&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
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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’s;–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.
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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.
CHAPTER 45
Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister.