Mr. Knightley’s Diary

July

Thursday 1 July

A letter from Highbury arrived this morning.

"It is from Miss Bates," said Isabella, recognizing the hand.

I picked up my newspaper and hid my face behind it. I did not want her to see my expression when she read the letter, for I was sure it would contain news of Emma’s betrothal.

As she began to read, I could scarcely breathe.

"Mother well - Jane still in low spirits - new gloves for Mrs. Cole - Mrs. Churchill dead."

Isabella stopped short. "Mrs. Churchill dead!"

I did not know what the information would mean for Emma. Would it delay her marriage, whilst the period of mourning was observed, or speed it, as Mrs. Churchill could not put any obstacles in the way?

Isabella was so shocked by the news that, fortunately, she did not notice my silence. She began to read Miss Bates’s letter more slowly: "We were all very shocked to hear it. Poor lady! It seems she was very ill after all. Mr. Churchill is better than can be expected - the funeral is to be in Yorkshire. Mother is so shocked! And poor Jane can hardly speak. She has been very ill, I fear. Perry is worried about her. She has a terrible headache - Poor Jane," said Isabella, breaking off from reading the letter. "She is worried about her future, no doubt."

"No doubt," I managed to say.

I had recovered myself sufficiently to join in with the conversation, and the subject occupied us for the rest of the day.

Friday 2 July

I could not settle to anything. Emma is to marry Frank Churchill. It is as certain as the sun rising. I live in dread of the letter bearing the news, but a letter has not arrived. Emma will write to Isabella as soon as it is arranged, I am sure. Until then I am in torment. And afterwards…? I dare not think of it.

Saturday 3 July

I had luncheon at my club, with Routledge. As we finished our meal, I found him watching me curiously.

"Well?" he said.

"Well?" I asked.

"Out with it."

"Out with what?"

"Whatever it is that is bothering you," he said. "It must be something important, for you have not listened to a word I have said. You have answered me in an abstracted manner, and nothing you have said has made sense."

"Nothing is bothering me," I answered testily.

"You might as well make up your mind to tell me, because I will hound you until you do. I am tired of looking at your long face and hearing your sighs! It is not like you."

"I do not sigh!" I protested.

"I distinctly heard you as you ate your beef. You sighed."

I gave a deep sigh - then was angry with myself.

"Hah!" said Routledge. "There you are! It is as I said! You sighed. Well?"

I could not hide it from him any longer, nor did I wish to, for I needed to unburden myself.

"You were right." I said.

"About?"

"About Emma. Everything you said was true. I am in love with her. I cannot think why I did not see it sooner. I have been blind. She is the very woman for me."

"At last! I have been waiting for you to see it for months. Well, when are you going to marry her?"

"Never. I have missed my chance. She is going to marry Frank Churchill."

"Is she indeed?" he asked in surprise. "What busy lives you lead in Surrey! It is only a few months ago that you told me she was going to marry Elton. Elton, on the other hand, was going to marry Harriet - in Emma’s mind - but instead he went to Bath and came home with Augusta. It is as bad as A

Midsummer Night’s Dream. Are you sure there are no fairies in Highbury, who are making you their sport? It seems very like it. I expect to hear next that Jane Fairfax is about to marry Mr. Longridge, or that Miss Bates is engaged to Mr. Woodhouse."

I smiled despite myself.

"That is better," said Routledge. "A long face never helped anyone. Come now, tell me, what makes you think Emma is going to marry Churchill?"

"There is an understanding between them. From things she has said - things she has done - I asked her if she knew his mind on a certain subject, and she said she was convinced of it. In short, I thought he seemed to be casting glances at Jane Fairfax, some time ago, but Emma said she was sure of him. It was an intimate matter, one that would not have been spoken of if there had not been an engagement."

"And so they have announced their betrothal."

"I am expecting it any day, although it may be delayed as Mrs. Churchill has just died."

"Then, if it is as certain as you say, you had better marry Jane Fairfax instead."

"I have already thought about it, but I cannot do it."

"Why not? She is an attractive young woman, well-bred, agreeable and in need of a home."

"I cannot marry her for those reasons. Befriend her, help her - yes. But marry her? No."

"Then you had best see to your repairs at the Abbey, for it seems your nephew will inherit it, after all."

