Emma's father and herself were left to dine at home together. Her father had gone to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
Mr. Weston-Miss Taylor's husband-was a man of excellent character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; but it was a black morning for Emma. She recalled Miss Taylor's kindness- how she had taught and how she had played with her from five years old-how she had devoted herself to amuse the child.
It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma knew that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house. Emma dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.
Mr. Woodhouse had no activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways[3] than in years; and his talents could not have recommended him at any time[4].
Emma's sister Isabella[5] lived in London, only sixteen miles off, but that was much beyond her daily reach.
In Highbury[6], the large and populous village, to which Hartfield[7] belonged, she had no equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence[8] there. All looked up to them. She had many acquaintance in the place, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of[9] Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it. Her father was a nervous man, easily depressed; 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. He thought that 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 married her!”
“I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he deserves a good wife; – and you would not have made Miss Taylor live with us for ever, 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? Our house is three times as large.”
“We shall be going to see them often, and they will be 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[10] 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.”
Emma hoped backgammon[11] would keep her father distracted for an evening. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley[12], 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 at this time more welcome than usual, as he was coming directly from their relatives 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 there. It animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. When the inquiry about “poor Isabella” was over, Mr. Woodhouse decided to change the “poor” subject,
“Ah! poor Miss Taylor!”
“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 capricious, 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 capricious 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 Emma did not particularly like that.
“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma's father. “Emma is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more and more.”
“It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” said Mr. Knightley. “But she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; Miss Taylor is settled in a home of her own. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.”
“And you have forgotten one thing,” said Emma, “and a very considerable one – that I made the match myself[13]. I made the match, you know, four years ago; when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again.”
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.”
“I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know! – Everybody said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here! Oh no! All manner of nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it. I planned the match, and when such success has blessed me, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall stop match-making.”
“I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'” said Mr. Knightley. “Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and that is all that can be said.”
“And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess? – I pity you. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to anything after all[14].”
“Emma, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously.”
“Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton[15]. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa, – I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him. I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service.”
“Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to show him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing.”
Chapter II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. When the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill