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.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
223
“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.”