"It seems so." I remembered that Routledge sometimes saw John, and said: "You will say nothing of this to John? He does not know that I am in love with Emma. I can stand your rough concern, but if my brother knew, he would tell Isabella, and I cannot stand Isabella’s sympathy."

"I understand. I will say nothing to anyone. You may place your trust in me."

"Thank you."

"What do you intend to do now?" he asked me.

"Do? I will do what I have always done. Tend my estate, dine with my friends, play whist, look after the parish, and visit my brother."

"At least you will not have to see Emma, once she is married," said Routledge. "She will remove to Yorkshire, and not be reminding you of what you have lost."

"Small comfort," I said. "I do not know which is harder to bear, the thought of seeing Emma as the wife of another man, or the thought of never seeing her at all. I cannot imagine a life without her. What will it be like to go to Hartfield and find that she is not there? To dine with the Westons and see that her chair is empty? To go to church and see that she is not in her pew? To walk round Highbury with never a chance of meeting her?"

"You will adjust," he said.

"I suppose so," I said, but I did not believe it.

I was in low spirits when I returned to Brunswick Square. The boys wanted to play, but I put them off, saying: "Not now. I am tired."

I returned to my room and took up my quill. And now here I am, dreading another sleepless night and another empty day.

Monday 5 July

No letter again today. Perhaps, out of respect to Mrs. Churchill, they do not feel they can announce their engagement at once. But surely Emma would tell her sister?

Tuesday 6 July

The letter came, but what a letter! It was not from Emma, nor Miss Bates, but from Weston. My spirits sank when I saw it. It seemed that Emma’s letter must have been lost, and Weston was now writing of the news. How he had always longed for Emma as a daughter, and now he would have her!

But when I began to read the letter, I discovered it contained nothing but parish business - until I reached the end. I was so astonished that I cried out, and Isabella and John looked at me in surprise.

"Frank Churchill is engaged - to Jane Fairfax!" I said.

I thought at once of Emma. What would she be feeling? She must be desolate. She had been led on by him and deceived by him. I had suspected - I do not know quite what I had suspected, except that his behaviour had not rung true to me. And now the reason was revealed, because whilst he had been flirting with Emma, he had been paying court to Jane Fairfax.

I could scarcely believe it. I read on, and was more and more astounded. There had been a secret engagement between them, entered into in the autumn, at Weymouth, and hidden from everyone all the long months since.

And so he had been engaged when he had first come to Highbury! He had been engaged when he had danced with Emma. Engaged when he had flirted outrageously with her. Engaged when he had led everyone to believe he was on the point of making a proposal to her. Engaged…to Jane Fairfax!

"I cannot believe it," I said. "A secret betrothal…Jane Fairfax…I cannot believe she would be a party to such a thing."

"No wonder she has been ill," said Isabella.

"No wonder, indeed. To have to keep such a thing secret!" said John.

And to have to stand by and watch her betrothed pay attention to another woman, I thought. He is even worse than I painted him.

Whilst John and Isabella talked over the news, my thoughts returned to Emma. She must be heartbroken. She could not even turn to her usual confidante, Mrs. Weston, because Mrs. Weston was too closely involved.

"I must go to her!" I said with decision, correcting myself as I saw Isabella’s startled expression.

" - to Highbury."

John looked at me curiously.

"But we thought you were to stay for another week," said Isabella.

"There is business for me to attend to - parish business," I said, folding my letter. "Weston writes to me of it."

I told them how much I had enjoyed my visit, and resisted Isabella’s entreaties to stay. I took my leave of the children, thanked John and Isabella, and was on my way.

I rode out of London thinking of nothing but Emma, my poor, heartbroken Emma. I scarcely noticed the rain. My horse was fresh, and I made good time. As I approached Highbury, the wind dropped to a gentle breeze, the clouds cleared and the sun came out.

I arrived at Hartfield. Emma was not in the house, but Mr. Woodhouse was there with Perry. I gave him greetings from Isabella, then asked him: "Where is Emma?"

"She is walking in the garden."

I went outside to look for her, and I saw her walking along the path. Her shoulders were drooping and her head was down. My heart cried out in sympathy. For her to be so deceived! And by such a useless young man! He had come among us, simpering and smiling and flirting, whilst all the time his affections and his hand were engaged. The monstrosity of it! I had thought him a worthless fribble, but I had not thought badly enough of him. There could be no mistake; no misunderstanding. He had used her; deceived her.

