Mr. Knightley’s Diary

June

Tuesday 1 June

I was dining at the vicarage this evening when I saw something disturbing. Frank Churchill kept catching Jane Fairfax’s eye, and I am sure some secret intelligence passed between them. I thought at first that Churchill had switched his affections, but this was not the case, as he went on making love to Emma. I was at a loss as to what it could mean.

Had he said something compromising to Jane Fairfax? Paid her some extravagant compliment? Given her to understand he liked her? That would explain the look of intelligence, but if that was the case, why did he continue to pay attention to Emma? It did not make sense. Nor did it make sense that Jane Fairfax, a young woman of good sense and good principles would be interested in the attentions of a man like Frank Churchill.

Unless women are all fools when it comes to handsome young men?

Nay, I will not believe it. I know it cannot be so. Yet Emma and Jane Fairfax both seem attracted to Mr. Weston’s son - and he to them.

Saturday 5 June

The weather being warm, I decided to walk up to Hartfield this evening and as I found Emma and Harriet setting out for a walk, I decided to accompany them. We fell in with Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Mr. Churchill, Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, and as we returned to Hartfield, Emma pressed the whole party to go in to see her father, and to take tea.

We were just turning into the grounds when Perry passed on horseback, and we spoke of his horse.

"By the by," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston, "what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?"

Mrs. Weston disclaimed any knowledge of such a plan, but he insisted she had told him of it.

"Never!" exclaimed Churchill. "Bless me! how could it be? Then I must have dreamt it."

Again, I surprised a look between him and Jane Fairfax, and the thought came to me that she had told him of it. But why not say so? Why make a mystery of it?

My conviction that Frank Churchill was guilty of double-dealing became more certain as the evening progressed. He called for some alphabet bricks the boys had left behind, and he and Emma amused themselves by making up words.

"Ah! the poor little boys, how sad they were to leave us," said Mr. Woodhouse in a melancholy voice, seeing the bricks. "I do wish Isabella would come and live here with us. Poor Isabella!" he sighed.

Under cover of his lamentations, Churchill pushed a collection of letters towards Miss Fairfax. I was watching her at the time, and it seemed to me that she had worked out the conundrum, but that it troubled her, because she blushed slightly and then mixed the bricks in with the others. But she did not mix them well enough. Harriet pounced on them, and reading the word Miss Fairfax had made, cried out: "Blunder!"

Miss Fairfax flushed a deeper red.

So! Churchill had made a blunder with his comment about Perry’s carriage, and the source of the information was indeed Miss Fairfax. Then why not be open about it? The whole thing smacked of duplicity, and worse, it was clear that Miss Fairfax was not an innocent party, but was involved in something she was ashamed of.

Churchill continued unabashed. He made a word for Emma. She smiled, but looked alarmed when he pushed it towards Miss Fairfax, who flushed again. I looked over the letters and was able to make out Dixon.

Dixon! The name of her friend’s husband?

What did it mean?

One thing was certain. Churchill was not only behaving in an ungentlemanlike fashion, but he was involving others in his misdeeds, and dragging both Emma and Miss Fairfax down to his own level, involving the former in giving pain and the latter in receiving it.

Miss Fairfax could stand no more. She pushed the letters away angrily, and looked at her aunt, who read her expression and said they must be going.

The Westons and Weston’s son, Miss Bates and her niece all departed. When the candles were lit to dispel the gathering gloom, I felt I must say something to Emma, for I feared that Churchill was playing a double game, and transferring his affections to Miss Fairfax. Moreover, that he was using Emma as an unwitting pawn in his game.

I began by speaking of the word he had made out of bricks, asking her how it could be so very entertaining to her, whilst so very distressing to Jane.

She was confused, and told me it was nothing but a joke.

"The joke seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill," I remarked.

I did not know how much to say, for I did not know whether I was helping her. I had no authority to speak to her, save the authority of an affectionate friend, but I felt I must take the risk of her thinking I was interfering, rather than take the risk of seeing her hurt when a word or two of mine could prevent it.

