"Oh! then, do not speak it, do not speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself."

"Thank you," I said, mortified that my attentions were so unwelcome to her. But how could they not be? I was so much older than she, and I had never flattered her as a lover ought. I had scolded her and berated her. I was the last man in the world she would wish to marry. And so, generous girl that she was, she sought to spare me the pain of being refused.

We walked on in silence. We reached the house.

"You are going in, I suppose," I said.

And so it ended. My hope of marrying her.

She hesitated, and then she surprised me by saying: "No. I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone."

We walked on. I felt her preparing herself to say something she found difficult.

She is going to tell me she knows of my feelings, and she is going to put paid to them once and for all, I thought.

"Mr. Knightley, I stopped you just now, and I am afraid, gave you pain," she said. "But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation - as a friend, indeed, you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think."

"As a friend!" I said, and my heart quailed. But I could not say nothing now that I had a chance to speak to her. Perhaps I could convince her that I could change; that I could stop scolding her; that I could become a man she would be proud to marry. "Emma, that I fear is a word..." I began, but stopped. I could not say I was not her friend, because I was. But I wanted to be so much more. I resolved to be silent; not to jeopardize what I had. But I could not. "I have gone too far already for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"

I turned to look at her, and my love for her was in my eyes.

"My dearest Emma," I went on, for I could no longer conceal my thoughts, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma - tell me at once. Say “No”, if it is to be said." She said nothing. It was not as bad as I feared. She had not irrevocably decided against me. She was uncertain. There was room for hope. "You are silent, absolutely silent! At present I ask no more."

Still she said nothing. I dared not hope. I dared not fear. I dared do nothing. I dared not move, for fear of breaking the spell. And yet I had to go on.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma," I said at last. "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover. But you understand me. Yes, you see, you understand my feelings - and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

"Mr. Knightley, I am flattered - honoured by your proposal," she said, looking up at me with such eyes that with a surge of feeling I knew I had her heart. I could not speak; I could do nothing but look at her, as she could do nothing but look at me. "I never knew, never expected…" she said.

"That I loved you? I scarcely knew it myself. It has crept up on me so slowly, so gradually, that I was in love with you before I knew it. Then I could not speak. You seemed so enamoured of Frank Churchill. My motives for disliking him were not wholly for his rash behaviour. They were also because you seemed to favour him. I could perhaps have borne it if I had lost you to a worthy man - but no, I do not believe I could. I could not have borne to lose you to anyone, dearest Emma, so tell me, put me out of my misery, have I your heart?"

"Yes, you have," she said.

"And will you be my wife?"

"Yes, I will."

I could think of nothing to say. No words could express my emotion. And so I kissed her. At last, unwillingly, I let her go.

She had a flush on her cheeks and looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

"And did you come here, then, to propose to me?" she asked at last.

"No, indeed. I came to be of service to you, to lift your spirits. I thought no further than that. But when I learnt that you did not love Churchill, that you had never loved him, then I hoped - but you would not let me speak. You bade me be silent. I thought it was because you were afraid I would declare myself. I did not know it was from modesty. I almost said nothing. I could not bear to lose your friendship, and I thought I might. I thought that, if I told you how I felt, and you could not return my feelings, then our ease and companionship would be over for ever, that there would be a constraint with which it would not be possible to do away."

"But you spoke, none the less."

"I did." I stopped and faced her. "I had lost you once by saying nothing, or so I thought. I could not bear to lose you through my own reticence again."

"That must have taken courage," she said.

"Not courage. Love."

She squeezed my arm, and we walked on companionably together until we reached the house. We went in, and sat down to tea. I could not take my eyes from Emma. She was radiant, and I had never been so happy.

But seeing Mr. Woodhouse, I was brought up against the problems we would face when she wished to marry. He was such an enemy of the state in general, because it brought upheaval in its wake, that he had still not recovered from Miss Taylor’s marriage; indeed he had still not stopped calling her "poor Miss Taylor".

I knew that Emma’s marriage must strike him a harder blow, because it was closer to him. But I knew that, whatever problems we faced, we would overcome them.

He was ignorant of our plans, however, and therefore undisturbed. He told us of Perry’s visit, saying that Perry agreed with him on the matter of diet, and that he would take a little less meat from now on. He told us of Mrs. Bates’s cold, which news had been brought by Perry, and of Mrs. Elton’s headache. He told us of Churchill’s latest letter to Mrs. Weston, at which Emma and I exchanged glances, and of Miss Fairfax’s miraculous recovery.