She arranged her face as she looked up and saw me. Brave girl! She would not let me see how unhappy she was.

"Mr. Knightley! I did not think to see you here. I thought you were still in London."

"I finished my business early, and I decided to return to the Abbey," I said, looking down into her eyes with compassion.

"You must have had a wet ride."

"Yes," I said.

"And how is everyone in London?" she asked, without any of her usual animation.

"They are all well, and send you their best wishes. Your sister begs me to tell you that baby Emma is starting to look just like you. She has your features, and the same shape of face."

"And will lose them, no doubt, before she is very much older!" she said.

"Perhaps."

"And how are the boys, and little Bella?"

"They are well, all well. The boys are continuing their riding-lessons, and Bella is begging to be allowed to learn, but her mother thinks she is too young. George is growing into a fine boy. I believe we might see them here before long."

And that will help to soothe you, I thought, in your suffering.

I watched her as we walked through the shrubbery, and I thought how sad she looked. I said nothing, not knowing what to say. I did not want to raise the subject of Frank Churchill in case she did not feel equal to talking about him, but I wanted her to know that she could talk to me if she needed to unburden herself of her cares. And so I said nothing, hoping my silent company would be comforting for her.

She seemed about to speak, then checked. She began again. With a small, sad smile, she said: "You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprise you."

"Have I?" I asked, looking at her. "Of what nature?"

"Oh! the best nature in the world - a wedding," she said brightly.

I waited for her to say more, but she could not speak. Her heart was full, and it was made worse by the fact that Frank Churchill was the son of her good friends the Westons.

"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already," I said, wanting to spare her the pain of giving me the details.

"How is it possible?" she cried in surprise.

"I had a few lines on parish business from Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."

She appeared relieved, as though she had expected my correspondent to be someone different. But who, and why it should trouble her, I did not know. But what did it matter who my correspondent had been? I had no time to puzzle over it. She was out of spirits, and she needed my friendship.

After a time she said, in a calmer manner: "You probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you have had your suspicions. I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution. I wish I had attended to it, but I seem to have been doomed to blindness."

Her voice fell so much it cut me to the quick. I said nothing, but I took her arm and drew it through mine to comfort her.

"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound. Your own excellent sense; your exertions for your father’s sake; I know you will not allow yourself..." to sink beneath this burden, I wanted to say, but I could not finish my sentence. I found my voice becoming choked and I could not trust myself to speak. When I had recovered, I went on firmly, assuring her of my warmest friendship, and telling her of the indignation I felt on her behalf, because of the behaviour of that abominable scoundrel.

"He will soon be gone," I continued. "They will soon be in Yorkshire."

"You are very kind, but you are mistaken," said Emma. She stopped walking. "I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier."

"Emma!" I cried, looking eagerly at her, as my hopes began to soar. She was not in love with Frank Churchill! She had not been wounded by him! Then there was hope for me yet!

A moment’s reflection showed me the truth. She was being brave; pretending it did not signify; when it must have hurt her cruelly.

But I was pleased that she could say so much. It showed she had not felt it as deeply as I feared, and in time, with her friends around her to lift her spirits, I was persuaded she would recover.

"I understand you - forgive me - I am pleased that you can say even so much. He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgement of more than your reason. He is a disgrace to the name of man."

I was astonished, then, a moment later, when she said: "Mr. Knightley, I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse. But I never have."

I did not know what to think. Was she serious? Or just bearing up under her misfortune? Had she ever been in love with him, or not? I thought of everything I had seen between them. I had never been sure. Her spirits had always been lively, and what I had taken for romantic flirtation might have been nothing but high spirits. I did not know what to think, much less what to say. But I did not need to speak. She went on, telling me that she had been pleased by his attentions because he was the son of Mr. Weston; because he was continually in Highbury; because she found him very pleasant; and, she admitted, in a way no other woman would have admitted it, because her vanity was flattered.

"He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me," she said.

I felt a rush of relief. Emma, my Emma, was not hurt; not wounded, not injured. She was cheerful still.

I felt my own cheerfulness return. In fact, I was so much in charity with the world that I could even find it in my heart to be charitable to Frank Churchill.

"Perhaps he may yet turn out well," I said. "With such a woman he has a chance. I have no motive for wishing him ill - and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well."

"I have no doubt of their being happy together," said Emma, as we walked on. "I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached."

Lucky, lucky man to have the love of the woman he loved!

