“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried.  “Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”

“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.

Emma could not bear to give him pain.  He was wishing to confide in her—­ perhaps to consult her;—­cost her what it would, she would listen.  She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—­They had reached the house.

“You are going in, I suppose?” said he.

“No,”—­replied Emma—­quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he still spoke—­“I should like to take another turn.  Mr. Perry is not gone.”  And, after proceeding a few steps, she added—­ “I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.—­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!”—­repeated Mr. Knightley.—­“Emma, that I fear is a word—­No, I have no wish—­Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—­ 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?”

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.

“My dearest Emma,” said he, “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 could really say nothing.—­“You are silent,” he cried, with great animation; “absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment.  The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.

“I cannot make speeches, Emma:”  he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.—­“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.”