Emma and the Werewolves (15 page)

“Yes,” Mr. Woodhouse agreed whole heartedly.
“I concur. Let us not waste another moment on such
foolishness.”

“Besides, there are other
changes here at Hartfield to speak of,
”
Mrs. Knightley nudged.

“
Ah, my dear, it is true,”
said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a grievous business.”

“
Oh yes, sir,” cried she
with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!
What a dreadful loss to you both! I have been so grieved for you. I
could not imagine how you could possibly do without her. It is a
sad change indeed. But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”

“
Pretty well, my dear—I
hope—pretty well. I do not know but that the place agrees with her
tolerably.”

Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly
whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.

“
Oh! no—none in the least.
I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life—never looking so well.
Papa is only speaking his own regret.”

“
Very much to the honour of
both,” was the handsome reply.

“
And do you see her, sir,
tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just
suited her father.

Mr. Woodhouse hesitated. “Not near so often,
my dear, as I could wish.”

“
Oh! papa, we have missed
seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the
morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either
Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls
or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here.
They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as
kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you
will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be
aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to
be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing
her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which is
the exact truth.”

“
Just as it should be,”
said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped it was from your
letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted,
and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have
been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change
being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you
have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”

“
Why, to be sure,” said Mr.
Woodhouse, “yes, certainly—I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor
Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often—but then—she is
always obliged to go away again.”

“
It would be very hard upon
Mr. Weston if she did not, papa. You quite forget poor Mr.
Weston.”

“
I think, indeed,” said
John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has some little claim.
You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband.
I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man
may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she
has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all
the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”

“
Me, my love,” cried his
wife, hearing and understanding only in part. “Are you talking
about me? I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater
advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the
misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of
Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to
slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is
nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very
best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your
brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget
his flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last Easter—and
ever since his particular kindness last September twelve month in
writing that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure
me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced
there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in
existence. If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss
Taylor.”

“
Where is the young man?”
said John Knightley. “Has he been here on this occasion—or has he
not?”

“
He has not been here yet,”
replied Emma. “There was a strong expectation of his coming soon
after the marriage, but it ended in nothing. I do not know if it’s
Highbury’s new worries with the beast or something else entirely
that has kept him away, but I have not heard him mentioned
lately.”

“
But you should tell them
of the letter, my dear,” said her father. “He wrote a letter to
poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome
letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of
him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell.
He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—”

“
My dear papa, he is
three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”

“
Three-and-twenty! is he
indeed? Well, I could not have thought it—and he was but two years
old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed! and
my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty
letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I
remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th—and
began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it was
signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’ I remember that
perfectly.”

“
How very pleasing and
proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. “I have
no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is
that he should not live at home with his father! There is something
so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part
with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well
of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.”

“
Nobody ever did think well
of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr. John Knightley coolly.
“But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would
feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy,
cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes
things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or
other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society
for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking,
and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon
family affection, or any thing that home affords.”

Emma could not like what
bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take
it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace
if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the
strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself,
whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look down on the
common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
important. It had a high claim to forbearance.

* * * *

Chapter XII

M
r.
Knightley was to
dine with them—rather
against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any
one should share with him in Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of
right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what
was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the
circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and
herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.

She hoped they might now
become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making-up
indeed would not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and
he would never own that he had. Concession must be out of the
question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever
quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of
friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the
children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl about eight
months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and
very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s arms. It did assist;
for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was
soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the
child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect
amity. Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving
her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she
could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,

“
What a comfort it is, that
we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women,
our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these
children, I observe we never disagree.”

“
If you were as much guided
by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under
the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are
where these children are concerned, we might always think
alike.”

“
To be sure—our
discordancies must always arise from my being in the
wrong.”

“
Yes,” said he, smiling—
“and reason good. I was sixteen years old when you were
born.”

“
A material difference
then,” she replied, “and no doubt you were much my superior in
judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of
one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
nearer?”

“
Yes—a good deal
nearer.”

“
But still, not near enough
to give me a chance of being right, if we think
differently.”

“
I have still the advantage
of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by not being a pretty
young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be
friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma,
that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old
grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is
now.”

“
That’s true,” she cried,
“very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be
infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley,
a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions
went, we were both right, and I must say that no effects on my side
of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr.
Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”

“
A man cannot be more so,”
was his short, full answer.

“
Ah! Indeed I am very
sorry. Come, shake hands with me.”

This had just taken place and with great
cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye
do, George?” and “John, how are you?” succeeded in the true English
style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference,
the real attachment which would have led either of them, if
requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.

The evening was quiet and
conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake
of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party
made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the
other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or
very rarely mixing—and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the
other.

The brothers talked of
their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the
elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was
always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some
point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious
anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm
at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year,
and to give all such local information as could not fail of being
interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest
part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a
drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the
destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was
entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his
cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever
left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached
a tone of eagerness.

While they were thus comfortably occupied,
Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful
affection with his daughter.

“
My poor dear Isabella,”
said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few
moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children, “How
long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired
you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my
dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go. You and I
will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we
all have a little gruel.”

Emma could not suppose any such thing,
knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as
unpersuadable on that article as herself; and two basins only were
ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with
some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body,
he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,

“
It was an awkward
business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of
coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.”

“
Mr. Wingfield most
strenuously recommended it, sir—or we should not have gone. He
recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the
weakness in little Bella’s throat, both sea air and
bathing.”