Chapter 44

by Jane Austen

　　Elinor, starting back with a look of horror atthe sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heartin turning instantly to quit the room, and her handwas already on the lock, when its action was suspendedby his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice ratherof 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 businessis 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 possibilityof 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 thatprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence wouldbest promote it, she walked silently towards the table,and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for halfa 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 momentafterwards--"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 withyet 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--Butsince I am here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as hereturned to his seat--"what does it signify?--For once,Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time, perhaps--let usbe 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 be must be in liquor;--thestrangeness of such a visit, and of such manners,seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impressionshe immediately rose, saying,"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to returnto Combe--I am not at leisure to remain with you longer.--Whatever your business may be with me, will it be betterrecollected 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 wasenough to over-set me.""At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more ata 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 chaisesince that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough."The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligenceof his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whateverother 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 certainlydo--that after what has passed--your coming here inthis 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 kindof apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you,and by convincing you, that though I have been alwaysa blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtainsomething 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 warmthwhich 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 reasonablegrounds.--Now will you listen to me?"Elinor bowed her assent."I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectationon her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,--"how youmay 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 isworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.When I first became intimate in your family, I had noother intention, no other view in the acquaintancethan to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remainin Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.Your sister's lovely person and interesting mannerscould not but please me; and her behaviour to me almostfrom the first, was of a kind--It is astonishing,when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that myheart should have been so insensible! But at firstI 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 muchin the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every meansin my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without anydesign of returning her affection."Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on himwith 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 onthe 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 betterincome than myself. Every year since my coming of age,or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and thoughthe 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 mycircumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attachmyself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to bethought 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 actingin this manner, trying to engage her regard, without athought of returning it.--But one thing may be saidfor 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 Ireally 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 deprivedof 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 withstoodsuch tenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could havedone it?--Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees,sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my lifewere what I spent with her when I felt my intentionswere strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.Even then, however, when fully determined on payingmy addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperlyto put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it,from an unwillingness to enter into an engagementwhile my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.I will not reason here--nor will I stop for you to expatiateon the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scruplingto 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 possibleopportunity of making myself contemptible and wretchedfor 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 alreadytaken such pains to display. But in the interim--in theinterim of the very few hours that were to pass, before Icould have an opportunity of speaking with her in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruinall my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discoverytook place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"Mrs. Smithhad somehow or other been informed, I imagine by somedistant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me ofher favour, of an affair, a connection--but I need notexplain myself farther," he added, looking at her with anheightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particularintimacy--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 anypart of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confessis beyond my comprehension.""Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you receivedthe account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledgethat her situation and her character ought to have beenrespected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but atthe same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothingto 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 herunderstanding--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 injuredmore than herself; and I have injured one, whose affectionfor me--(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers;and whose mind--Oh! how infinitely superior!"--"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunategirl--I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussionof such a subject may well be--your indifference is noapology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourselfexcused by any weakness, any natural defect of understandingon her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourselfin 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 warmlyreplied; "I did not recollect that I had omitted to giveher my direction; and common sense might have told herhow to find it out.""Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?""She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusionmay be guessed. The purity of her life, the formalityof her notions, her ignorance of the world--every thingwas against me. The matter itself I could not deny,and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She waspreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of myconduct in general, and was moreover discontented withthe very little attention, the very little portion of mytime that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit.In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure Imight have saved myself. In the height of her morality,good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if I wouldmarry Eliza. That could not be--and I was formallydismissed from her favour and her house. The nightfollowing this affair--I was to go the next morning--was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conductshould be. The struggle was great--but it ended too soon.My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of herattachment to me--it was all insufficient to outweighthat dread of poverty, or get the better of those falseideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturallyinclined 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 thinkthat nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do.A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leaveDevonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day;some apology was therefore necessary for my breakingthis 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 doubtedwhether 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 sawher miserable, and left her miserable--and left her hopingnever 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 bearto leave the country in a manner that might lead you,or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any partof 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 Iwalked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself,delighted with every body! But in this, our last interviewof friendship, I approached her with a sense of guiltthat almost took from me the power of dissembling.Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I toldher that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--Inever shall forget it--united too with such reliance,such confidence in mewhat a hard-heartedrascal 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 alllikelihood much more than was justified by the future.I cannot think of it.--It won't do.--Then came your dear motherto 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 itgives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudgeto myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart,that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph andexultation 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--myown reflections so cheerful--when I looked forwardevery 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?""Ahhave 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 moresimple one--perhaps too simple to raise any emotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every wordwas--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 reproofwould she have given meI believethey are better known to me than my own,--and I am surethey are dearer."Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changesin the course of this extraordinary conversation,was now softened again;--yet she felt it her duty to checksuch ideas in her companion as the last."This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember thatyou are married. Relate only what in your conscienceyou think necessary for me to hear.""Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was stillas dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many,many weeks we had been separated, she was as constantin her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancyof 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 growinga fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her,and chusing to fancy that she too must have becomeindifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachmentas a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shouldersin 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 thatshe was infinitely dearer to me than any other womanin the world, and that I was using her infamously.But every thing was then just settled between Miss Greyand 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 inBerkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affectthe 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 oftenI watched you, how often I was on the point of fallingin 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 glimpseof one or other of you; and nothing but the most constantwatchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailingdesire to keep out of your sight, could have separated usso long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible,as well as everybody else who was likely to provean acquaintance in common. Not aware of their beingin town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe,the first day of his coming, and the day after I had calledat Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance at hishouse in the evening.--Had he not told me as an inducementthat you and your sister were to be there, I should havefelt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.The next morning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate, open, artless, confiding--everythingthat could make my conduct most hateful. I could notanswer 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 itwas then. With my head and heart full of your sister,I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!--Thosethree or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last,as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what asweet figure I cutMarianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling meWilloughby in such a toneholding out her handto me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitchingeyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face!--andSophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, lookingall 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 whiteas death.--That was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horridsight!--yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying,it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knewexactly how she would appear to those, who saw her lastin 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 sisteris 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 sisterwrote to me again, you know, the very next morning.You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at theEllisons,--and her letter, with some others, was broughtto me there from my lodgings. It happened to catchSophia'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 hadreached her before of my attachment to some young ladyin Devonshire, and what had passed within her observationthe preceding evening had marked who the young lady was,and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that airof playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a womanone loves, she opened the letter directly, and readits contents. She was well paid for her impudence.She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I couldhave borne, but her passion--her malice--At all events itmust be appeased. And, in short--what do you think of mywife'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 copyingsuch sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to.The original was all her own--her own happy thoughtsand gentle diction. But what could I do!--we were engaged,every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I amtalking like a fool. PreparationIn honest words,her money was necessary to me, and in a situation likemine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture.And after all, what did it signify to my characterin the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what languagemy answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end.My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whetherI did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.--'I am ruined for ever in their opinion--' said I tomyself--'I am shut out for ever from their society,they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letterwill only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such weremy reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness,I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relicsof Marianne. Her three notes--unluckily they were allin 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 tooI had always carried about me in the same pocket-book,which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiatingvirulence,--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 speakin 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 nothave married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speakof her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne--nor can Isuppose 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 noregard for her when we married.--Well, married we were,and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwardsreturned 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 opinionthan 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 thanI had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked,much less wicked. But I hardly know--the misery thatyou have inflicted--I hardly know what could have madeit worse.""Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered,what I have been telling you?--Let me be a little lightenedtoo in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me thatshe has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy thata better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings,will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, moregentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my miseryand my penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstantto her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearerto me than ever.""I will tell her all that is necessary to what maycomparatively be called, your justification. But you havenot 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 SirJohn Middleton, and when he saw who I was--for the firsttime these two months--he spoke to me.--That he had cutme ever since my marriage, I had seen without surpriseor resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest,stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concernfor your sister, could not resist the temptation of tellingme what he knew ought to--though probably he did notthink it would--vex me horridly. As bluntly as he couldspeak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwoodwas dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter thatmorning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her dangermost imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright,&c.--I was too much shocked to be able to pass myselfoff as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John.His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so muchof his ill-will was done away, that when we parted,he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of anold promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearingthat your sister was dying--and dying too, believing methe greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating mein her latest moments--for how could I tell what horridprojects might not have been imputed? One person Iwas 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 fixedon the irreparable injury which too early an independenceand 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 afeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made himextravagant and vain--Extravagance and vanity had made himcold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its ownguilty triumph at the expense of another, had involvedhim in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at leastits offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had ledhim likewise to punishment. The attachment, from whichagainst honour, against feeling, against every better interesthe had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable,governed every thought; and the connection, for the sakeof which he had, with little scruple, left her sisterto misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappinessto himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverieof this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutesby Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at leastequally 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 givehim hers's;--he pressed it with affection."And you do think something better of me thanyou did?"--said he, letting it fall, and leaning againstthe 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 hishappiness--and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviourmost likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging."As to that," said he, "I must rub through the worldas well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question.If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feelan interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means--itmay put me on my guard--at least, it may be something tolive 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 shallnow 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 lostto you than she is now.""But she will be gained by some one else. And ifthat some one should be the very he whom, of all others,I could least bear--but I will not stay to rob myselfof all your compassionate goodwill, by shewingthat 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.