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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
by Jane Austen (1811)
Chapter 44
Elinor, starting back with a look of horror
at the sight of him, obeyed the first
impulse of her heart in turning instantly
to quit the room, and her hand was already
on the lock, when its action was suspended
by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a
voice rather of command than supplication,
"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten
minutes--I entreat you to stay."
"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "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."
"Had they told me," he cried with
vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all his
relations were at the devil, it would not
have turned me from the door.
My business is with you, and only you."
"With me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well,
sir,--be quick--and if you can--less
violent."
"Sit down, and I will be both."
She hesitated; she knew not what to do.
The possibility of Colonel Brandon's
arriving and finding her there, came across
her.
But she had promised to hear him, and her
curiosity no less than her honor was
engaged.
After a moment's recollection, therefore,
concluding that prudence required dispatch,
and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the
table, and sat down.
He took the opposite chair, and for half a
minute not a word was said by either.
"Pray be quick, sir,"--said Elinor,
impatiently;--"I have no time to spare."
He was sitting in an attitude of deep
meditation, and seemed not to hear her.
"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a
moment afterwards--"is out of danger.
I heard it from the servant.
God be praised!--But is it true? is it
really true?"
Elinor would not speak.
He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
eagerness.
"For God's sake tell me, is she out of
danger, or is she not?"
"We hope she is."
He rose up, and walked across the room.
"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But
since I AM here,"--speaking with a forced
vivacity as he returned to his seat--"what
does it signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--
it will be the last time, perhaps--let us
be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood
for gaiety.-- Tell me honestly"--a deeper
glow overspreading his cheeks--"do you
think me most a knave or a fool?"
Elinor looked at him with greater
astonishment than ever.
She began to think that he must be in
liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit,
and of such manners, seemed no otherwise
intelligible; and with this impression she
immediately rose, saying,
"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."
"I understand you," he replied, with an
expressive smile, and a voice perfectly
calm; "yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of
porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was
enough to over-set me."
"At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and
more at a loss to understand what he would
be at.
"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight
o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have
spent out of my chaise since that time
procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough."
The steadiness of his manner, and the
intelligence of his eye as he spoke,
convincing Elinor, that whatever other
unpardonable folly might bring him to
Cleveland, he was not brought there by
intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection,
"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?"--
"I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--
"if I can, to make you hate me one degree
less than you do NOW.
I mean to offer some kind of explanation,
some kind of apology, for the past; to open
my whole heart to you, and by convincing
you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal,
to obtain something like forgiveness from
Ma--from your sister."
"Is this the real reason of your coming?"
"Upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, with
a warmth which brought all the former
Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite
of herself made her think him sincere.
"If that is all, you may be satisfied
already,--for Marianne DOES--she has LONG
forgiven you."
"Has she?"--he cried, in the same eager
tone.-- "Then she has forgiven me before
she ought to have done it.
But she shall forgive me again, and on more
reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to
Elinor bowed her assent.
"I do not know," said he, after a pause of
expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness
on his own,--"how YOU may have accounted
for my behaviour to your sister, or what
diabolical motive you may have imputed to
me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the
better of me,--it is worth the trial
however, and you shall hear every thing.
When I first became intimate in your
family, I had no other intention, no other
view in the acquaintance than to pass my
time pleasantly while I was obliged to
remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than
I had ever done before.
Your sister's lovely person and interesting
manners could not but please me; and her
behaviour to me almost from the first, was
of a kind--It is astonishing, when I
reflect on what it was, and what SHE was,
that my heart should have been so
insensible!
But at first I must confess, my vanity only
was elevated by it.
Careless of her happiness, thinking only of
my own amusement, giving way to feelings
which I had always been too much in the
habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
means in my power, to make myself pleasing
to her, without any design of returning her
affection."
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her
eyes on him with the most angry contempt,
stopped him, by saying,
"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."
"I insist on you hearing the whole of it,"
he replied, "My fortune was never large,
and I had always been expensive, always in
the habit of associating with people of
better income than myself.
