The outcome was inevitable. Soon Lawyer Coxe had to admit defeat to George Knightley. His brother was as firmly fixed at Donwell Abbey as if he were there by right of primogeniture. The very best that Coxe could hope for was to establish his client’s right to a share in the occupation of a house which he had once possessed with a clear and undeniable title.
Donwell was a large mansion, but John Knightley had a large family, and also little desire to have a drunken brother and a sister-in-law he had never cared for living under the same roof. For the first time he spoke to his wife of these matters. Isabella, who had come to accept the gaining of Donwell as a fair compensation for the loss of her share in Hartfield, at once flew into a rage at the thought that her father’s estate had been lost entirely to the moneylenders to pay for her brother-in-law’s pleasures. This eventually died, to be replaced immediately by an even greater one at the prospect of the George Knightleys coming to live at Donwell.
Her husband let her anger die. His wife’s occasional emotional outbursts were a price he had been always ready to pay for her undisputed intellectual subordination.
‘Be still, wife,’ he said finally. ‘We cannot have George and Emma to live at Donwell, there is no argument about that. But we are obliged by strong arguments of law, family tie, and public reputation, to see they are not destitute. There is a cottage on the estate out beyond Langham, a very decent kind of little house, which, with a bit of attention to the roof, will do very nicely for a childless couple with a single maid, no horses, and small inclination to entertain. My brother and his wife might live there very comfortably on his allowance from the estate revenues and we should still be able to maintain easily all that pleasant intercourse which the bonds of blood make necessary to us both.’
As this pleasant intercourse had been reduced in recent years to an exchange of visits every sixmonth, it did indeed seem that it would be easy to maintain. It was true that Mr Woodhouse’s illness had caused a more frequent communion between the sisters, but Isabella’s strong hint that their father’s seizure might have been accelerated by worry and neglect had not brought them any closer together.
So it was that John and Isabella together drove down to Hartfield to say in a friendly, familial kind of way what Lawyer Coxe was already transcribing into the cold convolutions of legal English.
They did not find George at home. Urgent business of state had required his presence in London. Emma received them with a courtesy whose chilliness hardly showed.
John Knightley for his part was all fraternal concern, and Isabella all sisterly condescension. Emma received their proposal with smiling calmness. And as the sisters parted, (John having gone ahead), Isabella’s sense of the totality of her triumph was so strong that there were genuine tears of affection in her eyes as she embraced Emma and said, ‘Papa looks so well, sister, that he may, God willing, live for many years yet, and so delay this unhappy day. Forgive me, if my concern for him made me so forget myself that I ever hinted a fear that he was not receiving the best of treatment here. I know now what I did not know then, that you have cause even greater than a daughter’s love to cherish his dear health.’
‘Sister, you are a great comfort to me,’ said Emma.
The tears flowed faster and Isabella said, ‘And, sister, the best news I have still to give. It may be yet that Hartfield is not to be lost to our family.’
‘What’s this?’ cried Emma, sudden hope filling her heart.
‘John has already spoken to Mr Coxe. Our private investments have flourished these past years, and when Hartfield finally comes on the market to pay George’s debts, it may be possible for John himself to purchase the house at least, and some of the estate also.’
‘This is good news indeed, sister,’ said Emma, suddenly full of shame for the hard thoughts she had entertained of the John Knightleys. It would not be pleasant to live as the object of her sister’s charity, but it would be infinitely preferable to living in a cottage at Langham! ‘Oh, good news indeed!’
But if John purposed to buy Hartfield, what need had there been to mention Langham at all? she wondered.
Her thoughts had distracted her from Isabella’s prattling.
‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘such a nice girl, and though she has only twenty thousand, her breeding is such that we cannot doubt that she will make an excellent wife for Henry, and mistress of Hartfield …’
‘Mistress of Hartfield!’ echoed Emma. ‘Sister, forgive me, of whom do you speak.’
