Mr. Knightley’s Diary

As he spoke, I thought that I might be able to do something more.

Tuesday 12 January

Business brought me to town, and after it was concluded, I dined with my friend Routledge at the club.

"What news from Highbury?" he asked.

I began by telling him about the Abbey and the farms, and then we talked of my neighbours. I told him about Mr. Longridge and Mrs. Lovage.

"Mrs. Lovage?" he asked.

"She is Graham’s sister, and she has been to stay with him several times."

"Does her husband not object?" he asked. "He seems to be unusually compliant if he allows her to stay with her brother so often - unless, of course, he goes, too?"

"She is a widow."

"Ah, I see. It is a recent bereavement? Is that why she stays so often with her brother? She is in need of consolation, I suppose."

"Not so very recent. Her husband has been dead for five years. She stays with her brother because she enjoys his company, not because she is grieving."

"I see. She is old, I take it? Graham must be thirty-five, so his sister is about forty, I collect, with several children?"

"Forty!" I said. "She is no such thing. She is his younger sister, and cannot be more than seven-or eight-and-twenty. As for children, I have never heard them mentioned."

"I believe you said she was ugly?"

"No, she is rather beautiful," I remarked. "In fact, she is very beautiful."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And, if she is a young and beautiful widow, who is the sister of your friend, have you not thought of marrying her?" he asked.

"Yes," I admitted. "I have. But I could not bring myself to think of her in that way. She would always be wanting to go to Brighton, or Bath, or London, or Weymouth, and I like to spend my time in Highbury."

"That is the worst reason for not marrying a woman I have ever come across! You surprise me,

Knightley. I did not think you would be so easily defeated. Surely some agreement could be reached?"

"If I loved her, yes. But I have no feelings for her. I did not miss her when she returned to Bath for a spell and that told me that she was not important to me."

"Why should you, indeed? You had plenty to do. You could not be expected to pine for her like a lovesick schoolboy."

"I was never a lovesick schoolboy. The notion of love, in my youth, struck me as ridiculous, but I always miss Emma when I am away from Highbury, no matter how much I have to do."

"Do you?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, I do. I often resent an evening spent in London, because I cannot walk over to Hartfield after dinner and discuss the day’s news."

"And is there no one else you have seen who might interest you? No woman who has caught your fancy, or entertained you, or intrigued you?"

"My brother has introduced me to several young ladies, but the idea of an evening with one of them is not as enticing to me as the idea of five minutes with Emma," I said shortly.

"And have you met no great beauties?"

"A few. But I prefer to look at Emma."

"And what does all this tell you?" he asked me,

"That I have not yet met the right woman, and that there is no use my marrying unless I find someone I like as well as Emma," I said.

He laughed, though I did not know why. There was nothing very amusing in what I had said.

"I have a feeling you will be married before the year is out," he told me.

I could not agree with him, but for the sake of peace I did not contradict him and our conversation moved on to other things.

Friday 15 January

I returned home from London, and spent the evening at Hartfield. I enjoyed myself so thoroughly that I was convinced I would be foolish to exchange such company for something less agreeable. I would like to marry, but I would rather remain single than give up my evenings with Emma and her father.

Wednesday 20 January

The new path at the Abbey is proving troublesome. First we could not lay it because of the snow, then because of the flood that followed, and now there is such a thick frost that work cannot go ahead. I would like to have it finished for the spring, and I am chafing at the delay. However, it is only January, and I do not despair of some milder weather soon.

Weston called this morning to discuss a matter of business, and as he was leaving he told me that Miss Fairfax had arrived.

I took the first opportunity to call on Miss Bates, so that I could pay my respects.

Somehow the Bates’s apartment seemed shabbier today than usual, though I could not think why. It was still in the same house, belonging to the same people in business. It still occupied the drawing-room floor. It was still of a moderate size. Mrs. Bates was still sitting in the corner with her knitting, and Miss Bates was still ready to make me welcome.

And then I realized it was because of Miss Fairfax. Whether it was because her presence provided novelty, and therefore made me look at the room anew, or whether it was because everything seemed shabby in comparison with her beauty, I could not say. But shabby it seemed.