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An Evening in the Life of
Mr. Henry Woodhouse, Esq.
MR. HENRY WOODHOUSE SETTLED down before the small fire in his bedroom to consume his evening bowl of gruel. Mr. Woodhouse was very particular about what he ate, for his health was paramount to him. He had little doubt as to where his late wife awaited him in the hereafter. It was Mr. Woodhouse's firm opinion, however, that there was no need to hasten the inevitable. He would earn his Eternal Reward in his Lord's good time, and it was not for him to hurry things along by thoughtless behavior. Mrs. Woodhouse could wait, as she had done these many years. She had nothing better to do.
It had been a year
of change for poor Mr. Woodhouse. For years he had lived comfortably
at Hartfield with his dear daughter, Emma, and her governess,
Miss Taylor, after his eldest, Isabella, married Mr. John Knightley
and went away to London. Then the unfortunate Miss Taylor left
her home and her friends to marry. Indeed, Mr. Weston was a fine
gentleman and none could say a word against him, except he had
coxed Miss Taylor away from Hartfield. To Mr. Woodhouse's alarm,
it would not be long before poor Miss Taylor - now Mrs. Weston
- would find herself in the family way. It fell upon Mr. Woodhouse
to worry over his erstwhile employee, and send advice and gruel
to poor Miss Taylor - now Mrs. Weston.
At the same time,
a group of chicken thieves had taken up residence in the neighborhood,
and the local constable seemed powerless against their effrontery.
Then, the final
blow came. His dear Emma had decided to go away and leave him
to die alone. She assured him that was not her wish; she had
simply decided to marry their good friend and neighbor, Mr. George
Knightley. But to Mr. Woodhouse it was all one and the same.
Emma would leave him, like Mrs. Woodhouse, Isabella, and Miss
Taylor before her, and who would care for poor Mr. Woodhouse?
(That Mrs. Woodhouse had little choice in the matter made no
difference to the master of Hartfield.)
But Emma had not
left him. Indeed she lived with him at Hartfield even now. Only
they were not alone. Mr. Knightley had graciously agreed to reside
at Hartfield and protect the inhabitants and the chickens from
the wicked men prowling about the country. The price for his
gallantry was Emma's hand, and Mr. Woodhouse bestowed it most
reluctantly.
Mr. Woodhouse hated
change. Why did things need to change? Things were perfectly
satisfactory before all this unfortunate dying, marrying, and
begetting babies. He had to admit that the past year was not
all bad. The stealing had subsided. As Mr. Knightley was often
visiting Hartfield before he became Mr. Woodhouse's son-in-law,
the only change there was he had the company of dear Mr. Knightley
at every meal, rather than dinner three times a week. Hartfield
was happier than ever.
Except --
For many months
now, Mr. Woodhouse was certain that the place had acquired a
ghost. Not that Mr. Woodhouse was particularly afraid of ghosts.
He had long assumed the sprits of the long departed often walked
among the living. What Mr. Woodhouse found unpleasant was hearing
them. It was not often; perhaps two or three times each week.
A low moaning sound would float along the hallways deep in the
night. It was not an unhappy sound, to be sure, but Mr. Woodhouse
did find it disquieting.
He had discussed it with his daughter and son-in-law. The first time he brought it up, he was alarmed that he had frightened Emma -- she had turned bright red and fled the room, her hands at her lips. A stuttering Mr. Knightley was at her heels, assuring the concerned father that he would see to his wife's discomfort. Within a half hour the pair returned and Emma gave assurances to her father that Mr. Knightley would see to those noises in the night.
And Mr. Knightley
was true to his word. While the noises never really went away,
the volume was certainly more moderate, and Mr. Woodhouse grew
to appreciate the regularity of the reverberation, content that
the spectral resident of Hartfield was a satisfied spirit.
Mr. Woodhouse put
away his empty bowl and considered climbing into his soft, warm
bed. Just then, he heard again the lilting lowing that he had
grown to tolerate. He knew that Emma claimed to never hear it.
