The emotions of good Miss Bates on setting eyes once more on the husband of her beloved niece could be imagined only by one who, like Isabella before her, had taken to heart the parable of the Prodigal Son. Reproach for Frank Churchill’s long, painful absence was never likely in a woman of Miss Bates’ disposition, but her humble welcome, her downcast eyes so filled with tears that if she had raised them she would have hardly told Mr Churchill from Mr Weston, informed all who witnessed it that she had now surpassed the testament and disowned any belief that Frank Churchill had ever failed in the most upright, nay, virtuous behaviour.
‘So good,’ she murmured ecstatically, ‘to return at just this moment, so right, so proper’ – although why it was right and proper for Frank to return now rather than months earlier was not clear to anyone.
‘Now, Miss Bates,’ Mr Weston took her hands, ‘you need not be so overcome. Now that we have him, we shall hold him for a good while. But he does have one favour to ask of you – my dear lady, a favour is not for crying over—’
‘Such a kind, soft heart,’ commented Mr Woodhouse who had been more of a spectator than usual – too many events for him to do more than hold his shawl closer.
‘You see, Randalls, as you will readily understand,’ began Frank, ‘is full to the brim – these children have nurses and the nurses have maids – I have never seen so many women in one place—’
‘Go on, Frank, do not proceed down a side track—’ In an aside to the ladies, ‘He is very emotional, poor boy.’’
‘In short, dear Miss Bates,’ said Frank, quite gaily, ‘may I take up lodgings in your rooms at Highbury?’
It being entirely unlikely that Miss Bates would say no – although she could not get to the ‘yes’ beyond ‘honoured’ and ‘proud’ – the matter was soon settled and it was only Mrs Tidmarsh’s intervention that held up final arrangements for a little longer.
‘My harp?’ she pronounced the word with a glittering look at Mr Churchill which Emma happened to catch before the lady’s lashes closed modestly over it.
‘A harp?’ Mr Churchill gazed about the room. ‘I do not see a harp.’ But Emma, senses acute to every nuance of his manner, saw that the innocence of any knowledge of a harp was feigned and that the quick look he directed at Mrs Tidmarsh was playful. It did not take much more perspicuity to realise that the young, handsome man who had peered round the door of Miss Bates’ room while Mrs Tidmarsh plucked and she, Emma, dozed, had been Mr Frank Churchill. Amongst so much else, in particular the fire, it did not seem of great importance to Emma, however, except insofar as it made it certain that Churchill had arrived in the area the night before and not that morning as he had made Mr Weston believe.
Meanwhile, all was settled in the affairs of the harp. Mrs Tidmarsh would preserve visiting rights: Mr Churchill would undertake to be away every day between one and three o’clock; Mrs Tidmarsh would be undisturbed. There was nothing for Mrs Knightley to add. Now the gentlemen must be on their way.
All was flutter and flurry as everyone, save Mr Woodhouse, proceeded to the driveway, but the horses must make their way there from the stables and Mr Weston took Mrs Tidmarsh and Miss Bates inside again away from a chill breeze.
‘Emma!’ Mr Churchill stood close to her.
‘Mrs Knightley—’ Emma, looking stern, moved as if to follow the others and then changed her mind. ‘I shall inform Mr Knightley that it was you who lit the fire at Donwell. You cannot deny it. Do not even try to deny it! I can see it in your face; in your eyes! You are not even sorry for it!’
He was immediately all dejection and emotion. ‘No, please – all these good people—’ he waved his hand at the house – ‘my name – please – it is over now, what I was, before – I am reformed – I am straight—’
‘How can you dare say that when only last night you risked my husband’s home!’ – an indignant whisper.
‘Look at me – think what I was! – how far down the road to ruin – Would you condemn me to that again? If you knew how I have struggled to bring myself to where I am now! But it is in your power – If Mr Knightley knows, he will certainly tell others – he is not as you and I – he does not understand the emotions to which we are subject – Oh, Emma, I beg you, not for myself but for the sake of Mr and Mrs Weston, for Miss Bates who has seen so much misery and is now made so happy to believe me a hero again – most of all, for the sake of little Frank – should he be condemned to a father who is accused of arson? Oh, dear Emma, I implore you!’ Here he tried to take her hand and, although she took it out of reach, she did not move away.