"My dear Emma," I asked softly, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"

"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax! Oh! yes, perfectly," she said with assurance.

"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?"

"Never, never!" she cried.

I wondered if I should stop there, but having started, thought I should continue: "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them; certain expressive looks, which I did not believe were meant to be public."

Instead of the confusion I had expected, she was amused, assuring me there was no admiration between them: "That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s indifference."

This was plain speaking. It could not have been plainer. For her to know it so certainly meant her affections were engaged and that there was that perfect confidence between them that can only come between lovers. He must have declared himself, and been met with warmth.

How could I have been such a fool? How could I have been so slow to recognize my feelings for her, and then been so slow to speak? My hesitation had cost me dear. It had cost me Emma. I felt a wave of anguish and said no more.

I returned to the Abbey, but I could not settle to anything. I took up a book but I could not see the words. I looked over my accounts, but my mind was so distracted that I was afraid of touching anything lest I make a mistake.

Is this to be the end of Emma? I asked myself. To be married to a man like that? To spend her time tormenting others - for that is what she was doing this evening - encouraged by her lover? I cannot bear it!

And yet what can I do, except watch her, and love her, and be ready to help her if she needs me?

Wednesday 9 June

I dined with the Coles this evening, and I found the Eltons there. Mrs. Elton was lamenting the fact that her sister and her brother-in-law, Mr. Suckling, would not be able to visit after all. She had been living in expectation of a visit from them for some time, but it had had to be put off until the autumn.

Mrs. Elton was very disappointed. No pleasure trips in the barouche-landau, no dinner parties, no discussion of Maple Grove; for even Mrs. Elton seemed tired of talking about a place no one else had seen.

"Why not come with us?" said Weston.

I looked at him in surprise, and his wife did likewise. We had talked of a pleasure trip ourselves, but we had not thought of inviting the Eltons. There is so much parade in their way of doing things that Emma, the Westons and myself had thought to go alone.

But now here was Weston, in an excess of conviviality, inviting the very persons we had been anxious to avoid.

Mrs. Elton looked at him enquiringly.

"Miss Woodhouse, Mr. Knightley, my wife and myself were intending to go to Box Hill. Now that the Sucklings have disappointed you, you must join our party."

"The very thing," said Mrs. Elton. "We do not need the Sucklings in order to arrange a pleasure trip. We can go there again when they visit us in the autumn."

The weather being fine, a pleasure trip to Box Hill has been arranged. A few days ago, it would have been a great burden to me, but set next to the devastation of knowing that Emma is in love with

Frank Churchill, it troubles me very little.

Thursday 10 June

I wanted to tell Emma the news about the party to Box Hill, but when I arrived at Hartfield this morning, I found the Westons had already told her.

"I am glad you approve of what I have done," he was saying to her as I entered the room.

From Emma’s expression, I could see that she did not approve at all. However, she could not say so, without revealing her reason, which was that she did not like Mrs. Elton. And as that could not be said, she gave in with a good grace.

"Never mind," I said to her, once Weston had departed. "It will be a large party, and you need not talk to Mrs. Elton."

"No," she agreed. "I would much rather talk to you instead."

Perhaps I would have been more heartened by her preference, if I had not known of her thorough dislike of Mrs. Elton.

I was encouraged by her lack of enthusiasm for the trip, however. Frank Churchill will certainly be invited, and as she does not seem to be eager for the outing, then perhaps she is not as set on Frank Churchill as I had supposed. Is there still hope for me? The next few days will show me for sure.

Saturday 12 June

A most annoying day. I met Mrs. Elton on my way to Hartfield, and I could not avoid talking to her.

Her follies put me out of temper, so that by the time I reached Hartfield I was in a bad mood.

"What is the matter?" asked Emma.

"Nothing. Everything." And before I knew what I was doing, I was telling her all about it.

"I have just seen Mrs. Elton. She was telling me that one of her carriage-horses has become lame, and so the trip must be postponed. “Is it not vexatious, Knightley?” she asked me."

"At least she did not call you Mr. K," said Emma.

