Sense and Sensibility

by Jane Austen

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him,obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit theroom, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action wassuspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather ofcommand than supplication--

  "Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you tostay."

  "No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall _not_ stay. Yourbusiness cannot be with _me._ The servants, I suppose, forgot to tellyou that Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

  "Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and allhis relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from thedoor. My business is with you, and only you."

  "With me!"--in the utmost amazement;--"well, sir--be quick--and if youcan--less violent."

  "Sit down, and I will be both."

  She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of ColonelBrandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she hadpromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor wasengaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding thatprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would bestpromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. Hetook the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said byeither.

  "Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently; "I have no time tospare."

  He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not tohear her.

  "Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is outof danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!--But is ittrue? is it really true?"

  Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greatereagerness.

  "For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"

  "_I entreat you to stay._"]

  "We hope she is."

  He rose up, and walked across the room.

  "Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I _am_here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to hisseat,--"what does it signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be thelast time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine moodfor gaiety. Tell me honestly,"--a deeper glow overspreading hischeeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?"

  Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began tothink that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, andof such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with thisimpression she immediately rose, saying--

  "Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am notat leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may bewith me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

  "I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voiceperfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my coldbeef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."

  "At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understandwhat he would be at.

  "Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only tenminutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me anuncheon at Marlborough."

  The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as hespoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly mightbring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, shesaid, after a moment's recollection--

  "Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that afterwhat has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourselfupon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, thatyou mean by it?"--

  "I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hateme one degree less than you do _now._ I mean to offer some kind ofexplanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my wholeheart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always ablockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something likeforgiveness from Ma----, from your sister."

  "Is this the real reason of your coming?"

  "Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought allthe former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself madeher think him sincere.

  "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_,she has _long_ forgiven you."

  "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven mebefore she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, andon more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?"

  Elinor bowed her assent.

  "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side,and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for mybehaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may haveimputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it isworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I firstbecame intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no otherview in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I wasobliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever donebefore. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could notbut please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of akind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I mustconfess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I hadalways been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, byevery means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without anydesign of returning her affection."

  Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the mostangry contempt, stopped him, by saying--

  "It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or forme to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followedby any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on thesubject."

  "I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune wasnever large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit ofassociating with people of better income than myself. Every yearsince my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to mydebts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to setme free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, ithad been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstancesby 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, evenof yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,--I was acting inthis manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought ofreturning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horridstate of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury Imeditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. But haveI ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved,could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what ismore, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid acomparative poverty, which her affection and her society would havedeprived 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 atone 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 hoursof my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions werestrictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however,when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myselfmost improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it,from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while mycircumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here--norwill I stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worsethan absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour wasalready bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool,providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity ofmaking myself
contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, myresolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engageher alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, andopenly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such painsto display. But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hoursthat were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking withher in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance--toruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery tookplace,"--here he hesitated and looked down. "Mrs. Smith had somehow orother been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whoseinterest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, aconnection--but I need not explain myself farther," he added, lookingat her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye,--"yourparticular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story longago."

  "I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heartanew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all. And how youwill explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, Iconfess 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 hercharacter ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justifymyself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I havenothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,and because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If theviolence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do notmean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved bettertreatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall thetenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating anyreturn. I wish--I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injuredmore than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection forme--(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whosemind--Oh! how infinitely superior!"

  "Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must sayit, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may wellbe--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Donot think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect ofunderstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself inDevonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she wasreduced to the extremest indigence."

  "But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it," he warmly replied; "I didnot recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and commonsense might have told her how to find it out."

  "Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

  "She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may beguessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, herignorance of the world,--every thing was against me. The matter itselfI could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She waspreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct ingeneral, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in mypresent visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure Imight have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That couldnot be; and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--wasspent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. Thestruggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne,my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was allinsufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better ofthose false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturallyinclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason tobelieve myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her,and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudenceremained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before Icould leave Devonshire: I was engaged to dine with you on that veryday; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking thisengagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it inperson, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would bedreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keepto my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my ownmagnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw hermiserable, and left her miserable;--and left her hoping never to seeher again."

  "Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "anote would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary tocall?"

  "_I was formally dismissed._"]

  "It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave thecountry in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of theneighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed betweenMrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at thecottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the eveningbefore, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! Afew hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember howhappy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage toAllenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But inthis, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a senseof guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Hersorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that Iwas obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forgetit--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 thanwas due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much morethan 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 herkindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I wasmiserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort itgives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myselffor the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my pastsufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, Iwent, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I wasonly indifferent. My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my ownreflections so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing soinviting!--when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh,it was a blessed journey!"

