Mr. Woodhouse was very much concerned about the evils of the journey for Isabella, with so much danger about the countryside, but his alarms were needless. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nurserymaids all reached Hartfield in safety.
The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many people to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of produced a noise and confusion which Mr. Woodhouse’s nerves could not have borne under any other circumstance.
But with regard to the five children, Isabella so respected her father that, in spite of all their playing and noisemaking and capturing bunnies in the woods for their strange enjoyment, the little ones were never allowed to be a disturbance to their grandfather.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman of gentle, quiet manners and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate. She was wholly wrapped up in her family, a devoted wife, a doting mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them.
Isabella was not a woman of strong intellect or any quickness. She also inherited much of her father’s constitution—delicate in health, over-careful of her children, with many fears and many nerves. She had a general distrust of food, like her father, which was fortunate since John and her five children rarely consumed any that she had prepared.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall gentleman, very handsome and clever, with dark hair, pallid skin, pale blue-coloured eyes, and a very appealing scent. He was a lawyer and, as he never slept, worked all night long, thus excelling in his profession.
He had reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing, and he was capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, but his temper was not his great perfection. He could sometimes be ungracious or say a severe thing. And he had a special power which allowed him, at times, to discern the future.
John was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law, Emma. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick to feel the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps Emma might let more pass over had John’s manners been flattering to her, but they were usually without praise.
But John’s greatest fault in Emma’s eyes was the lack of respect for her father. There had not always been the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and fidgetiness sometimes provoked John to a sharp retort ill bestowed.
They had not been seated long when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, mentioned the recent vampire incidents in Highbury.
Emma then related to her family, with a great deal of consternation, the details of the two vicious attacks involving Harriet Smith and herself.
“My dear Emma, how absolutely hideous!” cried Isabella. “We have had a few isolated incidents in London, but the very thought of so much danger within the vicinity of Hartfield simply curls my toes!”
Mr. Woodhouse then added, “Emma’s natural modesty prevents her from revealing that she slew one of those horrid creatures herself!”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Isabella. “Do tell!”
Emma then recounted the terrifying event, but gave Mr. George Knightley due credit for advising her to strap a wooden stake to her leg. Mr. John Knightley nodded his approval of his brother’s wise counsel.
Mr. Woodhouse, distressed that this unpleasant topic should sour the joy of Isabella’s visit, called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
“Poor Miss Taylor,” said he. “It is a grievous business.”
“Oh yes, sir,” cried Isabella with ready sympathy. “How you must miss her! And dear Emma, too! What a dreadful loss to you both! I have been so grieved for you. I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her. But I trust she is doing well, sir.”
“Pretty well, my dear, I trust. I suppose marriage agrees with her well enough, though she is perpetually cold in that large house without a fire blazing.”
Mr. John Knightley asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts about Mr. Weston.
“Oh no! None in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life—never looking so well.”
I should certainly expect so, thought Mr. John Knightley, considering that Mr. Weston, being a vegan like myself, has never feasted upon Mrs. Weston, just as I have never sunk my fangs into my own wife Isabella.
“And do you see Miss Taylor often, Father?” asked Isabella with a note of sadness which pleased him greatly.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated. “Not nearly so often, my dear, as I could wish.”
“But Papa,” said Emma, “we have missed seeing them only one day since they were married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, except one, have we seen them. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as Miss Taylor.”
“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley.
“I believe,” said Isabella, “that Mr. Weston is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. He has a strange power about him that causes happiness in the people around him. I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence. If anybody can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”
“Where is Mr. Weston’s son, Frank Churchill?” asked John Knightley. “Has he been here on this occasion?”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after Miss Taylor’s marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “He wrote a letter to Mrs. Weston to congratulate her on the marriage, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She showed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Some of the words were difficult to read, with so many dark red stains, but still it was a most handsome letter. Whether it was his own idea, you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and—”
“Papa, he is three and twenty. You forget how time passes.”
