They walked off. Knightley was left with Weston, Harriet, Emma, and Churchill. For one sickening minute he felt as if they were enemies—Churchill, playing his games and turning Emma into someone like himself—someone who could insult Miss Bates and never turn a hair. Weston and Harriet, though free of malice, were willing enough to go along, and he felt as if there were a huge chasm between that party and himself. And what would Churchill say to Emma now that the party was reduced to their own particular friends? He would not watch when there was some way of escape. He got up and followed the ladies.
They were walking slowly, and he caught up with them almost immediately.
“Will you take my arm, Miss Bates?” said Knightley. “The path becomes a little steeper here.”
“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Knightley. I own I am a little tired—the heat, perhaps, makes walking more fatiguing—in general I do not mind walking—enjoy very good health. Well! This is a view worth admiring! So kind of our friends to include us in the outing! But then Miss Woodhouse always—that is to say, we always receive such kindness from Hartfield—the gifts of food and the invitations and the other little attentions—so much benevolence! And lavished on such an object—I did not know—”
Miss Bates paused in both her walk and her speech. They had come to a little promontory that jutted out from the hillside and gazed at the scene spread out beneath them. Jane was walking a little apart from them—more from a desire to be alone herself, Knightley thought, than from wanting to give her aunt privacy.
“I did not know,” Miss Bates said again, “That my society was so irksome. I do talk—I know that I do talk—my dear father used to tell me so again and again. But that I am dull—to be sure, it must be very hard to listen to me prattle away, and yet Miss Woodhouse has been so forbearing—I will try, as I said, to hold my tongue a little. My father used to give me a signal—he held up his hand, I remember—when I ought to be quiet. Perhaps I should ask dear Jane to do the same when I am beginning to annoy others—”
“My dear Miss Bates,” said Knightley as gently as he could, “do not distress yourself over a chance remark. You do not say foolish or cruel things, which is more than can be said for any of those witty people who are forever entertaining their associates with their free speech. At the last judgement, when all will give an account for their careless words, you will have less to answer for than anyone in Highbury, I think.”
Miss Bates smiled a little mistily at him. “Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” she said, and would have said more if she had not been interrupted.
“Ah, there you are!” said Mrs. Elton, bearing down on them. “And Knightley, too! All the people I most wanted to see. Now, you must all spend your evening with us. I positively must have you all come. Just this little company—no one else, of course—we need not add those who have other resources—and you can be sure that I will not introduce guessing games and charades and things of that sort. We will play cards and take some light refreshment.”
The thought of spending his evening with Mrs. Elton’s “little company” at the vicarage at a gathering evidently planned in order to slight Emma and Harriet held no appeal.
“I pray you will excuse me,” said Knightley.
“Oh, you must come,” said Mrs. Elton. “I will not let you off. We should be a sad little party without your company.”
“You are so good,” said Miss Bates, “So very kind! Everyone is so forbearing,” she added, looking at Knightley. Knightley wished he could tell her that as far as society being irksome, he would far rather spend an evening with Miss Bates than with Mrs. Elton.
The five of them walked about for a little longer—Miss Bates slightly subdued, but not much, Miss Fairfax as quiet as he had ever seen her, and Mrs. Elton determined to be as volubly cheerful as possible, so that if any of the other party happened to see them, they would regret being left out. Knightley used the time to ponder the events of the afternoon. He had a growing conviction that he ought to say something to Emma. He could not see Emma going so far wrong without warning her, admonishing her. He was the only one who would say something, he was sure, and the only one she might listen to.
He felt a little sick at the thought; what he wanted to do was to get away—go far away and leave the entire mess behind—forget Emma, Churchill, Mrs. Elton and all his responsibilities in the bargain—ride away and be selfish. And yet—he could not leave it. He must say something. It might do no good—it might even make Emma defensive and more wilful—it might have the effect of pushing her even more rapidly toward Churchill. But if he loved her, he must do all he could to put her right. She might thank him someday—it was hardly to be supposed she would be grateful now—but even if she did not, his conscience would not permit him to let it go.
He had only just determined that he must speak to Emma when the sight of the coachman looking for them signalled that the pleasures of an outing on Box Hill were at an end.
