Mr Knightley’s Diary (19 page)

It made no difference. Emma was pleased, and so was her court. Mrs Elton, it is true, was not pleased, though if she could have changed her name to Emma, she would have thought it the best conundrum in the world.

She and her husband declared their intention of taking a walk, and Churchill passed a disparaging remark about couples who met at a watering-place. I was astounded at his bad manners. Though I do not believe there is much genuine affection between Elton and his wife, it should not have been remarked on, and in such a way.

Miss Fairfax could stand no more, and said she would take a walk. I did not blame her. I declared my intention of taking a walk as well, and gave her one arm, whilst offering Miss Bates the other.

'Oh, Mr Knightley, how kind of you to walk with us,' said Miss Bates. 'I am not surprised Miss Woodhouse did not enjoy my company--so kind of her to be so forbearing--I rattle on sadly, it must be a trial to her--so good of her to trouble herself to visit me, for I am sure I am always receiving attention from her and her father,' she said, as we set out.

And for the rest of the walk, I had to listen to her apologizing for her tongue, when it should have been Emma who was apologizing for hers.

I did what I could to soothe her, and she grew easier. I was just beginning to regain my composure when Mrs Elton joined us and tried to force Miss Fairfax to take up an appointment with friends of hers. I pity any poor woman who would have to go as a governess to Mrs Smallwood, no matter how near Maple Grove she might be! This objectionable episode put the seal on a most disagreeable day.

My anger had not cooled when I stood next to Emma as we waited for the carriage to take us home again. I told myself I must not reprimand her or criticize her, but I could not help myself. I could not see her being dragged down, when a word from me might stop it.

'Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do,' I said, in some agitation. Even then, I tried to hold back, but I could not. 'I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age and situation? Emma, I had not thought it possible.'

She blushed, but only laughed.

'Nay, how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.'

'I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.'

'Oh!' she said airily, 'I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.'

'They are blended,' I said, 'and were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance--but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she lives to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed!'

She was not interested. She looked away, impatient with me for speaking to her thus. But I had started, and I could not have done until I had finished.

'To laugh at her, humble her--and before her niece, too. This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will, tell you truths while I can, satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now.'

I handed her into the carriage. She did not even bid me goodbye. She was sullen. Who could blame her? But it could not be helped. I had said what I had to say, and I returned to the Abbey in low spirits.

By and by, the sight of my fields began to restore my sense of calm. The air was sweet with the scent of clover, and the birds were singing. If Emma had been with me, I would have known complete happiness. But she was not, and as I came inside I had to acknowledge that such a thing would never come to pass.

I retired to my room, picked up my quill and gave vent to my feelings. But I cannot forget about Emma. Where is she now? Is she at Hartfield, thinking of Frank Churchill and his easy flattery? She must be. And soon she will be living at Enscombe.

I must go away, at once. I cannot bear to see her with him, to watch her permitting, even encouraging, his attentions. It hurts me too much. She is lost to me. My Emma.

Saturday 26 June

I awoke, firm in my resolve to go away, and settled on London, as it would give me an opportunity to see to some business, and to see John and Isabella.

I could not go without seeing Emma one last time, however, and I walked over to Hartfield. I was out of luck, for Emma was not at home. I meant to be on my way at once, but I sat with Mr Woodhouse, asking him if he had any message to send to Isabella, then telling him I did not know how long I would be away. I still could not bear to go, not without seeing her for one last time.

Harriet arrived, which provided a diversion, and gave me an excuse to remain awhile longer.

'I hope I find you well?' I said to her, standing up as she entered the room.

She blushed prettily.

'Very well, I thank you,' she said.

'I have called to see Miss Woodhouse, to tell her I am going to London, but she is out. I would like to speak to her before I go. I cannot stay above five minutes, however,' I said firmly, but my body seemed to move of its own accord and I sat down beside Harriet.

'I should like to go to London,' said Harriet. 'It must be a wonderful place.'

'It is not somewhere I wish to go,' I said. 'I would much rather stay at home.'

