‘My “but” was because that is how Mr Weston spoke it to me. He also saw Mr Knightley who hinted there was an anxiety, a matter of business, as far as Mr Weston could understand it, about Mr John Knightley. He could get no more out of him. Doubtless you will know all on Mr Knightley’s return – I thought it kindly to prepare you a little.’
‘Yes.’ agreed Emma, trying to smile, for in truth she did not think it kindly of Mrs Weston to inform her that Mr Weston knew more about her family’s situation than she did herself. She hid her agitation by bending down to play with little Anna who was a cheerful child and pleased enough to be bounced on this grand lady’s knee.
‘We will not talk any more of unpleasant things. Perhaps I was wrong—’
‘We will not,’ said Emma, bouncing the child till she screamed in delight and Mrs Weston quite gave herself up to motherly pride. There was no place after for any conversation of serious import.
Another day was to pass before Mr Knightley’s return, giving Emma’s ever-ingenious imagination time to create many an explanation for Mrs Weston’s hinting. Mr John Knightley had never been much appreciated or fully understood by Emma: cold, irritable, ambitious, he lacked the upright openness of his elder brother and seemed to think that a clever phrase made up for a warm heart. Emma, for her sister’s sake, had grown to like him – even to admire his flow of wit when in good spirits – but she had never been able to love him. In short, she was ready to believe that he had run off with an actress – except his nature seemed too cold for that – that he had quarrelled with the Lord Chief Justice (a creature Emma could not imagine but assumed very important to her brother-in-law) since he could quarrel with anyone, or even, this was an inspiration of the later reaches of the night, that he had revealed an earlier liaison which had produced a child, only now acknowledged – a Harriet Smith, perhaps, whose existence would cost poor Isabella all her happiness.
All these imaginings were, Emma admitted to herself eventually, merely the products of a complete lack of knowledge and would remain so until Mr Knightley should return. At last, on the second day, a note announced his arrival later that day. Spirits already raised, Emma set off for Highbury. Her father had remarked that morning how out of countenance she was looking; the walk and fresh air would do her good, for her vanity would not allow Mr Knightley to think that she could not sustain his absence without wilting.
It is a well-known truth that one preoccupation drives out another – or at very least, lessens its impact. This latest anxiety had pushed to the back of Emma’s mind the situation of poor, doubly bereaved Miss Bates and her own guilty involvement for not revealing Mr Churchill’s secret presence.
It was some days since Emma had paid Highbury any attention and she was surprised to see that all the ill dispositions she had suffered over the last week – the turmoils, trials and tribulations – had not altered its aspect of everyday cheerfulness and activity; the butcher still carried his tray, a tidy old woman travelled homewards with her full basket, two curs quarrelled over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker’s little bow-window eyed the gingerbread until she approached, upon which they chased each other away with much laughter. In short, she might feel changed, enveloped, at times, in what felt like a black cloudiness, but Highbury was the same; for no reason at all, this was consoling and Emma found herself tripping along more lightly and with a smile at her lips.
‘You smile. It is good to be young and free of care.’ If there were one person to remove Emma’s smile from her face it was Mrs Elton, who came out of Ford’s just at the most inopportune moment – inopportune from the point of view of one, if not the other.
‘I am glad to see you, ma’am,’ continued Mrs Elton, who today wore stripes which had the curious effect of making her look like a bolster before the cover were on. ‘I fear I have a sad disappointment to impart. Most sad indeed.’
I am sorry for that,’ said Emma, ‘the gay style of your dress had led me to hope that it indicated a cheerful heart.’
‘I always try to be elegant for Mr Elton’s sake – my position as his wife – even though our way of living is so humble at present – but I must tell you: Mrs Serena Suckling is unwell, most unwell.’
‘Unwell! Mrs Suckling. Can this mean her visit may not take place?’
Mrs Elton bowed in assent, too overcome by melancholy to speak.