Every year since my coming of age, or even
before, I believe, had added to my debts;
and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs.
Smith, was to set me free; yet that event
being uncertain, and possibly far distant,
it had been for some time my intention to
re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune.
To attach myself to your sister, therefore,
was not a thing to be thought of;--and with
a meanness, selfishness, cruelty--which no
indignant, no contemptuous look, even of
yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate
too much--I was acting in this manner,
trying to engage her regard, without a
thought of returning it.--But one thing may
be said for me: even in that horrid state
of selfish vanity, I did not know the
extent of the injury I meditated, because I
did not THEN know what it was to love.
But have I ever known it?--Well may it be
doubted; for, had I really loved, could I
have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to
avarice?--or, what is more, could I have
sacrificed hers?-- But I have done it.
To avoid a comparative poverty, which her
affection and her society would have
deprived of all its horrors, I have, by
raising myself to affluence, lost every
thing that could make it a blessing."
"You did then," said Elinor, a little
softened, "believe yourself at one time
attached to her?"
"To have resisted such attractions, to have
withstood such tenderness!--Is there a man
on earth who could have done it?--Yes, I
found myself, by insensible degrees,
sincerely fond of her; and the happiest
hours of my life were what I spent with her
when I felt my intentions were strictly
honourable, and my feelings blameless.
Even THEN, however, when fully determined
on paying my addresses to her, I allowed
myself most improperly to put off, from day
to day, the moment of doing it, from an
unwillingness to enter into an engagement
while my circumstances were so greatly
embarrassed.
I will not reason here--nor will I stop for
YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the
worse than absurdity, of scrupling to
engage my faith where my honour was already
bound.
The event has proved, that I was a cunning
fool, providing with great circumspection
for a possible opportunity of making myself
contemptible and wretched for ever.
At last, however, my resolution was taken,
and I had determined, as soon as I could
engage her alone, to justify the attentions
I had so invariably paid her, and openly
assure her of an affection which I had
already taken such pains to display.
But in the interim--in the interim of the
very few hours that were to pass, before I
could have an opportunity of speaking with
her in private--a circumstance occurred--an
unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my
resolution, and with it all my comfort.
A discovery took place,"--here he hesitated
and looked down.--"Mrs. Smith had somehow
or other been informed, I imagine by some
distant relation, whose interest it was to
deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a
connection--but I need not explain myself
farther," he added, looking at her with an
heightened colour and an enquiring eye--
"your particular intimacy--you have
probably heard the whole story long ago."
"I have," returned Elinor, colouring
likewise, and hardening her heart anew
against any compassion for him, "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."
"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom
you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one?
I acknowledge that her situation and her
character ought to have been respected by
me.
I do not mean to justify myself, but at the
same time cannot leave you to suppose that
I have nothing to urge--that because she
was injured she was irreproachable, and
because I was a libertine, SHE must be a
saint.
If the violence of her passions, the
weakness of her understanding--I do not
mean, however, to defend myself.
Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-
reproach, recall the tenderness which, for
a very short time, had the power of
creating any return.
I wish--I heartily wish it had never been.
But I have injured more than herself; and I
have injured one, whose affection for me--
(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than
hers; and whose mind--Oh! how infinitely
superior!"--
"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."
"But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it," he
warmly replied; "I did not recollect that I
had omitted to give her my direction; and
common sense might have told her how to
find it out."
"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"
"She taxed me with the offence at once, and
my confusion may be guessed.
The purity of her life, the formality of
her notions, her ignorance of the world--
every thing was against me.
The matter itself I could not deny, and
vain was every endeavour to soften it.
She was previously disposed, I believe, to
doubt the morality of my conduct in
general, and was moreover discontented with
the very little attention, the very little
portion of my time that I had bestowed on
her, in my present visit.
In short, it ended in a total breach.
By one measure I might have saved myself.
In the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if I would
marry Eliza.
That could not be--and I was formally
dismissed from her favour and her house.
The night following this affair--I was to
go the next morning--was spent by me in
deliberating on what my future conduct
should be.
The struggle was great--but it ended too
soon.