She blushed, and I thought again that she must have guessed my secret, and that she knew I did not want to go because I did not want to leave Emma. I was glad of her silent sympathy.

'I hope you will not be away for very long,' she said.

It was kind of her to speak to me as though there was hope for me, but I know I have lost Emma. I will never call her mine. Never take her to the Abbey. Never see her sitting opposite me in the evening. Never go with her to London to visit Isabella and John. Never see her playing with our children, as she plays with her sister's children.

But I had to face it like a man.

I meant to leave, but I could not bring myself to do so. Not without one last glimpse of Emma, and so I continued to talk to Miss Smith.

'Did you enjoy our trip to Box Hill?' I asked her.

'Oh, yes, very much,' she said.

'I am glad,' I said warmly, and so I was: I was glad that at least one person had enjoyed it.

'I was sorry you ate out of doors,' said Mr Woodhouse anxiously. 'Perry did not think it at all wise. I hope you may not take cold.'

She assured him she was quite well.

'You were very ill over the winter,' he said to her.

'You were indeed,' I said kindly, remembering that she had had other ills, besides a cold, to bear.

'It was nothing,' she whispered.

I began to think there was more to her colourings than goodwill towards me and my suit, and I wondered if she might have caught another cold after all, for not only did she seem to colour a great deal, but also to whisper.

'I hope your throat is not sore?' I asked her.

'No, thank you,' she said, and blushed again.

The time passed slowly, but pass it did, and at last Emma returned. I rose as soon as she came in, saying I was going to London, and asking if she had any message to send to her sister. She looked surprised, but I said I had been planning the expedition for some time.

I waited for a word from her, something to give me hope to remain, but there was nothing.

I was a fool to expect it. To think that Emma, with all her advantages of birth and beauty, with a good heart and superior understanding, would sacrifice the attentions of a man who flatters her for the hand of a man who scolds her! If I had ever had a chance of winning her away from Churchill, I had lost it on Box Hill.

She said she had no particular message, and I was about to leave when her father began asking her about her morning call. To my surprise, I learnt that she had been calling on the Bateses, which is why she had been from home.

I am sure she did not go to apologize--it would have been beyond the desire of either party, for Miss Bates would have been as embarrassed as Emma--but this attention would be recognized as an apology, and I felt my heart expand. So Emma had not lost her better nature!

My face must have showed my thoughts, for she smiled at me, a little shyly, and on an impulse I took her hand. I wanted to do more. I wanted to kiss it. I lifted it, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and I was about to press it to my lips when I recollected that I had no right to do such a thing, no matter how much I might want to.

I dropped her hand, then making her a bow, I bade her and her father farewell. I said goodbye to Harriet, and set out for London.

It was a long and dismal journey, filled with gloomy thoughts, but once I reached Brunswick Square, I endeavoured to put my troubles out of my mind.

John and Isabella were surprised to see me, but I gave some pretext relating to business and they accepted it, welcoming me into their home.

I soon saw that the boys had grown since they were with us in the spring. Henry was turning into a fine boy, and John was not far behind. Bella had grown a very little, except in mischief, and George was still content to toddle behind her. The baby was showing an interest in everything, and I sat down with her on my knee.

Henry asked me about
Harriet and the Gypsies
, a tale which made Isabella shudder, and John asked me what had been done to make sure the roads were safe. This led to parish business, and we talked of Highbury and Hartfield until it was time to go to bed.

I went upstairs but I could not sleep. I took up my newspaper, but I could not pay attention to it. I was not interested in the world outside, I was interested in my own world, and at the heart of that world was Emma. Emma with her good heart, Emma with her dear face. Emma. My Emma.

Monday 28 June

For the last two days I have been in torment. I have not been like myself. I have been short-tempered and out of spirits. I think I was wrong to come here. Isabella has always reminded me too much of Emma.

And then there are the children. I thought:
If I had known my own feelings last year, and spoken to Emma before she had met Frank Churchill, then she would already be my wife. I could, this very morning, be playing with my son, just as John is playing with his.

