by Adam Rann
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied, “It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions.”
“Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this? Miss Smith! I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed! Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No! (in an accent meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood me.”
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—
“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.”
“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther from my wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith? that you have never thought seriously of her?”
“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you. I think seriously of Miss Smith! Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to—Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith! No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received—”
“Encouragement! I give you encouragement! Sir, you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present.”
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another syllable passed. Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in strange hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem—if not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party, except herself. But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.
Knightley had declined all offers to ride with them on their way back. Mr. Woodhouse and John Knightley pleaded with him not to walk home in this terrible weather but he had managed to convince them it was pleasing to him and not a threat to his wellbeing in the slightest. Though neither of them was happy with the outcome, they did relent and let him loose. He had watched the carriages leave and then darted away into the shadows of the night. He’d left a sack of gear nearby in preparation for his hunt. Inside it was his belt of knives, a Baker rifle, the necessary ammunition for it, and an extra helping of black powder held within a device he’d made. If silver failed against the new evil that haunted Highbury, he wagered blowing it to pieces might work instead. He armed himself quickly and began his search. Tonight his purpose was the abomination he’d so briefly encountered at the shack. It was his hope the snow on the ground would make tracking the fiend easier. It did not seem to have the presence of mind to care about covering its tracks.
His search took him deep into the woods outside the borders of Highbury. As he made his made through the trees into a clearing, the were-creatures found him. Power surged within him. Snarls came from all around as he stood in the center of the clearing and waited on them to make the first move. He held the Baker rifle in his hands, ready. Though it was intended for use against the monster he originally sought, it too was loaded with blessed silver for its shot. It would serve against these wolves just as well, should they attack. Much to Knightley’s surprise, the wolves made no move against him. They held their ground, hidden by the darkness and trees. He guessed most, if not all, of the pack was here tonight. A movement came from the bushes to his left. A beautiful and naked woman emerged to stand barefoot on the snow before him. Long black hair hung limp on her shoulders, falling well below her buttocks. Had she been human, Knightley would have felt uncomfortable and averted his eyes but he knew her for what she was. She was a wolf in human form.
She looked him over with a pair of cold, appraising green eyes. “Mr. Knightley, we meet at last,” she purred.
He said nothing but met her gaze.
“You have slain many of my children. For that you will die, but first I must know what you have done to our dead.”
“Your dead?” Knightley asked, the shock of the question evident in his voice.
The woman inhaled deeply, taking in his scent. “It was not you, then, who brought this terror upon us?”
Knightley had no desire to face the entire pack alone, but he desperately wanted to know what she meant about the pack’s dead. He suspected he had an idea of what was claiming the bodies of her “children” for its own. “You mean the abomination? The thing caught between its forms after death to lumber around mindlessely in search of living flesh?”
The wo
man threw her head back, tossing her hair in the night. She bared her teeth. They grew into long fangs as she growled at him. “Yes, Knightley. The abomination, if you must call it so. We have a name of our own for it. We call the things ‘half-forms.’ Only once, long ago, had such a thing happened before. It tore through our people and left us scattered to the winds by the time we had dealt with them. What magic have you used to bring their curse upon us once again?”
“Half-forms,” Knightley repeated, trying to gain some time. “A fitting name.” His hand fished around in the pouch that hung from his belt, seeking his only means of escape and salvation against such a number of beasts.
“They are trapped between worlds as well as shapes, their souls caught in a nightmare state, ensnared in rotting forms of bone and ooze. I will not have my children suffer so. If you undo what you have done, I shall promise you a quick death. Fail to do so and we shall rend you apart slowly, one bit at a time, relishing each second of your pain with each mouthful of your flesh.”
“I am sorry, but I didn’t do this to your children,” Knightley said. “I would indeed see you all dead, but not to only rise again in such a manner.”
“Have it your way.” The woman chuckled. “Children, he is yours,” she said to those waiting in the woods. “Make his death so memorable with pain it will follow him to the gates of Heaven.”
The wolves came bounding from the trees. He counted twenty of them. This wouldn’t be a fight if he stayed; it would be a slaughter. He yanked the silver ball from his pocket and lit its fuse, dropping his rifle in the process. The ball landed amongst the charging wolves to the east as he ran towards those approaching from the west. There was an explosion and wails of pain as silver shrapnel erupted and sprayed into their ranks. There was no time to see how many had died from his efforts. His attention was fixated solely on the wolves before him. Daggers flew from his hands, impaling the lead two of the six he faced. The blades tore into the flesh of their faces, sending them sprawling to the dirt, killed instantly by his well-placed aim. Two more daggers were in his hands before he collided with the remaining four creatures. He delivered a viscous upward slash to the first, gutting it from belly to throat. As its entrails poured out from the wound, he spun, plunging his second blade straight into the heart of the next wolf to reach him. It let out a sickening cough-like sound as blood poured from its mouth. Knightley yanked the blade free with a twist and a pull. The last two in front of him paused as if they somehow sensed engaging him meant death. He took advantage of the moment and slipped through them into the trees. His legs pumped at superhuman speed. Numbers were on their side and he had to get away before they reorganized and made another full-on group attack. He prayed for speed and it came to him. His steps grew even faster until he was nothing more than a blur among the trees. Howls sounded in the darkness of the woods behind him, but they grew more distant with each passing heartbeat. When he finally stopped, his chest felt as if someone had struck him with a hammer. He fell to the ground, panting for air. His body was drenched in sweat and the redness of blood that wasn’t his own. His eyes slowly closed, watching the falling snow as it drifted down on him from the heavens, as blackness overtook him.
When he awoke the sun was creeping its way above the trees, but a light snow still fell. It was deep on the ground all around him. He heaved himself to his feet, and shook himself off, thanking God he had survived the night. He wiped at the frozen blood on his hands with the tail of his shirt, his body trembling from the cold, and lumbered off towards home. He knew only the will of God had kept him from being frozen to death during the night. He longed for the feel of a warm fire and prayed sickness would not overtake him from such an exposure as he had suffered. There was much left to attend to in both the world of the supernatural and his own life as well. He thought of Emma and her father and wondered how things fared at Hartfield.
Far on the other side of Highbury, the Half-form roared in the night. It lumbered through the forest in a state of ever-growing awareness. As its body grew more solid, its mind became more in tune with the world around it. The birth-fog which had clouded its vision was clearing. It looked up at the rising sun and was no longer afraid of it. Soon the time would come and it would be strong enough to leave the shadows and make the world its play thing.
* * * *
Chapter XVI
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable. It was a wretched business indeed! Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for! Such a development of every thing most unwelcome! Such a blow for Harriet! that was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in error—more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.
“If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me—but poor Harriet!”
How she could have been so deceived! He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
The picture! How eager he had been about the picture! and the charade! and an hundred other circumstances; how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its “ready wit” —but then the “soft eyes” —in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?
Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet’s friend.
To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten.
But—that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him! should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind! look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy hi
mself shewing no presumption in addressing her! It was most provoking.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility. But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If she had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that he, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