‘Well,’ began Emma, considering how she might combine politeness with truth, but the case seemed hopeless so instead she changed the subject. ‘Have you visited poor Miss Bates?’
But Mrs Elton had no wish to exchange Mrs Serena Suckling’s illness for Miss Bates’ bereavement. The one gave grandeur to her view, the other diminished it. There was no help for it; Emma must stand and listen to Mrs Suckling’s liability to heavy colds that might turn into coughs, to details of the remedies she found helpful, although in this case not helpful enough.
‘We must do without her!’ exclaimed Emma after five minutes, in a tone not at all grieving enough for Mrs Elton who seemed about to step aside and allow Emma to leave when she unluckily added, ‘I will inform Mr Knightley when he returns tonight.’
‘Returns tonight!’ Mrs Elton, who had been pulling on her gloves, looked up, the tip of her beaky nose quivering as much as the tassel on her bonnet. ‘My dear, Mr Knightley is returned. I saw him myself, just an hour back. I was visiting Abbey-Mill – I patronise Mrs Harriet Martin, you know – when I saw him walking with Mr Martin. From my carriage window, I saw him approach the house as I left. Well!’ Mrs Elton made no attempt to conceal her satisfaction in the knowledge that Mr Knightley, after several days’ separation from his wife, preferred to visit the Martins before her and that Mrs Knightley did not know it. She left in joy; and left Emma hardly able to disguise her mortification.
***
Mr Knightley’s step was one of the most typical things about him; it was the step of a man who did not doubt himself, who thought himself equal to the task ahead, who made his way in the world with the expectation of success. Firm, regular, unequivocal, it had been the beat to Emma’s childhood, growing up, and to her marriage. She heard it unconsciously and only noticed it if the beat of the tread altered – as it did the afternoon Mr Knightley returned to Hartfield.
Emma had determined not to rush out to greet him so from where she sat in the parlour she could hear him cross the length of the hallway. His step was slow, dragging and hesitant. He entered the room.
‘My dear!’
‘You are back.’ She would not smile too wide but looked up into his face; the colour whipped into his cheeks by his ride could not disguise an expression of languor and dejection such as she had never seen it wear before.
He came to her, kissed her, ‘Oh, Emma, I have missed you more than you could guess.’
She hardened her heart, ‘I might not believe it.’
He looked at her questioning.
‘You did not come here straight. You preferred others to your wife’ – trying to sound light, she merely succeeded in petulance.
‘Ah, I see. My dear.’ He sat down beside her on the sofa and took both her hands between his. ‘You think if I had my choice, I would prefer to spend my time with Mr Robert Martin above the company of my wife?’
‘Mrs Elton saw you there’ – now a whine. How she disliked herself!
‘Mrs Elton. Ah. Despite being Mrs Elton, she was right. I had business with Mr Martin.’
‘That could not wait?’
‘That could not wait.’
A silence followed which Mr Knightley seemed either unwilling, or too tired, to break and Emma too vexed. Where was the explanation she had a right to expect? She withdrew her hands from his and stood. ‘I must dress for dinner. I will tell papa you are returned.’
‘I shall follow shortly.’
But he did not, and when Emma returned with her father on her arm, he
was slumped asleep where he sat. This was extraordinary, inexplicable! – or explicable only by illness. Both father and daughter stood in horror – Mr Knightley asleep at four o’clock in the afternoon was as if the cock were to crow at midday or the moon to rise before breakfast.
‘Ah. My apologies.’ Mr Knightley opened his eyes to see two faces staring down at him with – for perhaps the first time he could remember – exactly the same expression. He rose instantly. ‘I am well, very well. Quite well.’ He took Mr Woodhouse’s arm and led him, as briskly as possible, to table. Emma followed, for Mr Woodhouse’s fear must be quelled by reassuring chatter before it grew into a flood, but just before they sat Mr Knightley cast her a look, again untypical, an appeal – she was sure she read it right: ‘Be patient, be kind, I will explain all as soon as we are alone.’
