The truth of this judgement was brought home to Emma when, the following morning, she arrived at Mr Knightley’s lodgings in Henrietta Street and at last found herself face to face with John. He was old, bent, thin, grey and, more unlike his old self than all of these, humble. He took Emma’s hands and looked pleadingly into her eyes.
‘You have seen Isabella, the children, the baby! Oh, how I long for that! How I have longed for it! I do not deserve it! You are good – my brother, how can I ever repay it!’
‘Do not talk this way, John.’ Mr Knightley stood, arms folded. ‘No brother would have done less. It was my duty. No virtue attaches to it.’
‘But Abbey-Mill!’ he exclaimed in a pitifully thin voice as he sank into the chair. ‘That my wild thoughtlessness should be paid for in such a way—’
‘Enough! Now we are provided with roast beef, we must eat. Emma.’ He glanced at her and she obliged but her looks were all questions. Why had John Knightley made reference to Abbey-Mill? What had Mr Knightley kept from her? What was the link with Mr Martin? She could not understand and must know. But John Knightley must eat first, be calm. She would have to wait.
Two hours passed in which she tried to satisfy her brother-in-law’s thirst for news of his family; the thirst was unquenchable, but she did her best, supplying every detail of the most cheerful nature – Never had Henry and John seemed such paragons of every virtue, nor Isabella so strong and healthy.
At last, when darkness had already fallen, Mr Knightley put Emma into her bonnet and cloak and said he would take her to Brunswick Square.
‘I am exhausted!’ cried Emma as eventually they managed to secure a hacking cab off the crowded streets. Mr Knightley handed her up.
‘Yes. He is like a drowning man clutching at those who have rescued him.’
‘You have rescued him.’ She paused. ‘He talked of Abbey-Mill Farm. You talked of Mr Martin. I believe there is something you are holding from me.’
‘You are ever right, Emma.’
‘You did not used to say that.’
‘For a long time you have been right. Mostly right.’
Emma laughed. ‘I would not have believed you if you had not added that.’
‘I am so glad you can laugh. Your laugh is better than any music.’
‘But I am serious. Tell me.’
‘You remember that I once told you that you would not like my arrangement – I prevaricate – I have sold Abbey-Mill Farm to Mr Robert Martin!’
‘Sold! Abbey-Mill!’ Emma could hardly take it in.
‘The money has paid off all John’s debtors; he is a free man and with a small sum to help him as he sets up as a lawyer once more.’
‘It is impossible! Abbey-Mill is part of Donwell. It is impossible you should sell it—’
‘The entailment was at first a difficulty but I took legal advice—’
‘And to the Martins! The Martins! It is too horrible! Altogether wrong! Against nature!’
‘Emma, you do not know what you are saying’ – gently – ‘John is my brother. I am the elder, it is true, Donwell is mine, Abbey-Mill was mine. But should I have hesitated for a moment when so much was at stake? I thought not. If there had been any other way – there was no other way – I loved Abbey-Mill Farm – I love—’
‘Oh, Knightley!’
‘But I could not put that kind of love first – I cannot put that first.’
They had reached Brunswick Square and the driver looked for directions to the house but there was so much still unsaid and no opportunity to say it once they were inside. ‘Drive at walking pace around the square till I tell you to stop,’ commanded Mr Knightley.
‘There is something more you will not like,’ he turned again to Emma. ‘You have not asked where Mr Martin found so much money that would pay off poor John’s debts.’
‘I cannot think practically.’ Emma held her head. She pictured the little farmhouse, old Mrs Martin, Harriet Martin marrying beneath her and now the wife of a man with an estate of his own – a small estate, certainly, but very different from being a tenant.
‘The money has not come from Mr Martin. It has come from Mrs Martin, Mrs Harriet Martin.’
Clip-clop went the tired horse round the dark square; clip-clop went Emma’s head.
