Emma and the Vampires

by Wayne Josephson

  They soon decided on the size and sort of picture. It was to be a full-length portrait in watercolours and was destined to hold a very honourable position over the mantelpiece.

  The sitting began, and Harriet, smiling and blushing, presented a very sweet, youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist.

  But with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind Emma and watching every stroke of the brush, she gave him a spot in the room where he might gaze without bothering her.

  Then it occurred to Emma to employ him in reading. If he would be so good as to read to Emma and Harriet, it would amuse away the difficulties of Emma’s part and lessen the irksomeness of Harriet’s.

  Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She allowed him to still come and look at her progress, and he darted back and forth with such speed that the young ladies could barely see him move.

  The sitting was very satisfactory, and Emma was quite enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. She gave the figure a little more height and considerably more elegance and had great confidence of its being a pretty drawing at last, a memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both.

  ***

  The whole progress of the picture was rapid and happy. Everybody who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, his fangs appearing to glisten for a taste of Harriet’s fair neck.

  When Mrs. Weston saw the picture, she observed, “Emma has given her friend the beauty she wanted but never had. The expression of the eyes is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she does not have them.”

  “Do you think so?” replied Mr. Elton. “I cannot agree with you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.”

  “You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley.

  Emma knew that she had but would not admit it; and Mr. Elton warmly added, “Oh, no! Consider, she is sitting down, and the proportions must be preserved, you know.”

  “It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.”

  “But, my dear Papa, it is supposed to be summer—a warm day in summer. Look at the tree.”

  “But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”

  “Sir,” cried Mr. Elton, “I regard the placing of Miss Smith out of doors under the clouds with no sun as most admirable! Her skin looks so white! I cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.”

  The next order of business was to get the picture framed, and it must be done in London. Mr. Elton’s gallantry was always on the alert. “Might I be trusted with the commission? What infinite pleasure I should have in executing it! I could ride to London at any time.”

  “But Mr. Elton,” cautioned Emma, “would you not be in danger of being attacked by the fierce vampires that conceal themselves along the road? And in London, too, we hear tell of creatures rampaging the city.”

  “My dear Emma,” he said, reassuringly, “I fear them not, so neither should you fear for my safety.” They will of course, he thought, show me professional courtesy and allow me to proceed unharmed.

  He was too good, thought Emma, and in a very few minutes settled the business. Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, choose the frame, and see it completed.

  “What a precious treasure!” said he, receiving it.

  This man is almost too gallant to be in love, thought Emma, but I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent young man and will suit Harriet exactly.

  Chapter 7

  The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma’s services towards her friend.

  Harriet had visited Hartfield soon after breakfast, as usual. After a while, she had gone home to Mrs. Goddard’s for her lessons but soon returned again to Hartfield with a nervous, hurried look.

  “Dear Miss Woodhouse! The most extraordinary thing has happened! I thought I should have fainted! While at Mrs. Goddard’s, a postboy had arrived on his horse bearing a letter. Or perhaps I should say the horse arrived carrying a bloodied young man, barely alive! Oh, Miss Woodhouse! I thought it would have been the death of me! The boy then slid off his horse and collapsed to the ground, still holding the precious letter in his hand.”

  “Dear Harriet! I am absolutely astonished! What happened next?”

  “Oh, Miss Woodhouse! Mrs. Goddard and myself and the other boarders hurried out of the school, aghast at the horrid sight, some screaming and others crying. Mrs. Goddard promptly sent for the doctor, Mr. Perry, and in the meanwhile brought the poor young victim inside to administer care. Dear Miss Woodhouse! I would rather have had anything happen than that!

  “His countenance was gaunt and white as snow. His eyes were sunken into their sockets! There were two small holes in his neck! With a feeble voice, he recounted his unspeakable misfortune. Riding along the road from Donwell parish, he said he was suddenly attacked by a band of hideous, ferocious vampires that seemed to appear out of thin air! Dear Miss Woodhouse, I was feeling dreadfully! Then he told us that with almost supernatural strength the creatures pulled him from his steed and held him down. One vampire sunk his fangs into the boy’s neck and sucked his blood, then the others proceeded to feast on him as well! Then they vanished as quickly as they had appeared! Oh, Miss Woodhouse!

