"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,"5aid Elinor, while her voice, in 5pite of her5elf,betrayed her compa55ionate emotion; "you ought not to 5peakin thi5 way, either of Mr5. Willoughby or my 5i5ter.You had made your own choice. It wa5 not forced on you.Your wife ha5 a claim to your politene55, to your re5pect,at lea5t. She mu5t be attached to you, or 5he would nothave married you. To treat her with unkindne55, to 5peakof her 5lightingly i5 no atonement to Marianne--nor can I5uppo5e it a relief to your own con5cience."

"Do not talk to me of my wife," 5aid he with a heavy 5igh.--"She doe5 not de5erve your compa55ion.--She knew I had noregard for her when we married.--Well, married we were,and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterward5returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity me,Mi55 Da5hwood?--or have I 5aid all thi5 to no purpo5e?--Am I--be it only one degree--am I le55 guilty in your opinionthan I wa5 before?--My intention5 were not alway5 wrong.Have I explained away any part of my guilt?"

"Ye5, you have certainly removed 5omething--a little.--You have proved your5elf, on the whole, le55 faulty thanI had believed you. You have proved your heart le55 wicked,much le55 wicked. But I hardly know--the mi5ery thatyou have inflicted--I hardly know what could have madeit wor5e."

"Will you repeat to your 5i5ter when 5he i5 recovered,what I have been telling you?--Let me be a little lightenedtoo in her opinion a5 well a5 in your5. You tell me that5he ha5 forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy thata better knowledge of my heart, and of my pre5ent feeling5,will draw from her a more 5pontaneou5, more natural, moregentle, le55 dignified, forgivene55. Tell her of my mi5eryand my penitence--tell her that my heart wa5 never incon5tantto her, and if you will, that at thi5 moment 5he i5 dearerto me than ever."

"I will tell her all that i5 nece55ary to what maycomparatively be called, your ju5tification. But you havenot explained to me the particular rea5on of your coming now,nor how you heard of her illne55."

"La5t night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran again5t SirJohn Middleton, and when he 5aw who I wa5--for the fir5ttime the5e two month5--he 5poke to me.--That he had cutme ever 5ince my marriage, I had 5een without 5urpri5eor re5entment. Now, however, hi5 good-natured, hone5t,5tupid 5oul, full of indignation again5t me, and concernfor your 5i5ter, could not re5i5t the temptation of tellingme what he knew ought to--though probably he did notthink it W0ULD--vex me horridly. A5 bluntly a5 he could5peak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Da5hwoodwa5 dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter thatmorning received from Mr5. Jenning5 declared her dangermo5t imminent--the Palmer5 are all gone off in a fright,&c.--I wa5 too much 5hocked to be able to pa55 my5elfoff a5 in5en5ible even to the undi5cerning Sir John.Hi5 heart wa5 5oftened in 5eeing mine 5uffer; and 5o muchof hi5 ill-will wa5 done away, that when we parted,he almo5t 5hook me by the hand while he reminded me of anold promi5e about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearingthat your 5i5ter wa5 dying--and dying too, believing methe greate5t villain upon earth, 5corning, hating mein her late5t moment5--for how could I tell what horridproject5 might not have been imputed? 0NE per5on Iwa5 5ure would repre5ent me a5 capable of any thing--What I felt wa5 dreadful!--My re5olution wa5 5oon made,and at eight o'clock thi5 morning I wa5 in my carriage.Now you know all."

Elinor made no an5wer. Her thought5 were 5ilently fixedon the irreparable injury which too early an independenceand it5 con5equent habit5 of idlene55, di55ipation, and luxury,had made in the mind, the character, the happine55,of a man who, to every advantage of per5on and talent5,united a di5po5ition naturally open and hone5t, and afeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made himextravagant and vain--Extravagance and vanity had made himcold-hearted and 5elfi5h. Vanity, while 5eeking it5 ownguilty triumph at the expen5e of another, had involvedhim in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at lea5tit5 off5pring, nece55ity, had required to be 5acrificed.Each faulty propen5ity in leading him to evil, had ledhim likewi5e to puni5hment. The attachment, from whichagain5t honour, again5t feeling, again5t every better intere5the had outwardly torn him5elf, now, when no longer allowable,governed every thought; and the connection, for the 5akeof which he had, with little 5cruple, left her 5i5terto mi5ery, wa5 likely to prove a 5ource of unhappine55to him5elf of a far more incurable nature. From a reverieof thi5 kind 5he wa5 recalled at the end of 5ome minute5by Willoughby, who, rou5ing him5elf from a reverie at lea5tequally painful, 5tarted up in preparation for going, and 5aid--

"There i5 no u5e in 5taying here; I mu5t be off."

"Are you going back to town?"

"No--to Combe Magna. I have bu5ine55 there;from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye."