Austen Said:

all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long,

At ten o'clock,

or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too! — perhaps scarcely less an object of pity! — Oh! — how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!

"No, sir,"

"I shall NOT stay. Your business cannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"With me!" —

"well, sir, — be quick — and if you can — less violent."

"Pray be quick, sir," —

"I have no time to spare."

"We hope she is."

he must be in liquor;

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe — I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. — Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

"At Marlborough!" —

"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO — that after what has passed — your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. — What is it, that you mean by it?"—

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already, — for Marianne DOES — she has LONG forgiven you."

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. — Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject."

"You did then,"

"believe yourself at one time attached to her?"

"I have,"

"I have heard it all. And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be — your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?"

"a note would have answered every purpose. — Why was it necessary to call?"

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"

"Well, sir,"

"and this is all?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. — Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

"Watched us out of the house!"

"We are assured of it."

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?"

"Your wife! — The letter was in your own hand-writing."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,"

"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne — nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

"Yes, you have certainly removed something — a little. — You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know — the misery that you have inflicted — I hardly know what could have made it worse."

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."

on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain — Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature.

"Are you going back to town?"

she did; — that she forgave, pitied, wished him well — was even interested in his happiness —

"What do you mean?"

"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now."

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them,

now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion,

— to his wishes than to his merits.

his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge.

it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.

"poor Willoughby,"

to HIS sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due,