"You are well?" I asked her civilly, but without my usual warmth, as the memory of Robert Martin’s disappointment was still in my mind.
"Very well. And little Emma is well, too, are you not, my dear?" she asked the infant.
Little Emma gurgled in reply.
As I took the baby from her, she said to me, in a spirit of mischief, but still with some uncertainty:
"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."
She wanted to make friends, that much was clear, and I told her, in friendly fashion, that if she would only let herself be guided by nature when she was esteeming men and women, as she was when she was esteeming the children, we would always think alike.
"To be sure, our discordances must always arise from my being in the wrong," she said, her good humour restored.
"With good reason," I said with a smile. "I was sixteen years old when you were born."
"A material difference then, and no doubt you were much my superior in judgement at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?"
"Yes - a good deal nearer," I said.
"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently," she said saucily.
I smiled.
"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years" experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it." I turned to the baby. "Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."
She agreed, and we shook hands. I liked the feel of it. There is something very agreeable about being with Emma.
John entered, and whilst Mr. Woodhouse played with the children, and Emma and Isabella made sure they did not tire him too much, John and I caught up on the news. He was as eager as ever to hear about Donwell. I told him about the tree that was felled, and the new path I am planning, and one or two interesting cases that have come before me as the local magistrate.
I was just beginning to enjoy the evening when the usual arguments about health began.
"I cannot say that I think you are any of you looking well at present," said Mr. Woodhouse.
"I assure you, Mr. Wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case," said Isabella, who cites Mr. Wingfield as a fount of all knowledge, in the same way that Mr. Woodhouse cites Perry. "I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley is looking ill."
I glanced at Emma, and she at me. We both of us knew where this would lead.
"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well."
I tried to talk loud enough to drown out the remark, but John heard it.
"What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?" he cried.
"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not find you looking well," said Isabella.
"Pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose," said John testily.
The arguments about health subsided, but then arguments about the seaside began.
"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere," said Mr. Woodhouse. "Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places."
"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey; only consider how great it would have been. A hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty," said Isabella.
Mr. Woodhouse was equal to the protest.
"Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to choose between forty miles and an hundred. Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure."
"I have never heard Perry saying anything of the sort!" I said in an aside to Emma, and she smiled.
John, already goaded earlier in the evening, could bear it no longer.
"If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to Southend as he could himself," he said sarcastically.
I felt it was time to intervene.
"True," I said. "Very true. That is a consideration, indeed."
"The expense must be acknowledged," said Emma.
And between us, Emma and I set about restoring the peace.
"I think the evening passed off as well as could be expected," I said to her, when it was all but over.
"Perhaps better," she said. "John has always been quick tempered, and my father worries so much about everyone that he often says things without thinking."
"An explosive combination."
"But at least we are not exploding. How good it is to be friends again. No, do not tell me that it is my own fault, for I am sure you must bear your share of the blame. You stayed away from Hartfield when you should have come for my father’s sake, if not mine. He missed you."
"And you? Did you miss me?"
"I will not tell you, for fear it will make you vain," she said mischievously.
"I am not so reticent. I will tell you, knowing it cannot make you vain, for you are vain already."
"For shame!" she cried. "And so you missed me?"
"I missed my visits to Hartfield. I would rather spend an evening here than anywhere else."
"And that must do as a compliment, I suppose, for I shall never get one better. I am glad we are friends again," she said.
I returned to the Abbey in good spirits, and I am looking forward to resuming my daily visits to Hartfield.
Friday 18 December
John arrived at the Abbey early this morning, bringing with him his two eldest children. They ran wild in the garden as John and I talked. I told him of my concerns about Elton raising his eyes to Emma.
"Elton and Emma? That would be a dreadful marriage," he replied.
"There is no danger of a match. She has enough awareness of her own worth not to throw herself away on Elton," I said.
"Then what is the danger?" John said.
"I think she may be headed for a very unpleasant scene. If I do not miss my guess, he is getting ready to declare himself."
"And what do you want me to do about it?"
"I want you to observe them, and see if you think I am right. And then, if I am, I want you to tell me whether I should give Emma a hint of it."
"Very well. I will keep my eyes open. Have you spoken of this to anyone else?"
"No. I know of no one who would take it seriously, or if they did, they would worry about it."
"You may rely on me."
"And now, come and see the pony."
We walked round to the stables and John looked the pony over with a critical eye, then pronounced himself pleased. The boys were delighted, and John and I gave them turns at riding.
I did not know who enjoyed it more: the boys; John and I; or old Hayton, who said he remembered when John and I were that age, and that Henry and John were just like us.
We returned to Hartfield for luncheon, and we found Mr. Woodhouse playing with Bella. Emma was playing with the baby, and George was looking at a book.
Mr. Woodhouse was alarmed to learn that the boys had been riding on such a cold morning, and we all joined in assuring him that they had been well wrapped up against the cold.