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
