feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_4_part_4.txt
feat_book_id: Sense and Sensibility.chapter 44
feat_summary_id: chapter 44
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-41-50", "summary": "Elinor is horrified at seeing Willoughby there, and shocked when he says his only business is with her. Willoughby asks if Marianne is recovering, and Elinor says she is; Willoughby says he is there to explain himself and gain some forgiveness, if he can. Willoughby says he led Marianne on out of vanity, and didn't know that she actually loved him; he finally began to love her as well, and would have proposed to her, had his aunt, Mrs. Smith, not annulled his legacy, and left him with heavy debts. Willoughby also tries to excuse himself for seducing and dumping Miss Williams, Colonel Brandon's ward, although he is making poor excuses for his truly inexcusable behavior. Apparently, he also avoided them while they were in town, and watched them to make sure he wouldn't stumble on them accidentally. He also says that the letter he sent Marianne was written by his wife, again attempting to excuse his cruel behavior. By saying that he also has no regard for his wife, and still loves Marianne, he attempts to gain Elinor's compassion; Elinor's opinion of him is somewhat bettered in being assured that he did, and still does, have affection for Marianne. Elinor cannot think him a total blackguard since he has been heavily punished for all his mistakes, and now must endure a loveless marriage for the sake of money; Willoughby leaves with this assurance, lamenting that Marianne is lost to him forever.", "analysis": "The reintroduction of Willoughby seems particularly designed to prove him as callow and cruel as his behavior to Marianne in London suggested. He is little like he was at Barton, and indeed seems like a pure villain at first; there could not be any greater contrast between his former appearance, and how he is acting to Elinor when he tries to make light of his completely irresponsible behavior. He does become somewhat more sympathetic through the course of the conversation, as flashes of sincerity become apparent, and his continuing regard for Marianne is confirmed. Elinor may be right, in believing that he would be of a character wholly as open and good as Marianne's, had he been possessed with less vanity and less tendency toward idleness and irresponsibility. But, Willoughby has been punished and deserves all of this punishment, although with his present bitterness there is perhaps little hope of him amending his character. Willoughby's cryptic statement about Marianne soon marrying someone he \"could least bear\" obviously is meant to foreshadow a union between Marianne and Colonel Brandon. However, how Willoughby would be able to guess at this is a mystery. The Colonel is certainly as resolved on Marianne as he always was, and has proved his honor, and his regard for her and her family, repeatedly. Although Marianne has not yet come to love or appreciate the Colonel, this final appearance of Willoughby will probably finally put her grief from her mind, and perhaps prepare her to accept the honorable affections of the Colonel"}
text: 
  
  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 the room,
  and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
  his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
  supplication,
  
  "Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to
  stay."
  
  "No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall NOT stay.  Your business
  cannot be with ME.  The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that
  Mr. Palmer was not in the house."
  
  "Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all
  his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
  door.  My business is with you, and only you."
  
  "With me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well, sir,--be quick--and if you
  can--less violent."
  
  "Sit down, and I will be both."
  
  She hesitated; she knew not what to do.  The possibility of Colonel
  Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.  But she had
  promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
  engaged.  After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that
  prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
  promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.  He
  took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
  either.
  
  "Pray be quick, sir,"--said Elinor, impatiently;--"I have no time to
  spare."
  
  He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
  hear her.
  
  "Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out
  of danger.  I heard it from the servant.  God be praised!--But is it
  true? is it really true?"
  
  Elinor would not speak.  He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
  eagerness.
  
  "For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"
  
  "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 his seat--"what does it
  signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time,
  perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood for
  gaiety.-- Tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his
  cheeks--"do you think me most a knave or a fool?"
  
  Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.  She began to
  think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and
  of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
  impression she immediately rose, saying,
  
  "Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not
  at leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may be
  with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow."
  
  "I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
  perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my cold
  beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."
  
  "At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
  what he would be at.
  
  "Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten
  minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
  nuncheon at Marlborough."
  
  The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
  spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
  bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
  said, after a moment's recollection,
  
  "Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after what
  has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon
  my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that you
  mean by it?"--
  
  "I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hate me
  one degree less than you do NOW.  I mean to offer some kind of
  explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
  to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
  blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
  forgiveness 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 all
  the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
  her 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
  me before she ought to have done it.  But she shall forgive me again,
  and on 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 my
  behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
  imputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is
  worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.  When I first
  became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
  in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
  to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
  Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but
  please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
  kind--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 must
  confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.  Careless of her happiness,
  thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
  always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
  means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
  of returning her affection."
  
  Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
  angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
  
  "It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
  to listen any longer.  Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
  any thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
  subject."
  
  "I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was
  never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
  associating with people of better income than myself.  Every year since
  my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
  though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
  that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
  some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by 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, even of yours, Miss
  Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner,
  trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--But
  one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish
  vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I
  did not THEN know what it was to love.  But have I 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 is more, could I have
  sacrificed hers?-- But I have done it.  To avoid a comparative poverty,
  which her affection and her society would have deprived 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 at
  one 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 hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my
  intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.  Even
  THEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I
  allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment
  of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my
  circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.  I will not reason here--nor
  will I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than
  absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already
  bound.  The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with
  great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself
  contemptible and wretched for ever.  At last, however, my resolution
  was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,
  to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly
  assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to
  display.  But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that
  were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her
  in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin
  all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.  A discovery took
  place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"Mrs. Smith had somehow or
  other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest
  it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but I
  need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an
  heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you
  have probably heard the whole story long ago."
  