Might this be a good time to call it to her attention?
Resolved upon this
action, Mr. Woodhouse wrapped his dressing gown tightly about
his bony frame. Taking a candle with him, he let himself out
of his door and made his way down the darkened hallway to the
room Emma had taken when she became Mrs. Knightley - a suite
at the far end of the family wing. By the time Mr. Woodhouse
reached Emma's door, he realized that the delightful moaning
had ended. As he was on the threshold in any case, Mr. Woodhouse
knocked softly upon his daughter's door.
"Emma -- Emma, my dear. It is your father."
A loud thump could
be heard through the door, and Mr. Woodhouse almost took fright,
until he heard his daughter cry out, "Coming! Coming, Father!"
A moment later,
he heard the key in the lock and the door was opened, just enough
for him to see Emma, face flushed, hair disheveled, and eyes
alight, holding her nightgown tight against her throat. "Father,
are you well?"
"I am perfectly
well, my dear. I only came to speak with you."
"Oh! Oh, can
it not wait until the morning?"
"Oh, well,
if you are tired." He looked closely at her. "You are
very flushed, my dear. Is your room too warm?"
"No! No, indeed.
I am perfectly satisfied with my room."
"Are you certain?
I believe you are not at all well. I should send for the apothecary."
"No! I am well,
I assure you." She sighed. "Father, please excuse me.
I shall join you in your room in a moment."
Mr. Woodhouse was
mollified, and returned to his room. No more than two minutes
later, Emma joined him, a robe over her nightgown and slippers
on her feet. She was still running her fingers though her hair
to straighten out the unexpected tangle it was in.
"What is it
you wish to speak to me about, Father?"
Mr. Woodhouse was
going to tell her about the ghost again, but as he looked at
her, he saw that his Emma had changed. It was very slight, and
he could not quite put his finger on the cause, but something
told him that his Emma was no longer his little girl. Sometime
in the last few months she had become a lady. It was not altogether
an agreeable realization.
He sat in his chair
by the fire and indicated that Emma do the same in one opposite.
He then took her hands in his. "My dear, it has been a year
since Mr. Knightley came to live with us."
"Yes, Father.
We celebrated our anniversary but a week ago."
"I remember."
He looked at her tenderly. "Emma, are you happy?"
Emma's eyebrows
rose. "I am perfectly happy, Father."
"I must admit
it has been pleasant to have Mr. Knightley living with us. Do
you not think so?"
Emma reddened. "Mr.
Knightley has been all attention. I cannot but be quite happy
with my situation."
"I am glad
to know it. He is an agreeable fellow, to be sure."
Emma blushed down
below her collarbone.
"Are you certain
you are well, my dear?"
"Never have
I been in better health, Father."
"I remember,"
he said. "I remember you and your sister as children. You
were both quite delightful."
"Perhaps we
may have Isabella and Mr. John Knightley bring the children over
for a visit?"
"Yes, that
would be nice. Perhaps Miss Taylor could come."
Emma smiled. "Yes,
Mrs. and Mr. Weston may bring their child."
"Of course,
of course."
Emma smiled a secret
smile. "Perhaps, God willing, we may yet have children in
Hartfield on a more permanent basis."
"What? What?
Do you mean Isabella and Mr. John Knighley may move in with us?"
Emma bit her lip
to keep from laughing. "No, Father. It is late. I shall
say good night, now." She kissed his cheek. As she was leaving,
her father spoke again.
"Oh! I did
not say good night to Mr. Knighley! That was very thoughtless
of me."
Emma had a slight
smile as she looked at him over her shoulder. "Then I shall
give him your regards. Good night."
"Good night."
Mr. Woodhouse watched his daughter slip out of his room. It seemed
a metaphor of something he could not quite grasp. He had this
strange feeling that he had allowed a fox into the hen house.
Rubbish! he thought as he blew out his candle.
A fox indeed in Hartfield! But, I shall make double sure about
the windows in the morning.
The End
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