"Hah!" I felt my mood lighten a little. "She bemoaned her fate so volubly that I despaired of ever getting away from her, and so, in an effort to divert her thoughts, I said, humorously, that she must come to Donwell to visit my strawberry-beds."

"She did not agree!" said Emma.

"She did!" I began to laugh. "She said she should like it of all things. I could not believe she wanted an outing to my strawberry-beds!"

"She wanted an outing to Donwell Abbey, rather," said Emma.

"And she has achieved her goal," I said ruefully.

"If the carriage-horse recovers in time, she can arrive in state."

"No, she has already decided on her mode of transport. She has decided she is going to arrive on a donkey."

"A donkey?" asked Emma in astonishment.

"You are to say nothing," I warned her, feeling the laughter welling up in me again. "She wants everyone to come on a donkey: Miss Fairfax, Miss Bates…"

"And Mr. Elton?"

"No. Her caro sposo is going to walk beside her."

"I think it an excellent plan," she said gravely. "We must all have donkeys. I am sure Miss Bates would enjoy the experience, and Mrs. Goddard would look very well in the saddle - if, indeed, donkeys wear saddles. I mean to purchase a donkey this afternoon, and I hope I may not disgrace you by my seat when you walk next to me, Mr. K."

"Oh, Emma!" I said. "Don"t…" marry Churchill, marry me, I was going to say. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but at that moment, Harriet walked into the room.

I had never been so dismayed to see her in my life.

"I have found the silk you asked for - oh, Mr. Knightley," she said.

I believe she knew she had interrupted something important, for she blushed.

"Thank you, Harriet. Mr. Knightley has come with excellent news. We are to spend a day at Donwell Abbey, picking strawberries."

"Oh, that will be lovely," said Harriet, her eyes shining as she looked at me.

I was even more sure that she suspected my secret, for her shining eyes indicated that she expected me to propose to Emma at the Abbey.

Before she could say anything further, Mr. Woodhouse joined us, and Emma turned to him solicitously.

"Is Perry not with you?"

"No, my dear, he has had to go on his rounds. He is very busy. I am not surprised. His advice is sought everywhere."

"What did he say to you?" she asked.

"He was very pleased. There has been some improvement since the last time he saw me. He congratulated me, and told me that my diet played a large part in my constitution. If only I could persuade you to eat more gruel, I am sure you would be better for it," he said.

"I believe I will join you in a bowl tonight. But what do you think? We have a treat in store. Mr. Knightley has invited us to the Abbey," she said.

"Ah, Mr. Knightley, I am a sad invalid," he said, shaking his head as though I had invited him to his own funeral.

"But there has been some improvement, Perry said so, and it is not so very far to the Abbey," Emma said. "Mr. Knightley will do everything he can to make you comfortable."

I added my pleas, and at last he said he would venture out. Emma was very pleased, as he has not been to the Abbey in two years, and I was pleased to have given her pleasure.

Mr. and Mrs. Weston arrived shortly afterwards, and accepted an invitation to join us. Weston said he would invite Frank for me, and it was impossible for me to refuse his offer, but I consoled myself with the thought that his son might not come.

We settled on the twenty-fourth for the visit. It cannot be sooner, for I will have things to arrange.

Mr. Woodhouse’s comfort must be provided for, and the Abbey must be made ready for guests.

Monday 14 June

I called at Hartfield this morning, hoping to speak to Emma, but she had gone out. I walked into Highbury on business and called on Miss Bates. I was hoping to see Emma, but although she had called, she was no longer there. I listened to Miss Bates’s chatter with half a mind.

Longridge has chosen a house at last, it seems. He has settled on Southdean, the house of which

Miss Bates herself is particularly fond. It has a large garden, with a stream, well-proportioned rooms, and comfortable servants" quarters. I think he will be an addition to Highbury society.

Tuesday 15 June

Robert Martin came to see me on a matter of business this morning, and I was struck again with his loyalty to Harriet. He did not, like Mr. Elton, rush out to find a wife as soon as his hand was refused. He is a good-enough-looking man, with a prosperous living, and there are a number of young ladies in Highbury who would be flattered by his attentions, but I am convinced he still thinks of Harriet. He has read the books she recommended, though goodness knows what pleasure or information he has received from The Romance of the Forest, and he has encouraged his sisters to remain friendly with her. It is just a pity that he could not have rescued her from the gypsies, because if it had fallen to him to be her champion, then I am sure his work would have been done.