"He is a most fortunate man!" I burst out. "Every thing turns out for his good. He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment - and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior. His aunt is in the way. His aunt dies. He has only to speak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has used everybody ill - and they are all delighted to forgive him.

He is a fortunate man indeed!"

Emma said: "You speak as if you envied him."

"And I do envy him, Emma," I said. "In one respect he is the object of my envy."

Because he had won the woman he loved.

She said nothing. I was afraid I had gone too far. If I spoke of my feelings for her, would I lose her friendship? We could never go back to the comfortable ease we had had before. Could I really bear to lose that?

She seemed about to speak, but I had to say something before I lost my courage; before I decided I had too much to lose and could not take the risk.

"You will not ask me what is the point of envy," I said. "You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise - but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment."

"Oh! then, do not speak it, do not speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself."

"Thank you," I said, mortified that my attentions were so unwelcome to her. But how could they not be? I was so much older than she, and I had never flattered her as a lover ought. I had scolded her and berated her. I was the last man in the world she would wish to marry. And so, generous girl that she was, she sought to spare me the pain of being refused.

We walked on in silence. We reached the house.

"You are going in, I suppose," I said.

And so it ended. My hope of marrying her.

She hesitated, and then she surprised me by saying: "No. I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone."

We walked on. I felt her preparing herself to say something she found difficult.

She is going to tell me she knows of my feelings, and she is going to put paid to them once and for all, I thought.

"Mr. Knightley, I stopped you just now, and I am afraid, gave you pain," she said. "But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation - as a friend, indeed, you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think."

"As a friend!" I said, and my heart quailed. But I could not say nothing now that I had a chance to speak to her. Perhaps I could convince her that I could change; that I could stop scolding her; that I could become a man she would be proud to marry. "Emma, that I fear is a word..." I began, but stopped. I could not say I was not her friend, because I was. But I wanted to be so much more. I resolved to be silent; not to jeopardize what I had. But I could not. "I have gone too far already for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"

I turned to look at her, and my love for her was in my eyes.

"My dearest Emma," I went on, for I could no longer conceal my thoughts, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma - tell me at once. Say “No”, if it is to be said." She said nothing. It was not as bad as I feared. She had not irrevocably decided against me. She was uncertain. There was room for hope. "You are silent, absolutely silent! At present I ask no more."

Still she said nothing. I dared not hope. I dared not fear. I dared do nothing. I dared not move, for fear of breaking the spell. And yet I had to go on.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma," I said at last. "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover. But you understand me. Yes, you see, you understand my feelings - and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

"Mr. Knightley, I am flattered - honoured by your proposal," she said, looking up at me with such eyes that with a surge of feeling I knew I had her heart. I could not speak; I could do nothing but look at her, as she could do nothing but look at me. "I never knew, never expected…" she said.

"That I loved you? I scarcely knew it myself. It has crept up on me so slowly, so gradually, that I was in love with you before I knew it. Then I could not speak. You seemed so enamoured of Frank Churchill. My motives for disliking him were not wholly for his rash behaviour. They were also because you seemed to favour him. I could perhaps have borne it if I had lost you to a worthy man - but no, I do not believe I could. I could not have borne to lose you to anyone, dearest Emma, so tell me, put me out of my misery, have I your heart?"

"Yes, you have," she said.

"And will you be my wife?"

"Yes, I will."

I could think of nothing to say. No words could express my emotion. And so I kissed her. At last, unwillingly, I let her go.

She had a flush on her cheeks and looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

"And did you come here, then, to propose to me?" she asked at last.

"No, indeed. I came to be of service to you, to lift your spirits. I thought no further than that. But when I learnt that you did not love Churchill, that you had never loved him, then I hoped - but you would not let me speak. You bade me be silent. I thought it was because you were afraid I would declare myself. I did not know it was from modesty. I almost said nothing. I could not bear to lose your friendship, and I thought I might. I thought that, if I told you how I felt, and you could not return my feelings, then our ease and companionship would be over for ever, that there would be a constraint with which it would not be possible to do away."

"But you spoke, none the less."

"I did." I stopped and faced her. "I had lost you once by saying nothing, or so I thought. I could not bear to lose you through my own reticence again."

"That must have taken courage," she said.

"Not courage. Love."

She squeezed my arm, and we walked on companionably together until we reached the house. We went in, and sat down to tea. I could not take my eyes from Emma. She was radiant, and I had never been so happy.