‘Emma, do you grow deaf?’ said Isabella tartly. ‘I speak of Miss Augusta Otway, of course, who is to marry your nephew, Henry, and, if all goes well with the purchase, to set up house with him here at Hartfield!’
The shock was so great that Emma could not speak and Isabella, happy to fill any silence with her own chatter, was able to depart in complete ignorance of the violent changes of feeling to which her sister had been subjected in the past half-hour.
Once alone, however, Emma gave vent to her pent-up feelings and raged around the room, restrained only from screaming aloud and hurling articles at the wall by her remembrance of her convalescent father upstairs. But her mind was tempestuous.
‘First Donwell – now Hartfield – to take all – give it to that bumptious boy – Miss Augusta Otway – empty-headed ninny – cottage at Langham – daily visits – nothing changed – oh, the hypocrisy! private investments – liar, cheat – Donwell revenues – oh, for money! – or someone with money – money enough to buy Hartfield when the time comes and keep it from those prating hypocrites – anything, I would give anything!’
The door opened and Frank Churchill came into the room.
Do not judge Emma too harshly. Distressed beyond all tolerance, all reason, all control; betrayed by those nearest to her, a debauched husband and a disingenuous sister; praying to God for deliverance at any price; and the door opens …
They were alone in the house. Frank Churchill saw her distress and came naturally to comfort her. She saw the light of his loving concern in his eyes and let herself be comforted. By what small degrees they moved from comfort to caress, the reader must judge for himself. What resistance, what persuasion; what interchange of vows more sacred than those of church or state; what soft endearments, what gentle pressing, what warm yielding; all these are for the reader to imagine at whatever speed, of whatever proportion, and in whatever detail, best befits his conscience. Suffice it to say that Emma bestowed on Churchill what she had not bestowed on any man save her husband, and not on him for many years, and Frank Churchill felt himself blessed in the bestowal.
In that gentle aftermath, where pleasure is still more than a memory and guilt still less than vapour, Emma murmured, ‘Frank, do you truly love me?’
‘More than anything. More than life even. Ask what you will, I shall provide it.’
Emma said, ‘What shall I ask? What do I require? Nothing! Except …’
‘Except? Ask anything, dear heart.’
‘Dear heart, you say? Let that be my cue. Heart … hart … Hartfield! That is all I ask.’
‘What?’
Churchill’s surprise penetrated Emma’s languor.
‘Do not misunderstand, my love,’ she said urgently. ‘I do not mean as a gift. Do not believe that I would ask for such a gift, or any gift at all. To ask for anything would be the action of a …’
She let her voice fade into an indignant silence.
Churchill said, ‘Emma, my love, ask me anything I can give, and you shall have it with no one daring to make such an imputation. What? You are above reproach! But what is it you say of Hartfield?’
‘All I mean, dear Frank, is, could you not buy Hartfield for yourself? A man of your wealth and standing needs an estate. Randalls is well enough, but like to be a ruin by the time poor Mrs Weston passes on. Whereas Hartfield is fit for any gentleman, and must be sold if my dear father dies. I would rather it passed into your hands than anyone else’s in the world! And it would mean you would still be c
lose by, when … when …’
‘When what?’
In tears, she told him of John Knightley’s proposal for their accommodation after Hartfield was sold.
Churchill’s indignation was great.
‘Has the man no soul to make such a proposition?’ he thundered. ‘And your own sister too … oh, monstrous! Dear heart, I swear that if I had the means at my disposal, you should not lose Hartfield, no, not if it meant I had to rent it out to Knightley for a peppercorn!’
Out of all these fine and heartfelt emotions, Emma dextrously plucked the only significant word.
‘You say “if,” my love …’
With genuine disappointment, but without shame, for he was in no way conscious of having deceived her, Churchill confessed how small his fortune was, how little of financial assistance he could offer to help her retain Hartfield.
With magnificent restraint, Emma began to rearrange her dishevelled clothing, resisting his attempts to delay her by pointing out it was time she took tea with her father. Her thoughts as she climbed the stairs were a bitter turmoil, but nothing of this showed as she greeted old Mr Woodhouse with a bright smile.