‘Harriet Martin’s father died,’ continued Mr Knightley, ‘quite recently, as I believe you know. I remember you told me they had bought a new pianoforte. He was a tradesman of course but not an ordinary one. Now you have been in London and seen those miles of shops in Oxford Street you may understand better than before how a great fortune can be made out of trade – greater perhaps than out of land – in money terms, at least. Harriet found herself inheriting a large sum.’
‘Harriet Smith an heiress!’ Distractedly, Emma recalled the time when she had imagined just such a development and then, as she thought, discovered it untrue.
‘Round again?’ called the driver and receiving no answer, he muttered to himself, ‘I’ll turn the other way about or the poor old nag will be so giddy he’ll fall off his legs.’
Neither occupant of the cab noticed the reversal of direction. ‘Harriet Martin is a fine heiress,’ continued Mr Knightley, ‘who once owned nothing. It is our good fortune that Mr Martin wanted no more grandeur for his family than Abbey-Mill. He talks of adding on a room or two but to him it is the most beautiful spot in the world.’
‘He talked to Mrs Tidmarsh of the sunset—’
‘Perhaps he did. So there you are. Everything as it is. You will come to think about it as I have. As a joyful piece of good fortune rather than a source of sadness.’
‘But your land, your property! Generations of Knightleys – bought by the money from a common tradesman!’
Knightley said nothing for a moment but held her hand tight. He understood how hard it was for the mistress of Hartfield to accept such a change.
‘If you want a merry-go-round!’ called the driver, patience gone, ‘be off to the circus!’
‘We’ll stop at the next house along!’ returned Knightley.
Emma had one more thing to say; one painful reproach but she found, as they drew up in front of the house in Brunswick Square and the gaslight lit up Knightley’s concerned face, that she did not have the heart to say it. Nevertheless, as they entered the bright hallway, children overflowing down the stairs towards them, the words repeated in her head, ‘Why did you not take me into your confidence when all the Martins – even Harriet Martin – knew of it?’ It could not be the main theme of her thoughts with so much to consider, but it gave her a melancholy sense of separation from Mr Knightley’s vital concerns. Such a cutting-out of what was important to him had happened too often.
John Knightley returned to his home two days before Christmas. Isabella had already been informed by his brother of the bankruptcy and also warned that his health had suffered as a consequence and she bore the change in her husband with surprising fortitude. It was impressed upon her that her husband should not bear the principal responsibility for the disaster; his colleague, Mr Graham, was allowed to be the guilty party, John Knightley his dupe – more blameworthy for foolishness than anything worse. Soon Isabella was able to confuse the time of his illness and think it the cause of his bad judgement rather than the result.
‘You have hoped to make poor John your patient for these many years,’ Emma laughed as she saw Isabella, remarkably recovered from her confinement, brewing yet another potion for her husband, ‘and now he is at your mercy.’
‘You must not laugh, Emma dearest. If I do not watch John, he will be off to work again in some even less God-fearing place than Scotland and then he may not return at all! You must read the parable of the Prodigal Son and you will see a little of how I feel.’
Isabella’s innocence and muddle astonished Emma. Certainly, her sister had not been informed of John Knightley’s
incarceration but her expectation that the broken man who moved so humbly about the house was ready to slip the wifely leash and return to gainful occupation – travelling, moreover, to a remote place – seemed ridiculously optimistic.
She said as much to Mr Knightley. They had escaped Brunswick Square and taken a barouche to Hyde Park where, muffled to the eyes against a cold wind, they took a walk beside the lake called Serpentine. Mr Knightley did not agree with his wife’s view to the extent she had predicted. ‘My brother is a ghost of himself at the present, but he has powers of recovery. I have seen him as a child; when his health is recovered, he may surprise you. Isabella’s confidence in him can only help – as long as she does not kill him with her doses; I saw a pot of some noxious substance that you would not give a horse.’
‘It is papa’s gruel!’ smiled Emma. ‘He has sent the recipe by special post today and Isabella is delighted both by his paternal solicitude and our brother’s obedient reception to it.’
‘Times have changed!’ Mr Knightley’s tone was a little ironic, for the unbankrupted John Knightley had been known for his impatience with his father-in-law’s preoccupation with his own and others’ health.
