Mr. Knightley’s Diary

"Mr. Knightley! I did not think to see you here. I thought you were still in London."

"I finished my business early, and I decided to return to the Abbey," I said, looking down into her eyes with compassion.

"You must have had a wet ride."

"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, assuring 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 compassion. 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."