Emma and the Werewolves (59 page)

Emma could only stare at him, her mouth
agape.

“
I don’t expect you to
understand, but I needed to you to know. If someday we were to be
together as more than long time acquaintances and friends, this is
something you would have to accept about me. The calling is not of
my choosing, but none the less it is my duty.”

He left then immediately
afterwards giving her this truth—gone in a moment. He always moved
with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor
dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his
disappearance, as if revealing himself so deeply had driven him
away and forced him to flee. Emma had much to dwell on, but she
decided his words must be truth for she still held in her hands the
mask, and it was very real against her skin. She decided, too, that
she would forever honor his secret and no one would know of the
words he’d spoken to her just now, not even with her dying breath.
She was sure that unless the need arose of out of danger, Knightley
would never mention this talk or his revelations again, and she was
willing to accept that. Their lives would go on as if nothing had
transpired this day on this road where she stood.

She set out herself on a
journey of her own to clear her head and attend the rest of the
day. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she
wished she had left her ten minutes earlier; it would have been a
great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax’s situation with Mr.
Knightley. Neither would she regret that he should be going to
Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be
enjoyed—but it might have happened at a better time—and to have had
longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter. They parted
thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the
meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry; it was
all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good
opinion. He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It
was a pity that she had not come back earlier!

In the hope of diverting
her father’s thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s
going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback,
which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of
Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it
supplied a very useful check, interested, without disturbing him.
He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s going out as
governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley’s
going to London had been an unexpected blow.

“
I am very glad, indeed, my
dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is
very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance
are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and
that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first
object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me. You
know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and
not be induced to go away after it has been her home so
long.”

The following day brought
news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background.
An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs.
Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten
back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours
after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any
thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a
short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.

It was felt as such things must be felt.
Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards
the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a
reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried.
Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has
nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable,
it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs.
Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now
spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully
justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill.
The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the
selfishness of imaginary complaints.

“
Poor Mrs. Churchill! no
doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had
ever supposed—and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad
event—a great shock—with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill
do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr.
Churchill would never get over it.” Even Mr. Weston shook his head,
and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor woman, who would have
thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome
as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad
hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it
would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was
also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.
Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them both
with awe and compassion—and then rested with lightened feelings on
how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed.
She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to
Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill,
independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable
man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that
remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the
attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel
no certainty of its being already formed.

Harriet behaved extremely well on the
occasion, with great self-command. What ever she might feel of
brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe
such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from
any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke,
therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s death with mutual forbearance.

Short letters from Frank were received at
Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their
state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected;
and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for
Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor,
to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten
years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good
wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma’s
side.

It was a more pressing
concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were
closing, while Harriet’s opened, and whose engagements now allowed
of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had
scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the
person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the
very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of
regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew
a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She
resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was
written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal
message. “Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;” and when Mr.
Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she
was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her
own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe
headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt
the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time
proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely
deranged—appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely
alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which
was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy
about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal
to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it.
Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but
observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder: confined always to
one room; he could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt,
though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best
companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and
attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too
great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than
good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for
her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of
being useful. To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt,
to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational
conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the
following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling
language she could command, that she would call for her in the
carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had
Mr. Perry’s decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his
patient. The answer was only in this short note:

“
Miss Fairfax’s compliments
and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise.”

Emma felt that her own note
had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel
with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so
plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this
unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer,
therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s, in
the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not
do; Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and
agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of
the greatest service—and every thing that message could do was
tried—but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without
success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going
out seemed to make her worse. Emma wished she could have seen her,
and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the
wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on
no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. “Indeed, the truth was, that
poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body—any body at all—Mrs.
Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a
point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, except them, Jane would
really see nobody.”

Emma did not want to be
classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles,
who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any
right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and only
questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet,
which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss
Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly
eat any thing: Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every
thing they could command (and never had any body such good
neighbours) was distasteful.

Emma, on reaching home,
called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores;
and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched
to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the
arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but
“dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it
was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she insisted on her
saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”

When Emma afterwards heard
that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at
some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on
which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so
peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could
have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was resolved
to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry, very sorry. Her
heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable
from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action,
and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given
so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy
as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her
intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that
could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of
assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he
would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to
reprove.

* * * *

Chapter X

O
ne
morning, about ten
days after Mrs.
Churchill’s decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who
“could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with
her.” He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she
did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say,
unheard by her father,

“
Can you come to Randalls
at any time this morning? Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants
to see you. She must see you.”

“
Is she unwell?”

“
No, no, not at all—only a
little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and come to
you, but she must see you alone, and that you know—(nodding towards
her father)—Humph! Can you come?”

“
Certainly. This moment, if
you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way.
But what can be the matter? Is she really not ill?”

“
Depend upon me—but ask no
more questions. You will know it all in time. The most
unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”

To guess what all this meant, was impossible
even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his
looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be
uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her
walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together
and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.