here Emma thought of the tough rumbustiousness of her nephews with a smile—
are away from you, in another’s care; it is a constant misery and, since I must keep merry for the other children during the day, I cry myself to sleep every night. Ah, there are some advantages to the childless state! Happier to relate is my dear husband’s dedication and sweet temper—
Emma raised an eyebrow at this description of her sardonic brother-in-law. Can he have changed so much?
You would scarcely believe what a help to me he is with the children, when his work permits. He was even up in the night with the baby – I could not wish for anyone to endure what he has endured over the last months and I cannot but record that his nature, although always excellent, has now become almost saintly. Mrs Campbell who was here the other evening – my dear John even allows me a visitor more than once a fortnight – remarked on the change at once. ‘You have a saint for a husband, I see!’ she commented – or something to that effect, when he brought in the tea things as I had let the maid out for an hour. ‘I only wish my poor Jane had married such a gentleman, instead of the person she did!’ She was referring of course to Mr Churchill and I, naturally enough, mentioned to her that he was now lodging at Highbury. At which her face – I said to John afterwards that I wished the subject had never arisen, it gave her such pain that I was fearful of apoplexy.
It transpired that, although Mrs Campbell had always known Frank had not been kind to a lady she loved almost as a daughter, and she had her suspicions of worse – she had recently visited old Mr Churchill – he is not expected to live long, she reported – who told her that Mr Frank Churchill – of course I never knew him as you did – that Frank Churchill – too shocking almost to write down in a Christian home full of little children – spent his time in London with a woman already married (Mr Churchill did not divulge her name) who added to the two children she already had with her husband – a lax man by all accounts – by the sum of a pair of twin boys which she did not bother to disguise (although she had no intention of leaving her husband) belonged to Mr Churchill.
At this Emma must put aside the letter for a moment such was her shocked surprise. But in a moment it was taken up again and her eyes racing over the pages.
This birth, a month or so premature, took place just a week before his poor wife also gave birth. No one knows if she was aware of the situation but it seems only too likely that the woman’s boast of two husbands at the same time and now two children at the same time – reached her – perhaps by the Godless woman herself. Is it not a terrible story? Even though my heart is as soft where children are concerned as it is hard on such immorality, I could scarcely blame myself for crying, ‘Thank God!’ when Mrs Campbell concluded this sorry tale by the information that the twin boys – welcomed by the immoral husband as his heirs since both previous children were girls – have since died. There is some justice, I said, adding, as I thought of their innocence – they may be cherubs in heaven.
I then told Mrs Campbell of your reports of Jane’s son, his good health and energy; that cheered. But she would come back to the father, to Frank Churchill. I believe she was seriously worried that he would do more damage among the ladies of Highbury! He is so charming, she said, so handsome, so amusing. I made no comment at this for it seemed she was debating to say something further. What is it? I asked. Old Mr Churchill promised me to secrecy but I cannot feel he is right; and if it is known, it will make Frank Churchill seem far less charming, handsome and amusing. Surely a knowledge of his behaviour – and Mr Churchill has not forbade you that – I said, should take those attributes from him? ‘But there is something even more decisive.’ ‘What?’ says I. She took a breath. The knowledge that old Mr Churchill has entirely cut his wicked nephew from his will! Once that is known, his charm, his looks and his wit will be very much less obvious.’ Oh Emma! I could say nothing to her, but bow my head. He has brought it on himself – yet what a punishment! To be lifted to the heights of a great house and an estate and then thrown down, on to nothing – as I understand it, literally nothing! I could almost feel sorry for him, with my dear John’s experiences so recent – except then I think of his poor wife – not just penurious, but dead.
What a world we live in! What a world for my poor children to grow up in! I think of Highbury as a kind of Arcadia but even paradise had its snake! So beware, my dearest, and if you feel it necessary to pass on the news of the alteration in Frank Churchill’s circumstances – if, for example, someone is thinking him too charming – then, remember, he does not know his disinheritance himself yet. He does not come near Mr Churchill who has done so much for him and who is approaching the end of his life, so Mr Churchill does not inform him. As Mrs Campbell says, what conceit and arrogance he must possess, that he could not consider the possibility of this when he cannot bother to pay the smallest attention to a man who has been, for most of his life, his father! Mrs Campbell was so very upset after our conversation that I persuaded her to some of papa’s gruel which she pronounced ‘very interesting’ and assured me that even a spoonful was enough to set her to rights. She described it as ‘better than hartshorn’ which I found strange but put it down to her emotional condition.
The letter did not even end here; however the name of Frank Churchill, Emma could see from a quick scanning, did not figure again. It seemed that Frank Churchill was far, far worse than her wildest imaginings. The only mitigation she could see was the genuine distress she had seen in him when he was hiding at Donwell the previous year. Obviously sorrow, of which she still believed him capable, had been compounded by a heavy load of guilt. No wonder he had been mad, no wonder he had fled; it showed, at least, that he was not so hardened in his immorality that he could not feel. He had felt. When he had clutched at her, held her on the banks of the river so that she could feel the warmth of his body, the strong beating of his heart, he had been a man filled with desperate misery. But that did not exonerate his guilt for his past ill treatment of Jane nor for his present neglect of old Mr Churchill.
