Thursday 10 December I still had no inclination to go to Hartfield today, and watch Emma making a fool of herself and her friend, so I was doubly pleased to accept an invitation from Graham.

It was impossible to forget Emma, however, for no sooner had we sat down to dinner than Graham said: "By the by, I have a charge for you all. I saw Perry this morning, and he told me that Miss Woodhouse and her young friend Miss Smith are making a collection of riddles. Mr Woodhouse is very interested in the collection, too, and has asked Perry to spread the news so that the young ladies might have some more riddles for their book."

The ladies were immediately interested, and Mr Longridge said: "My wife had a very pretty hand, and made a riddle book many years ago. Let me see if I remember some of them. I have it: When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit And my second confines her to finish the labour-- Tum-te-tum-te-tum-te-tum....

Something about "she escapes." " He went on reflectively: "When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit And my second confines her to finish the labour--"

"No, not labour," said Miss Bates, then looked fl.u.s.tered when all eyes turned to her. "Oh, forgive me, Mr Longridge, it is just that I knew that riddle as a girl: When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit And my second confines her to finish the piece.

How hard is her fate! But how great is her merit, If by taking my all she effects her release!"

"Bless my soul! That was it!" said Mr Longridge, much struck. "Now, what was the answer?"

The table fell to musing, and Miss Bates supplied it: "Hemlock!"

There was a murmur of approval and congratulation from around the table, and Miss Bates went pink. It was good to see her triumph, for she does not have many opportunities to appear to such advantage.

"You must give it to Miss Woodhouse the next time you see her," said Graham, and Miss Bates promised she would.

"So, have you decided whether you will settle in Highbury?" asked Graham of his friend Longridge when talk of riddles had died down.

"Yes, I have made up my mind," he said. "There is such good company--I have not enjoyed an evening so much since my wife died. It will be an upheaval, mind, and I will have to find a house--"

"We can help you with that," said Mrs Cole.

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs Otway. "There are many fine houses hereabouts. Three Chimneys will be available after Christmas. The Dawsons are going back to Cornwall."

"I thought they liked it here?" asked Mrs Weston, much struck.

"So they did, but Mr Dawson"s brother has died, and Mr Dawson has inherited a sizeable house on the coast."

There was much interest in this, but when it had been fully discussed, the conversation returned to the subject of Three Chimneys.

"I heard the roof leaks," said Mrs Cole.

"Not at Three Chimneys. Barrowdown has the leaking roof, and anyhow, it is not available, as the Pringles have decided not to sell."

Two more houses were dismissed in short order, Low-reach because it was too small, and Melrose because it was damp, but at last the ladies had decided on a list of five properties he should arrange to see. They were keen for Longridge to visit them right away, but he said that he did not mean to look at anything before the New Year. That did not prevent the ladies from talking about it for the rest of the evening, however.

Friday 11 December Robert Martin called on me today to discuss the farm. I did not mention his suit as I had no wish to embarra.s.s him, but the subject was there in both our thoughts, and after our business was concluded he addressed it manfully. Simply, and with great n.o.bility, he told me that his suit had not prospered. I offered my condolences and we parted with the subject finished.

Robert Martin is my idea of a man. He does not shirk uncomfortable duties, but faces up to them. If Robert Martin was Frank Churchill, I am persuaded that he would have paid a visit to his new stepmother by now. He would have found time, even if he had had to travel overnight to do so. He is a sad loss to Harriet, whatever Emma thinks. He would have made her an estimable husband. And she would have made him, if not an estimable, then, at least, a pretty wife.

With these thoughts in mind, I was again in no mood to walk to Hartfield after dinner. I looked over my accounts, and then read a book instead.

Sat.u.r.day 12 December I called on Miss Bates this morning on my way into Kingston, and a.s.sured myself that the logs had arrived. I found Graham there with his sister, Mrs Lovage, who had joined him again from Bath.

I thought of what Weston had said, and I made sure I was no more than polite when greeting her, as I did not want to raise hopes that I had no intention of satisfying.

After exchanging civilities, I was, however, heartened by something Mrs Lovage said.

"I saw a young friend of yours yesterday. She is very good. She was taking relief to the poor."

"What young friend do you mean?"

"I mean Miss Woodhouse, and Miss Smith was with her."

"Oh, yes, Miss Woodhouse is always so good," said Miss Bates.

"How did you come across her?" I asked.

"I happened to be walking along Vicarage Lane and I pa.s.sed them going in the opposite direction. Miss Woodhouse was walking along with a little girl from one of the cottages. The child was carrying a pitcher for soup, and Miss Woodhouse was bearing her company. I thought it very good of her, for it must have been much pleasanter for her if she had walked ahead with Miss Smith and Mr Elton."

"Mr Elton!" I exclaimed.

"Such a good man," said Miss Bates. "Always so helpful!"

"Yes," said Mrs Lovage, smiling at Miss Bates. Then she turned again to me. "Whether he had joined them in their charitable venture, or whether he had met them by chance, I do not know. He seemed very attentive. He slowed his pace as he tried to wait for Miss Woodhouse, but she remained behind with the child."

"Did she indeed?" I asked.

My good humour left me. So Emma had still not abandoned her plan of throwing Harriet and Elton together. But perhaps I am misjudging her. Perhaps her charity had been prompted by a desire to do good, and not by a desire to show her friend in an amiable light.

"And what of you, Mr Knightley? How have you been spending your time since I last visited Highbury?"

"Looking after the Abbey," I said.

"You must have had some pleasure as well."

"Oh, yes, Mr Knightley, you must have some pleasure," said Miss Bates. "So good to everyone else, and never thinking of yourself."

"I think of myself a great deal. I have my whist and my visiting, and when I am at home I have my books. A man must be very hard to please if he wants more."

"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sure 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 yourself 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.