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1"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
2have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was
3hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness
4on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided
5the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not
6aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day
7after 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
8as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself
9near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate, open, artless,
10confiding--everything that could make my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but could not frame a
11sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation
12as it was then. With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman! Those
13three 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
14figure I cut! what an evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in
15such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such
16speaking solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was--Well, it does
17not 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
18Marianne's sweet face as white as death. That was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in which she
19appeared 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
20to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world. She was before me,
21constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue." A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.
22Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus: "Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,
23certainly out of danger?" "We are assured of it." "Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne." "But the letter, Mr.
24Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?" "Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to
25me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter,
26with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine--and
27its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report
28had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the
29preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of
30playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.
31She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her
32passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased. And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of
33letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?" "Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing."
34"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was
35all her own--her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!--we were engaged, every thing in
36preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was
37necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it
38signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? It must have
39been 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
40little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion,' said I to myself: 'I am shut out for ever from their
41society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such
42were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics
43of Marianne. Her three notes,--unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and
44hoarded 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
45always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating
46virulence,--the dear lock,--all, every memento was torn from me." "You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,"
47said Elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this
48way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a
49claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To
50treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to
51your own conscience." "Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh; "she does not deserve your compassion.
52She knew I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and
53afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am
54I,--be it only one degree,--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong.
55Have I explained away any part of my guilt?" "Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little. You have proved
56yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.
57But I hardly know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have made it worse." "Will you repeat to
58your sister when she is recovered, what I have been telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as
59well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my
60heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified,
61forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you
62will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever." "I will tell her all that is necessary to what may
63comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now,
64nor how you heard of her illness."
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