But he is a sensible man. He can see that Harriet belongs with him, and I am convinced he is biding his time.

In this, I hope to do him a good turn. Abbey Mill Farm is plainly visible from the Abbey, and when Harriet comes strawberry-picking, I hope to draw her attention to it.

Further than this I will not go; but Emma has meddled in separating them, and I think I may be forgiven for meddling in some small way to bring them back together.

Tuesday 22 June

I have had no success in finding Emma alone this week. She has either been out walking, or with Harriet, or with her father. But I must speak to her. When she comes to the Abbey, I mean to offer her my arm and lead her away from the others. Once in a secluded corner I can speak to her, tentatively at first, to see if I can discover whether she has irrevocably given her heart to Churchill, and then, if she has not, I mean to ask her to marry me.

Wednesday 23 June

I was walking into Highbury when I passed Mrs. Elton by chance. She and her husband were taking the air. I wondered if he knew about the plan for a donkey, and that he was expected to walk beside it.

"Look, Mr. E, here is Knightley!" she said.

I could not ignore her greeting, and bade her good morning.

"What do you think, Knightley?" she asked me. "The carriage-horse has recovered. My caro sposo and I are planning a trip to Box Hill on the twenty-fifth, the day after we come to Donwell. I hope you will join us. You and I must lead the way, Knightley. We must not let this good weather pass us by."

I could not readily think of an excuse, so I agreed. If, for any reason, the day at the Abbey does not give me a chance to speak to Emma, then a day at Box Hill will surely do so.

Thursday 24 June

I was relieved when I awoke to a day of bright sunshine, knowing it would make the strawberry-picking so much more enjoyable. Even so, I ordered a fire lit in the sitting-room for Mr. Woodhouse, for he feels the cold, even in summer.

I helped Emma settle him when he arrived, and he was happy to sit with Mrs. Weston, who claimed she was tired, and that she would much rather remain indoors. I gave them a collection of medals, engravings, cameos, corals and shells to look through and then went outside with my other guests.

The strawberry-picking began. Berries were picked and eaten, their relative flavours and textures discussed, and favourite varieties were remarked upon. Mrs. Elton gave her opinion decidedly, whilst Elton danced attendance and Weston worried about his son.

"I thought Frank would be here by now," he said on more than one occasion, looking at his watch.

"He has had time, I am sure. I thought we would have seen him here already."

I took my chance and walked up to Emma, but to my frustration, Mrs. Elton was before me, and was soon telling Emma that, as the two leading ladies of the district, they must find a position for Jane Fairfax without delay.

I had no desire to join their conversation, and I was about to join Mr. Woodhouse indoors when I noticed that Harriet appeared at something of a loss. Seeing an opportunity to help Robert Martin, I went over to her and engaged her in conversation. I asked her how she liked the weather, and what she thought of the Abbey, and as I talked to her, I led her away from the others, down the lime-walk. She went with me readily, and as we stood together at the end of the lime-walk, we looked out over Abbey Mill Farm.

With this view in sight, I brought the conversation round to the Westons, and said how happy their marriage had made them.

"Yes, indeed," she said shyly.

"The Eltons, too, seem happy," I said.

She blushed, for the Eltons brought back unwelcome memories, but they served my purpose, and she admitted that they seemed happy, too.

Then, having turned her attention towards matrimony, I chose my next words carefully, and without actually asking her outright, I tried to discover if her affections were engaged.

She murmured something I did not catch, but her very shyness seemed to imply that they were. I pressed on, pointing out that Abbey Mill Farm was well-run and prosperous, and drawing her attention to the fine animals, the healthy orchards and the well-tended fields. She listened to everything I said with rapt attention. She blushed and murmured in just the way a young girl in love ought to do, and I felt that Robert Martin would be made happy before very long.