But seeing Mr. Woodhouse, I was brought up against the problems we would face when she wished to marry. He was such an enemy of the state in general, because it brought upheaval in its wake, that he had still not recovered from Miss Taylor’s marriage; indeed he had still not stopped calling her "poor Miss Taylor".

I knew that Emma’s marriage must strike him a harder blow, because it was closer to him. But I knew that, whatever problems we faced, we would overcome them.

He was ignorant of our plans, however, and therefore undisturbed. He told us of Perry’s visit, saying that Perry agreed with him on the matter of diet, and that he would take a little less meat from now on. He told us of Mrs. Bates’s cold, which news had been brought by Perry, and of Mrs. Elton’s headache. He told us of Churchill’s latest letter to Mrs. Weston, at which Emma and I exchanged glances, and of Miss Fairfax’s miraculous recovery.

"For it was not a cold at all, but worry, brought on by concealment," said Mr. Woodhouse. "It is a very bad business. Marriage is always a very sad business. I said as much to Perry, and he agreed with me. It is forever making people ill."

Emma and I said nothing, but drank our tea.

At last I had to leave. It was too soon for me, but to stay any longer, even for an old friend such as

I, would have seemed strange, and Mr. Woodhouse would have noticed it. And so I bade them goodnight, and returned to the Abbey.

I wandered round the rooms, too happy for sleep. Here I would bring Emma. Here we would live together. Here she would be my wife.

At last I went upstairs, and retired to my room. It seemed familiar and yet different. The last time I slept here, I had no notions of such a happy conclusion to all my worries! I thought Emma was about to marry elsewhere. And now she is to marry me!

As I thought of everything that had happened, I knew myself to be the happiest of men.

Wednesday 7 July

I returned to Hartfield first thing this morning and Emma and I took a walk in the grounds.

"I hope it is not too damp underfoot," said Mr. Woodhouse anxiously, as we set out.

"Not at all," I said. "It is particularly dry."

"Do not forget your shawl," he said to Emma.

She took it, though the morning was fine and she did not need it. At last we were alone.

"I never thought, when I set out for my walk yesterday, that so much would happen," she said.

"Nor I. I thought you were hopelessly in love with Frank Churchill."

"When I had just discovered I was hopelessly in love with you."

"What brought it on? What made you realize it? Was it when you heard me speak?"

"I..." She hesitated, then said: "I scarcely know."

There was something, I felt sure, some incident that had told her her heart. But I was too happy to press her, and my feelings overflowed.

"I was luckier," I said. "I had had time to come to understand my feelings, even if I did not dare hope they would be returned."

We went indoors, and I took my leave. I returned to the Abbey to attend to my business. But I could not stay away long, and when I visited Hartfield again this afternoon, I found that Emma had had a letter, written to Mrs. Weston but passed on for her perusal, from Frank Churchill.

She wanted me to read it, but as it was long I said I would take it with me when I left. This would not do for Emma. She expected Mrs. Weston this evening, and wanted my opinion before then.

I read it; it was a trifling letter, as I expected. It was very bad, but it could have been worse. Once I knew Emma was out of danger from him, however, I cared little for his behaviour, except for a charitable wish that Miss Fairfax could have found a better man.

All was explained. When he had gone to London for a day, earlier in the year, it had not been for a haircut, it had been so that he could purchase a pianoforte for Miss Fairfax. His attentions to Emma had been an effort to disguise his feelings for Miss Fairfax. He admitted that he had behaved shamefully; that he had resented Mrs. Elton, and her officious desire to find Miss Fairfax a position as a governess. He explained that he had had an argument with Miss Fairfax on the day of the strawberry-picking, and that he had been grief-stricken when she had broken off the engagement because of his behaviour towards Emma. And he wrote of his decision to throw himself on the mercy of his uncle after the death of his aunt, and that his uncle had approved the union, and that he was now reconciled to Miss Fairfax.

"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am," she said, when I had finished it; and, indeed, my comments had not been, for the most part, favourable. "But still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you."

"Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers, the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else," I said, having wasted enough time on Frank Churchill. "I have another person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject: how I am to marry you, without attacking the happiness of your father."

"I have thought of little else," Emma confessed. "I can never leave him; on that I am resolved."

"He could come and live with us at the Abbey," I suggested.

