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 blameable," 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" title="n.原谅，饶恕；宽仁">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.

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