“Ah, the carriages have returned for us!” said Mrs. Elton. “I suppose the servants have forgotten that ours is to be the lead carriage—we must have our little parade again, you know, on the way home.” She hurried off, with Elton not far behind her, to look after her own consequence. The others followed them, and soon Knightley could see Emma standing near where they had eaten, apparently looking for the last time at the changeless views. He would not have a better opportunity. Resolutely he approached her, and after glancing quickly around to be sure they were alone, and taking a deep breath, he began.
“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. 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.”
This prompted some emotion in her, for she blushed. This was followed by an unsteady laugh and the rejoinder “Nay, how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I daresay she did not understand me.”
“I assure you she did,” he said with conviction. “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 forever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.”
“Oh! 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 acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good.” The carriages were ready now for their occupants, and Emma slowly moved toward them. He stayed by her side, not allowing her to escape his rebuke until he had finished. “Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance; I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—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 live to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed!”
His voice trembled when he said it, and he paused for a moment to get hold of himself. “You,” he resumed, “whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of whom—certainly some—would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.”
He thought she would speak then; her conscience had always been tender toward the less fortunate, and his reminder of what was right ought to have brought about some effect. But she did not speak—did not even look at him. She must be angry, perhaps thinking him condescending and harsh. If it were the old days
, he could have touched her heart. He could still, if she would only let him. “This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will—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.”
They had reached the carriage now, and as she was still silent, still looking away, he handed her in. She seemed determined not to look at him, for she immediately sank back into the carriage. There was nothing more he could say. He turned and walked away, wishing to hear her voice calling his name after him. In the past, he knew, she would have called; but she had changed. There was only the sound of the coachman’s voice, the slap of the harness, and the creaking of the carriage as it began to move off down the hill.
The ride back to Donwell was an exercise in wretchedness. The heat was still formidable, and the ache in his heart inconsolable. Emma was lost. She had got to the point where she would permit Churchill’s inappropriate attentions and even encourage them. And he had no doubt that it was due to Churchill’s lax morals that Emma had sunk to insulting Miss Bates and thinking it no crime. A bleak prospect was before him if he stayed at Donwell: he would have to sit by helplessly and watch the further disintegration of her character as well as her marriage to another. He might be a coward, but he did not have the strength to endure it. He would quit the field. It was not yet time for the quarter sessions, but he could go to London. He would find some pretext for doing so—some sort of business he could be busy about. And while he was there, he would learn to forget.
What nonsense he had been thinking about holding on to her words, taking them out and treasuring them in the dark days to come! He had pictured the scene being a beautiful, melancholy, sentimental thing—comprising a gentle sorrow, with conventional regrets. Rubbish! His heart had been torn out, and there would be no balm for such a gaping wound in rehearsing the things she had once said or the smiles she had given him.
As he passed Spencer’s cottage, he suddenly stopped. No one could truly share this sorrow, but just at this moment he wanted a sympathetic friend, and Spencer was the one man who would understand his agony. He was denied this comfort, however; Spencer had gone out, and Old Maggie could not tell when he would return. Knightley wearily mounted his horse again and went on to the Abbey.
Spencer—
Old Maggie will have told you that I called this afternoon while you were out. The time has come, I think, for me to flee. I would go abroad, but as London is more convenient and will serve the same purpose, I am going to my brother’s house. I do not know when I will return, but will redeem the time there by making enquiries about a private asylum for Miss Castleman. The matter is delicate enough that Mrs. Hunt would not want it to be general knowledge, but you may tell her, if you think it will relieve her mind. If you have need of my help or opinions, you have only to write to me at my brother’s address in Brunswick-square.
I will not object to your mentioning me in your prayers.
Knightley
“I have laid my plans,” he told Madam Duval as he folded and sealed the completed letter late that night. “I go to London tomorrow, to John’s house. I have a stated object—to do something for Miss Castleman—and an unacknowledged one—to forget about Emma. I can hardly imagine such a thing possible at this moment, but surely with determination enough…”
The cat looked up at him from her position on a nearby chair.
“I will give your greetings to Bella, of course,” he told her. She seemed to have been curious only on that point, for she put her head down on her paws again and closed her eyes. He got up and went over to the window. The summer sun seemed to be in a state of indecision about whether or not to set, and its long rays were still casting shadows across the lawn. Once again, he looked toward Hartfield.