"For it was not a cold at all, but worry, brought on by concealment," said Mr. Woodhouse. "It is a very bad business. Marriage is always a very sad business. I said as much to Perry, and he agreed with me. It is forever making people ill."

Emma and I said nothing, but drank our tea.

At last I had to leave. It was too soon for me, but to stay any longer, even for an old friend such as

I, would have seemed strange, and Mr. Woodhouse would have noticed it. And so I bade them goodnight, and returned to the Abbey.

I wandered round the rooms, too happy for sleep. Here I would bring Emma. Here we would live together. Here she would be my wife.

At last I went upstairs, and retired to my room. It seemed familiar and yet different. The last time I slept here, I had no notions of such a happy conclusion to all my worries! I thought Emma was about to marry elsewhere. And now she is to marry me!

As I thought of everything that had happened, I knew myself to be the happiest of men.


Wednesday 7 July

I returned to Hartfield first thing this morning and Emma and I took a walk in the grounds.

"I hope it is not too damp underfoot," said Mr. Woodhouse anxiously, as we set out.

"Not at all," I said. "It is particularly dry."

"Do not forget your shawl," he said to Emma.

She took it, though the morning was fine and she did not need it. At last we were alone.

"I never thought, when I set out for my walk yesterday, that so much would happen," she said.

"Nor I. I thought you were hopelessly in love with Frank Churchill."

"When I had just discovered I was hopelessly in love with you."

"What brought it on? What made you realize it? Was it when you heard me speak?"

"I..." She hesitated, then said: "I scarcely know."

There was something, I felt sure, some incident that had told her her heart. But I was too happy to press her, and my feelings overflowed.

"I was luckier," I said. "I had had time to come to understand my feelings, even if I did not dare hope they would be returned."

We went indoors, and I took my leave. I returned to the Abbey to attend to my business. But I could not stay away long, and when I visited Hartfield again this afternoon, I found that Emma had had a letter, written to Mrs. Weston but passed on for her perusal, from Frank Churchill.

She wanted me to read it, but as it was long I said I would take it with me when I left. This would not do for Emma. She expected Mrs. Weston this evening, and wanted my opinion before then.

I read it; it was a trifling letter, as I expected. It was very bad, but it could have been worse. Once I knew Emma was out of danger from him, however, I cared little for his behaviour, except for a charitable wish that Miss Fairfax could have found a better man.

All was explained. When he had gone to London for a day, earlier in the year, it had not been for a haircut, it had been so that he could purchase a pianoforte for Miss Fairfax. His attentions to Emma had been an effort to disguise his feelings for Miss Fairfax. He admitted that he had behaved shamefully; that he had resented Mrs. Elton, and her officious desire to find Miss Fairfax a position as a governess. He explained that he had had an argument with Miss Fairfax on the day of the strawberry-picking, and that he had been grief-stricken when she had broken off the engagement because of his behaviour towards Emma. And he wrote of his decision to throw himself on the mercy of his uncle after the death of his aunt, and that his uncle had approved the union, and that he was now reconciled to Miss Fairfax.

"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am," she said, when I had finished it; and, indeed, my comments had not been, for the most part, favourable. "But still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you."

"Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers, the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else," I said, having wasted enough time on Frank Churchill. "I have another person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject: how I am to marry you, without attacking the happiness of your father."

"I have thought of little else," Emma confessed. "I can never leave him; on that I am resolved."

"He could come and live with us at the Abbey," I suggested.

"I have considered this, too," said Emma, "but he will never consent to leaving Hartfield. And even if he did, his constitution is not strong. The shock would very probably make him ill, or worse."

"Now that I have won you, I cannot give you up," I said. "I have another suggestion to make, which is that I should come to live at Hartfield."

"What! Give up the Abbey?" she asked.

"No. I would not give it up. I would go there every day to attend to business, but I would not live there."

I saw her smile. "You would do this for me?" she asked.

"I venture to say I would do anything within my power for you," I replied.

"And you would not mind living with my father? His foibles are sometimes a trial to you."

"They are nothing, compared to the happiness I would receive from being with you," I replied.

"You must have time to think of it more fully," she said, but I could tell she spoke only in deference to my feelings, and not to hers: the idea appealed to her as it much as it appealed to me.

"I have thought of it as much as I need to. I have spent the morning walking away from William Larkins, in order to have my thoughts to myself."