‘How are you, Papa?’ she asked gaily. ‘Hannah will be here shortly with the tray and afterwards we will play a game of backgammon.’
The old man’s mouth opened and shut but no words came. She approached close, took his hand and raised it to her cheek. Still he did not speak. Alarmed, she released the hand. It fell, resistless, on to the counterpane.
‘Papa!’ she cried. ‘Papa!’
It was bad, but not the worst. Perry, quickly summoned, confirmed there had been a second seizure, but by no means as severe as he had feared.
‘However …’ he said.
‘Speak freely, Mr Perry,’ Emma urged.
‘Forgive me if I do, Mrs Knightley. Weakened as he is now, a third seizure would certainly be fatal.’
‘And is a third likely?’
‘Almost inevitable, I fear, dear lady. And it may not be long delayed. Forgive me for giving such news!’
Emma took the blow well. Isabella was summoned to weep; the Reverend Elton was called to pray. By midnight, however, Mr Woodhouse was a little better, and took a little gruel before falling into a peaceful sleep. The vicar went to continue his prayers in the vicarage, Isabella took her tears back to Donwell, and Emma went up to her lonely bedroom where at last she could give way completely to her grief.
The future looked blacker than she had ever known it. For the first time in her life she contemplated her own death. Would it not be best for everyone if she were to follow her dear father quickly into that abyss?
When her dark musings were interrupted by a tapping at her door, and to her whispered call, ‘Who’s there?’ came the whispered reply, ‘Frank’, her first reaction was of outrage.
Then she took thought, and after a while she opened the door and said softly, ‘Come in.’
Once more old Mr Woodhouse amazed everyone by the strength of his constitution. Once more, albeit more slowly this time, speech returned and paralysis departed, but the end now seemed certain, and soon.
Knightley returned from London, shook his head in perplexity at the sight of his stricken father-in-law, whose frail figure was all that lay between him and ruin, and went back to London to pursue whatever affairs of state occupied him there.
That night, Frank Churchill came to Emma’s room again as was now his accepted practice, though Emma and his own conscience insisted on complete discretion. She seemed strangely distant, and after a while he asked if anything ailed her.
To his amazement, and also his exulting hope, she replied, ‘I spoke to Knightley of a separation today.’
‘What did he answer?’ he asked.
‘What do you imagine? He laughed, and said God had bound us, and only God could untie us. I asked him if he spoke of divorce.’
Churchill’s hopes leapt even higher. Divorce was difficult but not altogether impossible, if both parties were energetic in its pursuit.
He said, ‘And what said he to that?’
‘He laughed even louder, and said no, it was not divorce he meant, but death. That was the only instrument he recognized to untie God’s knot. Frank, I must see you no more!’
‘No more?’
Now hope had gone and only shock remained.
‘What do you say? Why should we cease our encounters?’ he demanded.
‘While I thought there was hope that we might one day be legitimately joined, I could ease my conscience,’ she replied passionately. ‘But now I know that there is no hope, I see this relationship for the sinful thing it is. We must part and see each other no more! No, Frank, do not plead or protest. My mind is firm. Go now, dear one. Go at once. And God bless you!’
And Frank Churchill found himself outside in the cold corridor, the sound of a bolt sliding home behind him with all the finality of the iron bar which signals to a prisoner that his life-sentence has begun.
That night he sat up long in a desperate speculation as to what his future might be, and before dawn arrived, he had left Hartfield and ridden away into the paling shadows.
The following night George Knightley was preparing for bed. He whistled quietly to himself as he did so, the tune of an old hunting song. He had discovered in himself of late a great capacity to live for the present pleasure, and let the future look after itself. Today had been a good day. He had spoken well in the House and won the applause of his Party’s leaders. He had come back to his other Westminster house in the evening, and found the wanton Lady Upton waiting for him. They had shared a supper of cold pie and claret, and much else besides. Finally she had departed, promising him to return the following night.