  “But he was determined to complete his appointed duty, and so the postboy mounted his horse and rode to our boarding school! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he then presented the letter to Mrs. Goddard—and, oh! This is the worst part of all—he announced that the letter was for a Miss Harriet Smith! Then he breathed his last breath and died. Oh! Miss Woodhouse! Have you ever heard of anything so hideous!”

  “Upon my word!” exclaimed Emma. “My dear Harriet, what a horrid experience it must have been for you! We must do something about this horrid vampire scourge. To think that a young man gave his life for your insignificant little letter is too ghastly to contemplate!”

  “Yes, Miss Woodhouse, it was indeed terrifying. But then, something even more astonishing happened.”

  “Dear Harriet! There is more? What could possibly be more shocking than the tale you have just related?”

  “The contents of the letter, Miss Woodhouse. It came from Mr. Robert Martin. It contained a direct proposal of marriage!”

  “Upon my word, dear Harriet!”

  “Indeed! Who could have thought it? I was so surprised that I did not know what to do! Yes, a proposal of marriage, and a very good letter at that. And he wrote as if he really loved me very much, and so I came as fast as I could to ask you, Miss Woodhouse, what I should do.”

  Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful about refusing him.

  “Upon my word,” Emma cried, “the young man is certainly determined to marry well if he can.”

  “Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do.”

  Emma read and was surprised. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. It was not only devoid of grammatical errors but as a composition it also would not have disgraced a gentleman. The language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed were very much to the credit of the writer. It was short but expressed good sense, warm attachment, propriety, and even delicacy of feeling.

  She paused over it; Harriet anxiously watched for her opinion and finally asked, “Is it a good letter?”

  “Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather slowly. “So good a letter, Harriet, that everything considered, I think one of
his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well. Certainly, it is strong and concise.” Emma returned the letter. “A better written letter, Harriet, than I had expected.”

  “Well?” said the still-waiting Harriet. “Well—and what shall I do?”

  “But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it, of course, and speedily.”

  “Yes, but what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.”

  “Oh, no, no! The letter had better be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. Your meaning must show no doubts or demurs. You need not appear sorrowful for his disappointment.”

  “You think I ought to refuse him, then?” said Harriet, looking down.

  “Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have misunderstood you if you feel in doubt as to the intent of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it.”

  Harriet was silent. With a little reserve, Emma said, “You mean to return a favourable answer, then, I assume?”

  “No, I do not. That is, I do not mean—what shall I do? What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do.”

  “I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I shall have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your own feelings.”

  “I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said Harriet, contemplating the letter. “Granted, his cold skin against mine in the moonlight and his mysteriously attractive scent gave me an excitable thrill, but this—”

  For a little while Emma was silent, but soon she began to sense that the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful.

  “My dear Harriet, I lay it down as a general rule that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, then she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to yes, she ought to say no directly. It is not something to be entered into with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and as one older than yourself, to say as much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you.”

  “Oh, no! I am sure you are too kind to do that. But if you would just advise me what to do—no, no, one should not be hesitating. It will be safer to say no, perhaps. Do you think I had better say no?”

  “Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person, if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, if his white skin and black eyes and drooling fangs are everything you desire, if you do not care that he never sleeps, and that he would never seem to age while you grow old, grey, and wrinkled, and that if he stood too near the fireplace he would explode—why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet. Does anybody else occur to you at this moment that fits the definition of agreeableness? Whom, dear Harriet, are you thinking of at this moment?”

  Instead of answering, Harriet turned away, confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire imagining her Mr. Martin in flames. And though the letter was still in her hand, it was curiously twisted about. Emma waited for the result with impatience but not without strong hopes.

  At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said, “Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself. And I have now quite determined to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?”

  “Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet. You are doing just what you ought. While you were in suspense, I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided, I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, it would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance as a consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. I could not have visited you as Mrs. Robert Martin of Abbey Mill Farm, due to the difference in our social rank, especially in view of Mr. Martin’s vulgar drooling. Now my friendship is secure with you for ever.”

  This consequence struck Harriet forcibly. “You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast. “That would have been too dreadful! Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being friends with you for anything in the world.”

  “Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.”

  “Dear me! How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!”

  “Dear affectionate creature, banished to Abbey Mill Farm, confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the boldness to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself.”

  “I do not think he is conceited,” said Harriet. “At least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him and have a great regard for him, though I shall not miss the feeling that he can see my bosom through my gown. And you know, I must confess that I have met other gentlemen so very handsome and agreeable. And as to leaving you, I would not do that upon any consideration.”

  “Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We shall not be parted. A woman should never marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attracted to her, or can write a tolerable letter, or can see through her gown, or can hoist a cow over his head.”

  “Oh, no. And it is but a short letter too. I am quite determined to refuse him. But what shall I say?”

  Emma assured her that would not be difficult and advised the letter be written directly, which was agreed to. And though Emma protested against giving Harriet any assistance, she in fact gave it in the formation of every sentence.

  Looking over Mr. Martin’s letter again, Harriet was so concerned at the idea of making Mr. Martin unhappy and what his mother and sisters would think that Emma believed if the young man had come to Hartfield at that moment, Harriet would have accepted him after all.

  This letter, however, was written, sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet was safe. She was rather low all evening, but Emma relieved her feelings by speaking of her own affection for Harriet and bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.

  “I shall never be invited to Abbey Mill Farm again,” Harriet said in rather a sorrowful tone. “On the other hand, I would starve to death there, since they never eat any food, and I would never see the sun, because they keep the shades drawn.”

  That reminded Emma of Mr. Elton. At the mention of his name, Harriet blushed and wondered why he should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering—his eyes were as black as Mr. Martin’s, and to his further credit, he possessed that electrifying touch—but still, after a time, Harriet was tenderhearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.

  “Now he has my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what they are all doing—whether his sisters know. If he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I’m glad he never sleeps—therefore, he will not lose any sleep over me.”

  Emma offered kind words. “Let us think at this moment, perhaps, that Mr. Elton is showing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling them how much more beautiful is the original, and allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.”

  “My picture!”

  “It is his companion all this evening. It introduces you to his family. How cheerful, how busy their imaginations all are as they gaze upon the image of your fair white plumpness!”

  Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.

  Chapter 8

  Harriet slept at Hartfield that night, still quite shaken by both Mr. Robert Martin’s unexpected proposal of marriage and the fear of another vampire attack.

  In recent weeks, she had been spending more than half her time at Hartfield and soon a bedroom was set aside for her sole
use. Emma judged it best in every respect—safest and kindest—to keep her at Hartfield as much as possible at present.

  The next morning, Harriet went to Mrs. Goddard’s for her lessons. While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse made up his mind to take a walk.

  “Well, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall go out for a quarter of an hour. I believe I had better take my three turns while I safely can—surely none of those vile creatures are prowling about Hartfield while the sun is out.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Mr. Knightley with a slight smile, “there is no possibility that a vampire lurks near. Do take your leave while you can.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Emma will be happy to entertain you while I am gone.”

  Mr. Woodhouse at last was off and Mr. Knightley stayed, seemingly inclined for more chat. He expressed his relief that Emma had survived the vampire attack and praised her bravery in the face of such imminent peril. Then, to Emma’s great surprise, he began speaking about Harriet with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.

  “Emma, I cannot rate Harriet’s beauty as you do,” said Mr. Knightley, “but she is a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman.”

  “I am glad you think so,” said Emma.

  “Come,” said he, “you are anxious for a compliment, so I shall tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her of her schoolgirl’s giggle—she really does you credit.”

  “Thank you. I should be mortified if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not everybody who will bestow praise. You do not often overpower me with it.”

  He presently added, with a smile, “I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage.”