I would have said more, but that Emma joined us at that moment and I could not think of Harriet any longer, except to wish she would take herself off and leave us alone. She did not do so, and, Mrs. Weston coming out, I had to master my frustration at so much unwanted company and play the host.

"I hope Frank has not had an accident," said Mrs. Weston. "I thought he would have been here by now. I am worried about his horse."

"The black mare? As safe a horse as ever I saw," said Weston, coming up. "Depend on it, it is his aunt."

I had no chance to speak to Emma alone before lunch, but afterwards she declared she would stay indoors with her father. I saw my chance, and having seen to the comfort of my guests outside, I returned to the Abbey. I had resolved to call her out of the room on some pretext so that I could see her for a few minutes alone, for I was growing weary of waiting for such an opportunity to arise. As I walked through the hall, I rehearsed my speech:

Emma, we have known each other a long time…. Emma, I must speak to you….

I cannot stay silent any longer. Emma, I am in love with you….

I shook my head. None of those openings satisfied me, and I decided I would have to trust to the genius of the moment. I opened the door…and found that Churchill had arrived.

There he was, the one person in the world to whom I did not wish to offer any hospitality, sitting in my house and talking to my Emma.

I was so displeased that I excused myself as soon as I could, for fear of saying something rude. I found Harriet once more alone, and went over to her, meaning to press Robert Martin’s suit, but instead I found myself talking about Churchill.

"What right has he to come so late, and then to inform no one of his arrival?" I said, finding in Harriet a willing listener.

"None," she said, with a shake of the head.

"He did not even tell the Westons, and poor Mrs. Weston has been worrying about him all morning. And then to sit with Emma! What business has he doing that, instead of making himself known to his host?"

"None at all," she said.

"And Emma sees nothing wrong in it." I was about to say that I feared his influence on her would not be a good one, when I recollected myself and remembered that I was talking to her friend.

"But tell me, what have you been doing? Have you been enjoying the Abbey grounds?" I asked her, all thoughts of Robert Martin having been driven out of my mind by my own concerns.

As she spoke to me about her delight in the gardens, I found my thoughts returning to Emma, and I knew that I must be careful to guard my tongue. If I said anything more about Frank Churchill, it would look like jealousy - not surprisingly, for it is jealousy. I wish he had never been born.

The party at last broke up. Miss Fairfax had left earlier in the day, in case her grandmother wanted her, and Emma and her father kindly took Miss Bates home in their carriage. Harriet went with them, the Westons soon following. The Eltons stayed as long as possible, with Mrs. Elton congratulating me on the fish-ponds, the strawberry-beds, the lime-walk, indeed anything that would allow her to remain a minute longer. At last she had exhausted every possible topic of conversation and was obliged to leave, saying she was looking forward to the morrow.

The morrow! I do not know whether I am looking forward to it or not. It might give me a chance to speak to Emma, but my hopes are dwindling. She seemed very thick with Churchill today. I wish I knew what her feelings were.

I have no wish to see Churchill paying court to her tomorrow, but it will hurt me more if I should stay away, for then I will not see her at all.

But I will not lose heart. The black mare might go lame, or Mrs. Churchill might detain him, and then Frank Churchill will not join us at all.

Friday 25 June

I was up at daybreak, and oversaw the start of the clover-cutting before getting ready to go to Box Hill. The day was fine, and we had a good journey. Whether we were tired from yesterday’s enjoyments or languid because of the heat I do not know, but there was a lack of spirit in the party.

I myself was in despair. Churchill spent most of the day with Emma, and I had no chance to speak to her alone. I spent my time with Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax. I was, at least, able to be of assistance in helping Miss Fairfax repel Mrs. Elton’s overtures.

We strolled about until it was time for our picnic. Then, indeed, there was more liveliness in the party, though I liked it less than I had liked the insipidity of the morning, for Churchill made Emma the object of his attentions. His double-dealing continued when he directed sly glances at Miss Fairfax, however, and I could not think what he was about. Whatever it was, he did not behave like a gentleman.