  He stopped.

  "Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient forhis departure, "and this is all?"

  "Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?Did she show it you?"

  "Yes, I saw every note that passed."

  "When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I wasin town the whole time,) what I felt is, in the common phrase, not tobe expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise anyemotion, my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every wordwas--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,would forbid--a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in townwas, in the same language, a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers!what a reproof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions--Ibelieve they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure theyare dearer."

  Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of thisextraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt ither 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 tohear."

  "Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as informer days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had beenseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full offaith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I sayawakened, because time and London, business and dis
sipation, had insome measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardenedvillain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancythat she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself ofour past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up myshoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall beheartily glad to hear she is well married.' But this note made me knowmyself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than anyother woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. Butevery thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreatwas impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent noanswer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from herfarther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to callin Berkeley Street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air ofa cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you allsafely out of the house one morning, and left my name."

  "Watched us out of the house!"

  "Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, howoften I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many ashop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I didin Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch aglimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constantwatchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keepout of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided theMiddletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who waslikely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being intown, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day ofhis coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. Heasked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, Ishould have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. Thenext morning brought another short note from Marianne--stillaffectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make_my_ conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but couldnot frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment ofthe day. If you _can_ pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as itwas _then._ With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forcedto play the happy lover to another woman! Those three or four weekswere worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you wereforced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agonyit was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling meWilloughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, askingme for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in suchspeaking solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil onthe other hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it isover now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could;but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death._That_ was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner inwhich she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thoughtof her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me toimagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw herlast in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as Itravelled, in the same look and hue."

  "_I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight._"]

  A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby firstrousing himself, broke it thus:

  "Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,certainly out of danger?"

  "We are assured of it."

  "Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne."

  "But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thingto say about that?"

  "Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, youknow, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfastingat the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to methere from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before itcaught mine;--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writingaltogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report hadreached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening hadmarked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in awoman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at allevents it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of mywife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--wasit not?"

  "Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing."

  "Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences asI was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own--her ownhappy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! we wereengaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but I amtalking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money wasnecessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to bedone to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to mycharacter in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in whatlanguage my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. Mybusiness was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it witha bow or a bluster was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever intheir opinion,' said I to myself; 'I am shut out for ever from theirsociety, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letterwill only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were myreasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied mywife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her threenotes--unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should havedenied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to putthem up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that tooI had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was nowsearched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dearlock--all, every memento was torn from me."

  "You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor,while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionateemotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs.Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was notforced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to yourrespect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not havemarried you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightinglyis no atonement to Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your ownconscience."

  "Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh. "She doesnot deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when wemarried. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to behappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pityme, Miss Dashwood? or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,--beit only one degree,--am I less guilty in your opinion than I wasbefore? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away anypart of my guilt?"

  "Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little. You have provedyourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You haveproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardlyknow--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what couldhave made it worse."

  "Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I havebeen telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion aswell as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let mebe able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of mypresent feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural,more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and mypenitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and ifyou will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."

  "I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively becalled, your justification. But you have not explained to me theparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of herillness."

  "Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton,and when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months--hespoke to me. That he had c
ut me ever since my marriage, I had seenwithout surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured,honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern foryour sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what heknew ought to, though probably he did not think it _would_, vex mehorridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me thatMarianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letterthat morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger mostimminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too muchshocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to theundiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, healmost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promiseabout a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister wasdying, and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell whathorrid projects might not have been imputed? _One_ person I was surewould 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 wasin my carriage. Now you know all."

  Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on theirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequenthabits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, thecharacter, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of personand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and afeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant andvain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense ofanother, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, orat least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Eachfaulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise topunishment. The attachment, from which against honour, againstfeeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself,now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and theconnection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, lefther sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness tohimself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kindshe was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who,rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up inpreparation 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 aday or two. Good bye."

  He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;--hepressed it with affection.

  "And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?"--said he,letting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece as if forgettinghe was to go.

  Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished himwell--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentlecounsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer wasnot 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. If, however, I am allowedto 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 besomething 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 livein 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 isnow."

  "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one shouldbe the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will notstay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing thatwhere I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,--God blessyou!"

  And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.