And to have to stand by and watch her betrothed pay attention to another woman, I thought. He is even worse than I painted him.

Whilst John and Isabella talked over the news, my thoughts returned to Emma. She must be heartbroken. She could not even turn to her usual confidante, Mrs. Weston, because Mrs. Weston was too closely involved.

"I must go to her!" I said with decision, correcting myself as I saw Isabella’s startled expression.

" - to Highbury."

John looked at me curiously.

"But we thought you were to stay for another week," said Isabella.

"There is business for me to attend to - parish business," I said, folding my letter. "Weston writes to me of it."

I told them how much I had enjoyed my visit, and resisted Isabella’s entreaties to stay. I took my leave of the children, thanked John and Isabella, and was on my way.

I rode out of London thinking of nothing but Emma, my poor, heartbroken Emma. I scarcely noticed the rain. My horse was fresh, and I made good time. As I approached Highbury, the wind dropped to a gentle breeze, the clouds cleared and the sun came out.

I arrived at Hartfield. Emma was not in the house, but Mr. Woodhouse was there with Perry. I gave him greetings from Isabella, then asked him: "Where is Emma?"

"She is walking in the garden."

I went outside to look for her, and I saw her walking along the path. Her shoulders were drooping and her head was down. My heart cried out in sympathy. For her to be so deceived! And by such a useless young man! He had come among us, simpering and smiling and flirting, whilst all the time his affections and his hand were engaged. The monstrosity of it! I had thought him a worthless fribble, but I had not thought badly enough of him. There could be no mistake; no misunderstanding. He had used her; deceived her.

She arranged her face as she looked up and saw me. Brave girl! She would not let me see how unhappy she was.

"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."

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.