My affection for Marianne, my thorough
conviction of her attachment to me--it was
all insufficient to outweigh that dread of
poverty, or get the better of those false
ideas of the necessity of riches, which I
was naturally inclined to feel, and
expensive society had increased.
I had reason to believe myself secure of my
present wife, if I chose to address her,
and I persuaded myself to think that
nothing else in common prudence remained
for me to do.
A heavy scene however awaited me, before I
could leave Devonshire;--I was engaged to
dine with you on that very day; some
apology was therefore necessary for my
breaking this engagement.
But whether I should write this apology, or
deliver it in person, was a point of long
debate.
To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful,
and I even doubted whether I could see her
again, and keep to my resolution.
In that point, however, I undervalued my
own magnanimity, as the event declared; for
I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,
and left her miserable--and left her hoping
never to see her again."
"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said
Elinor, reproachfully; "a note would have
answered every purpose.-- Why was it
necessary to call?"
"It was necessary to my own pride.
I could not bear to leave the country in a
manner that might lead you, or the rest of
the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of
what had really passed between Mrs. Smith
and myself--and I resolved therefore on
calling at the cottage, in my way to
Honiton.
The sight of your dear sister, however, was
really dreadful; and, to heighten the
matter, I found her alone.
You were all gone I do not know where.
I had left her only the evening before, so
fully, so firmly resolved within my self on
doing right!
A few hours were to have engaged her to me
for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay
were my spirits, as I walked from the
cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself,
delighted with every body!
But in this, our last interview of
friendship, I approached her with a sense
of guilt that almost took from me the power
of dissembling.
Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep
regret, when I told her that I was obliged
to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never
shall forget it--united too with such
reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh, God!-
-what a hard-hearted rascal I was!"
They were both silent for a few moments.
Elinor first spoke.
"Did you tell her that you should soon
return?"
"I do not know what I told her," he
replied, impatiently; "less than was due to
the past, beyond a doubt, and in all
likelihood much more than was justified by
the future.
I cannot think of it.--It won't do.--Then
came your dear mother to torture me
farther, with all her kindness and
confidence.
Thank Heaven! it DID torture me.
I was miserable.
Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of
the comfort it gives me to look back on my
own misery.
I owe such a grudge to myself for the
stupid, rascally folly of my own heart,
that all my past sufferings under it are
only triumph and exultation to me now.
Well, I went, left all that I loved, and
went to those to whom, at best, I was only
indifferent.
My journey to town--travelling with my own
horses, and therefore so tediously--no
creature to speak to--my own reflections so
cheerful--when I looked forward every thing
so inviting!--when I looked back at Barton,
the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a
blessed journey!"
He stopped.
"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though
pitying him, grew impatient for his
departure, "and this is all?"
"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in
town?-- That infamous letter--Did she shew
it you?"
"Yes, I saw every note that passed."
"When the first of hers reached me (as it
immediately did, for I was in town the
whole time,) what I felt is--in the common
phrase, not to be expressed; in a more
simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion--my feelings were very, very
painful.--Every line, every word was--in
the hackneyed metaphor which their dear
writer, were she here, would forbid--a
dagger to my heart.
To know that Marianne was in town was--in
the same language--a thunderbolt.--
Thunderbolts and daggers!--what a reproof
would she have given me!--her taste, her
opinions--I believe they are better known
to me than my own,--and I am sure they are
dearer."
Elinor's heart, which had undergone many
changes in the course of this extraordinary
conversation, was now softened again;--yet
she felt it her duty to check such ideas in
her companion as the last.
"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--
Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you
think necessary for me to hear."
"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was
still as dear to her as in former days,
that in spite of the many, many weeks we
had been separated, she was as constant in
her own feelings, and as full of faith in
the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all
my remorse.
I say awakened, because time and London,
business and dissipation, had in some
measure quieted it, and I had been growing
a fine hardened villain, fancying myself
indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy
that she too must have become indifferent
to me; talking to myself of our past
attachment as a mere idle, trifling
business, shrugging up my shoulders in
proof of its being so, and silencing every
reproach, overcoming every scruple, by
secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be
heartily glad to hear she is well
married.'-- But this note made me know
myself better.