Tuesday 29 June

I determined to rouse myself and I attended to business, but this evening, a restless spirit was on me.

As I sat in the drawing-room, with John reading his newspaper, Isabella sewing, and the children playing around us, I was given a picture of domestic felicity which set my heart aching. I wanted this for myself. I wanted it with Emma. If I had spoken--if I had not scolded her--if I had learnt my feelings sooner--if I had flattered her--if I had behaved as a lover and not a friend--if I had done all of the things I did not do, and none of the things I did, then perhaps I could have looked forward to the same kind of happiness.

Thursday 1 July

A letter from Highbury arrived this morning.

'It is from Miss Bates,' said Isabella, recognizing the hand.

I picked up my newspaper and hid my face behind it. I did not want her to see my expression when she read the letter, for I was sure it would contain news of Emma's betrothal.

As she began to read, I could scarcely breathe.

'Mother well--Jane still in low spirits--new gloves for Mrs Cole--Mrs Churchill dead.'
Isabella stopped short.
'Mrs Churchill dead!'

I did not know what the information would mean for Emma. Would it delay her marriage, whilst the period of mourning was observed, or speed it, as Mrs Churchill could not put any obstacles in the way?

Isabella was so shocked by the news that, fortunately, she did not notice my silence. She began to read Miss Bates's letter more slowly:
'We were all very shocked to hear it. Poor lady! It seems she was very ill after all. Mr Churchill is better than can be expected--the funeral is to be in Yorkshire. Mother is so shocked! And poor Jane can hardly speak. She has been very ill, I fear. Perry is worried about her. She has a terrible headache--
Poor Jane,' said Isabella, breaking off from reading the letter. 'She is worried about her future, no doubt.'

'No doubt,' I managed to say.

I had recovered myself sufficiently to join in with the conversation, and the subject occupied us for the rest of the day.

Friday 2 July

I could not settle to anything. Emma is to marry Frank Churchill. It is as certain as the sun rising. I live in dread of the letter bearing the news, but a letter has not arrived. Emma will write to Isabella as soon as it is arranged, I am sure. Until then I am in torment. And afterwards...? I dare not think of it.

Saturday 3 July

I had luncheon at my club, with Routledge. As we finished our meal, I found him watching me curiously.

'Well?' he said.

'Well?' I asked.

'Out with it.'

'Out with what?'

'Whatever it is that is bothering you,' he said. 'It must be something important, for you have not listened to a word I have said. You have answered me in an abstracted manner, and nothing you have said has made sense.'

'Nothing is bothering me,' I answered testily.

'You might as well make up your mind to tell me, because I will hound you until you do. I am tired of looking at your long face and hearing your sighs! It is not like you.'

'I do not sigh!' I protested.

'I distinctly heard you as you ate your beef. You sighed.'

I gave a deep sigh--then was angry with myself.

'Hah!' said Routledge. 'There you are! It is as I said! You sighed. Well?'

I could not hide it from him any longer, nor did I wish to, for I needed to unburden myself

'You were right.' I said.

'About?'

'About Emma. Everything you said was true. I am in love with her. I cannot think why I did not see it sooner. I have been blind. She is the very woman for me.'

'At last! I have been waiting for you to see it for months. Well, when are you going to marry her?'

'Never. I have missed my chance. She is going to marry Frank Churchill.'

'Is she indeed?' he asked in surprise. 'What busy lives you lead in Surrey! It is only a few months ago that you told me she was going to marry Elton. Elton, on the other hand, was going to marry Harriet--in Emma's mind--but instead he went to Bath and came home with Augusta. It is as bad as
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. Are you sure there are no fairies in Highbury, who are making you their sport? It seems very like it. I expect to hear next that Jane Fairfax is about to marry Mr Longridge, or that Miss Bates is engaged to Mr Woodhouse.'

I smiled despite myself.

'That is better,' said Routledge. 'A long face never helped anyone. Come now, tell me, what makes you think Emma is going to marry Churchill?'