"I have considered this, too," said Emma, "but he will never consent to leaving Hartfield. And even if he did, his constitution is not strong. The shock would very probably make him ill, or worse."

"Now that I have won you, I cannot give you up," I said. "I have another suggestion to make, which is that I should come to live at Hartfield."

"What! Give up the Abbey?" she asked.

"No. I would not give it up. I would go there every day to attend to business, but I would not live there."

I saw her smile. "You would do this for me?" she asked.

"I venture to say I would do anything within my power for you," I replied.

"And you would not mind living with my father? His foibles are sometimes a trial to you."

"They are nothing, compared to the happiness I would receive from being with you," I replied.

"You must have time to think of it more fully," she said, but I could tell she spoke only in deference to my feelings, and not to hers: the idea appealed to her as it much as it appealed to me.

"I have thought of it as much as I need to. I have spent the morning walking away from William Larkins, in order to have my thoughts to myself."

"Ah! There is some difficulty unprovided for," said Emma. "William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine."

I laughed. "I am sure William Larkins will be overjoyed. He will have his old master back, instead of a man who is distracted."

"Then I will think about it," she promised me, and I am confident she will agree.

Thursday 8 July

When I returned to Hartfield this morning, I found that Emma wanted me to move to Hartfield as much as I want it myself. It is the best solution to our present difficulties. Emma and I can be together, and Mr. Woodhouse will not be alone.

Whilst I was there, Mrs. Goddard called, and as we all took tea together, she broached the subject of Harriet.

"Such a toothache, poor girl!" said Mrs. Goddard.

Mr. Woodhouse was all solicitousness.

"She must see Perry at once."

"Would it not be better for her to see a dentist, Papa?" asked Emma.

"You are quite right, my dear, as you always are, but there is no one I would trust near by," he said anxiously.

"We must send her to London, to see Isabella’s dentist. I am sure Isabella will be glad to have her for a few days. Harriet was so good with the children when they were with us," said Emma.

"Indeed she was," he said, much struck.

I caught Emma’s eye, and she coloured slightly: she was feeling guilty for encouraging her friend to think of Elton, and wished to give her some fun to make amends, I could tell, for once the trip to the dentist was over there would be trips to the London amusements. The delights of the shops and the entertainments would be there for Harriet to enjoy.

It was arranged that Emma would write to Isabella, and that Mrs. Goddard would arrange the affair with Harriet. Mrs. Goddard went away full of the news, and if her own excitement was anything to judge by, I thought Harriet would be very well pleased.

After tea, Emma and I took a walk around the gardens.

"I will go to your father this evening and ask him for your hand," I said.

"No! I must be the one to tell him," she said. "It will be easier for him if it comes from me."

"Very well, if you are sure."

"I am."

"Perhaps you are right. If you speak to him whilst I am still here, then I can add my reassurances to yours when the news has been broken."

"No," she said, "I cannot tell him just yet. He is very nervous about Mrs. Weston. It is only a fortnight now until her time, and I will not add any more anxieties to his present store. He does not need to know about our engagement yet. It will only cause him needless worry."

I was impatient to reveal my happiness to the world, but at last I agreed.

Thursday 22 July

Mrs. Weston has had a daughter! I could not be happier for her! She and her little girl are doing well, and Weston is beside himself with joy.

"She is the most beautiful baby in the world," said Emma, when she had seen the infant. "She looks just like Mrs. Weston."

I remarked that, with such parents, the baby would be indulged, and Emma cried mischievously:

"At that rate, what will become of her?"

"Nothing very bad," I said with a smile. "She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to you, would it not be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?"

She laughed, and said that she had had me to correct her. But I could not let this pass.

"My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks - “Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so and so; Papa says I may” - something of which, you knew, I did not approve."

"What an amiable creature I was! No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance."

" “Mr. Knightley”. You always called me “Mr. Knightley”, and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound. And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what."

"I remember once calling you “George”, in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again."

"And cannot you call me “George” now?"

"Impossible! I never can call you any thing but “Mr. Knightley”. I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K. But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing, "I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where - in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse."

I am looking forward to that day. I can think of no greater happiness than having Emma as my wife.

Friday 23 July

Isabella has invited Harriet to stay on for another two weeks, so that she and John can bring her back to Highbury in their carriage when they visit us in August. I am glad. It means I will have Emma to myself, without her friend always being by.

