"But it is a sad business for Emma," said Isabella.

"It will do her good to have some time to herself," said John.

"It will give her a chance to finish all the things she has been meaning to finish for the last five years," I said.

"For shame!" cried Isabella.

"You have always been hard on Emma," said John.

"And if I am not, who else is there?" I said. Little George came and stood by my knee, his face a picture of concentration as he sucked his thumb. "Her father thinks she can do no wrong. Miss Taylor is hardly any less doting. There is no one in the village who cares to question her, as she is the most important woman in the neighbourhood. Someone has to tell her when she goes wrong."

"And when does Emma ever go wrong?" asked Isabella.

"On many occasions, particularly when she thinks she has nothing to learn. It is not entirely her fault. She has been taught to think well of herself by everyone around her..."

"Would you have her think badly of herself?" asked John,

"I would have her think less of herself altogether. For that is the evil. Emma is the centre of Emma’s world."

"She will think differently when she marries," said Isabella.

"But will she marry? What is there to tempt her?" I asked, as George climbed onto my knee. "She is already the mistress of her father’s house. She has her nephews and nieces to interest her. She even has a little Emma named after her," I said, looking at the baby. "I sometimes wonder what is to become of her."

"Come, George, this is a dim view of things. Emma will fall in love and marry, as we all do. She is only twenty years old, she has plenty of time. She is not averse to matrimony, after all."

"Very true," said Isabella loyally. "She is in favour of it. It was she who arranged the match between Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston."

"That is exactly what I mean! She is full of her own importance, and you do nothing to bring her back to reality. She fancied herself a matchmaker, and instead of telling her she was talking nonsense, you all agreed."

"But it was she who brought them together," protested Isabella.

"Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston did not need anyone to bring them together. Why should they? If two sensible, mature people cannot make a match between themselves without the assistance of a sixteen-year-old girl - for that is what Emma was at the time - then things have come to a pretty pass.

And with no friends of her own age to tease her out of her self-importance, it grows at an alarming rate."

"It is true, that is an evil," said John. "It cannot be pleasant for her to be always mixing with people who are so much older than she is. She has had no other young ladies around her ever since I brought Isabella to London."

"It is a pity she has no friends of her own age," Isabella agreed. "Miss Fairfax is at Highbury so little..."

She broke off as the tower of bricks fell down with a clatter.

"But what of you, George?" asked John. "It is high time you were married. Time does not stand still. You are thirty-seven years old. You should be thinking of taking a wife."

"I have thought of it, but I have seen no one who takes my fancy, and I do not intend to marry for the sake of it," I replied.

"But think of Donwell. You must have an heir."

"I will leave it to Henry," I said.

"Then I hope you are keeping it in good repair!" said John. "I do not want my son inheriting a ruin. I expect him to come into the property without any disadvantages."

I told him of the new works I was undertaking, and of the repairs I had in hand. I told him about the crumbling masonry on the front of the Abbey, and my plan to build a bridge across the stream.

We were still talking of the Abbey after dinner. I told him about the leaking roof in the stables, and he was interested, as always, in everything I had to say. So engrossed were we that I was surprised when the clock chimed eleven and it was time to retire.

I found my room as always, with its familiar decorations, its comfortable bed, its reading-desk and its wing chair. As I closed the door, I thought about John’s happy family, hoped I might have the same one day.


Friday 25 September

I finished my business earlier than I expected, and John and I took the eldest two boys into the park this afternoon.

"And how are they getting on with their riding?" I asked.

"They spend little time in the saddle. It is not as easy here as it is in the country," he said.

"Then bring them to Donwell for the autumn," I said, trying to persuade him.

He thanked me for the invitation, but he declined it, telling me he had made up his mind to take his children to the seaside.

"You will at least come to Surrey for Christmas?" I said. "Come, John, give me your word. Emma and her father are anxious to see the children. If you leave it any longer, they will have grown beyond recognition."

"Very well," he said.

I am looking forward to it. There is nothing I enjoy so much as a family Christmas.


Saturday 26 September

I tended to business this morning, and then I joined John and Isabella for lunch.

"Has John told you I have made him promise to come to Surrey for Christmas?" I asked Isabella.

"He has, and I am very glad of it. I wish we could have been there for Miss Taylor’s wedding as well, but John could not take two holidays so close together, and Mr. Wingfield has entreated me to take the children to the seaside before the winter sets in."

"Never mind. You will be able to visit the new Mrs. Weston when you come to Surrey for Christmas."

"Would you mind very much if we stayed with my father, instead of staying at the Abbey?" said Isabella.

"I thought you would say that," I remarked.

"He is an old man, and finds travelling difficult," said Isabella, pleading her case.

"He worries too much," said John. "If he is not worrying about the carriage overturning, he is worrying about the horses!"

Isabella ignored his short temper.

"It will make it easier if we stay at Hartfield," she said.

"Do you not think the children will be too noisy for your father?" I asked.

"Emma and I will take care they do not disturb him."

"Very well. I have no objection. I would rather you stayed at the Abbey, but I knew how it would be."

I dined with my friend Routledge at my club this evening, and he asked all about Highbury.

"You do not regret leaving Highbury?" I asked him.

"Not at all. I have been in London a year, and I have found it a great help to my business, as well as expanding my circle of friends. But you know how I like to hear about everyone in Surrey, and I rely on you to tell me all the news."

We passed the evening very pleasantly, and I returned to Brunswick Square in time to talk to John for an hour before retiring to bed.


Tuesday 29 September

John invited a number of his friends to dinner this evening, and I was pleased to meet them again. There are some very sensible people amongst them. Talk naturally turned to the war after dinner, once the ladies had withdrawn. I wish the fighting would soon be over. It is not good for anyone.

After we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, two of them sang for us. I tried to view them as possible wives. The first, Miss Larch, was a very pretty girl with a graceful neck who sang very well. The second, Miss Keighley, was not beautiful, and her playing left much to be desired, but she was lively and amusing when I spoke to her afterwards. But neither of them awoke within me the slightest real interest, or any desire to see them again.

October

Thursday 1 October

Bella entranced us all with her antics this afternoon. It is a good thing John has a second daughter in little Emma, or he would be in danger of spoiling Bella, so that in twenty years she would become exactly like her aunt: self-satisfied and complacent. It is Emma’s failing, but I do not despair of her growing out of it. She will be a fine person if she does, for she has a pleasing face and figure, and an affectionate disposition.


Friday 2 October

After the noise and grime of London it is good to be home. I was struck anew with the beauty of Donwell Abbey, with its low, sheltered situation, and its avenues of timber. I left my horse in the stables and walked through the meadow and down to the stream. The light was fading, but there was still enough to see by and the low sunlight sparkled on the water. I thought of happy years spent fishing there with John, and I watched it as it trickled along.

I turned and walked back to the house, and was warmed by the sight of it. The west front was catching the last rays of light, which gleamed on the spires and arched windows. They brought out the detail in the carvings of birds and fruit, and I thought of the craftsmen who had made them centuries ago. After John’s town house, I welcomed the Abbey’s ancient walls, and its familiar sprawl.

I noticed that some of the furniture was becoming shabby, but I could not bring myself to think of changing it. Besides, the furniture in the drawing-room and dining-room is well enough, and visitors do not penetrate further than those two rooms.

I ate my dinner in solitary splendour, and afterwards I walked to Hartfield to give Emma and her father all the London news.

I found them about to play backgammon, but they abandoned their game as I entered the room. Mr. Woodhouse fussed about my health, and the damp and the dirt, but I did not pay him much attention. Instead, I let my eyes wander to Emma.