Emma and the Werewolves (55 page)

In the meanwhile the lame
horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under
happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day,
and Box Hill for the next, —the weather appearing exactly
right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost
Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with
one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of
the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for
him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his
ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and
advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.
Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be
tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others
were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and
sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the
Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort,
she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh
and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact
understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so
interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest
pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and
future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the
respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens
stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey,
with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its
abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor
extravagance had rooted up. The house was larger than Hartfield,
and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and
irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms. It
was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma
felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of
such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding. Some
faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected
herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names,
nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings,
and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do
as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds. The whole
party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected
every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of
happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead
the way in gathering, accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only
strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of. “The best fruit in
England—every body’s favourite—always wholesome. These the finest
beds and finest sorts. Delightful to gather for one’s self—the only
way of really enjoying them. Morning decidedly the best time—never
tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison—the
others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—white
wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in
London—abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds when to
be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different—no general
rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious
fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to
cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering
strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it
no longer—must go and sit in the shade.”

Such, for half an hour, was
the conversation—interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came
out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were
come—and she was a little uneasy. She had some fears of his
horse.

Seats tolerably in the
shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs.
Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of. A situation, a most
desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received
notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with
Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and
splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs.
Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple
Grove. Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres,
lines, ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer
closed with immediately. On her side, all was warmth, energy, and
triumph—and she positively refused to take her friend’s negative,
though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at
present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she
had been heard to urge before. Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being
authorised to write an acquiescence by the morrow’s post. How Jane
could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma. She did look vexed,
she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a decision of action
unusual to her, proposed a removal. “Should not they walk? Would
not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—all the gardens? She wished
to see the whole extent.” The pertinacity of her friend seemed more
than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over
the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three
together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious
shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the
garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of
the pleasure grounds. It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the
end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended,
in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the
house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be
the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk,
and the view which closed it extremely pretty. The considerable
slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually
acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile
distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well
clothed with wood; and at the bottom of this bank, favourably
placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in
front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around
it.

It was a sweet view—sweet
to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English
comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being
oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr.
Weston found all the others assembled; and towards this view she
immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the
rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet! It was an
odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it. There had been a time
when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her
with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation.
There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see
Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now
she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its
appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading
flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.
She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking
than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to
modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed
to say, “These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such
subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”
She did not suspect him. It was too old a story. Robert Martin had
probably ceased to think of Harriet. They took a few turns together
along the walk. The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it
the pleasantest part of the day.

The next remove was to the
house; they must all go in and eat; and they were all seated and
busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked,
and looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and
laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he
would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to
coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much
better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.” Mrs.
Churchill’s state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was
liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in
the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last
persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of
Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming. Emma looked at Harriet
while the point was under consideration; she behaved very well, and
betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were
to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old
Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be
begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of
being hot, and growing cool again. Mr. Woodhouse, who had already
taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no
damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more;
and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston
might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety
which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all
in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s entertainment. Books of
engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every
other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for
his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had
perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew
them all to Emma; fortunate in having no other resemblance to a
child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was
slow, constant, and methodical. Before this second looking over was
begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few
moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the
house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming
quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape. Little
expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at
first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest
of.

“
Will you be so kind,” said
she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home? I am going
this moment. My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we
have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am
determined to go directly. I have said nothing about it to any
body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone
to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I
shall not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness
to say that I am gone?”

“
Certainly, if you wish it;
but you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?”

“
Yes—what should hurt me? I
walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty minutes.”

“
But it is too far, indeed
it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father’s servant go with
you. Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five
minutes.”

“
Thank you, thank you—but
on no account. I would rather walk. And for me to be afraid of
walking alone! I, who may so soon have to guard others!”

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma
very feelingly replied, “That can be no reason for your being
exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even
would be danger. You are fatigued already.”

“
I am,” she answered, “I am
fatigued; but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will
refresh me. Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be
wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest
kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and
only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”

Emma had not another word
to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into her feelings, promoted
her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with
the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her parting
words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!”
—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe
somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even
towards some of those who loved her best.

“
Such a home, indeed! such
an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again. “I do
pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of their just
horrors, the more I shall like you.”

Jane had not been gone a
quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of
St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room.
Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of
him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease.
The black mare was blameless; they were right who had named Mrs.
Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary
increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted
some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming, till
very late; and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how
late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not
have come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any
thing like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him
like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from
the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very
deplorable.

“
You will soon be cooler,
if you sit still,” said Emma.

“
As soon as I am cooler I
shall go back again. I could very ill be spared—but such a point
had been made of my coming! You will all be going soon I suppose;
the whole party breaking up. I met one as I came—Madness in such
weather! absolute madness!”