Monday 26 July

I wrote to John of our engagement today. It will be a loss to his boys, there is no doubt about it. Little Henry will soon be replaced in his position of heir to Donwell Abbey, God willing. But John has always urged me to marry, and I do not think he will be displeased.

Tuesday 27 July

I have had a letter from John, congratulating me on my engagement. I showed it to Emma. It was brief, and wished me well.

Emma and I spoke again about when to tell her father the news. "I have resolved to do it this afternoon," she said.

"Do you want me with you?"

"No, I will do it better alone. Then, upon your arrival, you can add your assurances that it will be for the good of all."

"Very well. What time do you want me to call?"

"At four o"clock. I will have tea with Papa first, then tell him the news, and then I rely on you to add your cheer."

And so we agreed.

I arrived punctually at four o"clock, and found Mr. Woodhouse in a state of misery.

"Ah, Mr. Knightley, this is a sorry affair," he said, on greeting me.

Not many men can have been met with these words when they announced their engagement!

"What! A sorry affair! To have Mr. Knightley always with us!" said Emma rousingly. "Someone to write your letters, and attend to business, and give us diversion when we are low in spirits!"

"That is very true," he admitted.

"I count myself a lucky man to have won the hand of such a sweet, beautiful woman, for you know there is no one better than Emma in all the world," I said.

"Yes, that is so," he remarked, much struck. "No man ever had a better daughter, unless it was Isabella, who was so happy, here at Hartfield before she married. Poor Isabella!" he said, shaking his head. "Marriage is a dreadful thing."

"But not this one, Papa. This one will not be taking me anywhere," said Emma. "I will still live at Hartfield. And I will have Mr. Knightley here as well, as you will, Papa. It is quite a different matter from Isabella’s marriage."

He was at last brought round. He reminisced about Emma, and praised her many perfections.

I was not exasperated, as I used to be, when he spoke of them. Instead, I agreed with every one. And so, slowly, he became accustomed to the idea.

To the idea, but not the fact. That will take some time to accomplish. But at least we have made a start.

Wednesday 28 July

Weston called on me at the Abbey this morning, to offer his congratulations.

"Mrs. Weston and I could not be more delighted!" he said. "It is a wonder it did not occur to us before. It is the most suitable thing. Who else would have agreed to move to Hartfield? Who else would have been so understanding of Mr. Woodhouse? It is one of the things that concerned Anne and me, when we hoped Emma would marry Frank. Emma would have had to go to live in Yorkshire, and that would have been a sad thing indeed. But everything has turned out for the best, as I knew it would. We are not to lose Emma, and Anne and I are still to gain a beautiful daughter-in-law in Jane Fairfax. Two daughters in one year! I am truly blessed."

"And how is Anna?" I asked.

"Thriving. The joy of having a baby daughter! I hope you will soon know the same joy, Knightley. Anna is someone to brighten our lives, and to keep us lively as we grow old. I could not have wished for anything better. To think, I have a son and a daughter! And at my time of life! I am the most fortunate of men."

"I think you will have to fight me for that honour!" I said.

"Will you join us for dinner tomorrow night?" he asked. "Emma and her father are invited. Mrs.

Weston feels she may be of some assistance in reconciling Mr. Woodhouse to the marriage."

"Thank you, yes," I said. "I will be there."

Thursday 29 July

We dined at Randalls this evening, and Mrs. Weston was as great a help as she had meant to be.

"This is very good news," she said cheerfully to Mr. Woodhouse. "Mr. Knightley is just the person to take care of Emma, and of you. He is always so kind and considerate, and we all love him so dearly. It could not be a better arrangement."

"Ah, poor Miss Taylor, it would be so much better if you had never married. You always liked living at Hartfield with us," he said.

This was not encouraging, but she persevered.

"But if I had never married Mr. Weston, I would never have had Anna," she said, smiling at the baby on her knee. "You know you love her. See, she loves you, too, for she is smiling at you."

I could not see the smile, but Mrs. Weston and Emma were certain it was there. Mr. Woodhouse was very happy to believe it, and his cries of "Poor Miss Taylor!" and "Poor Emma!" soon subsided, to be replaced by cries of: "She is a pretty little thing."

"And she will have soon outgrown her first set of caps," Mrs. Weston said.

"I will have to make her some more," said Emma.

And so the evening passed, and by the end of it, I felt we had worn away the worst of Mr. Woodhouse’s resistance.