Emma and the Werewolves (45 page)

Emma returned her friend’s pressure with
interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim,

“
You are not vain, Mr.
Knightley. I will say that for you.”

He seemed hardly to hear
her; he was thoughtful—and in a manner which shewed him not
pleased, soon afterwards said, “So you have been settling that I
should marry Jane Fairfax?”

“
No indeed I have not. You
have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to
take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing.
One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a
serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish
for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come
in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were
married.”

Mr. Knightley was
thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No, Emma, I do
not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by
surprize. I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.”
And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She
has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a
wife.”

Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she
had a fault. “Well,” said she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I
suppose?”

“
Yes, very soon. He gave me
a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and
said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his
neighbours.”

“
In that respect how unlike
dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the
world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what she calls them!
How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar
vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr. Cole?
And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her
civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument
weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the
temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in
the triumph of Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith
in Mrs. Elton’s acknowledging herself the inferior in thought,
word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own
scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be
continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement, and
offers of service; that she will not be continually detailing her
magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent
situation to the including her in those delightful exploring
parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”

“
Jane Fairfax has feeling,”
said Mr. Knightley. “I do not accuse her of want of feeling. Her
sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her temper excellent in
its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants
openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to
be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my supposed
attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and
conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no
thought beyond.”

“
Well, Mrs. Weston,” said
Emma triumphantly when he left them, “what do you say now to Mr.
Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?”

“
Why, really, dear Emma, I
say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of not being in
love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end in his
being so at last. Do not beat me.”

* * * *

Chapter XVI

E
very body in and
about Highbury who
had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on
his marriage. His time away seemed to have cured his obsession with
the monster he claimed to have stood his ground against. When he
had returned to Highbury, not a mention of his leaving in order to
bring back help was made. People preferred to let the matter rest
if he did and he was most utterly happy to let it lie. Gone were
the days where people had nothing better to talk about, it seemed.
The monster was out of fashion and style, proving justly the saying
“out of sight, out of mind.” Mr. Elton settled into his old self
from the days before the monster roamed the woods around Highbury
with zeal and good measure. Many credited his new bride to be with
curing his obsession with the beast of Highbury. Soon they would be
married and his new happiness made complete. Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations
flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending
they were never to have a disengaged day.

“
I see how it is,” said
she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you. Upon my word we
shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion.
If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable.
From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged
day! A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been
at a loss.”

No invitation came amiss to
her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her,
and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little
shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at
rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties.
Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal
behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them
how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring
she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in
which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles
and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for
the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry
round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the
proper order.

Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be
satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must
not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious
suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner
there must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr.
Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual
stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with
the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for
him.

The persons to be invited,
required little thought. Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons
and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course and it was hardly
less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the
eighth: but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction,
and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet’s
begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not be in
his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able to
see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling
uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would
rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma would have wished,
had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted
with the fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it
was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she
could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the
eighth, Jane Fairfax. Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston
and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane
Fairfax than she had often been. Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with
her. He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs.
Elton which nobody else paid her.

“
This is very true,” said
she, “at least as far as relates to me, which was all that was
meant—and it is very shameful. Of the same age—and always knowing
her—I ought to have been more her friend. She will never like me
now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater
attention than I have done.”

Every invitation was
successful. They were all disengaged and all happy. The preparatory
interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance
rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were
engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in
the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying
one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day of
this party. His professional engagements did not allow of his being
put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its
happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner
together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be
a ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out
of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for
forty-eight hours without falling in with a
dinner-party.

She comforted her father better than she
could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly
would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the
increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in
reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave
looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his
brother.

The event was more favourable to Mr.
Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was
unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day.
He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to
dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so,
with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure
of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even
Emma’s vexation.

The day came, the party
were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to
devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of
drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner,
he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and
pearls could make her, he looked at in silence—wanting only to
observe enough for Isabella’s information—but Miss Fairfax was an
old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had
met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his
little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was
natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he
said,

“
I hope you did not venture
far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been
wet. We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned
directly.”

“
I went only to the
post-office,” said she, “and reached home before the rain was much.
It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am here.
It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before
breakfast does me good.”

“
Not a walk in the rain, I
should imagine.”

“
No, but it did not
absolutely rain when I set out.”

Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six
yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you;
and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long
before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our
lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think
letters are never worth going through the rain for.”

There was a little blush, and then this
answer, “I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the
midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect
that simply growing older should make me indifferent about
letters.”

“
Indifferent! Oh! no—I
never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter
of indifference; they are generally a very positive
curse.”

“
You are speaking of
letters of business; mine are letters of friendship.”

“
I have often thought them
the worst of the two,” replied he coolly. “Business, you know, may
bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.”

“
Ah! you are not serious
now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I am very sure he
understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can
easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than
to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which
makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every
body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again;
and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a
post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in
worse weather than to-day.”

“
When I talked of your
being altered by time, by the progress of years,” said John
Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation which time
usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will
generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the
daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As
an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten
years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant
“thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering
lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her
attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to
his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and
paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with
her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said, “I am very sorry to
hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain.
Young ladies should take care of themselves. Young ladies are
delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their
complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?”