‘It is not only that he is a willing patient – or at least an unrebellious one – but that he has become of positive use in the house. I own that has surprised me.’
‘Ah!’ Mr Knightley’s pace quickened with his interest. ‘That terrible lassitude of humiliation leaving him? That is a good sign.’
‘Only this morning he inquired of me how the coal came; and yesterday he asked to see the tradesmen’s bills—’
‘I had not hoped for so much so quickly! Oh, Emma,’ he turned, ‘if this could be settled without more anguish.’
‘The loss of Abbey-Mill Farm will always be a source of anguish,’ replied Emma bitterly.
‘You still dwell on that.’
‘You do not?’ Emma stood still and watched the wind ripple across the lake waters. A duck quacked and appeared from behind an overhanging shrub. It quacked again and another appeared; and another and another – until a whole train of ducks came quacking up to where they stood.
‘They think we have bread.’ said Knightley absently. ‘Tell me, Emma, would you have been made quite so unhappy by the loss of Abbey-Mill if it had not been Harriet Martin’s money that had bought it?’ It was gently said; but the sentiment cut Emma deeply.
‘I am not such a fool as you think me!’ She flung out the words, scattering the ducks with her vehemence so that they retreated with hysterical quackings.
‘I did not mean to insult you—’
Emma’s mood changed again. ‘Oh, Knightley, if only we could be safely at Highbury. We never quarrelled before we came to London! I feel that you are hardly my husband at all – I cannot bear it—’ a sob broke from her. ‘I am not brave like Philomena, you know! I want things to be easy and comfortable again! I want our quiet evenings at Hartfield back again – just the two of us and dear papa with his little complaints – I would even drink gruel for that!’
Mr Knightley took her arm; it was too public a place to do more. ‘You are brave, my dear – as brave as you need to be; no one can be braver than that. Perhaps Mrs Tidmarsh has a greater call for bravery. As to Hartfield, our quiet evenings, I sometimes thought you dissatisfied and restless. I am not so sure that you will be so happy to be back – not after the first pleasures of our return. London has provided you with new standards.’
‘London perhaps!’ cried Emma savagely. ‘But not Londoners; they are all like ducks, quacking and crowding together in rows; even the houses do it!’
Knightley began to laugh. ‘I have never seen a quacking house, for sure.’
‘But they are in rows – it was the first observation I made.’ But she smiled too; it was so long since she had managed to entertain Knightley enough to hear his laughter.
‘You will go back to Highbury soon,’ said Knightley as, tucking her closer to him, they began to walk again. ‘If half of what you have told me of John’s resurrection is true, then soon he will take over everything you have performed so nobly and you will be left free as air. I must go to Donwell once more before Christmas; perhaps we shall be going together after that. It has been an unnatural life we have been leading.’
Chapter 20
The unnatural life must be continued through Christmas; Emma knew it but her impatience to be gone grew stronger each day. Isabella saw and felt sorry for it. She sat in her chair with a basket full of children’s stockings all in need of a mother’s loving darn. Emma, with far less to do now both adults were taking the burden from her, sat at the piano but her fingers remained obstinately stiff and unmusical. It was two days before Christmas and Mr Knightley had not yet returned from Donwell.
‘Dearest Emma, you have done more for me than any sister should expect.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Emma went to the window.
‘Mr Knightley will not be back till tomorrow.’
‘I am not looking for Mr Knightley. I was looking at the Foundling Hospital.’
‘Ah – poor children! To be without parents! I can hardly bear to think of it!’
Emma returned and came to sit with her sister; she looked into her sweet, kind face.
‘What is it, my dear?’ Isabella pulled a thread through a little stocking and broke the end off with her teeth.
‘You approach life with admirable simplicity!’
‘I am no intellectual being, it is true. I leave such things to others.’ A pause. ‘Did I tell, my dear, that I have invited Mr Dugobair Tidmarsh and Mrs Tidmarsh to our Christmas dinner? They are so dark and lonely in that great gloomy house of theirs and I thought it would please you.’
