Emma and the Werewolves (26 page)

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

E
mma 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.