I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me
than any other woman in the world, and that
I was using her infamously.
But every thing was then just settled
between Miss Grey and me.
To retreat was impossible.
All that I had to do, was to avoid you
both.
I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by
that to preserve myself from her farther
notice; and for some time I was even
determined not to call in Berkeley Street;-
-but at last, judging it wiser to affect
the air of a cool, common acquaintance than
anything else, I watched you all safely out
of the house one morning, and left my
name."
"Watched us out of the house!"
"Even so.
You would be surprised to hear how often I
watched you, how often I was on the point
of falling in with you.
I have entered many a shop to avoid your
sight, as the carriage drove by.
Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was
hardly a day in which I did not catch a
glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing
but the most constant watchfulness on my
side, a most invariably prevailing desire
to keep out of your sight, could have
separated us so long.
I avoided the Middletons as much as
possible, as well as everybody else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common.
Not aware of their being in town, however,
I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the
first day of his coming, and the day after
I had called at Mrs. Jennings's.
He asked me to a party, a dance at his
house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me
as an inducement that you and your sister
were to be there, I should have felt it too
certain a thing, to trust myself near him.
The next morning brought another short note
from Marianne--still affectionate, open,
artless, confiding--everything that could
make MY conduct most hateful.
I could not answer it.
I tried--but could not frame a sentence.
But I thought of her, I believe, every
moment of the day.
If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my
situation as it was THEN.
With my head and heart full of your sister,
I was forced to play the happy lover to
another woman!--Those three or four weeks
were worse than all.
Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you
were forced on me; and what a sweet figure
I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--
Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one
side, calling me Willoughby in such a
tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to
me, asking me for an explanation, with
those bewitching eyes fixed in such
speaking solicitude on my face!--and
Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
hand, looking all that was--Well, it does
not signify; it is over now.-- Such an
evening!--I ran away from you all as soon
as I could; but not before I had seen
Marianne's sweet face as white as death.--
THAT was the last, last look I ever had of
her;--the last manner in which she appeared
to me.
It was a horrid sight!--yet when I thought
of her to-day as really dying, it was a
kind of comfort to me to imagine that I
knew exactly how she would appear to those,
who saw her last in this world.
She was before me, constantly before me, as
I travelled, in the same look and hue."
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness
succeeded.
Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it
thus:
"Well, let me make haste and be gone.
Your sister is certainly better, certainly
out of danger?"
"We are assured of it."
"Your poor mother, too!--doting on
Marianne."
"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own
letter; have you any thing to say about
that?"
"Yes, yes, THAT in particular.
Your sister wrote to me again, you know,
the very next morning.
You saw what she said.
I was breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and
her letter, with some others, was brought
to me there from my lodgings.
It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it
caught mine--and its size, the elegance of
the paper, the hand-writing altogether,
immediately gave her a suspicion.
Some vague report had reached her before of
my attachment to some young lady in
Devonshire, and what had passed within her
observation the preceding evening had
marked who the young lady was, and made her
more jealous than ever.
Affecting that air of playfulness,
therefore, which is delightful in a woman
one loves, she opened the letter directly,
and read its contents.
She was well paid for her impudence.
She read what made her wretched.
Her wretchedness I could have borne, but
her passion--her malice--At all events it
must be appeased.
And, in short--what do you think of my
wife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--
tender--truly feminine--was it not?"
"Your wife!--The letter was in your own
hand-writing."
"Yes, but I had only the credit of
servilely copying such sentences as I was
ashamed to put my name to.
The original was all her own--her own happy
thoughts and gentle diction.
But what could I do!--we were engaged,
every thing in preparation, the day almost
fixed--But I am talking like a fool.
Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her
money was necessary to me, and in a
situation like mine, any thing was to be
done to prevent a rupture.
And after all, what did it signify to my
character in the opinion of Marianne and
her friends, in what language my answer was
couched?--It must have been only to one
end.
