Mr. Knightley's Diary Page 6

  'But have you never longed to go to Bath?' asked Mrs Lovage.

  'I have already been, and found nothing there that was so very extraordinary.'

  'But the people...' she said.

  'I like the people here,' I said. To my dismay, she appeared to take my remark as a compliment, and so I quickly disabused her of the notion by adding: 'The Bateses, the Westons and your brother are my oldest friends.'

  'Ah, good, I am glad you like my brother,' she said satirically.

  She smiled at me invitingly, but I did not prolong the conversation.

  Many men would have found her attentions flattering, but as I knew I could not return them, they made me uncomfortable, and I found myself wishing to resume my evenings at Hartfield instead.

  Sunday 13 December

  I watched Emma closely at church this morning, and from the looks that passed between her and Harriet, I was convinced that she had told Harriet of her plans for a marriage with Elton. I found myself growing angry, for it will only lead to disappointment and humiliation for the girl.

  Emma caught my eye as we waited for the service to begin, and she turned away hastily. As well she might!

  I gave my attention to the rest of the congregation. Graham was there with his sister and Mr Longridge. The Coles and the Otways were there, and the Westons, of course. There was still no sign of Frank Churchill, and I found myself beginning to wonder if we would ever see him in Highbury.

  Elton had not forgotten his duty as vicar of Highbury, even if he had forgotten his sense, for he led Mrs Bates and her daughter to the vicarage pew when they arrived. Miss Bates was overcome by the kindness.

  'So kind!--Mother finds it hard to hear, a sore trial to her, as well as to the rest of us, and dear Jane has even mentioned it several times--a letter? Yes, yesterday, not so well, I thank you, she has a cold which will not go. However, Mrs Campbell is being very kind--I am sure mother did not expect such attention. I never expected to find myself sitting in the vicarage pew, and I know I can speak for my mother when I say we are both overwhelmed.'

  Unfortunately, I saw Elton glance at Emma as he performed this office, and although the kindness was not done for her benefit, he certainly was not sorry to have it witnessed. It won him smiles from Emma and Harriet, then Emma said something to her friend, and Harriet blushed, and glanced at Elton, and he went up into the pulpit as though he was walking on air.

  I have resolved not to interfere. I have warned Emma, and I can do no more.

  I returned to the Abbey in a vexed state of mind, and found myself wishing Elton would marry Mrs Lovage. Then Emma could see her mistake, we could make our peace and go back to our old, familiar ways. I miss my evenings at Hartfield, and, for all her vexatious ways, I miss Emma.

  Monday 14 December

  At last I have found a pony for the children. Henry in particular will need to be a good horseman if he is to inherit the Abbey.

  Tuesday 15 December

  Our whist evening was well-attended. Cole was particularly cheerful.

  'We are having a new dining-room,' he said, as we met at the Crown. 'Mrs Cole has been wanting to hold dinner parties for some time now, and I have promised her a new dining-room for Christmas.'

  'My wife used to enjoy giving dinner parties,' said Longridge. 'She was always so talkative and so gay. She brightened my life, Mr Cole. A man needs a wife to bring sunshine into his home.'

  'We hope you will join us,' said Cole, then included all of us in the invitation.

  'Delighted,' said Longridge.

  'A splendid idea,' said Weston. 'Nothing better than company. No point in sitting at home, unless friends are there, and every reason for going abroad.' He looked at me and laughed. 'Knightley does not agree.'

  'I like company well enough, but I am equally happy with my own,' I said.

  'I hope you will honour us with a visit?' Cole said, a shade anxiously.

  Not so very long ago, Cole was living in a modest style, before success brought him larger ideas. I could not help thinking of Emma, and how she would be horrified to think of the master of Donwell Abbey taking dinner with Mr Cole. I smiled as I thought of her nonsense.

  'Delighted,' I said.

  Thursday 17 December

  John and Isabella arrived from London today, and I dined with them at Hartfield. When I went in, Emma was dancing little Emma in her arms in such a delightful way that it was difficult to decide which was prettier, the eight-month-old baby, or Emma herself. They both looked sweet and innocent, and it was a sight to melt away much of my anger. It was further melted by the fact that, as I walked in and Emma's eyes turned towards me, I detected a look of uncertainty on her face. It told me she was not as happy with her own behaviour as she professed to be, for if she had been confident about it, then she would have greeted me with sauciness.

  'You are well?' I asked her civilly, but without my usual warmth, as the memory of Robert Martin's disappointment was still in my mind.

  'Very well. And little Emma is well, too, are you not, my dear?' she asked the infant.

  Little Emma gurgled in reply.

  As I took the baby from her, she said to me, in a spirit of mischief, but still with some uncertainty: 'What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.'

