Mr. Knightley’s Diary

I went back inside.

"So, we have lost the rest of the party," said Mr. Weston. "You will stay awhile longer?" he asked me.

He was looking dejected at the sudden break-up of his party, and I agreed. The conversation turned once again to his son, and we spent an hour talking of Frank Churchill, Mr. Weston’s delight in being about to see him, and Mrs. Weston’s desire to meet her new stepson.

As we spoke, however, I could not help wondering what was taking place in the carriage.

"You seem tired," said Mr. Weston, noticing my abstraction at last.

"No," I said, rousing myself.

"The children have been wearing you out," said Mrs. Weston with a smile.

I let her think it. It was better than have her worrying about Emma.

I left them at last, and, thanking them for a very enjoyable evening, I returned to the Abbey. I took up a book, but it would not do.

What was Elton saying to Emma? What was she saying to him? And would I ever learn anything of it? I wondered.

Probably not. She had not admitted her mistake to me, and probably never would. But I should know by her manner if something had happened, even if she said nothing.

Friday 25 December

When I woke up this morning, there was a brightness about my chamber, and I could tell at once that it had snowed heavily in the night. On pulling back the curtains, I saw that a blanket of snow lay over everything. The gardens were thick with it, and the meadows beyond, and the drive was covered so effectively that I knew there would be no travelling by carriage today.

I walked out before breakfast, enjoying the briskness of the exercise and the crispness of the air, then returned to a hot meal before setting off for church. I did not expect to find the Hartfield party there, but one or two hardy souls had braved the walk. Graham was there, with his sister.

Mr. Longridge was there, also. He told me that he had looked in on the Bateses on his way, and had found them both well. They had had a good fire, he told me, and the smell of cooking had been coming from the kitchen.

"Miss Bates would have come to church - I offered her my arm - but she would not leave her mother. A wonderful woman, Mr. Knightley," he said. "Always thinking of others, and never of herself. And always interested in the world around her. My wife was another such woman. I was busy with business, but I never minded, because my wife always brought the world to me. I knew what our friends were doing, because she told me. And now that I sit by myself, my business days being behind me, I like to hear a woman’s voice telling me all the news again."

I thought how kind he was, and I was pleased he had entered into our ways already. It was very good of him to look in on Miss Bates, and to say how agreeable he found her chatter.

Miss Nash was there, and I took the opportunity of asking her how Harriet did.

"Very poorly, thank you for asking," she said. "The poor girl has a shocking cold and a sore throat. She has kept to her bed since returning from Hartfield, and will not be out of it for several days."

The service began, and I thought Elton looked subdued, though it could have been my imagination, for afterwards, Miss Nash said she thought the service had been particularly good, and Mr. Longridge declared it the best service he had been to for a long time. He left me with the intention of calling on the Bateses on his way home, so that he could tell them all about it.

I walked to Hartfield, and found the family indoors. Mr. Woodhouse had recovered from his shock of the night before, and was sitting by the fire with Isabella, the baby on his knee. Little Emma was looking placid and contented.

Her namesake, my Emma, was playing with the other children. She looked up as I entered the room, but she could not meet my eye.

So! Elton had spoken, I thought, but I did not plague her by mentioning it.

Mr. Woodhouse was shocked that I had walked over to Hartfield in all the snow, and he was even more alarmed when I said that I had been to church. Isabella asked about the service, but Emma made no enquiries. Instead, she became absorbed in Henry’s blocks, and did not look up until the conversation had moved on to other things.

John was cheerful, having worked off his ill-humour yesterday evening, and was enjoying his children. Despite Mr. Woodhouse’s protests, he ordered Henry and John wrapped up warmly, then he and I took them out into the garden. They delighted in walking through the snow, trying to step in our footsteps.

When we returned to the house, we exchanged presents, and I enjoyed seeing Emma’s face when she unwrapped the gloves I had bought her. I rejoiced in her present to me, a pen-wiper, which was to replace the one she made for me ten years ago.

"It is much better made than the last one," I remarked.

She smiled, and said she hoped so.