Austen Said:

“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”

“And now, Henry,”

“that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself — unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”

“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”

“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women.”

“That is not enough. Be more serious.”

“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me.”

“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home.”

“Perhaps,”

“you would be so good — it would make me very happy if — ”

“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”

“That is a curious old chest, is not it?”

“It is impossible to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.”

“I believe it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s account; he always walks out at this time of day.”

“This is so favourite a walk of mine,”

“that I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”

“I am particularly fond of this spot,”

“It was my mother’s favourite walk.”

“I used to walk here so often with her!”

“though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”

“A great and increasing one,”

“I was only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know what a loss it was.”

“I have no sister, you know — and though Henry — though my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”

“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”

“No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber — where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like."

“Yes, entirely.”

“She has been dead these nine years.”

“No,”

“I was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.”

“My father,”

“often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual.”

“My father only wanted me to answer a note,”

“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?”

“No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland — your brothers and sisters — I hope they are none of them ill?”

“What was her father?”

“Are they a wealthy family?”

“But,”

“would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!”

“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,”

“Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it long — ”

“Good heaven! What can be the matter?”

“My dear Catherine, you must not — you must not indeed — “

“I am quite well. This kindness distracts me — I cannot bear it — I come to you on such an errand!”

“How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!”

“You are mistaken, indeed,”

“it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.”

“You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us — how joyfully, how thankfully on my side! — as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted — and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by — But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt either.”

“It will not be in my power, Catherine.”

“Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received but half what you ought. But — how can I tell you? — tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered you.”

“I could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I myself — but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of real friends to this — almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.”