifted over to Emma. He thought she had never looked so lovely. “If to her share some female errors fall, look on her face and you’ll forget ‘em all,” he quoted to himself, the aptness of the couplet making him want to chuckle. But no, he must remain steady to his resolution of formality with Emma. He had not greeted her at all yet, and he must do so. And, of course, he did want to see the baby. Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella were deep in conversation and did not mark him as he came over to Emma.

  “Good evening,” he said. He hoped there was not too much warmth in his tone.

  “Good evening, Mr. Knightley.” She said it without either archness or apprehension; there was only sincerity in her manner.

  “Do you think her looking well?” he said, shifting his gaze from Emma’s hazel eyes to those of the baby.

  “Oh yes. Does it seem to you that she is eight months old? I remember her birth as being only a few weeks ago. But then, you have seen her more recently than I have. Has she grown much?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “I was surprised to see how the other children have changed and grown since I saw them last, though I know that children do grow rapidly and the only astonishing thing is that I was surprised . They are acutely anxious to see you, Mr. Knightley. Bella has whispered to me that she has a very particular gift for you. You must remember to be all enthusiasm for whatever it is, or you will crush her tender feelings.”

  “Of course.” He was tempted to add a teasing remark about knowing the consideration due a niece, having been an uncle nearly as long she had had been an aunt, but he remembered in time and restrained himself.

  The baby had been looking at him with wide eyes all this time, but now she turned back to her aunt and gently patted her face. Emma smiled and kissed her, which prompted a laugh from the baby and another little caress for her aunt.

  “She’s an affectionate little thing, rather like Bella, isn’t she?” said Knightley without thinking. “Little George was always more interested in observing things than playing with his relatives.”

  “Yes, I remember. You thought it was unpardonable in a namesake not to show more interest in you.”

  He smiled at the memory and said, “It was disgraceful. He sat on my lap for a whole half-hour with his attention fixed on my watch fob.”

  Baby Emma turned to him and smiled, and without even making a conscious decision to do so, he took the baby into his arms.

  “You remember Uncle Knightley, don’t you?” said Emma to the baby. “I am certain you do.”

  And then Knightley remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be smiling and talking in this friendly way with Emma. For half a moment he contemplated reverting back to his former demeanour and perhaps making some excuse and walking away with the baby. No, it was impossible. He could hardly go back now without open rudeness, and anyway, the longing to be friends again was irresistible. He gave up the struggle.

  “You are a clever child, aren’t you?” he said to the infant. “Of course you remember me. I was the one who kept telling you how beautiful you are.”

  “I thought you despised flattery, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma with a raised left eyebrow.

  “So I do. It was not flattery to tell the baby she is beautiful—I meant every word.”

  “What a comfort it is,” said Emma, “that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”

  “If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike.”

  “To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong.” She said it a little petulantly, but her eyes held a smile.

  “Yes, and reason good. I wa
s sixteen years old when you were born.”

  “A material difference then,” she replied, “and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives. But does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”

  “Yes—a good deal nearer.”

  “But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right if we think differently.” There was just a hint of a challenge in her tone.

  “I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child,” he began, and then stopped. He was not ready for another verbal battle with her. “Come, my dear Emma,” he said, “let us be friends and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”

  “That's true,” said Emma heartily, “very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.”

  Her words lifted his spirits. Was it possible that she had she taken some of his rebuke to heart?

  “Now, Mr. Knightley,” continued Emma, “a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”

  The image of Robert Martin’s dejected face came immediately before his eyes.

  “A man cannot be more so,” was all he could say.

  “Ah! Indeed I am very sorry. Come, shake hands with me.”

  She looked as if she meant it, and he could not refuse her. It was a relief, after the strain of the last two weeks, to be done with the discord between the two of them, not to mention the discord between his resolution and his inclination. He was almost disappointed when John chose that moment to come into the room; now that harmony was restored he might have had a satisfying talk with Emma.