My business was to declare myself a
scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow
or a bluster was of little importance.-- 'I
am ruined for ever in their opinion--' said
I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from
their society, they already think me an
unprincipled fellow, this letter will only
make them think me a blackguard one.'
Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of
desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's
words, and parted with the last relics of
Marianne.
Her three notes--unluckily they were all in
my pocketbook, or I should have denied
their existence, and hoarded them for ever-
-I was forced to put them up, and could not
even kiss them.
And the lock of hair--that too I had always
carried about me in the same pocket-book,
which was now searched by Madam with the
most ingratiating virulence,--the dear
lock--all, every memento was torn from me."
"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very
blamable," said Elinor, while her voice, in
spite of herself, betrayed her
compassionate emotion; "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."
"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he
with a heavy sigh.-- "She does not deserve
your compassion.--She knew I had no regard
for her when we married.--Well, married we
were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to
be gay.--And now do you pity me, Miss
Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no
purpose?-- Am I--be it only one degree--am
I less guilty in your opinion than I was
before?--My intentions were not always
wrong.
Have I explained away any part of my
guilt?"
"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."
"Will you repeat to your sister when she is
recovered, what I have been telling you?--
Let me be a little lightened too in her
opinion as well as in yours.
You tell me that she has forgiven me
already.
Let me be able to fancy that a better
knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more
spontaneous, more natural, more gentle,
less dignified, forgiveness.
Tell her of my misery and my penitence--
tell her that my heart was never inconstant
to her, and if you will, that at this
moment she is dearer to me than ever."
"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."
"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran
against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw
who I was--for the first time these two
months--he spoke to me.--That he had cut me
ever since my marriage, I had seen without
surprise or resentment.
Now, however, his good-natured, honest,
stupid soul, full of indignation against
me, and concern for your sister, could not
resist the temptation of telling me what he
knew ought to--though probably he did not
think it WOULD--vex me horridly.
As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore,
he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying
of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter
that morning received from Mrs. Jennings
declared her danger most imminent--the
Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--
I was too much shocked to be able to pass
myself off as insensible even to the
undiscerning Sir John.
His heart was softened in seeing mine
suffer; and so much of his ill-will was
done away, that when we parted, he almost
shook me by the hand while he reminded me
of an old promise about a pointer puppy.
What I felt on hearing that your sister was
dying--and dying too, believing me the
greatest villain upon earth, scorning,
hating me in her latest moments--for how
could I tell what horrid projects might not
have been imputed?
ONE person I was sure would represent me as
capable of any thing-- What I felt was
dreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and
at eight o'clock this morning I was in my
carriage.
Now you know all."
Elinor made no answer.
Her thoughts were silently fixed 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.
From a reverie of this kind she was
recalled at the end of some minutes by
Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a
reverie at least equally painful, started
up in preparation for going, and said--
"There is no use in staying here; I must be
off."
"Are you going back to town?"
"No--to Combe Magna.
I have business there; from thence to town
in a day or two.
Good bye."
He held out his hand.
She could not refuse to give him hers;--he
pressed it with affection.
"And you DO think something better of me
than you did?"--said he, letting it fall,
and leaning against the mantel-piece as if
forgetting he was to go.
Elinor assured him that she did;--that she
forgave, pitied, wished him well--was even
interested in his happiness--and added some
gentle counsel as to the behaviour most
likely to promote it.
His answer was not very encouraging.
"As to that," said he, "I must rub through
the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question.
If, however, I am allowed to think that you
and yours feel an interest in my fate and
actions, it may be the means--it may put me
on my guard--at least, it may be something
to live for.
Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.
Were I even by any blessed chance at
liberty again--"
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
"Well,"--he replied--"once more good bye.
I shall now go away and live in dread of
one event."
"What do you mean?"
"Your sister's marriage."
"You are very wrong.
She can never be more lost to you than she
is now."
"But she will be gained by some one else.
And if that some one should be the very he
whom, of all others, I could least bear--
but I will not stay to rob myself of all
your compassionate goodwill, by shewing
that where I have most injured I can least
forgive.
Good bye,--God bless you!"
And with these words, he almost ran out of
the room.