Time did not compose her. As she reflected more,
she seemed but to feel it more. She never had
been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary
to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed
not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to
be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her
cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any
trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.
CHAPTER VIII
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s
thoughts all the evening. How it might be considered
by the rest of the party, she could not tell.
They, in their different homes, and their different
ways, might be looking back on it with pleasure; but
in her view it was a morning more completely misspent,
more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the
time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than
any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon
with her father, was felicity to it. There,
indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving
up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort;
and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree
of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could
not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe
reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not
without a heart. She hoped no one could have
said to her, “How could you be so unfeeling to
your father?— I must, I will tell you truths
while I can.” Miss Bates should never
again—no, never! If attention, in
future, could do away the past, she might hope to
be forgiven. She had been often remiss, her
conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought
than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should
be so no more. In the warmth of true contrition,
she would call upon her the very next morning, and
it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular,
equal, kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and
went early, that nothing might prevent her.
It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see
Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come
in while she were paying her visit. She had no
objection. She would not be ashamed of the appearance
of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she
saw him not.
“The ladies were all at home.” She
had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before
entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with
any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation,
or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of
moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s
voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid
looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased
to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon.
The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the
adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse
of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had
shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, “Well,
my dear, I shall say you are laid down upon
the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”