‘I admit it – it was a moment of madness! My sufferings all came back to me when I saw the piano – it was madness but the harm is slight – Would you make it the reason to undo all my prospects? Oh, Emma – I plead with you—’
She said nothing.
‘You will be silent?’ he continued, a little more confident. ‘At least for a few days – until I have established my good intentions—’
Emma nodded, spoke low, ‘I will. You have convinced me that others will suffer – Mr and Mrs Weston, your son – others, innocent—’
‘Oh, thank you! Thank you!’ Now she could not restrain him from taking her hand and covering it with kisses. ‘Oh, even in gratitude he is intemperate!’ Emma thought incoherently, and was much relieved to hear the horses come stamping and steaming round the corner. It was fortunate that there was enough reason for agitation to explain her flushed cheeks and uneven breath to those inside the house who now came out to join them.
Chapter 31
Mr Knightley’s reaction on being informed over dinner of Mr Churchill’s reappearance, was succinct, ‘He must have heard of the Sucklings’ Ball.’
‘I conceive,’ said Mrs Tidmarsh, ‘that you do not have the very highest opinion of Mr Churchill.’
Mr Knightley bowed but would not be drawn further; this may have been in deference to the sensibilities of Miss Bates, who wore the starry-eyed look of young love, a demeanour viewed with some disapprobation by Mr Woodhouse who felt able, after Mr Knightley’s comment, to pronounce with, it is true, many regrets that he should have to say it, ‘That young man was never quite the right thing when it came to shutting doors. I cannot help but recall a time when poor Emma was forced to walk behind him into every room so that she might shut the door after him.’
‘Oh, Mr Woodhouse!’ cried Miss Bates. ‘That were a terrible fault indeed, although I may be allowed to call it a weakness. Perhaps he has learnt better habits during his travels on the Continent.’
‘I fear,’ joined in Mrs Tidmarsh, ‘there are far less doors on the Continent so the possibility of his improving his closing skills by constant practice is not high.’
‘Less doors!’ cried Mr Woodhouse. ‘What a savage place the Continent must be!’
‘On the other hand, although there are less doors,’ continued Mrs Tidmarsh, ‘there are also less draughts.’
‘Less draughts,’ repeated Mr Woodhouse, unsure what this imported.
‘The climate is less draughty. Perhaps that is why Mr Churchill found himself so comfortable there.’
But at this Emma decided Mrs Tidmarsh’s gentle mockery of her father had gone too far. Besides, she would have preferred any subject for dinner conversation than Frank Churchill. She could not understand why Mr Knightley had not immediately made a connection between Frank Churchill’s arrival and the fire at Donwell and the prolongation of their discussion as to his being ‘quite the thing’ or ‘not quite the thing’ grated on her sensibility. These were enough reasons for her to change the subject. ‘At what time may we expect Mr Tidmarsh to arrive?’ she inquired.
‘Pray, do not look in this direction,’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh who had been in high good humour all day. ‘Tomorrow, I make certain, but the time will depend on his parishioners; I have no doubt, left to himself, he would be here for breakfast, he is so taken
by life in the country and – if I may presume to meddle in areas traditional for one who wears widow’s weeds – he has found a more particular interest,’ she smiled at Mr Knightley, ‘a little outside the bounds of Hartfield.’
Emma looked for enlightenment to Mr Knightley and he smiled too. ‘I suspect you talk of his shared interest in music with Miss Elizabeth Martin.’
‘You term it that!’
Mr Knightley turned to Emma. ‘Miss Martin has at last found a fitting companion for her playing. Mr Tidmarsh possesses a fine tenor voice and an enviable repertoire of unknown songs. We may have reason to test both if visiting Abbey-Mill, after we have seen the fire damage at Donwell.’
