Emma and the Werewolves (20 page)

It was only then that Emma
for the first time that night noticed his hands. Bandages were
wrapped tightly around them and she thought she could see traces of
blood leaking through them. “Oh dear, whatever happened to your
hands, Mr. Knightley?”

And with that statement,
suddenly, Knightley found the snow forgotten for the moment as the
entire room seemed to focus on him. Clearly uncomfortable from the
attention, he cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he begged. “I had a
rather nasty fall not long ago during one of my walks. Rest assured
my hands are healing well and proper.” He tugged at his sleeves as
if he sought to pull them down entirely over his wounded
hands.

“The snow is indeed
passable,” he said, shifting the focus shrewdly from himself once
more. “As I said, I believe none of us shall have worries in
getting home safely this night”

Emma heard something in
his tone, as if he was hiding something and not completely speaking
the truth, but Isabella’s radiance at this news drew her attention
away from him.

To Isabella, the relief of
such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable
to Emma on her father’s account, who was immediately set as much at
ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the
alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of
any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He was
satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but
no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and
while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr.
Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences:
thus—

“
Your father will not be
easy; why do not you go?”

“
I am ready, if the others
are.”

“
Shall I ring the
bell?”

“
Yes, do.”

And the bell was rung, and the carriages
spoken for. A few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one
troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get sober and
cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this
visit of hardship were over.

The carriage came: and Mr.
Woodhouse, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully
attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all
that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the
sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a
much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was afraid
they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella
would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage
behind. He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as
much together as they could;” and James was talked to, and given a
charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.

Isabella stept in after her
father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did not belong to their
party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that Emma found,
on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr.
Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they
were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been the
awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,
previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked
to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have
seemed but one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She
believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine,
and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.
Her eyes searched for Mr. Knightley as she climbed
inside the carriage, but he was not to be seen. Mr. Elton tugged
the door shut behind her as she took her seat across from
him.

To restrain him as much as
might be, by her own manners, she was immediately preparing to
speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the
night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the
sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her
subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and Mr.
Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the
precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already
well known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him;
but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled
love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect,
and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as
soon as possible. It really was so. Without scruple—without
apology—without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of
Harriet, was professing himself her lover. She tried to stop him;
but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the
thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she
did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and
therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour.
Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which
she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she
replied,

“
I am very much astonished,
Mr. Elton. This to me! you forget yourself—you take me for my
friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but
no more of this to me, if you please.”

“
Miss Smith! message to
Miss Smith! What could she possibly mean!” And he repeated her
words with such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of
amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness, “Mr.
Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account
for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not
speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command
yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget
it.”

But Mr. Elton had only
drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to confuse his
intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having warmly
protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly
touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend, but
acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at
all—he resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent
for a favourable answer.

As she thought less of his
inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption; and
with fewer struggles for politeness, replied, “It is impossible for
me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too clear. Mr.
Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express.
After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to
Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of
observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an
unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed
possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in
being the object of such professions.”

“
Good Heaven!” cried Mr.
Elton, “what can be the meaning of this? Miss Smith! I never
thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence—never
paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether
she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied
otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very
sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed! Oh! Miss Woodhouse!
who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon
my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought
only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention
to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many
weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of
yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No! (in an accent
meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood
me.”

It would be impossible to
say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of all her unpleasant
sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be
immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample
encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried to
take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—

“
Charming Miss Woodhouse!
allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that
you have long understood me.”

“
No, sir,” cried Emma, “it
confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I
have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till
this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have
been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther from my
wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her,
(pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been
very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she
were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have
thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to
believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself
particularly to Miss Smith? that you have never thought seriously
of her?”

“
Never, madam,” cried he,
affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you. I think seriously of
Miss Smith! Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be
happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well:
and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to—Every body has
their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at
a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to
be addressing myself to Miss Smith! No, madam, my visits to
Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I
received—”

“
Encouragement! I give you
encouragement! Sir, you have been entirely mistaken in supposing
it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other
light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I
am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it
does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been
led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably,
any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so
sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I
trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at
present.”

He was too angry to say another word; her
manner too decided to invite supplication; and in this state of
swelling resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to
continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr.
Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not been
so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but
their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags
of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into
Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at
once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another
syllable passed. Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good
night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and,
under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to
Hartfield.

There she was welcomed,
with the utmost delight, by her father, who had been trembling for
the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—turning a corner
which he could never bear to think of—and in strange hands—a mere
common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if her return only
were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John Knightley,
ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and
so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to
seem—if not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly
sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was
concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party, except
herself. But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and it
needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till
the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet
reflection.

Knightley had declined all
offers to ride with them on their way back. Mr. Woodhouse and John
Knightley pleaded with him not to walk home in this terrible
weather but he had managed to convince them it was pleasing to him
and not a threat to his wellbeing in the slightest. Though neither
of them was happy with the outcome, they did relent and let him
loose. He had watched the carriages leave and then darted away into
the shadows of the night. He’d left a sack of gear nearby in
preparation for his hunt. Inside it was his belt of knives, a Baker
rifle, the necessary ammunition for it, and an extra helping of
black powder held within a device he’d made. If silver failed
against the new evil that haunted Highbury, he wagered blowing it
to pieces might work instead. He armed himself quickly and began
his search. Tonight his purpose was the abomination he’d so briefly
encountered at the shack. It was his hope the snow on the ground
would make tracking the fiend easier. It did not seem to have the
presence of mind to care about covering its tracks.

His search took him deep
into the woods outside the borders of Highbury. As he made his made
through the trees into a clearing, the were-creatures found him.
Power surged within him. Snarls came from all around as he stood in
the center of the clearing and waited on them to make the first
move. He held the Baker rifle in his hands, ready. Though it was
intended for use against the monster he originally sought, it too
was loaded with blessed silver for its shot. It would serve against
these wolves just as well, should they attack. Much to Knightley’s
surprise, the wolves made no move against him. They held their
ground, hidden by the darkness and trees. He guessed most, if not
all, of the pack was here tonight. A movement came from the bushes
to his left. A beautiful and naked woman emerged to stand barefoot
on the snow before him. Long black hair hung limp on her shoulders,
falling well below her buttocks. Had she been human, Knightley
would have felt uncomfortable and averted his eyes but he knew her
for what she was. She was a wolf in human form.