  She wanted to make friends, that much was clear, and I told her, in friendly fashion, that if she would only let herself be guided by nature when she was esteeming men and women, as she was when she was esteeming the children, we would always think alike.

  'To be sure, our discordances must always arise from my being in the wrong,' she said, her good humour restored.

  'With good reason,' I said with a smile. 'I was sixteen years old when you were born.'

  'A material difference then, and no doubt you were much my superior in judgement at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?'

  'Yes--a good deal nearer,' I said.

  'But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently,' she said saucily.

  I smiled.

  'I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it.' I turned to the baby. 'Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.'

  She agreed, and we shook hands. I liked the feel of it. There is something very agreeable about being with Emma.

  John entered, and whilst Mr Woodhouse played with the children, and Emma and Isabella made sure they did not tire him too much, John and I caught up on the news. He was as eager as ever to hear about Donwell. I told him about the tree that was felled, and the new path I am planning, and one or two interesting cases that have come before me as the local magistrate.

  I was just beginning to enjoy the evening when the usual arguments about health began.

  'I cannot say that I think you are any of you looking well at present,' said Mr Woodhouse.

  'I assure you, Mr Wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case,' said Isabella, who cites Mr Wingfield as a fount of all knowledge, in the same way that Mr Woodhouse cites Perry. 'I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr Knightley is looking ill.'

  I glanced at Emma, and she at me. We both of us knew where this would lead.

  'Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr John Knightley very far from looking well.'

  I tried to talk loud enough to drown out the remark, but John heard it.

  'What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?' he cried.

  'I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not find you looking well,' said Isabella.

  'Pray do not concern yours
elf about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose,' said John testily.

  The arguments about health subsided, but then arguments about the seaside began.

  'You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere,' said Mr Woodhouse. 'Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places.'

  'But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey; only consider how great it would have been. A hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty,' said Isabella.

  Mr Woodhouse was equal to the protest.

  'Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to choose between forty miles and an hundred. Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.'

  'I have never heard Perry saying anything of the sort!' I said in an aside to Emma, and she smiled.

  John, already goaded earlier in the evening, could bear it no longer.

  'If Mr Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to Southend as he could himself,' he said sarcastically.

  I felt it was time to intervene.

  'True,' I said. 'Very true. That is a consideration, indeed.'

  'The expense must be acknowledged,' said Emma.

  And between us, Emma and I set about restoring the peace.

  'I think the evening passed off as well as could be expected,' I said to her, when it was all but over.

  'Perhaps better,' she said. 'John has always been quick tempered, and my father worries so much about everyone that he often says things without thinking.'

  'An explosive combination.'

  'But at least we are not exploding. How good it is to be friends again. No, do not tell me that it is my own fault, for I am sure you must bear your share of the blame. You stayed away from Hartfield when you should have come for my father's sake, if not mine. He missed you.'

  'And you? Did you miss me?'

  'I will not tell you, for fear it will make you vain,' she said mischievously.

  'I am not so reticent. I will tell you, knowing it cannot make you vain, for you are vain already.'

  'For shame!' she cried. 'And so you missed me?'

  'I missed my visits to Hartfield. I would rather spend an evening here than anywhere else.'

  'And that must do as a compliment, I suppose, for I shall never get one better. I am glad we are friends again,' she said.

  I returned to the Abbey in good spirits, and I am looking forward to resuming my daily visits to Hartfield.

  Friday 18 December

  John arrived at the Abbey early this morning, bringing with him his two eldest children. They ran wild in the garden as John and I talked. I told him of my concerns about Elton raising his eyes to Emma.

  'Elton and Emma? That would be a dreadful marriage,' he replied.

  'There is no danger of a match. She has enough awareness of her own worth not to throw herself away on Elton,' I said.

  'Then what is the danger?' John said.

  'I think she may be headed for a very unpleasant scene. If I do not miss my guess, he is getting ready to declare himself.'

  'And what do you want me to do about it?'

  'I want you to observe them, and see if you think I am right. And then, if I am, I want you to tell me whether I should give Emma a hint of it.'

  'Very well. I will keep my eyes open. Have you spoken of this to anyone else?'

  'No. I know of no one who would take it seriously, or if they did, they would worry about it.'

  'You may rely on me.'

  'And now, come and see the pony.'

  We walked round to the stables and John looked the pony over with a critical eye, then pronounced himself pleased. The boys were delighted, and John and I gave them turns at riding.

  I did not know who enjoyed it more: the boys; John and I; or old Hayton, who said he remembered when John and I were that age, and that Henry and John were just like us.

  We returned to Hartfield for luncheon, and we found Mr Woodhouse playing with Bella. Emma was playing with the baby, and George was looking at a book.

  Mr Woodhouse was alarmed to learn that the boys had been riding on such a cold morning, and we all joined in assuring him that they had been well wrapped up against the cold.

