Austen Said:

"My engagements at present,"

"are of such a nature — that — I dare not flatter myself"—

"It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy."

"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice — Gone too without intending to return! — Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. YOU must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?"—

"Can you, indeed!"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him."

"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith — and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"I want no proof of their affection,"

"but of their engagement I do."

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them."

"I confess,"

"that every circumstance except ONE is in favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"I hope not, I believe not,"

"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; — he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; — but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once,"

"whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially."

"Months!"

"No — nor many weeks."

"It is he; it is indeed; — I know it is!"—

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has,"

"I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

if he came directly from London.

No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!"

"Have you been lately in Sussex?"

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?"

"Dear, dear Norland,"

"probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves."

"Oh,"

"with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."

"It is not every one,"

"who has your passion for dead leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But SOMETIMES they are."

"Now, Edward,"

"here is Barton valley. Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country,"

"but these bottoms must be dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because,"

"among the rest of the objects before me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!"

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant people?"

"No, not all,"

"we could not be more unfortunately situated."

"Marianne,"