Chapter 12
‘My brother is bankrupt. Bankrupt!’ Emma sat at her little dressing-table and gazed, round-eyed, at her own reflection. Behind it, she could see the shadowy form of Mr Knightley who hunched against the four-poster. ‘Bankrupt,’ repeated Emma, for the word meant so little to her – indeed she hardly thought she had ever heard it spoken – that she had to try the sound to find if she knew the meaning. ‘He has no money left?’
‘Worse. He has creditors. Unpaid bills.’
Emma, still looking into the mirror, saw Knightley put his head in his hands. Should she go to him? First she must know more. ‘Isabella? The children?’
‘He has no money for them. He has less than no money. He has speculated unwisely – in grain initially and then in canals—’
‘In canals!’ interjected Emma, and a wild view of glassy water was accompanied by an image of Frank Churchill. How unimportant that secret seemed now.
‘Canals in South America. He had used every penny and more, sure in success – but there were no canals and he is bankrupt!’
That word again. ‘But he is a clever man!—’
‘That is the trouble. It is his cleverness that has led him to believe that he could make money more readily by canals – by some fancy foreign scheme – than by steady application.’
‘I cannot comprehend it. Your brother is a lawyer; he is a professional man. I know he has sometimes not behaved to my father as I would most wish, but this – how could such a thing happen? Why did no one stop him? My poor Isabella.’
There is worse still, far worse—’ Mr Knightley came and stood behind his wife, an upright dark figure reflected in her mirror, like a man prepared to face an executioner. ‘My brother is in gaol.’
‘Oh, Isabella, Isabella! In gaol, you say?’ She turned and clutched him.
‘It is the law. A lawyer cannot be above the law – although I think he hoped so. Let us sit down together and I will explain the rest.’
They sat either side of the fire, as Knightley told the whole sad story, not that there was much to tell. John Knightley had been convinced by another lawyer, a Mr Graham, an equally clever man who was already short of money and had seen this way of changing his fortunes; he had need of a partner to put up the greater part of the money. John Knightley, driven by whatever motive – perhaps merely the irritable jealousy of being the second son or perhaps, more honourably, out of anxiety to provide for his ever-growing family, had allowed himself to become convinced. He had invested everything, goods, house, wages – the money had gone out, for ever, irretrievable, but the canals had never been built. The colleague had disappeared – either himself duped and fled from his creditors to France, or himself the villain, it was not certain which. It did not matter – the money could never be recovered. John Knightley, himself a lawyer, had given up all hope. He was imprisoned and totally dependent on his brother.
‘I cannot take it in!’ Emma cried. ‘What is the use of putting him in gaol?’
‘No use. But it is the law. Until he can find the money he must stay imprisoned.’
‘And his wife? His children?’ Emma thought of her sister whose presence at Hartfield – much as it was looked forward to and enjoyed – was accompanied by a level of little anxieties which almost rivalled their father’s. How could she deal with such a ghastly stroke of fortune?
‘Isabella knows very little. John she thinks merely away on business – she is brave about that.’ Knightley managed a smile. ‘Far braver than I would have foretold – but her condition makes her health uncertain. I had hoped to bring her and the children here, but her time is too close, she cannot be moved. I have paid enough bills for them to stay in London for the present.’
Emma felt herself sinking under the waves of greater realisation but could find nothing, except exclamations – ‘Oh, Knightley! Oh papa! Poor papa!’ – to add. It was outside her experience; she felt like a country boy faced by a press gang – a dread of what was to come but no means of escape. ‘Perhaps the two older boys could be sent here?’ – in a murmur.
‘Isabella will not be separated from any of her children. She is full of hidden fears – only half believes the reason for John’s absence. She has transferred her fear for him – for John – for herself – on to their little shoulders. Oh, Emma, earlier you cried – so justly – ‘Why did no one stop him?’ That is the question I ask myself every moment, when I am not actively trying to further his cause. Why did I not know? I cannot but reproach myself, blame my own blindness—’
‘But how could you know if he had not told you?’
