Emma and the Werewolves (13 page)

“
Aye, I wonder which she
will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be to come. They are
very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.”

“
I dare say they are, sir.
I am sure I do not know who is not.”

“
Henry is a fine boy, but
John is very like his mama. Henry is the eldest, he was named after
me, not after his father. John, the second, is named after his
father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was
not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very
pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all
remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will
come and stand by my chair, and say, ‘Grandpapa, can you give me a
bit of string?’ and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him
knives were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too
rough with them very often.”

“
He appears rough to you,”
said Emma, “because you are so very gentle yourself; but if you
could compare him with other papas, you would not think him rough.
He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave,
can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate
father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father. The
children are all fond of him.”

“
And then their uncle comes
in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful
way!”

“
But they like it, papa;
there is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them,
that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking
turns, whichever began would never give way to the
other.”

“
Well, I cannot understand
it.”

“
That is the case with us
all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of
the other.”

Later in the morning, and
just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the
regular four o’clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade
walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him
with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the
consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and she
imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible
reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be
made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the
smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing
else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying
so much about his dining with him—had made such a point of it, that
he had promised him conditionally to come.

Emma thanked him, but could
not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her
father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she re-declined; and he
seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the
table, she returned it—

“
Oh! here is the charade
you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight
of it. We admired it so much, that I haveventured to write it into
Miss Smith’s collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope.
Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight
lines.”

Mr. Elton certainly did not
very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly—rather
confused; said something about “honour,” glanced at Emma and at
Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up,
and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an
awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,

“
You must make my apologies
to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one
or two. He may be sure of every woman’s approbation while he writes
with such gallantry.”

“
I have no hesitation in
saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he
spoke; “I have no hesitation in saying—at least if my friend feels
at all as I do—I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his
little effusion honoured as I see it, (looking at the book again,
and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the
proudest moment of his life.”

After this speech he was
gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for
with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of
parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh.
She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the
sublime of pleasure to Harriet’s share.

* * * *

Chapter X

T
hough now the middle
of December,
there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from
tolerably regular exercise; only light snows had fallen thus far,
and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor
sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Mr. Woodhouse
insisted time and time again that they allow one of Hartfield’s
guards to accompany them but Emma would have nothing of it,
headstrong as usual. She put forth the argument that no real
attacks had occurred during the daytime hours and the “Beast of
Highbury” had been quiet for some time now.

Their road to this detached
cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from
the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may
be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few
inferior dwellings were first to be passed. One of these, a small
and ran down cabin, called their attention and brought a pause to
their travel. They had passed it many a time and knew it to be
abandoned yet to-day something seemed different about it. Its door
swung open, rocking in the morning breeze. A smell of decay crept
from it that filled the air with an almost unbearable stench. Emma
wanted to explore it and see what had happened inside to cause such
a smell but Harriet protested. “Ms. Woodhouse, do not go in there,”
she urged strongly. “Such investigations are not for a lady such as
yourself.” Finally, Emma was talked down from her quest of
adventure and they continued on, vowing to tell Mr. Elton and Mr.
Knightley of the occurance. About a quarter of a mile down the lane
rose the Vicarage they came upon another old and not very good
house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no
advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the
present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no
possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace
and observing eyes. It was indeed remarkable compared to the
wretched place that had passed further up the road and a welcome
source of diversion. Emma’s remark was—

“
There it is. There go you
and your riddle-book one of these days.” Harriet’s was—

“
Oh, what a sweet house!
How very beautiful! There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash
admires so much.”

“
I do not often walk this
way now,” said Emma, as they proceeded, “but then there will be an
inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with
all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of
Highbury.”

Harriet, she found, had never in her life
been within side the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so
extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could
only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton’s seeing ready
wit in her.

“
I wish we could contrive
it,” said she; “but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for
going in; no servant that I want to inquire about of his
housekeeper—no message from my father.”

She pondered, but could
think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet
thus began again—

“
I do so wonder, Miss
Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married!
so charming as you are!”

Emma laughed, and replied,
“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to
marry; I must find other people charming—one other person at least.
And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have
very little intention of ever marrying at all.”

“
Ah! so you say; but I
cannot believe it.”

“
I must see somebody very
superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you
know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do not
wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I
cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must
expect to repent it.”

“
Dear me! it is so odd to
hear a woman talk so!”

“
I have none of the usual
inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it
would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is
not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And,
without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a
situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;
consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as
much mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and
never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important;
so always first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my
father’s.”

“
But then, to be an old
maid at last, like Miss Bates!”

“
That is as formidable an
image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever
be like Miss Bates! so silly—so satisfied—so smiling—so prosing—so
undistinguishing and unfastidious—and so apt to tell every thing
relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But
between us, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except
in being unmarried.”

“
But still, you will be an
old maid! and that’s so dreadful!”

“
Never mind, Harriet, I
shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes
celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a
very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid!
the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good
fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant
as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against
the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for
a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour
the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a
very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be
illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates;
she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in
general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single
and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I
really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would
be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of
her: that is a great charm.”

“
Dear me! but what shall
you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow
old?”

“
If I know myself, Harriet,
mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent
resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of
employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s usual
occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are
now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read
more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for
objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth
the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the
great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off,
with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about.
There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every
sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be
enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to
none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort
better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces! I
shall often have a niece with me.”

“
Do you know Miss Bates’s
niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times—but
are you acquainted?”

“
Oh! yes; we are always
forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye,
that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece.
Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so
much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane
Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter
from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends
go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the
pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her
grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane
Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death.”

They were now approaching the cottage, and
all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and
the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal
attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her
purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance
and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of
extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so
little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always
gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the
present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she
came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give
comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression
of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,

“
These are the sights,
Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else
appear! I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor
creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it
may all vanish from my mind?”