by Adam Rann
“Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were not to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her; William Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert young lawyer.”
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope.
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it.
It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive—and that there could be no necessity for any body’s knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father’s being given a moment’s uneasiness about it.
These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton’s absenting himself.
It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them, “Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?”
These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease. There was also a new rumor the beast had struck again during the snow. A traveler had stopped briefly at Hartfield to warm himself and he told a tale of a house busted down and all those inside slaughtered in the woods beyond Highbury. The family named was the Browns, but of them Emma had little knowledge. They were of a poorer sort of folk and kept to themselves. They were rarely seen in town and often forgotten by all due to their absence. She remembered meeting them only once at the store. Mr. Brown was a bitter sort of man who had failed to rise in life. He seemed brooding and discontent with all. Mrs. Brown was quiet and Emma hadn’t heard her speak during their brief encounter. Their children, however, a bright young boy by the name of Shannon and a beautiful little girl whom Emma believed to be called Lisa, were the opposite of their parents and she recalled them well. It was for them her heart went out. She could not imagine dying in the middle of the night as some beast from the depths of Hell itself tore away the door and entered, bringing death with its claws. Her father and the traveler had ushered her from the room before his tale was complete, but as was her nature, she could not let things be. She had snuck back to the doorway close enough to hear the end of his tale. The family, every last one, was found mostly eaten. Something had stripped the flesh from their very bones with its teeth. The horror of it all was near unbearable. Emma retreated to her room and locked herself inside for a moment to weep. With her heart of hearts she prayed fervently that this . . . thing that came in the night would be driven from Highbury.
She could no longer stand the fear that hung in the air like the heaviness before a coming rain.
* * * *
Chapter XVII
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella; which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.
The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton’s best compliments, “that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks in hopes of obtaining help to deal with the monster that haunted Highbury. He hoped to return with soldiers capable of making short work on the creature once and for all, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense—and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them.”
Emma was most agreeably surprized. Mr. Elton’s absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments. Her name was not mentioned; and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspicion.
It did, however. Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought a
nd conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs. Goddard’s accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was. She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding—to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred—and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks.
The confession completely renewed her first shame—and the sight of Harriet’s tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again.
Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming nobody—and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend.
Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction. She never could have deserved him—and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible.
Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes—and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.
It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father’s claims, was to promote Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.
Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness—and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort unrequited, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force.
If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet’s persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it.
Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at artfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.
Emma found herself in need of a walk to clear her mind. She bundled up against the cold and ventured out. Her father stopped her, warning her against the weather, though she could tell it was not a fear of her coming down ill that truly stirred him. It remained unspoken on his part, but she knew his fear was for her very life. The monster still lurked in the woods of Highbury. Kissing him on the forehead, she kindly refused his offer to send one of the guards with her and assured him she would be fine. Emma strolled out under the stars. The night air was indeed filled with a heavy chill. Her breath was visible in the starlight as she made her way beyond the boundaries of Hartfield.
She was not far from her father’s estate when the sound of a twig snapping behind her made her whirl around with a start. A woman stood on the path behind her. The woman’s long black hair trailed down her bare shoulders. Emma’s breath caught in a gasp as she realized the woman wore no clothes and was stark naked.
The woman moved towards her like a cat. “Hello, my dear,” she purred. “You may call me Selena. Please do not be put off by my appearance. I assure you I am fine and not in need of help.”
Emma felt the warm touch of Selena’s skin on her own as the woman laid a palm on her cheek. “There’s no need to be frightened. I have not come to take your life this night. I only need to know what you can tell me of a man named Knightley.”
“Mr. Knightley?” Emma asked, her voice trembling and her head faint from the woman’s touch. Something about it stirred the passions within her.
“Yes, him. I can smell him on you. He sees you regularly. You are his friend, if not more. Where does he live? What is his trade? Who, my dear, does he love?”
Emma swooned and collapsed into the woman’s waiting arms. She whispered all her heart and all that she knew with her face pressed into Selena’s shoulder, the musky scent of the woman’s hair intoxicating.
An hour later, Chad, the newest addition to the men who stood guard over Hartfield, roused Emma from her slumber where she lay on the freezing ground. Emma stared at him as he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to her father. She couldn’t remember what had happened. Had she slipped and fallen, or was she so emotionally worn out from the troubles of the affairs with Harriet that she had fainted from exhaustion? Either way, her father would be upset beyond the point of dealing with her, and it would take all her charm to talk her way out of this incident if she wanted to roam here on the morrow—assuming he learned of this, of course. Emma ordered Chad to put her down as they entered the estate and solicited his word he would not share the events of this evening with anyone. He obliged, and feeling comfortable he would keep his mouth shut, she hurried inside, seeking the warmth of the fire her father surely had burning for her.
* * * *
Chapter XVIII
Knightley awoke under sweat-drenched sheets. The wolves had followed him into his dreams. He remembered their snarling cries and bloodthirsty eyes as they rushed at him in the woods. He shuddered and threw the covers back. Since that night, he’d been recovering, licking his wounds and regaining his strength. The wolves suffered rather heavy losses that night and there were no attacks he heard tale of since then. His mission was far from over and his most powerful weapon was now gone. Crafting the silver explosive had cost him dearly. He knew he needed a new plan to deal with the thing that had been born of the wolves’ evil. It would be stalking them as well as any human prey it could find. Knightley knew before long it would gain a stronger link to this world. Then it would truly be nigh unstoppable. When that time came, he had to be ready. Sighing heavily, he moved to clean himself up and don his clothes for the day. There was his appearance to keep up, and besides that, he missed Emma greatly
. Though she vexed him to no end, he admitted to himself that he needed her meddling nature to cheer him.
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his “very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period.”
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. She was fighting off a cold from her recent experience in the woods. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship.