“Three and twenty! My, my! Nonetheless, it was an exceedingly good letter and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure.”
“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Isabella. “But how sad it is that he should not live at Randalls with his father! There is something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and natural home. I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. I really could never think well of anybody who did such a thing. Does he not have a heart that beats inside him?”
“Not likely, I fancy,” observed Mr. John Knightley. “I am sure Mr. Weston felt not the pain that you would feel, Isabella, if you had to give up our children. Mr. Weston is an easy, cheerful man, rather than a man of strong feelings; he finds his comfort in the enjoyment of life, rather than upon family affection or anything that home affords.”
Emma did not like John Knightley’s reflection on Mr. Weston and had half a mind to take it up with him. She struggled but let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in her brother-in-law’s strong family beliefs. It had a high claim to tolerance.
Chapter 12
That evening, Mr. George Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the wishes of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like to share Isabella with anyone on her first day at Hartfield.
Emma had decided to offer the invitation, due to the recent disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself. She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and she suspected he had read her mind and knew as much but would never admit it. Still, it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled.
Emma hoped it might assist the restoration of friend
ship that, when Mr. Knightley came into the room, she had one of the children with her—the youngest niece, a nice little vampiress about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield. The girl possessed the same cold, pale skin and appealing scent as her father and Uncle George, which Emma concluded were strong family traits.
The child on her lap did help matters, for though Mr. Knightley began with grave looks and short questions, he soon talked in the usual way and took the child out of Emma’s arms.
Emma felt they were friends again. She could not help saying with a little sauciness as he was admiring the baby, “What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”
Mr. Knightley answered, “If you were as much guided by nature in your opinion of men and women as you are with these children and less by fancy and whim, we might always think alike.”
“To be sure,” said Emma, “our disagreements always arise from my being in the wrong.”
“Yes,” said he, smiling, “and for good reason. I was thirty-seven years old when you were born.”
“And you still are!” exclaimed Emma gleefully. “No doubt you were much my superior in judgement then; but does not the passage of my twenty-one years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”
“Yes—a good deal nearer.”
“But still not near enough,” said she, “to give me a chance of being right if we think differently.”
“I still have the advantage over you of so much experience and of not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it.”
He then smiled at his niece. “Little Emma, tell your aunt that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”
“That’s true,” said Emma, “very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely more clever and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more. Concerning Harriet’s refusal of Mr. Robert Martin—as far as good intentions went, we were both right, and nothing on my side of the argument has yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very bitterly disappointed.”
“He was very disappointed, indeed,” was his answer. “He heaved a cow over the fence in frustration.”
“Ah! I am very sorry for the poor cow! Come, shake hands with me.”
This had just taken place and with great cordiality when John Knightley made his appearance, and “How do you do, George?” and “John, how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, revealing a vampire bond so strong that it was apparent they would do anything for each other.
The evening was quiet and full of conversation, as Mr. Woodhouse made comfortable talk with his dear Isabella on one side of the room near the fireplace and, on the other side, far away from the raging heat, sat the two Mr. Knightleys, and Emma only occasionally joined one group or the other.
“My poor dear Isabella,” said Mr. Woodhouse, fondly taking her hand and interrupting for a few moments her busy duties for some of her five children, “how terribly long it is since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear, and I recommend a little porridge to you before you go. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little porridge?”
Emma could not suppose any such thing, and only two bowls were ordered. After a little more discussion in praise of porridge, wondering why it was not taken every evening by everybody, Mr. Woodhouse proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, “It was an awkward business, my dear Isabella, your spending the autumn in London instead of coming here. The truth is, my dear, that nobody is healthy in London, and nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! So far off! The air so bad! And did I not hear of a vampire menace in London that had nearly overrun the city?”
“No, indeed—our part of London is very superior to most others. We are so very airy and safe from the threat of attacks!”
