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
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
220
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.