Mrs Campbell was right; the punishment fitted the crime. Frank Churchill, poor, might have a chance of salvation.
Emma looked up. She had sat long at her desk; she was cold, the small fire out; yet Mr Knightley had not come to her. Her head was too filled now with the news imparted in the letter to understand why he should be leaving her like this. Was he ashamed at having sung at the request from Harriet? She could think no more.
She proceeded into her bedroom and was unsurprised to see that the bed stood empty. Knightley must already have gone to his room – without even bidding her good-night. She held the letter still; she could not wake him with it and yet he would leave early—On the other hand, he already thought so ill of Frank that it would hardly change his opinion. Poor Westons! thought Emma, her thoughts still disordered as she prepared herself for bed. She would do without Merry who was too curious a girl. How would the Westons bear such a disgrace to their heroic Frank! She could not think of that either. As she lay in bed, she began to wish that Mrs Campbell had not called on Isabella and that Isabella had not broken her usual rule of talking about nothing but her children. Ignorance, or at least partial ignorance – for she knew Frank Churchill was not good – would have been easier. Her last idea, as she found a sleep more troubled than restorative, was that she should consider giving Philomena the news of Mr Churchill’s changed financial prospects as soon as she found her alone on the morrow; at least she could test out Mrs Campbell’s view that a man’s power to amuse is graded in accordance with the size of his income.
Unfortunately for the chances of this plan, Emma slept late and Philomena left early for Highbury. Instead Emma found herself in the company of Dugobair who was reading the Bible – the Old Testament, as Emma soon discovered – in the drawing-room. Now and again he could not restrain a line or two bursting from him, after which he started in surprise at these words filling the room – quite as if t
hey had nothing to do with him – and then, assuming responsibility, apologised profusely. It was after he had cried, ‘My father hath chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions!’ that she felt moved to introduce the subject of Frank, and of Philomena’s attitude towards him. She could think of no cleverer way – for her head ached that morning – than to set off quite plainly with a question.
‘How do you think Philomena likes Frank Churchill?’ – a blush came over her cheeks.
‘How?’ repeated Dugobair, head over the First Book of Kings, Chapter I2. But the echo of her words came back to him before she managed a repetition and he answered, quick and intelligent: ‘My stepmother has many virtues – she is clever, an excellent musician, an inspiring teacher, an energetic friend – but she does not like men.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Emma, taken aback.
‘That is what you asked, is it not? Whether my mother likes Frank?’
‘Yes – I—’
‘My answer is just, although I speak of her attitude to all men, not just Mr Churchill. Philomena may enjoy a man’s company if he makes her gay; if he is handsome enough he appeals to her eye, as a picture might; if he seeks her out, she will not repulse him. But she will not like him. She makes, perhaps, a small exception for me – she is truly fond of me, I believe – but I am outside the normal race of man, I am her stepson; besides, my awkwardness with the world makes her think me not quite masculine.’ He gave Emma a fixed look. ‘In this she is wrong. But so far it has not been necessary to disabuse her.’
‘Oh!’ said Emma, quite amazed at the crispness of Dugobair’s analysis – he who usually seemed so remote from a knowledge of the basely human.
‘So you see she cannot like Frank Churchill – or at least no more than she likes a well-trimmed bonnet or a string of amber beads. Have you not wondered why my mother, a young good-looking woman, has never married again?’
‘It has not been so long since your father’s death – and her very deep attachment—’
‘Deep attachment!’ Mr Tidmarsh shut the Bible with a clap. ‘Will you be shocked with the truth?’
‘The truth can never be shocking,’ said Emma virtuously, although curiosity inspired this encouragement and she suspected she might be very shocked indeed.
‘The first Reverend Tidmarsh, my father, God rest his soul – although I do not feel sanguine on that subject – married Philomena when she was scarcely sixteen. As you know, he plucked her from the Foundling Hospital; he called her “a lily among weeds”. He married her; he taught her music; he took her to France, Italy, Switzerland. She was his – his plaything—’
‘Oh!’ said Emma faintly.
‘—his servant, his mistress, his slave. He was her master. I was at school in England but whenever they returned, I saw how it was. He had bought her. She had no other life, no escape – he used her – no, I will say no more – his friends – no – let us just say, she was not happy. She learnt how to please him – every evening she played him to sleep with her harp – she learnt much from him – he was a brilliant man but he never allowed her to be anything but a poor foundling girl. She could not love him, she could not even like him; but she lived with him for ten years. You understand now. Philomena cannot like men – it is not in her nature as it was made for her by my father. I took refuge from him in books, in learning, Philomena had no real escape. When he died, she vowed never to marry again. Have I answered you?’
