Emma and the Werewolves (68 page)

Emma amused herself by protesting that it
was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to
say for him.

“
I cannot imagine,” said
Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) “I
cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people
in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be
forgotten! My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I
am sure he must. Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric; and
his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very
likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have
often observed, extremely awkward and remiss. I am sure I would not
have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any
consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap
indeed. She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent
it.”

“
I met William Larkins,”
continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the house, and he told me I
should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.
William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was come
to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the
speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it
really is of very great importance that I should see Knightley
to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious
inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no
purpose.”

Emma felt that she could
not do better than go home directly. In all probability she was at
this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be
preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if
not towards William Larkins.

She was pleased, on taking leave, to find
Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room, to go with
her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she
immediately made use of, to say, “It is as well, perhaps, that I
have not had the possibility. Had you not been surrounded by other
friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask
questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly
correct. I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent.”

“
Oh!” cried Jane, with a
blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming
to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure— “there
would have been no danger. The danger would have been of my
wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by
expressing an interest. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct,
very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know
that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth
preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not
time for half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies,
excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due. But,
unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my
friend—”

“
Oh! you are too
scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and taking her
hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be
supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted
even—”

“
You are very kind, but I
know what my manners were to you. So cold and artificial! I had
always a part to act. It was a life of deceit! I know that I must
have disgusted you.”

“
Pray say no more. I feel
that all the apologies should be on my side. Let us forgive each
other at once. We must do whatever is to be done quickest, and I
think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have
pleasant accounts from Windsor?”

“
Very.”

“
And the next news, I
suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as I begin to know
you.”

“
Oh! as to all that, of
course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here till claimed by
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”

“
Nothing can be actually
settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma, smiling— “but, excuse me, it
must be thought of.”

The smile was returned as Jane answered,
“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you,
(I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr.
Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months,
at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there
will be nothing more to wait for.”

“
Thank you, thank you. This
is just what I wanted to be assured of. Oh! if you knew how much I
love every thing that is decided and open! Good-bye,
good-bye.”

* * * *

Chapter XVII

M
rs. Weston’s friends were
all made
happy by her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing
could be increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother
of a little girl. She had been decided in wishing for a Miss
Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of
making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons;
but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and
mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew
older—and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to
have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the
freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and
Mrs. Weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to
her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how
to teach, should not have their powers in exercise
again.

“
She has had the advantage,
you know, of practising on me,” she continued— “like La Baronne
d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide
and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide educated
on a more perfect plan.”

“
That is,” replied Mr.
Knightley, “she will indulge her even more than she did you, and
believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will be the only
difference.”

“
Poor child!” cried Emma;
“at that rate, what will become of her?”

“
Nothing very bad. The fate
of thousands. She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct
herself as she grows older. I am losing all my bitterness against
spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness
to you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on
them?”

Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the
assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of
other people. I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me
without it.”

“
Do you? I have no doubt.
Nature gave you understanding: Miss Taylor gave you principles. You
must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm
as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to
lecture me? and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it
was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any
good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the
tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much
without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so
many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were
thirteen at least.”

“
I am sure you were of use
to me,” cried Emma. “I was very often influenced rightly by
you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me
good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be
the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done
for me, except falling in love with her when she is
thirteen.”

“
How often, when you were a
girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks— ‘Mr.
Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have
Miss Taylor’s leave’ something which, you knew, I did not approve.
In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings
instead of one.”

“
What an amiable creature I
was! No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate
remembrance.”

“‘
Mr. Knightley.’ You
always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and, from habit, it has not so
very formal a sound. And yet it is formal. I want you to call me
something else, but I do not know what.”

“
I remember once calling
you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did
it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no
objection, I never did it again.”

“
And cannot you call me
‘George’ now?”

“
Impossible! I never can
call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ I will not promise even to
equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.
But I will promise,” she added presently, laughing and blushing— “I
will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say
when, but perhaps you may guess where; in the building in which N.
takes M. for better, for worse.”

Emma grieved that she could
not be more openly just to one important service which his better
sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved
her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy
with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject. She could not
enter on it. Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This,
on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of;
but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a
suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were
declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other
circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and
that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost
wholly did, on Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so.
The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was
very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet
unhappy.

Isabella sent quite as good an account of
her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had
thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as
there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had
been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what
she had known her before. Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick
observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the
children, it would not have escaped her. Emma’s comforts and hopes
were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer;
her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John
Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to
remain till they could bring her back.

“
John does not even mention
your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. “Here is his answer, if you like
to see it.”

It was the answer to the communication of
his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand,
with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it,
and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was
unmentioned.

“
John enters like a brother
into my happiness,” continued Mr. Knightley, “but he is no
complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most
brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes,
that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her
praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he
writes.”

“
He writes like a sensible
man,” replied Emma, when she had read the letter. “I honour his
sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of
the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope
of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think
me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction,
I should not have believed him.”

“
My Emma, he means no such
thing. He only means—”

“
He and I should differ
very little in our estimation of the two,” interrupted she, with a
sort of serious smile— “much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if
we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject.”

“
Emma, my dear
Emma—”

“
Oh!” she cried with more
thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother does not do me justice,
only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his
opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you
justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on
your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not
sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once. His tender compassion
towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”

“
Ah!” he cried, “I wish
your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of
our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy
together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you notice
it? where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by
surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of
the kind.”

“
If I understand your
brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of
marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for
that.”

“
Yes, yes—but I am amused
that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been
judging by? I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or
conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying
any more than at another. But it was so, I suppose. I dare say
there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day.
I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual.
I remember one evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always
tired now.’”