Mr Knightley's Diary Part 20

'Yes,' I said.

'And how is everyone in London?' she asked, without any of her usual animation.

'They are all well, and send you their best wishes. Your sister begs me to tell you that baby Emma is starting to look just like you. She has your features, and the same shape of face.'

'And will lose them, no doubt, before she is very much older!' she said.

'Perhaps.'

'And how are the boys, and little Bella?'

'They are well, all well. The boys are continuing their riding-lessons, and Bella is begging to be allowed to learn, but her mother thinks she is too young. George is growing into a fine boy. I believe we might see them here before long.'

And that will help to soothe you, I thought, in your suffering.

I watched her as we walked through the shrubbery, and I thought how sad she looked. I said nothing, not knowing what to say. I did not want to raise the subject of Frank Churchill in case she did not feel equal to talking about him, but I wanted her to know that she could talk to me if she needed to unburden herself of her cares. And so I said nothing, hoping my silent company would be comforting for her.

She seemed about to speak, then checked. She began again. With a small, sad smile, she said: 'You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprise you.'

'Have I?' I asked, looking at her. 'Of what nature?'

'Oh! the best nature in the world--a wedding,' she said brightly.

I waited for her to say more, but she could not speak. Her heart was full, and it was made worse by the fact that Frank Churchill was the son of her good friends the Westons.

'If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already,' I said, wanting to spare her the pain of giving me the details.

'How is it possible?' she cried in surprise.

'I had a few lines on parish business from Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.'

She appeared relieved, as though she had expected my correspondent to be someone different. But who, and why it should trouble her, I did not know. But what did it matter who my correspondent had been? I had no time to puzzle over it. She was out of spirits, and she needed my friendship.

After a time she said, in a calmer manner: 'You probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you have had your suspicions. I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution. I wish I had attended to it, but I seem to have been doomed to blindness.'

Her voice fell so much it cut me to the quick. I said nothing, but I took her arm and drew it through mine to comfort her.

'Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound. Your own excellent sense; your exertions for your father's sake; I know you will not allow yourself--' to sink beneath this burden, I wanted to say, but I could not finish my sentence. I found my voice becoming choked and I could not trust myself to speak. When I had recovered, I went on firmly, a.s.suring her of my warmest friendship, and telling her of the indignation I felt on her behalf, because of the behaviour of that abominable scoundrel.

'He will soon be gone,' I continued. 'They will soon be in Yorkshire.'

'You are very kind, but you are mistaken,' said Emma. She stopped walking. 'I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compa.s.sion. My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.'

'Emma!' I cried, looking eagerly at her, as my hopes began to soar. She was not in love with Frank Churchill! She had not been wounded by him! Then there was hope for me yet!

A moment's reflection showed me the truth. She was being brave; pretending it did not signify; when it must have hurt her cruelly.

But I was pleased that she could say so much. It showed she had not felt it as deeply as I feared, and in time, with her friends around her to lift her spirits, I was persuaded she would recover.

'I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased that you can say even so much. He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgement of more than your reason. He is a disgrace to the name of man.'

I was astonished, then, a moment later, when she said: 'Mr Knightley, I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse. But I never have.'

I did not know what to think. Was she serious? Or just bearing up under her misfortune? Had she ever been in love with him, or not? I thought of everything I had seen between them. I had never been sure. Her spirits had always been lively, and what I had taken for romantic flirtation might have been nothing but high spirits. I did not know what to think, much less what to say. But I did not need to speak. She went on, telling me that she had been pleased by his attentions because he was the son of Mr Weston; because he was continually in Highbury; because she found him very pleasant; and, she admitted, in a way no other woman would have admitted it, because her vanity was flattered.

'He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me,' she said.

I felt a rush of relief. Emma, my Emma, was not hurt; not wounded, not injured. She was cheerful still.

I felt my own cheerfulness return. In fact, I was so much in charity with the world that I could even find it in my heart to be charitable to Frank Churchill.

'Perhaps he may yet turn out well,' I said. 'With such a woman he has a chance. I have no motive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.'

'I have no doubt of their being happy together,' said Emma, as we walked on. 'I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.'

Lucky, lucky man to have the love of the woman he loved!

'He is a most fortunate man!' I burst out. 'Every thing turns out for his good. He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment--and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior. His aunt is in the way. His aunt dies. He has only to speak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has used everybody ill--and they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a fortunate man indeed!'

Emma said: 'You speak as if you envied him.'

'And I do envy him, Emma,' I said. 'In one respect he is the object of my envy.'

Because he had won the woman he loved.

She said nothing. I was afraid I had gone too far. If I spoke of my feelings for her, would I lose her friendship? We could never go back to the comfortable ease we had had before. Could I really bear to lose that?

She seemed about to speak, but I had to say something before I lost my courage; before I decided I had too much to lose and could not take the risk.

'You will not ask me what is the point of envy,' I said. 'You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise--but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.'

'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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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.