CHAPTER I

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy

disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived

nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father;

and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a

very early period.

Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of

her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as

governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.

Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess

than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.

Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters.

Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the

mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow

of authority being now long passed away,

they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma

doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed

chiefly by her own.

The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having rather too much

her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the

disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments.

The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means

rank as misfortunes with her.

Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable

consciousness.--Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's loss which first

brought grief.

It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful

thought of any continuance.

The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to

dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening.

Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to

sit and think of what she had lost. The event had every promise of happiness

for her friend.

Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and

pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-

denying, generous friendship she had always

wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.

The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.

She recalled her past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--

how she had taught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had

devoted all her powers to attach and amuse

her in health--and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood.

A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven

years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed

Isabella's marriage, on their being left to

each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection.

She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed,

useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and

peculiarly interested in herself, in every

pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose,

and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault.

How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going only half a

mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs.

Weston, only half a mile from them, and a

Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was

now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude.

She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.

He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.

The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married

early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a

valetudinarian all his life, without

activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though

everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his

talents could not have recommended him at any time.

Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in

London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long

October and November evening must be

struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from

Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her

pleasant society again.

Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which

Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really

belong, afforded her no equals.

The Woodhouses were first in consequence there.

All looked up to them.

She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not

one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day.

It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for

impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful.

His spirits required support.

He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and

hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.

Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means

yet reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her but

with compassion, though it had been

entirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too;

and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that

other people could feel differently from

himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for

herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the

rest of her life at Hartfield.

Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts;

but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at

dinner,

"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again.

What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"

"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.

Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly

deserves a good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever,

and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?"

"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?

This is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my dear."

"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!--We shall be

always meeting!

We must begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon."

"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance.

I could not walk half so far."

"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage, to be sure."

"The carriage!

But James will not like to put the horses to for such a little way;--and where are

the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit?"

"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa.

You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last

night.

And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because

of his daughter's being housemaid there. I only doubt whether he will ever take us

anywhere else.

That was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place.

Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"

"I am very glad I did think of her.

It was very lucky, for I would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any

account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken

girl; I have a great opinion of her.

Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner;

and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the

lock of the door the right way and never bangs it.

I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss

Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see.

Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of

us. He will be able to tell her how we all

are."

Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the

help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be

attacked by no regrets but her own.

The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in

and made it unnecessary.

Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very

old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the

elder brother of Isabella's husband.

He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and

at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual

connexions in London.

He had returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to

Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square.

It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.

Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries

after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily.

When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of

you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us.

I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk."

"Not at all, sir.

It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great

fire." "But you must have found it very damp and

dirty.

I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir!

Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them."

"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here.

It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast.

I wanted them to put off the wedding."

"By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy

you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope

it all went off tolerably well.

How did you all behave? Who cried most?"

"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."

"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say 'poor

Miss Taylor.'

I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence

or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than

two."

"Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said

Emma playfully.

"That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if

my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear,

indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh.

"I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."

"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or

suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you.

What a horrible idea! Oh no!

I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me,

you know--in a joke--it is all a joke.

We always say what we like to one another."

Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma

Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not

particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she

knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really

suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body.

"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on

any body.

Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but

one. The chances are that she must be a gainer."

"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass-- "you want to hear about the wedding; and I

shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly.

Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a

long face to be seen.

Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of

meeting every day." "Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said

her father.

"But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am

sure she will miss her more than she thinks for."