Mr. Knightley’s Diary

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.