  John remarked: 'Your friend Perry thinks riding a healthful kind of exercise. It is just the sort of thing for young boys. They find the fresh air invigorating, and they learn to do something of importance. It would be a sorry man who could not ride.'

  Before an argument could ensue, Emma called John to join her, and I occupied Mr Woodhouse with an account of the plans I had for the home farm.

  Saturday 19 December

  Isabella amused herself this morning by visiting all her friends in Highbury and showing off her children, and when she had done, John brought the eldest two boys to the Abbey for another riding lesson.

  When we returned to Hartfield, we found that Harriet and Elton were also there. I was pleased, as I knew it would give John a chance to observe them and decide whether Elton was partial to Emma, or to Harriet, or whether he was partial to neither, but was simply indulging in an excess of civility to the ladies.

  For myself, I could see no sign of preference for Harriet in Elton's looks and conversation, but I could see a great deal of preference for Emma. As she and I talked of our fondness for spruce-beer, Elton was determined to like it also.

  'Spruce-beer--the very thing for this season,' he said.

  'Do you like it, Harriet?' asked Emma, involving her friend in the conversation.

  'I hardly know. I do not believe I have ever drunk it,' she said.

  'You must give me your recipe,' said Elton. 'I will write it down.'

  He took out a pencil, but as soon as he began to write, he discovered it had no point. He scratched and scraped at the paper, until I thought he would wear it through!

  'Surely your pencil is not making any mark?' asked Emma.

  He looked sheepish, then brightened. 'I have my knife--a moment!--I will mend it,' he said.

  He was as good as his word and took out his knife, but by the time he had sharpened it, there was no pencil left.

  'Pray, do not concern yourself, I am sure my recipe is no better than any other,' said Emma.

  But Elton would not give it up.

  'I would so value it--I am sure it must be superior,' he said with a simper.

  I snorted, and took up my newspaper. How could the man bear to make such a fool of himself? He continued with his antics, however, feeling in his pocket for another pencil, and it was as good as a farce. If not for the fact that Harriet might be hurt by the tangle, I would have laughed at his goings-on.

  Emma, meanwhile, saw her opportunity for furthering the cause of her friend.

  'Harriet, do you not have a pencil that you could lend to Mr Elton?'

  Harriet blushed and found one, handing it to Emma.

  'Pray, give it to Mr Elton,' she said.

  He stopped patting his pockets and looked at it as though it was a priceless object, instead of a pencil. He took it from Harriet, but looked languishingly at Emma.

  I wondered if I was making too much of it, and if it would come to nothing in the end, but when I spoke to John as he walked back to the Abbey with me, I found that he thought as I did, that Emma was Elton's object.

  'Shall I warn her?' I asked him.

  He said that, if the opportunity arose, he would mention it himself.

  Monday 21 December

  I walked over to Hartfield today, and when I arrived, I found the house looking festive. Emma and her friend had spent the morning decorating the banisters with greenery, and the children had helped them. They ha
d decorated the pictures and mirrors in the drawing-room with sprigs of holly, which were thick with berries. The portrait of Harriet, elegantly framed, and hanging above the mantelpiece in the sitting-room, had been similarly adorned.

  The children had been infected with the holiday atmosphere. They were playing boisterously, and Emma and her sister were trying to protect their father from the children's high spirits.

  Further excitement had been caused by a flurry of snow. Unluckily for the children, the flurry soon stopped, and Henry spent the rest of the afternoon asking when it would start again.

  The subject affected everyone variously: Isabella was so keen to please her children that I think she would have caused a snowstorm if she could; Mr Woodhouse was worried that snow would cause all manner of accidents, and decided that the only thing to do if it snowed would be to stay indoors; Emma shared her time between hoping for snow with the children and hoping for a lack of snow with her father. Harriet helped with the children, keeping them away from Mr Woodhouse, except in small doses. This endeared her to Isabella, and the atmosphere was a happy one.

  Even so, I could not help wishing that Harriet was at the Martins'. Everyone was kind to her at Hartfield, but at Abbey Mill Farm she would have been someone of consequence, particularly if she had been betrothed to Robert Martin. She would have had a place in her own right, instead of being there as someone's guest.

  Tuesday 22 December

  An invitation came from the Westons, inviting me to dinner at Randalls on the 24th. I was about to answer it when John arrived.

  'I would have been here earlier, but Isabella has been showing the children to all her friends, and I could not have them until they had returned to Hartfield. It is a pretty thing, when a man may not have his children until his wife has done with them!' he said.

  The boys were eager for their riding lesson, and whilst John and I encouraged them, we talked of the Westons' party.

  'Isabella and Emma have managed to persuade their father to accept the invitation,' he said.

  'Have they indeed? They have done well. He does not like to go out at the best of times, and at Christmas, with his family at Hartfield, and snow threatening out of doors, I thought they would find it impossible.'