Although Knightley looked at her interrogatively, Emma could see that, as always, he had made this plan without any thought of consulting her wishes beforehand. As always, she must follow where he led, an even more galling realisation when the direction he took was to Abbey-Mill. It was on the tip of her tongue to show her bitterness by crying, ‘I wonder you do not take up abode at Abbey-Mill Farm!’ But she was stopped by good sense and also the thought that, but for her father – her father, not his – they would be living, if not at Abbey-Mill, at Donwell Abbey which, leaving out of the reckoning the charms of Mrs Robert Martin, Mr Knightley might like even more.
Dissatisfaction, once taking hold, grows tentacles as fast as an octopus. It seemed to Emma that evening, as she sat among those she held most dear, that every subject caused anxiety or pain. Yet she had no recourse to fight her feelings for he whose understanding she had most respected all her life was now her husband and had become a part of her dissatisfactions.
Outdoing even his stepmother’s speculations, the eager Mr Tidmarsh arrived even before breakfast. He had written a poem, he said, to pass the journey which was in the form of an invocation and opened,
O Persephone
O Spring-time goddess
Who casts your cloak of flowers
Upon the grass
Look with favour upon youth
And happiness that love –
Here Philomena interrupted with a meaning look at Emma and the comment that it sounded as if it had been translated. ‘Could you not speak more from the heart, Dugobair, dear?’
Mr Tidmarsh seemed surprised at this but not offended; his was not a nature to take offence since all information or comment critical or otherwise – whether on tea-making or Italian sonnets – was taken in as material for his fertile mind. ‘From the heart, you say. I had assumed a poem could not be written other than from the heart – a poem of this sort, at any rate – a celebration of the perfection of an early morning’s ride in the spring – but perhaps you are right. I am too influenced by the Latin writers, by Ovid—’
While he considered the proper poetic forms to express sentiment, plans were made and the carriage brought round, so that the party could make an early start for Donwell. Despite the unseasonable warmth in the air, Mr Woodhouse declined the invitation and accepted, with much tender gratitude, Miss Bates’ decision to stay with him. She deserved this gratitude, for her wistfulness, as she stood at the door to wave them off – the two ladies and Dugobair in the carriage and Mr Knightley on horseback – was pathetic in the extreme.
‘I believe Miss Bates would make a fine social butterfly in different circumstances,’ said Mrs Tidmarsh meditatively.
‘She was always used to be glad of any invitation that came her way,’ Emma commented indifferently. Why had Knightley not been pleased to join them in the carriage? was her thought.
Meanwhile Mr Tidmarsh was scribbling on a scrap of paper not more than two inches square.
‘You write a very small poem now!’ said Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘It is not the quantity of words which leads to success, but the quality.’
‘Surely there is a minimum. Emma, give us your view, you have been reading deeply these last few weeks – how many words to make a poem? A hundred? Fifty?’
‘Obscurus fio. Horace would understand your accusation.’
‘I believe,’ said Emma, having an inspiration of memory, ‘that Pope said, “‘Every poet is a fool but not every fool a poet.’”
‘Bravo!’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh and, seeing Mr Knightley riding not far from the window, called out, ‘Did you know what a learned lady you have married?’ She withdrew her head again. ‘Although I could wish it from a writer whose views on our sex were more kindly.’
‘But you recommended I read Mr Pope,’ protested Emma.
‘For his wit and general cultivation he is necessary but not for his views.’
In such rattling style, the journey past Randalls, Highbury and into Donwell itself, was soon accomplished. As they entered the driveway of the Abbey, Knightley came to them again and again to point out to Mrs Tidmarsh this aspect here, that magnificent old tree there, and soon they must stop and descend so that they might walk from the last bend in the drive and have an uninterrupted view as the house arose in front of them. This they did; and, indeed, Mr Knightley’s pride in his old family home (Emma had never been so conscious of it) was fully justified by its mellow golden stone in the spring sun, its accumulation of courtyards and stone-carved windows, its patchwork of stone roofs, some gently sloping and some steep as pointed hats and its tall chimneys, either clustered in charming patterns or standing alone, twisted, like a maypole, sharp-edged or straight and true.