Emma did not seem to notice anything amiss, and flirted with him in the most painful way; painful to me, as I am in love with her more every day. For, despite her follies and freaks, from which no one of us is immune, she is the only woman for me.

Her flirting grew worse. It was beyond anything I had seen, and I dreaded where Frank Churchill’s influence would take her.

He became more and more extravagant in his speech, and if I had not spent the morning with him, and known he had not touched any wine, I should have suspected that he was drunk.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of."

Emma smiled at this mixture of flattery and silliness, instead of looking disgusted, as she should have done, and I replied curtly: "Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?"

I looked at her intently, knowing she would not like my thoughts.

"Oh! no, no," she cried, laughing carelessly. "Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear anything rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps," - glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet - "whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing."

Well might she say so. They never find fault with anything she does, but to have such uncritical friends is not good for anyone.

"It is a sort of thing which I should not have thought myself privileged to enquire into," cried Mrs. Elton, not at all pleased with the turn the conversation had taken, though her anger was mostly caused by the fact that she was not the centre of attention.

There was whispering from Frank Churchill, and Emma showed no disgust at his behaviour, as she would have done had anyone else whispered in company. Instead she went on smiling. He then said that Emma - making her the source for all his proclamations - demanded a clever saying from everyone.

"Or two things moderately clever - or three things very dull indeed," he said extravagantly, "and she engages to laugh heartily at them all."

"Oh! very well," exclaimed good Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy. “Three things very dull indeed.” That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan"t I?"

I was just about to say, "Not at all," and I saw Mrs. Weston about to do the same, when Emma said:

"Ah! ma"am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to number - only three at once."

I could not believe it. Instead of reassuring Miss Bates that her contributions to the conversation were always valued, she insulted her in front of all her friends; worse still, in front of her niece. I felt sick with it. She would never have said such a thing before meeting Frank Churchill!

Miss Bates did not realize what Emma had said, and I was about to divert her attention by offering her another slice of pie when I saw her face change and knew I was too late.

"Ah! well - to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," she said, turning to me. I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."

I was mortified, yet Emma continued to smile and Weston went on with the conversation as though nothing was wrong. Weston! Who should have shown her what he thought of such conduct by a frown.

He then made things worse by offering a conundrum, and one which could not have been more badly chosen.

"What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" he asked.

And the answer?

"M and A: Emma!" Weston said. "Do you understand?"

Emma understood, and was gratified, whilst I was annoyed. Emma, perfect? Emma, who had insulted her oldest friend? Emma, who had flirted shamelessly in front of all her friends?

Emma basked in the praise, though it was ill-deserved, whilst her flatterer, Frank Churchill, laughed and enjoyed it.

"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted," I said without humour, "but perfection should not have come quite so soon."

It made no difference. Emma was pleased, and so was her court. Mrs. Elton, it is true, was not pleased, though if she could have changed her name to Emma, she would have thought it the best conundrum in the world.

She and her husband declared their intention of taking a walk, and Churchill passed a disparaging remark about couples who met at a watering-place. I was astounded at his bad manners. Though I do not believe there is much genuine affection between Elton and his wife, it should not have been remarked on, and in such a way.

Miss Fairfax could stand no more, and said she would take a walk. I did not blame her. I declared my intention of taking a walk as well, and gave her one arm, whilst offering Miss Bates the other.

"Oh, Mr. Knightley, how kind of you to walk with us," said Miss Bates. "I am not surprised Miss

Woodhouse did not enjoy my company - so kind of her to be so forbearing - I rattle on sadly, it must be a trial to her - so good of her to trouble herself to visit me, for I am sure I am always receiving attention from her and her father," she said, as we set out.

And for the rest of the walk, I had to listen to her apologizing for her tongue, when it should have been Emma who was apologizing for hers.

I did what I could to soothe her, and she grew easier. I was just beginning to regain my composure when Mrs. Elton joined us and tried to force Miss Fairfax to take up an appointment with friends of hers. I pity any poor woman who would have to go as a governess to Mrs. Smallwood, no matter how near Maple Grove she might be! This objectionable episode put the seal on a most disagreeable day.