He finished off a half-empty bottle of wine and thought complacently of his performance. For a man of his age and his corpulence, he was wonderfully lissome. It was this unexpected combination which so attracted Lady Upton, she had told him. It was a shame a man so vital should not have gotten an heir on his own wife. That would have solved some of his problems perhaps, in giving him a clear and continuous title to Donwell. But it was too late now. Or perhaps not. Emma at forty was still a beautiful and vigorous woman. What a jolt it would be to his sanctimonious brother and that awful babbling wife of his, not to mention that moon-faced oaf, his nephew Henry!
Perhaps the future was not as dark as it seemed.
He finished the wine, nibbled a few crumbs of pastry from the half-eaten pie, yawned and went to bed.
Soon he slept.
A sound woke him.
His bedroom door was ajar and he knew he had closed it. A figure stood by his bed. He tried to struggle upright, but the sheets seemed to bind him tight.
Outside a cloud was blown away from the moon and its bright light fell straight through the half-curtained casement, illuminating the intruder’s figure.
The first thing that struck Knightley was that the intruder held a large wedge of veal pie in his hand.
Then he raised his eyes to the man’s face.
‘You!’ he said in amazement.
He would have spoken more, but there was no more time to speak. Into his open mouth the intruder pushed the wedge of pie and leaned all his weight on it, thrusting it deep, deep, down. Knightley choked and struggled, but the tight stretched sheets held his huge body supine with his arms pinned tight by his sides. After a while, the cloud blew back over the moon, or so it seemed, for darkness came drifting down through the fading casement.
The news came first to Lawyer Coxe who took it straight to Donwell Abbey. Pale and serious-faced, John Knightley and Isabella drove quickly down to Hartfield.
‘Why, sister, I was not expecting you today,’ said Emma. ‘And brother John! Is it about some new cottage you have found for my occupation?’
‘Emma, be strong,’ urged Isabella. ‘We bring sad tidings.’
‘What? Must I make do with a barn, perhaps? Or even a byre!’
‘Sister-in-law, be still and liste
n,’ commanded John Knightley. ‘Your husband, and my brother, George Knightley …’
‘Yes, yes. I know him.’
‘He is dead. Emma, George is dead.’
‘Good lord,’ said Emma. ‘George dead, you say?’
She sat very still, completely expressionless.
‘How dead?’ she asked finally.
‘He … he choked,’ said John Knightley.
‘Choked!’
‘On a piece of pie,’ interposed Isabella. ‘He had been drinking wine with his supper, and eating a veal pie. He must have taken some to bed with him and continued to eat it as he lay there …’
‘What a remarkable thing,’ said Emma. ‘Choked, you say? On a veal pie. What a remarkable thing.’
‘Emma, let your grief come out,’ urged John. ‘Do not hold it back. Such retention is …’
He was interrupted by the sound of a horse, ridden at speed to the front door.
‘That is probably Mr Perry,’ said Emma rising. ‘I sent for him. Forgive me. I will ask him to wait.’
‘But why have you sent for Perry?’ cried Isabella. ‘Is Father …’
But Emma had left the room.
It was not, however, Perry, but Frank Churchill, that the maid was opening the door to. He had a wild pale look, with his hair and clothes somewhat dishevelled, like a man who had not slept much, but ridden fast and far.
‘Will you step into the library, Mr Churchill?’ said Emma, leading the way. ‘Forgive me if I can give you little of my time today. I have just received distressing news. My husband …’
‘… is dead!’ Churchill concluded for her.
‘News travels fast! You have heard?’ she said.
‘Heard?’ he cried. ‘I was …’
His words tailed off, then he resumed in a quieter tone.
‘Yes, Emma. I have heard, and I have come post-haste. Oh, my Emma! I know that in the eyes of others you must put on a show of grief; but for us, what a different emotion this news must rouse!’
There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union Page 22