by Adam Rann
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness: what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter’s marriage; and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort.
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years’ absence.
Emma was sorry; to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months! to be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But “she could never get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve—such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not—and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker! and she was made such a fuss with by every body! and it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other.” These were her reasons—she had no better.
It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face—her features—there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it: elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. During Emma’s walk, her mind wandered back to the thing she and Harriet encountered the other day. Was it still out there prowling the woods? A part of her wanted to launch a search for it herself at this very moment. Neither she nor Harriet had spoken of it. The thing’s existence remained a secret shared only by them. Emma wondered how Mr. Elton fared in his quest to bring back help to kill it and how the soldiers would deal with something that was very clearly already dead. Emma thought of Knightley and remembered his protests against the men storming off in chase of the monster not so long ago and wondered if Knightley had seen it himself and knew of its nature. It would explain his actions. The thought of him and his rough but gentlemanly ways returned her mind to a more proper line of thought. No, there was no man worthy of her in Highbury, at least not that she had found yet.
These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane’s offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably was something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near
changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. “Was he handsome?” “She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?” “He was generally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?” — “At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing.” Emma could not forgive her.
As Emma’s night came to an end, Knightley’s was just beginning. He wore a mask he’d just finished designing. His experiences of late taught him he needed to be more careful. If he encountered someone from Highbury, now his identity would be concealed. It was nothing more than died cloth but it served the purpose and he made it in such a way as not to constrict his vision or breathing. His suit was also newly tailored by his own hands. It was just black like the night and as sleek as he could make it. Twin rows of silver daggers hung from his belt, three on each side of his waist. There were two more stashed in each of his boots and he carried a loaded, ready pistol in his hand. Things had become quiet of late. The pack’s number of killings had dwindled into nonexistence. He imagined the hunters had become the hunted with the new element of the Half-form added to their dance. Knightley dared not hope the abomination consumed them all so quickly. At best, it likely had thinned their numbers even more since his encounter with the pack. Tonight, there was a choice to be made. Should he seek the wolves themselves or try to locate the demon they and himself had awakened with their dance? Ultimately he opted to let God decide and raced off through the woods, looking for the tracks of his foes.
After an hour of finding nothing worth speaking of, Knightley found himself ready to call it a night. Perhaps, he thought, the wolves are in hiding, trying to escape the Half-form. He sensed no evil in the area. Just as he was about to head home, however, the Half-form came lumbering from the trees in front of him. It caught him completely off guard. Somehow the thing had masked it presence from him. That could be the only explanation possible as normally his body overflowed with power as he drew near any source of supernatural evil. He took stock of himself and realized the power had indeed come upon him. He locked eyes with the thing—at least the eyes of its human head. They burned a bright yellow under the dim light of the stars above. Instantly, he knew, he could not hope to defeat it alone. Its power had grown in strength and measure by tenfold. Still, it was his duty to try. Knightley drew a dagger from his belt and with the flick of his wrist sent it flying end over end through the air at the monstrosity. The thing made no move to dodge the attack or fend it off. It stood its ground fearlessly and let the blade strike it. The dagger sunk into its shoulder with no effect. With a calm slowness, it reached up and pulled the blade free with its three-fingered, two-clawed hand and tossed it aside onto the grass. The monster started towards him at an unhurried pace, its heavy footfalls thudding into the dirt of the forest floor. He raised his pistol and aimed carefully. The pistol cracked as its shot struck the thing dead centre in its forehead. Its shot had been blessed and drenched in holy water before Knightley had loaded it. The thing tossed its head back in pain, roaring like thunder into the night. When its gaze fell upon him again, he could see fury blazing in its eyes. It stomped its way towards him so quickly he was unable to escape its grasp as one of its massive hand-paws shot out and grabbed him, lifting him effortlessly into the air. It threw him as if there were nothing to it. He struck a nearby tree and loosed a grunt of pain as his breath left his body. He rolled to the ground. Knightley lay there gasping, his head swimming with dizziness, as the thing gave him a final look, as if warning him not to cross its path again. It lumbered off into the darkness. He was in no shape to chase after it this night. The encounter was far from pointless though. Knowledge was gained by his pain and loss. He knew now how it could be hurt and learned how dangerous it truly was. He vowed to never be taken by surprise in such a manner again. Henceforth he would not trust completely in his “gifts” as he done thus far. His eyes and ears, which he had taken for granted, were important weapons in his arsenal. From now on, his wits would be needed as well. Knightley got his feet, rubbing at his bruised back, and retrieved the dagger the monster had cast aside. Next time they met, it would be on his terms and it would be the monster that tasted defeat.
He hobbled his way back towards the vicarage with a fresh sense of determination filling him.
* * * *
Chapter III
Emma could not forgive her; but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. This morning, he appeared to be suffering from some sort of mild injury to his back. When Emma inquired about what befell him to ache him so, he ignored her and continued on with his comments on the preceding night’s party.
“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away; “particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.”
“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”
“No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “that I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”
“No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.”
An arch look expressed “I understand you well enough;” but she said only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”
“I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.”
“You think her diffident. I do not see it.”
“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, “you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening.”
“Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained.”
“I am disappointed,” was his only answer.
“I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”
“True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question—
“She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart.”
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates’s, said—
“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished but it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon—Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my dear?”
“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”
“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.”