‘Yes. Indeed, yes. I had not meant—’
‘You did not want so much of an explanation. Philomena tells me I am long-winded. That is why she prefers women – ladies, like yourself. She says ladies speak so much more to the point – sensible ladies, that is, such as she sees you to be. She is very fond of you; but then you know that; you will have felt that. She likes you and she amuses herself with handsome Frank Churchill. I must stop. I have said enough.’
He had. Out of all that shocked and amazed Emma, she held on to one most important piece of information. Philomena had vowed never to marry again. In that case she need not tell her anything more about Frank. She could let events unravel naturally, without a hand from her. It was a relief and worth, on the whole, the sense of unease she had felt when Dugobair had protested how Philomena liked her. She was not sure she wanted to be liked with quite such intensity as was conveyed by his remark that Philomena had other female acquaintances whom she liked in the same way.
These thoughts made her increasingly uncomfortable sitting in the same room with Dugobair, bent once more over his Bible. So when he next uttered, ‘There is death in the pot’, followed soon after by, ‘They found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands—’, she did not wait for his apology but, muttering ‘Parsley butter’, fled from the room.
Chapter 36
A student interested in the workings and perversities of fate and chance would not have been surprised that the event most often anticipated in Highbury over a period of nearly two years, took place at a time when expectation was at its lowest. The first Emma heard of it was when Merry, sent early to the shops, returned with face even redder than usual and cap strings undone.
‘They have come! They have come! The Sucklings have come!’ she panted out, standing in Emma’s bedroom, for all the world as if King George himself was in Highbury.
She had seen them, she avowed, at Ford’s; they had stopped to ask the way, blocking the whole street with a barouche-landau and a coach, although there were only two of them, without the servants.
‘Surely you mean the Crown?’ inquired Emma to regulate the wild flow. ‘Everybody who passes through Highbury asks the way at the Crown. You mean they sent their servant into the Crown?’
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ Merry puffed out a little for she knew she was in the right; furthermore, she was conscious of having been in just the right place at the right time. ‘I was in Ford’s myself, as you sent me for the trimming—’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘—when Mr Suckling himself came in to ask the way to the Vicarage—’
Now Emma felt a great need to ask more – about his appearance, his behaviour, his importance, but Merry was determined to prove without doubt her absolute Tightness. ‘He was standing so near to me I could have touched him and when he’d got the directions – himself, not a servant – he bought a pair of York Tan gloves!’ she ended on a note of triumph.
‘York Tans!’ exclaimed Emma. Well, Mr Suckling certainly knew how to make himself liked in Highbury. To buy a pair of gloves before he had taken more than two paces in the town! It was remarkable.
‘Then a lady’s voice called him from the coach,’ continued Merry on a lower note since she knew her mistress well enough to see she was a perfect captive to her report. ‘A jolly-sounding voice – not haughty like—’
This was a further surprise to Emma who had fixed on Mrs Selina Suckling as the most odious of creatures – any sister of Mrs Elton had to be that and the owner of Maple Grove must be far, far worse. She had, in her mind’s picture, a tall bony lady with a nose as long as Philomena’s but hawk-like rather than elegantly straight. She had endowed her with a vulgar, conceited manner, an overbearing nature and total self-confidence – all these things most usually expressed in a very ugly and haughty voice.
Despite it not being the thing to question a servant about a gentleman or lady, she could not resist the temptation. ‘But how can you be certain it was Mrs Suckling if you did not see her!’
‘Well, Mr Suckling called her “dearest heart”, if that is reason enough,’ said Merry, returning to her sulkiness.
‘Thank you; I believe my hair is quite tidy enough for breakfast,’ said Emma, sharply. ‘And we will doubtless see the Sucklings for ourselves soon enough.’
‘They will be breakfasting at the Vicarage now,’ said Merry, recovering her excitement. They must have put up somewhere
near last night to arrive so very early—’
Thank you, Merry.’
Emma descended and of course nothing else but the Sucklings was talked of throughout breakfast which was attended by all those at Hartfield, including Mr Knightley, who had returned from his early ride to Donwell.
‘I wonder that poor Mrs Elton had time to put on her best morning-gown with such long-expected visitors arriving so suddenly!’ exclaimed Miss Bates, charitably concerned.
‘It is most thoughtless of Mrs Suckling; most selfish,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘And York Tans, you say, just like that, over the counter, no forethought. They sound a most impulsive couple. Not at all what I should have expected. Poor Mrs Elton; she will be wishing they had not arrived if it goes on like this.’
‘Surprise can scarcely be continued,’ pointed out Emma.
‘The ladies will be very pleased,’ said Mr Knightley, looking at Emma properly for the first time that morning because he had previously been so taken up with bacon and kidneys. ‘Emma will be able to wear that elegant dress I have seen in the wardrobe but not on her person.’
His smile, for some strange reason, made Emma’s eyes fill with tears which must be blinked away hastily before anyone noticed.
Emma & Knightley Page 28