Emma nodded and turned away; for her cheeks would blush at the thoughts she must hide.
‘One of the joyous gifts conferred by children,’ continued Isabella comfortably, ‘is that one may never be melancholy in their presence. When I consider that this will be the last Christmas I may spend in this house where all my children have been born and lived, a sadness overtakes me; but then Henry or John or Bella enters with a plea for the cup and ball I hid when they broke the kitchen window and one look at the rosy face, the contrite frown ready to break into a laugh or purse into a kiss – they know they will always get their way with me – and my sadness is disappeared as if it has never been.’
‘Your happiness resides in your children, sister; you are fortunate; you are good.’
‘And with my husband, Emma dear. A husband must come first.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Once more Emma wandered to the piano but this time she did not even attempt a note.
Isabella’s words proved very true. A Christmas that should have been a melancholy event was turned into a happy festivity by all the joyful noise and tumble of children who saw their father restored to them after a long absence, their mother back in their midst after her confinement, and their much-loved uncle and aunt in case they should need further attention. They were cheerful, unspoilt children and seemed quite unaware that their presents were diminished greatly in quality and number from the previous year.
The food was simpler too and the wine less abundantly served but, as they sat down, ten at the table, Emma thought it would do very well as a last supper. She turned to her left where Mr Tidmarsh waited hungrily for the mutton to be carved.
‘Mr Knightley and I will leave earlier than the Mr John Knightleys.’ Mr Tidmarsh knew the situation and had been a great comfort to Isabella throughout the days of her husband’s return.
Mr Tidmarsh bowed. ‘I shall endeavour to be of service.’
‘You are kind.’
‘Mrs Tidmarsh will also do everything in her power to help your sister.’
Now it was Emma’s turn to bow. She had never managed to know Mr Tidmarsh very well, his learning proving a barrier to friendship, either in reality or in
Emma’s imagination. Whenever she was with him, she learnt, and, although she enjoyed the learning, she could not be altogether comfortable with the sensation of inferiority it inevitably brought with it.
The meat arrived and Mr Tidmarsh, instead of falling eagerly upon it as was his usual habit – Emma suspected the meals provided in his home by Mrs Tidmarsh were inadequate for the needs of a young energetic man – took to poking about the slices in an absent-minded way.
‘Gravy, Mr Tidmarsh?’ inquired Emma, as a reminder.
‘Mrs Tidmarsh is not as strong as she appears,’ he said suddenly. ‘Her spirit sustains her body—’
‘Oh!’ Emma could think of nothing better.
‘I had thought that country air—’
How Emma blushed! And was angry, guilty, vexed and embarrassed. ‘I – we—’
‘Not now – not yet – the cold—’ He, too, blushed, poked his meat furiously.
‘Please – I beg you—’ So Emma muttered and blushed as Mr Tidmarsh muttered and blushed but she did not give an invitation for Mrs Tidmarsh to Hartfield – she could not.
‘Well then—’ finished Mr Tidmarsh and, at last, began to eat.
It struck Emma as she watched his satisfaction that he might not have noticed the absence of the invitation he had sought.
The dinner continued – everybody in the best of spirits – and even John Knightley’s haggard looks were disguised by a brighter colour.
Afterwards, while Mr Knightley sat beside Emma on their sofa, Isabella and Mrs Tidmarsh left the room and soon there was a sound of heavy scuffling and a bang on the door before it could be opened.
‘Mama has prepared a surprise,’ said Henry, coming in importantly like a little footman. ‘You must pull your seats round.’
The servants appeared next, dragging a load with Isabella darting smilingly around and Mrs Tidmarsh, self-conscious, wearing a grand air and an uncharacteristic bloom on her cheeks, followed. It was a harp. All was explained: Philomena Tidmarsh had been prevailed upon to play; this was a rare treat; they must applaud her even as she sat on a little gilt chair and raised her arms to ripple up the strings just as her cape sleeves rippled down her naked arms. At very least, it was a splendid sight.
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