by Adam Rann
“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.”
“What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”
“My dear Isabella,” —exclaimed he hastily— “pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse.”
“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,” cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.
“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley. “It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma.”
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet.”
“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior! and exactly Emma’s age.”
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerable; but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.
“Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern. The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed, “Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with,
“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here.”
“But why should you be sorry, sir? I assure you, it did the children a great deal of good.”
“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End.”
“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a mistake, sir. We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”
“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere. Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have consulted Perry.”
“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey; only consider how great it would have been. An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”
“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to chuse between forty miles and an hundred. Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.”
Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law’s breaking out.
“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do? at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another? I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry. I want his directions no more than his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”
“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition, “very true. That’s a consideration indeed. But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path . . . . The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion.”
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions; but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.
* * * *
Chapter XIII
Knightley awoke, sitting up straight in his bed, drenched in sweat. Something was not right in Highbury. This was not the simple presence of the were-creatures. He had long grown accustomed to the flood of power pouring into him when he came into their presence. No, this was something more . . . worse. The rays of the sun were still visible through the window.
He arose at once, having slept in his clothes, and began to arm himself. He tucked silver blades up his sleeves and into his boots. He ran from his house into the surrounding woods. Something was calling out to him, demanding his attention. Knightley knew he had to be careful. If he was caught out and about, armed, at this early hour, the questions would be too many. While he was known for his walks, the belt of blades around h
is waist would be rather shocking and unexplainable except with the truth, and Highbury was far from being ready for that.
The strange feeling led him to a rundown shack near the poorer section of the village. He smelt it before he saw it. A vile stench of decay and death hung upon the air around it. Knightley crept through the early morning shadows towards it. Its ancient and derelict door hung slightly open; only darkness could be seen inside. Knightley slipped a pair of daggers from his belt and steeled himself for the worst. Could this place be the nest of evil from which the were-creatures had come? He thought it highly unlikely. The things seemed to travel in packs from one region to the next, playing with the places they visited like a cat did its prey until they had their fill of terror and flesh and finally moved on.
A noise arose from inside the shack. It sounded like something huge and wet pulling its way up from the floor. The whole house seemed to shake from the movement. Knightley took a step back as the door flew open and the monster came into view. It stood ten feet tall and had shattered the shack’s doorframe as it emerged. There was no doubt it was the source of the stench. Rotting flesh dangled from the more solid parts of its mangled and misshapen body. The thing looked like a mound of human and wolf remains held together by a sickening slime-like cover of ooze. Knightley saw two distinct heads in the mass, one wolf and one human. The wolf head sat above the human one and snarled at him with a hellish rage as it moved towards him with a series of slow, wet strides. The ooze covering its form was red and very blood-like, just thicker as if it had congealed with something more than just blood before becoming the mess that it was. It looked as if the creature’s transformation from one form to the other had gone horribly wrong and it had gotten caught in an in-between state. Two human arms and one long wolf arm covered in ooze-slicked fur reached for him. The aura of evil the monster gave off was almost too much for him. It was beyond unnatural, beyond unholy. And somehow, he could sense it was dead. This mess must have been created during its reversion to human form after its demise.
Knightley retreated from the creature, an easy feat given its slow movements, and threw two well-aimed daggers into the spot where its heart should be. The blades struck it and sank into the thing’s flesh but with no effect. It gave no cry of pain or anger, nor did it slow in its shamble towards him. Knightley’s heart thundered in his chest with fear. The sun was up and the day was new. At any moment, someone else could come wandering up the road and discover them. He had to end this battle quickly and put the thing down as fast as he could, but silver seemed powerless against it. Always . . . always the silver of his knives had brought low the evil he faced. Its failure with this abomination left him powerless before it. His mind raced, searching for options, but he found none at hand. He drew two more blades as the thing reached him at last. Darting under and past its groping arms, he delivered twin wicked slashes along its left side. Again there was no reaction to his attack. The wounds closed as ooze flowed over them, sealing them shut. The monster whirled on him with unexpected speed. Its right hand struck him heavily in the chest and sent him flying several yards onto the road. He dropped his weapons, trying to brace himself against the impact. He landed, gravel crunching beneath him. The rocks tore into his palms and his knives lay a few feet from him. He leapt to his feet and retrieved them, hurling both at the thing’s face as it closed in on him once more. The first blade missed the monster entirely but the second struck home. It slid into the right eye of the human face below the wolf head. Finally, the thing gave a cry of pain that sounded more like a pain-wracked gargle. It turned from him and stomped off into the woods, leaving him standing on the road. He knew he could not risk being discovered. He had much left to do. However monstrous this creature, the were-beasts were still loose and only he could face them on equal ground in the dark of night.
With deep regret and self-loathing, he turned and fled, letting the monster shamble off into the trees alone. He hoped it wandered away deeper into the trees to seek a new shelter until the sun set and the stars shone above. Knightley prayed with all his heart it would encounter no one else until he had a chance to face it again better prepared. In the meantime, he headed home to make himself ready for the gathering at Hartfield he soon was to attend.
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit; perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day; even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them; the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being consulted in every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard’s unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s complaint; “a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, etc., and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, “A sore-throat! I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?”
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard’s experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,
“It is so cold,
so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her’s, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit; but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.
“You do quite right,” said she; “we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.”
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton’s only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.
