Austen Said:

you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months.

To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!

She was,

in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so many were miserable.

The evil which brought such good to her!

To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave to take Susan,

it to be terrible and grievous,

Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready.

her poor sister

but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them,

He so near her, and in misery.

he should order the carriage to the door in half an hour.

their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour.

He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage.

silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses.

the match had been her own contriving,

Her companions were relieved, but there was no good for her.

Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.

her as a spy, and an intruder, and an indigent niece,

her, as Fanny's sister, to have a claim at Mansfield,

nothing but ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris;

she could never do enough for one who seemed so much to want her.

recommend Sir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

the almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people. Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworth had been in great anger and distress to him (Mr. Harding) for his advice;

feared there had been at least very flagrant indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences might be apprehended.

it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's.

He could have no comfort but in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against herself

would now be done away. She should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.

his happiness as very deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford

and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient.

If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling; but that

was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.

if she would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely:

He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted,

She had met him,

with a serious— certainly a serious —even an agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him.

'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.'

her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear.

the loss of such a —.

'He has thrown away,'

'Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.'

Miss Crawford alone, and how she had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier.

believe that Tom's illness had influenced her,

considering the many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been more attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right.

the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind.

Time would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could— it was too impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.

He felt that he ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom.

Something must have been wanting within, or time would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.

with all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his being acquainted with their character and temper.