‘I knew his nature; he is my younger brother; I knew his weakness for money. Do you remember once he said to poor Jane Fairfax (as she was then) that he preferred a business letter over a letter of friendship. I can repeat his words: “Business may bring money but friendship hardly ever does”. She accused him of a lack of seriousness but the words rang a knell in my heart. There was a time when we were both young – when he narrowly escaped grave embarrassment owing to an over-regard for money and a not great enough regard for honesty – Ah, nothing is served by looking at the past. Suffice it to say that I should have followed his affairs more closely – when so many lives depended on him. What is my excuse? I thought your sister’s sweet gentleness, her deep affection for him, his fondness for her and their children, had taught him to curb his wayward instincts. I thought it because I wanted to think it! I should have known better.’
He was sobbing! Mr Knightley was sobbing, the manly shoulders heaving. Emma looked with horror; not only for the whole tragic situation but for herself. How could he give in to his emotions so completely! Vaguely, she felt herself displaced, her reactions taken over by him. Too young to appreciate the powerful effect that complete exhaustion of the body can have on the strongest of men – Knightley had only slept one night through in the past week when he lay at Hartfield – Emma stared, amazed, and her own tears, which were about to fall, receded, leaving her head aching all the worse for containing them.
Knightley rose. ‘I am not myself’ – a stifled voice. ‘I shall sleep in my room.’
This was a cruel, ungentlemanly cut – to be left on her own and no prospect of sleep. ‘Please – I—’
I shall tell you more in the morning’ – a little recovery, a voice not so blurred. ‘The situation is not without hope – no, not at all, my dear—’ He hesitated and then returned to where Emma sat in all hopelessness. ‘What is one more night’s sleep lost? Come, my dear, let me be your maid.’
Tender fingers undid the buttons at the back of Emma’s dress, made her step out of it and held her for a minute, then he sighed and left the room. Emma lay in bed waiting for his return.
The night was dark, cold; she clutched at the air, eyes wide open; it seemed that their whole life must be changed but she could not see how; he would tell her; he would ordain. She recalled his heaving shoulders, his sobs; and his tender fingers at her back … She came to no conclusion, except that it was not a Mr Knightley she knew. She could not think of John Knightley in gaol, of Isabella’s future despair – of the
wretchedness of the children. That must wait for Knightley’s return. He was back soon enough, holding her comfortingly.
‘Since Isabella cannot be removed from London – did I say she is confined to bed? – since the loving care of a sister is what she most needs, you, Emma, must come to her as soon as arrangements can be made for your father—’
‘I – to London?’ Emma’s voice was faint.
‘It is inevitable,’ said Mr Knightley with the kind of firmness for which Emma had conjoined her life with his.
Chapter 13
Emma had never wanted to go to London in her life; she had wanted to go to the sea and she had gone – her first days of marriage would be forever linked with the October light streaking a bottle-green sea, with many coloured pebbles running backwards and forwards under the thrusting waves, with the wild cry of the seagulls when she woke in the morning, with the fishing boats setting out at night. The sea had not disappointed.
But of London she had no expectations – except the worst. The reasons for this were hardly rational; until this latest tragedy, her sister had lived there very contentedly for many years; despite all the stresses of a growing family. The most likely reason was the influence of Mr Woodhouse who considered London as full of dangers as the high seas; Emma had grown up to believe that she would never be allowed to leave her father’s side for that destination; believing this, she made the best of what she could not change – which required her to make the worst of what she could not have.
Yet now Mr Knightley advised, nay, commanded her to go – and as soon as she possibly could. And under what circumstances!
The day dawned with little light in the sky; but breakfast must be sat through; Mr Woodhouse given the merest hint of trouble – enough to prepare him but not to send him into a panic. ‘Isabel a little under the weather’ – that would do.
Mr Knightley had ridden out and on his return they met together in their upstairs parlour. ‘I have visited Miss Bates,’ he began at once, in this morning light his faculties as clear and sharp as ever.
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