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.

I meant to leave, but I could not bring myself to do so. Not without one last glimpse of Emma, and so I continued to talk to Miss Smith.

"Did you enjoy our trip to Box Hill?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes, very much," she said.

"I am glad," I said warmly, and so I was: I was glad that at least one person had enjoyed it.

"I was sorry you ate out of doors," said Mr. Woodhouse anxiously. "Perry did not think it at all wise. I hope you may not take cold."

She assured him she was quite well.

"You were very ill over the winter," he said to her.

"You were indeed," I said kindly, remembering that she had had other ills, besides a cold, to bear.

"It was nothing," she whispered.

I began to think there was more to her colourings than goodwill towards me and my suit, and I wondered if she might have caught another cold after all, for not only did she seem to colour a great deal, but also to whisper.

"I hope your throat is not sore?" I asked her.

"No, thank you," she said, and blushed again.

The time passed slowly, but pass it did, and at last Emma returned. I rose as soon as she came in, saying I was going to London, and asking if she had any message to send to her sister. She looked surprised, but I said I had been planning the expedition for some time.

I waited for a word from her, something to give me hope to remain, but there was nothing.

I was a fool to expect it. To think that Emma, with all her advantages of birth and beauty, with a good heart and superior understanding, would sacrifice the attentions of a man who flatters her for the hand of a man who scolds her! If I had ever had a chance of winning her away from Churchill, I had lost it on Box Hill.

She said she had no particular message, and I was about to leave when her father began asking her about her morning call. To my surprise, I learnt that she had been calling on the Bateses, which is why she had been from home.

I am sure she did not go to apologize - it would have been beyond the desire of either party, for Miss Bates would have been as embarrassed as Emma - but this attention would be recognized as an apology, and I felt my heart expand. So Emma had not lost her better nature!

My face must have showed my thoughts, for she smiled at me, a little shyly, and on an impulse I took her hand. I wanted to do more. I wanted to kiss it. I lifted it, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and I was about to press it to my lips when I recollected that I had no right to do such a thing, no matter how much I might want to.

I dropped her hand, then making her a bow, I bade her and her father farewell. I said goodbye to Harriet, and set out for London.

It was a long and dismal journey, filled with gloomy thoughts, but once I reached Brunswick Square, I endeavoured to put my troubles out of my mind.

John and Isabella were surprised to see me, but I gave some pretext relating to business and they accepted it, welcoming me into their home.

I soon saw that the boys had grown since they were with us in the spring. Henry was turning into a fine boy, and John was not far behind. Bella had grown a very little, except in mischief, and George was still content to toddle behind her. The baby was showing an interest in everything, and I sat down with her on my knee.

Henry asked me about Harriet and the Gypsies, a tale which made Isabella shudder, and John asked me what had been done to make sure the roads were safe. This led to parish business, and we talked of Highbury and Hartfield until it was time to go to bed.

I went upstairs but I could not sleep. I took up my newspaper, but I could not pay attention to it. I was not interested in the world outside, I was interested in my own world, and at the heart of that world was Emma. Emma with her good heart, Emma with her dear face. Emma. My Emma.

Monday 28 June

For the last two days I have been in torment. I have not been like myself. I have been short-tempered and out of spirits. I think I was wrong to come here. Isabella has always reminded me too much of Emma.

And then there are the children. I thought: If I had known my own feelings last year, and spoken to Emma before she had met Frank Churchill, then she would already be my wife. I could, this very morning, be playing with my son, just as John is playing with his.

Tuesday 29 June

I determined to rouse myself and I attended to business, but this evening, a restless spirit was on me. As I sat in the drawing-room, with John reading his newspaper, Isabella sewing, and the children playing around us, I was given a picture of domestic felicity which set my heart aching. I wanted this for myself. I wanted it with Emma. If I had spoken - if I had not scolded her - if I had learnt my feelings sooner - if I had flattered her - if I had behaved as a lover and not a friend - if I had done all of the things I did not do, and none of the things I did, then perhaps I could have looked forward to the same kind of happiness.