“Ah, my dear, I know you make the best of it. But London is not like Hartfield. After you have been a week here, you are a different creature. To be sure, I cannot say I think any of you are looking well at present—all so pale, so very pale, as if you never see the sun.”
“I am sorry to hear you say so, Father. But I assure you, excepting those little nervous headaches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself. And the children are naturally pale anyway, like their father. I trust that you do not think Mr. Knightley is looking ill,” turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well—in fact, his skin is quite a bit colder and paler than the rest of you, perhaps from lack of food or sleep—I know he works very hard. Look at the dark circles under his eyes.”
“What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name from across the large room, his sense of hearing being particularly acute.
“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well, but I trust it is only from being a little fatigued.”
“My dear Isabella,” John exclaimed, “pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose.”
Isabella then made a kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax and, though no great favourite with Emma in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.
“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Isabella. “It is so long since I have seen her! I always regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at Highbury. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma.”
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all but added, “Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet. And Harriet is fortunate to have a vampire slayer such as Emma for a friend.”
The mention of vampires once again raised the ire of Mr. George Knightley.
“These wild, vagrant creatures have gotten entirely out of control!” he bellowed. “It is becoming impossible to enjoy our society anymore without constantly looking over our shoulders with the trepidation of someone’s blood being sucked dry at any moment!”
“Hear, hear!” said Mr. John Knightley. “I do wish there were some sort of legal censure that could be implemented against them.”
“Nonsense, John!” returned his brother. “This is no task for lawyers. This is a task for vigilantes!”
“Dear Mr. Knightley!” said Emma. “I am shocked that you, as a gentleman, would advocate such a coarse and vulgar rejoinder to this menace! We simply do not do such things in Highbury.”
“Then what do you propose, my dear Emma? That young ladies tiptoe around flashing their silver crosses as they make their way along each day? I believe staunch action is required, and we, as the natural leaders of this village, are just the ones to do it!”
Emma and her father and Isabella and John remained shocked and silent after Mr. George Knightley’s impassioned soliloquy, then quietly let it pass.
This topic was soon forgotten and the porridge came, supplying a great deal to be talked about—much praise of and many comments on its wholesomeness for every constitution. Mr. Woodhouse ended the evening with the soothing attentions of his daughters.
Chapter 13
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley in this short visit to Hartfield, calling every morning on her old acquaintances with her five children and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister. It was a perfectly delightful visit, though much too short.
> Isabella looked forward especially to Christmas Eve dinner with the Westons at their small estate, Randalls. Even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to join them, and it did not take Emma long to convince him that they might include Harriet and Mr. Elton also.
The evening before this great event—for it was indeed a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out on Christmas Eve—had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home much indisposed with a cold.
***
Emma called on her little friend the next day at the boarding school and found her very feverish with a bad sore throat. Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, but Harriet was too ill to attend the Westons’ dinner, causing her many tears.
Emma sat with Harriet as long as she could to attend to her and raise her spirits by saying how much Mr. Elton would be depressed when he learned of her illness; and she left her at least tolerably comfortable.
Emma had just left Mrs. Goddard’s when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming to visit Harriet. As they walked slowly together in conversation about the invalid, Mr. John Knightley’s carriage drew up. John was just returning from his daily visit with his brother George along with his two eldest young boys, whose healthy, glowing faces showed all the benefit of having feasted on the blood of raccoons and rabbits running wild in the countryside of Donwell Abbey.
The carriage slowed and kept pace with Emma and Mr. Elton as they walked. Mr. Elton inhaled the scent of fresh blood on the others and dreamed of having a wife. Emma was just describing the nature of Harriet’s complaint: “A throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse.” And she was sorry to find out from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet “was susceptible to very bad sore throats.”
Mr. Elton looked all alarmed, his black eyes growing wider, as he exclaimed, “A sore throat! I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Mr. Perry seen her? Indeed, Emma, you should take care of yourself as well as your friend. Let me beg you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?”
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