“I do not know which is the most painful part, Emma—there are so many things in this dreadful state of affairs. Losing you is…” his voice caught, and he silently twisted the latch on the window until the emotion had passed. “But beyond that, seeing you lapse into behaviour that is unworthy of you—knowing that you have started down a path of misery with Churchill...there are no words. If you loved an honourable man, Emma, I would be…no, I would still be devastated. Yet I would retain my sanity and only regret that I had not spoken sooner. But this, Emma—this is enough to kill me.” He heard his own depressed tone, and thought that at any other time he would be able to smile at the words, so exaggerated as they seemed. But he could not. It seemed to him to be the literal truth. He stood there for a moment longer before adding, “I suppose there is nothing more to be said, Emma. I will bid you goodnight. That is, goodbye.”
13
He could not go without calling at Hartfield, of course. He would do all that was proper; no one should see any change of manner or habit. And after all, if he would train himself to be indifferent, he must begin by hardening himself to such everyday contact. He would go to Hartfield, he would take leave of father and daughter, and then he would go to London; that was all there was to it. His heart whispered that he also wanted one last glimpse of Emma, but he disregarded that. A short, formal leave-taking was all that was required—therefore, he would restrict himself to that. There would be no lingering glances or drawn-out farewells. He might be in and out in five minutes, and then he would begin the task of dis-entangling his heart from Hartfield.
The parting was not so quick as he had hoped: Emma was not at home when he came. And although neither Mr. Woodhouse nor Harriet, who had arrived only a few moments before, thought she would be away long—she had only gone into Highbury—they did not know when she would return.
“I wished to say goodbye, sir,” said Knightley, coming to the point at once. “I am going to London and thought you might like to send your greetings to John and Isabella.”
“To London!” repeated Mr. Woodhouse. “My dear sir, you did not mean to go now, else you had told me of it before this. You ought to go next week, after you have had time to think of it. You will be distressed if you go today—so suddenly. Pray be seated, Mr. Knightley, and consider what you do.”
Knightley sat down obediently in the chair next to Harriet’s. “I fear I must travel today, sir. I cannot stay even five minutes here. But there is no need for concern: it is not a long journey, and the weather is very fine.”
“You will at least take your carriage, I hope.”
“No, I believe I will ride—the fresh air will do me good.”
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was so dismayed at this that he hardly knew what reply to make, but Harriet stepped in with, “I do hope you will give my greetings to Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley and the little boys.”
“I shall indeed.”
“London is such an interesting place,” said Harriet. “You must always be eager to journey there.”
“No,” he said candidly, “not always. Many times—particularly now—I would be inclined to stay here, if it were in my power.”
“Oh!” said Harriet.
He had said too much—he knew he had. In half a moment she would ask him why he particularly wanted to stay.
“Did Mrs. Goddard receive the china asters from Donwell?” he said hurriedly. It was a silly thing to say—he knew she had, but it was all he could think of.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Knightley. Mrs. Goddard was delighted with them! She put them in a great bowl on her sitting-room table. She said it made her happy just to look at them.”
“Perhaps we ought to send her some to be planted in the school garden.”
“That is very kind, Mr. Knightley. She would be so pleased!”
“Tell me, what other flowers is she partial to?”
This was a brilliant move on his part, he thought. Harriet’s mind was gainfully employed with flowers—which ones the school garden already possessed and which ones she thought Mrs. Goddard would like to have, and she had no leisure for contemplating his own possible wishes.
He listened to her with half his attention; the other half was acutely aware that any moment now, Emma would appear. He must be formal and indifferent. There must be no hint of regard in this last meeting, even if she thought him cold—better coldness than an open display of his feelings.
There was a sound at the door then, and Emma came in, bringing with her all the freshness of the morning and possessing, it seemed to him, all the beauty of the flowers they had just been discussing. What was he doing, abandoning her like this to such a fellow as Frank Churchill? It was a fleeting thought, and he refused to entertain it. He would carry on with his plan if it killed him. He got to his feet and gave her the briefest of bows.
“I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the ‘love’ which nobody carries?”
“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”
“Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.” It was as close to the truth as he could get. And now he ought to say farewell and go, but somehow he could not force the words out. He stood there, unwilling to make the final break.
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “and did you get there safely? And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter? I daresay they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.”
Did you? thought Knightley. He remembered only Mr. Woodhouse saying she had gone to Highbury.
“She is always so attentive to them!” Mr. Woodhouse added.
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