by Adam Rann
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move. “He must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.” His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying, “As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name—I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?”
“To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates—we passed her house—I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means.”
“There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the young man; “another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which—”
“Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.”
The son looked convinced.
“I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma; “she is a very elegant young woman.”
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it.
“If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,” said she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her—no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue.”
“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; “then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way.”
“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.”
“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street.”
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, “My good friend, this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump.”
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort.
After their departure, Emma decided to seek out Mr. Knightley. He was not hard to find. At work in the vicarage, he was rather surprized and confounded by her visit. She could tell from his expression he knew something was wrong.
“Emma, are you well?” he asked. “What manner of business could bring you here at such a late hour?”
She noticed he swept something off the top of the desk into its drawer. The manner in which he did so made her believe it was something he did not wish her to see. “Actually, I have a message for you,” she put forth. He seemed on edge and not entirely himself, as if he was more unsettled by her visit than the circumstances of it gave rights to be.
“A message?” he asked, getting to his feet and walking around the desk to stand in front of her.
“Yes,” Emma said, turning her eyes to the window and the setting sun outside. “There is a new lady here in Highbury. She’s rather a strange sort and I worry about her health and sanity. I do not know how she came here but she has no home. I have heard no one else mention her but her name is Selena. I am torn between entreating you on her behalf to give her shelter and a new start here amid our homes, and merely delivering the message she asked of me.”
“Emma, you know I don’t turn down any who need help. God loves us all. The church does not turn away those in need,” Knightley said, resolute in his beliefs. “But you say this Selena knows me? I am afraid I do not know her.”
“Oh yes, she has spoken of you to me during both our brief encounters. I rather thought you must know her as well, but could not figure out the puzzle of her wanderings and homelessness, for she must be homeless and live in the woods hereabouts. I am sure you would have already helped her if she truly did know you in person.”
Emma noticed his furrowed brow. He was clearly thinking hard on who this Selena might be. “Emma, what did she look like?”
“Bizarre and beautiful at once. Both times we met, she wore no clothes. That’s how I know she’s in trouble of some sort. Yet even so, she had a regal air about her. She appeared strong and well off in station despite her nakedness.”
Knightley’s eyes went wide with shock. “She came to you naked?”
Emma was sure it was the immortality of this that shocked him so, but Knightley did react as she believed he would. Gone was the grace and sincerity of his normal self.
“Emma, you must stay away from this woman. I do know of her. She is . . . not right. Promise me . . .” he said, “promise me if she comes to you again you will run. I care for you and your father, Emma. I do not want you hurt any more than you already have been. The attack on Hartfield was bad enough.”
“I can take care of myself, Mr. Knightley. After all the years of our friendship, surely you know that. If not, then perhaps you’re merely going through the motions of acquaintance and know nothing of me.”
He stepped towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. Emma let out a gasp of surprise from the bold move on his part. She looked into his eyes. He brought his face close to hers. “Emma, I have the highest regard for you, but you don’t know this woman or what she is capable of? You must stay away from her. Do you understand me?”
Emma nodded. Mr. Knightley released his hold on her and turned back to the desk. “Go home, Emma,” he said. “Nights in Highbury are still far from safe.”
Emma couldn’t find a way to argue with this and was still reeling from when he held her. She heeded his wisdom and departed without another word.
After he heard the door shut from Emma’s exit, he pulled open the drawer of his desk and stared down at the black mask and loose silver dagger he had so hurriedly swept into it during Emma’s visit. The whole of Highbury would think him insane if they knew the truth of how he spent his nights. He was under no delusion they would see him as a hero. No, more likely they would call him a murderer and point to the corpses he left in his wake, which were once again the forms of men and women, slain by his blades. It disturbed him greatly that this Selena had come to Emma. What was that about? She must be the woman he’d encountered the night the pack as a whole confronted him. She must be their queen. Still, why drag Emma into this? What was her motive? Did she plan on using her against him? Suddenly, Mr. Knightley realized Emma had never delivered her message. It was too late now and there was nothing for it. His fear for her life had gotten the best of him. He prayed that ignorance of whatever word Selena had sent would not come back to haunt him.
He picked
up his mask and held it to his face, pressing it tightly against his cheek. Tonight, he would not hunt. When darkness fell, he would be at Hartfield, lurking in the shadows, keeping watch over those close to him.
* * * *
Chapter VI
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, immediately fixed on Highbury. “He did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking woods of Highbury, would be his constant attraction, for he did not for a second believe all the tales of the beast.” Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked thither directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her—nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour or two—first round the shrubberies of Hartfield then into the estate itself. The estate had long been cleaned up from the wolves’ attack. Emma shuddered at the memory of the blood staining the yard. Her recollection of poor Chad’s mangled form being dragged away from the yard was dreadful. He had been young, a strong man, and to see him die in such fashion was not right. She wished she had Mr. Knightley’s faith in those moments for his heart told him that God had a plan for all things and nothing escaped His notice. Emma, however, wondered how a loving God could let such things come to pass. She shook off her dark thoughts and refocused herself on her guest. He was properly delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with. During this, he took the time to quiz of the recent events in the village and surrounding woods, for they were a topic of conversation for all, even if not one generally broached in public or during the light of day unless need called for it. “Emma, what is all this madness I hear of Highbury being plagued by a devil?”
“It started months ago. There have been many deaths since and many efforts to catch the beast, demon, or whatever it is that brings this fear to us. No one has ever seen it,” she lied. She and Harriet once encountered the thing that must be the fiend responsible, but to this day had told no one of what they had seen on that lonely road.
He shook his head at this. “How can you all be so sure there is only one fiend to be held accountable for all these deaths I have heard of? Would it not make more sense if it were a pack? I heard about the wolves that came to your home. Do you not suppose they are the culprits and that their brethren who did not meet their end that day still roam free and hungry?”
Emma and her father had kept it to themselves about the bodies on Hartfield’s lawn that dark afternoon. No one had reason to question them. Everyone believed all the bodies that were carried away and burnt after the rain had stopped. It was assumed that they were victims of the wolves. No one believed two of them were the wolves themselves. Only she had seen the change and remembered it. Her father had buried his memories of that day so deep inside his mind that he could be sincere in claiming to have no knowledge of it. His denial, however, did not alleviate the haunting truth of her version of the events of that terrible afternoon in the rain. She could not explain what had transpired and thought it best left unquestioned. Such was a rare thing for her with her tendency to overturn even the largest stones to see what lay beneath, but this time she simply was unable to do so.
Finally, she spoke. “I imagine a pack of wolves is as good a guess as to who and what our killers are,” she offered, “but you are new here. Despite our troubles, good and beauty abound. Let us talk no more of this.”
He reluctantly dropped the line of conversation and turned once again to more trivial and happier matters, enjoying his time with her.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such; but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room? She who could do any thing in Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, now with so many sitting vacant, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the
house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
“Yes, oh! Yes,” he replied. “I was just going to mention it. A very successful visit: I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him—but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.”
“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”
“Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health. A most deplorable want of complexion.”
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face.” He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was.