‘I am in love!’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh, ‘I am in love with a house! It is like an edifice out of a fairy tale. Oh Emma, how can you bear to live away from it!’
Emma did not answer. There was no use; both Mr and Mrs Tidmarsh talked incessantly. Mr Knightley opened the heavy front door and, cold and damp as it was, they flew around in raptures over the ‘romantic atmosphere’, the ‘unassuming elegance’, the ‘glorious sense of generations of Knightleys who had each added their own loving touch’ – this from Mrs Tidmarsh.
Mr Knightley smiled and Emma wondered if he wished she would say such things. But she had known the house too long to be surprised by anything about it. It was just Donwell Abbey – Mr Knightley’s home – perhaps some time in the future little Henry Knightley’s home. Emma sighed.
Mr Knightley caught this sigh and thinking it arose from sadness at the sight that now lay in front of them, took his wife’s hand. ‘It is not so bad. As you see, the remains of the pianoforte have been taken and now we must await warmer weather to open the windows and dry out the water.’
It was sad sight enough; but Emma could not help remembering that the last time she had been in the room was in her search for Frank Churchill and that it was on her orders that the piano had been placed there.
‘May we come in? Mr Knightley! If you please!’
Voices were heard calling from outside the house. Leaving his guests to rummage further afield, Mr Knightley returned to the front door where, judging by the amount of noises, he found a large group of would-be sightseers.
Emma waited and was prepared enough to appear calm when Mr Knightley was followed by Mr Robert Martin, Mrs Robert Martin, Miss Elizabeth Martin, Miss Louisa Martin, Mr Weston, Mr Frank Churchill, and Mrs Elton – the last, seemingly in a fever of excitement which showed by her exclaiming, ‘What a tragedy! What a tragedy!’ every second or two without altering a look of glee which lit up her face.
‘We were walking by,’ said Mr Martin, more calmly to Emma, ‘and Mrs Elton saw the door open.’
‘What a tragedy!’ parroted Mrs Elton, patting and then knocking the soaked panelling. ‘It will never recover, of course. Never be the same. The only thing to do will be to replace. What a tragedy!’
‘New things can be very fine,’ began Harriet Martin. ‘I prefer new things—’
There is no need to replace the panelling at all,’ said Emma sharply. ‘Over the last three hundred years, Donwell Abbey has withstood far worse—’
‘Civil war,
pillage, rapine, death, storm and disaster!’ pronounced Philomena Tidmarsh, appearing from an inner room with a dramatic flourish which would have made Miss O’Neill proud but startled Harriet extremely. (Emma noticed it with satisfaction – and surprise because she had already forgotten the first impression Mrs Tidmarsh made on the unwary.)
Before introductions could be effected between Mrs Tidmarsh and Harriet Martin and the Misses Martin who had not yet met Emma’s dramatic visitor, Mr Tidmarsh sprang from a recess or even, as it seemed, out of the very panel Mrs Elton had knocked on so disapprovingly. Indeed she gave a little scream and jumped aside.
‘My apologies!’ He bowed but could not repress the question he had prepared for Mr Knightley: ‘Would I be correct in my surmise that the Knightley family came into this house after Henry VIII had relocated our religious orders?’
‘Now, Dugobair, I will not have history when we have so many interesting people present from this century,’ Philomena turned to Mrs Elton. ‘Do you not find that the study of history so often comes between the practice of living?’
Mrs Elton, goggling somewhat, was spared the need for a reply by Mr Knightley at last effecting introductions and Mrs Tidmarsh being removed to quiz Harriet while Mr Tidmarsh, face alight with emotions quite unrelated to anything dead or buried, had spotted Elizabeth Martin and gravitated to her side. He then, Emma noted with surprise, fell silent; this did, above all, suggest admiration.
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