Mr. Knightley’s Diary

"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.