'There is an understanding between them. From things she has said--things she has done--I asked her if she knew his mind on a certain subject, and she said she was convinced of it. In short, I thought he seemed to be casting glances at Jane Fairfax, some time ago, but Emma said she was sure of him. It was an intimate matter, one that would not have been spoken of if there had not been an engagement.'

'And so they have announced their betrothal.'

'I am expecting it any day, although it may be delayed as Mrs Churchill has just died.'

'Then, if it is as certain as you say, you had better marry Jane Fairfax instead.'

'I have already thought about it, but I cannot do it.'

'Why not? She is an attractive young woman, well-bred, agreeable and in need of a home.'

'I cannot marry her for those reasons. Befriend her, help her--yes. But marry her? No.'

'Then you had best see to your repairs at the Abbey, for it seems your nephew will inherit it, after all.'

'It seems so.' I remembered that Routledge sometimes saw John, and said: 'You will say nothing of this to John? He does not know that I am in love with Emma. I can stand your rough concern, but if my brother knew, he would tell Isabella, and I cannot stand Isabella's sympathy.'

'I understand. I will say nothing to anyone. You may place your trust in me.'

'Thank you.'

'What do you intend to do now?' he asked me.

'Do? I will do what I have always done. Tend my estate, dine with my friends, play whist, look after the parish, and visit my brother.'

'At least you will not have to see Emma, once she is married,' said Routledge. 'She will remove to Yorkshire, and not be reminding you of what you have lost.'

'Small comfort,' I said. 'I do not know which is harder to bear, the thought of seeing Emma as the wife of another man, or the thought of never seeing her at all. I cannot imagine a life without her. What will it be like to go to Hartfield and find that she is not there? To dine with the Westons and see that her chair is empty? To go to church and see that she is not in her pew? To walk round Highbury with never a chance of meeting her?'

'You will adjust,' he said.

'I suppose so,' I said, but I did not believe it.

I was in low spirits when I returned to Brunswick Square. The boys wanted to play, but I put them off, saying: 'Not now. I am tired.'

I returned to my room and took up my quill. And now here I am, dreading another sleepless night and another empty day.

Monday 5 July

No letter again today. Perhaps, out of respect to Mrs Churchill, they do not feel they can announce their engagement at once. But surely Emma would tell her sister?

Tuesday 6 July

The letter came, but what a letter! It was not from Emma, nor Miss Bates, but from Weston. My spirits sank when I saw it. It seemed that Emma's letter must have been lost, and Weston was now writing of the news. How he had always longed for Emma as a daughter, and now he would have her!

But when I began to read the letter, I discovered it contained nothing but parish business--until I reached the end. I was so astonished that I cried out, and Isabella and John looked at me in surprise.

'Frank Churchill is engaged--to Jane Fairfax!' I said.

I thought at once of Emma. What would she be feeling? She must be desolate. She had been led on by him and deceived by him. I had suspected--I do not know quite what I had suspected, except that his behaviour had not rung true to me. And now the reason was revealed, because whilst he had been flirting with Emma, he had been paying court to Jane Fairfax.

I could scarcely believe it. I read on, and was more and more astounded. There had been a secret engagement between them, entered into in the autumn, at Weymouth, and hidden from everyone all the long months since.

And so he had been engaged when he had first come to Highbury! He had been engaged when he had danced with Emma. Engaged when he had flirted outrageously with her. Engaged when he had led everyone to believe he was on the point of making a proposal to her. Engaged...to Jane Fairfax!

'I cannot believe it,' I said. 'A secret betrothal...Jane Fairfax...I cannot believe she would be a party to such a thing.'

'No wonder she has been ill,' said Isabella.

'No wonder, indeed. To have to keep such a thing secret!' said John.

And to have to stand by and watch her betrothed pay attention to another woman
, I thought.
He is even worse than I painted him.

Whilst John and Isabella talked over the news, my thoughts returned to Emma. She must be heartbroken. She could not even turn to her usual confidante, Mrs Weston, because Mrs Weston was too closely involved.

'I must go to her!' I said with decision, correcting myself as I saw Isabella's startled expression. '--to Highbury.'

John looked at me curiously.

'But we thought you were to stay for another week,' said Isabella.

'There is business for me to attend to--parish business,' I said, folding my letter. 'Weston writes to me of it.'

I told them how much I had enjoyed my visit, and resisted Isabella's entreaties to stay. I took my leave of the children, thanked John and Isabella, and was on my way.

I rode out of London thinking of nothing but Emma, my poor, heartbroken Emma. I scarcely noticed the rain. My horse was fresh, and I made good time. As I approached Highbury, the wind dropped to a gentle breeze, the clouds cleared and the sun came out.

I arrived at Hartfield. Emma was not in the house, but Mr Woodhouse was there with Perry. I gave him greetings from Isabella, then asked him: 'Where is Emma?'

'She is walking in the garden.'

I went outside to look for her, and I saw her walking along the path. Her shoulders were drooping and her head was down. My heart cried out in sympathy. For her to be so deceived! And by such a useless young man! He had come among us, simpering and smiling and flirting, whilst all the time his affections and his hand were engaged. The monstrosity of it! I had thought him a worthless fribble, but I had not thought badly enough of him. There could be no mistake; no misunderstanding. He had used her; deceived her.

She arranged her face as she looked up and saw me. Brave girl! She would not let me see how unhappy she was.

'Mr Knightley! I did not think to see you here. I thought you were still in London.'

'I finished my business early, and I decided to return to the Abbey,' I said, looking down into her eyes with compassion.

'You must have had a wet ride.'

'Yes,' I said.

'And how is everyone in London?' she asked, without any of her usual animation.

'They are all well, and send you their best wishes. Your sister begs me to tell you that baby Emma is starting to look just like you. She has your features, and the same shape of face.'

'And will lose them, no doubt, before she is very much older!' she said.

'Perhaps.'

'And how are the boys, and little Bella?'

'They are well, all well. The boys are continuing their riding-lessons, and Bella is begging to be allowed to learn, but her mother thinks she is too young. George is growing into a fine boy. I believe we might see them here before long.'

And that will help to soothe you, I thought, in your suffering.

I watched her as we walked through the shrubbery, and I thought how sad she looked. I said nothing, not knowing what to say. I did not want to raise the subject of Frank Churchill in case she did not feel equal to talking about him, but I wanted her to know that she could talk to me if she needed to unburden herself of her cares. And so I said nothing, hoping my silent company would be comforting for her.

She seemed about to speak, then checked. She began again. With a small, sad smile, she said: 'You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprise you.'

'Have I?' I asked, looking at her. 'Of what nature?'

'Oh! the best nature in the world--a wedding,' she said brightly.

I waited for her to say more, but she could not speak. Her heart was full, and it was made worse by the fact that Frank Churchill was the son of her good friends the Westons.

'If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already,' I said, wanting to spare her the pain of giving me the details.

'How is it possible?' she cried in surprise.

'I had a few lines on parish business from Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.'

She appeared relieved, as though she had expected my correspondent to be someone different. But who, and why it should trouble her, I did not know. But what did it matter who my correspondent had been? I had no time to puzzle over it. She was out of spirits, and she needed my friendship.

After a time she said, in a calmer manner: '
You
probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you have had your suspicions. I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution. I wish I had attended to it, but I seem to have been doomed to blindness.'

Her voice fell so much it cut me to the quick. I said nothing, but I took her arm and drew it through mine to comfort her.

'Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound. Your own excellent sense; your exertions for your father's sake; I know you will not allow yourself--'
to sink beneath this burden
, I wanted to say, but I could not finish my sentence. I found my voice becoming choked and I could not trust myself to speak. When I had recovered, I went on firmly, assuring her of my warmest friendship, and telling her of the indignation I felt on her behalf, because of the behaviour of that abominable scoundrel.

'He will soon be gone,' I continued. 'They will soon be in Yorkshire.'

'You are very kind, but you are mistaken,' said Emma. She stopped walking. 'I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.'