  "I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
  anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all.  And how you
  will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
  confess 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 her
  character ought to have been respected by me.  I do not mean to justify
  myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
  nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
  and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint.  If the violence of
  her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean,
  however, to defend myself.  Her affection for me deserved better
  treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
  which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.  I
  wish--I heartily wish it had never been.  But I have injured more than
  herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I say
  it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! how
  infinitely superior!"--
  
  "Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say
  it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
  be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.  Do
  not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of
  understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
  You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in
  Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
  reduced to the extremest indigence."
  
  "But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it," he warmly replied; "I did not
  recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
  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 be
  guessed.  The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
  ignorance of the world--every thing was against me.  The matter itself
  I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.  She was
  previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
  general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
  the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my
  present visit.  In short, it ended in a total breach.  By one measure I
  might have saved myself.  In the height of her morality, good woman!
  she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.  That could
  not be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
  The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was
  spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.  The
  struggle was great--but it ended too soon.  My affection for Marianne,
  my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient
  to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false
  ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to
  feel, and expensive society had increased.  I had reason to believe
  myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I
  persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained
  for me to do.  A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave
  Devonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some
  apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.  But
  whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a
  point of long debate.  To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and
  I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my
  resolution.  In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity,
  as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,
  and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again."
  
  "Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a note
  would have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call?"
  
  "It was necessary to my own pride.  I could not bear to leave the
  country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the
  neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between
  Mrs. Smith and myself--and I resolved therefore on calling at the
  cottage, 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 evening
  before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!  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.
  
  "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."
  
  "Watched us out of the house!"
  
  "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 have entered many a
  shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.  Lodging as I did
  in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a
  glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant
  watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep
  out of your sight, could have separated us so long.  I avoided the
  Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was
  likely to prove an acquaintance in common.  Not aware of their being in
  town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his
  coming, and the day after 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 as
  an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have
  felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.  The next
  morning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate,
  open, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct most
  hateful.  I could not answer it.  I tried--but could not frame a
  sentence.  But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.
  If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.
  With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the
  happy lover to another woman!--Those three 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 figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--
  Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in
  such a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
  explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking
  solicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
  hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not 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 Marianne's sweet face as white as
  death.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the last
  manner in which she appeared 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
  to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw
  her last in this world.  She was before me, constantly before me, as I
  travelled, in the same look and hue."
  
  A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.  Willoughby first
  rousing 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 thing to
  say about that?"
  
  "Yes, yes, THAT in particular.  Your sister wrote to me again, you
  know, the very next morning.  You saw what she said.  I was
  breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was
  brought to me there from my lodgings.  It happened to catch Sophia's
  eye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the
  hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.  Some vague
  report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in
  Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding
  evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous
  than ever.  Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is
  delightful in a woman 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 all events it must be appeased.
  And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of
  letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?"
  
  "Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing."
  
  "Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as
  I was ashamed to put my name to.  The original was all her own--her own
  happy thoughts and gentle diction.  But what could I do!--we were
  engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am
  talking like a fool.  Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her money
  was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be
  done to prevent a rupture.  And after all, what did it signify to my
  character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
  my answer was couched?--It must have been 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 little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in their
  opinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from their
  society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will
  only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as,
  in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and
  parted with the last relics of Marianne.  Her three notes--unluckily
  they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their
  existence, and hoarded 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 always
  carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by
  Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--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 compassionate emotion;
  "you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
  sister.  You had made your own choice.  It was not forced on you.  Your
  wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.  She
  must be attached to you, or she would not have married you.  To treat
  her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
  Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."
  
  "Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "She does
  not deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we
  married.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
  happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity
  me, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be
  it only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was
  before?--My intentions were not always wrong.  Have I explained away
  any part of my guilt?"
  
  "Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved
  yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you.  You have
  proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.  But I hardly
  know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have
  made it worse."
  
  "Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
  telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well
  as in yours.  You tell me that she has forgiven me already.  Let me be
  able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
  feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
  gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.  Tell her of my misery and my
  penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
  you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."
  
  "I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
  called, your justification.  But you have not explained to me the
  particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."
  
  "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--he spoke to
  me.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
  surprise or resentment.  Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
  soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
  could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought
  to--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly.  As
  bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
  Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter that
  morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most
  imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &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 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;--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.  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.
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 44
target: Elinor is horrified at seeing Willoughby there, and shocked when he says his only business is with her. Willoughby asks if Marianne is recovering, and Elinor says she is; Willoughby says he is there to explain himself and gain some forgiveness, if he can. Willoughby says he led Marianne on out of vanity, and didn't know that she actually loved him; he finally began to love her as well, and would have proposed to her, had his aunt, Mrs. Smith, not annulled his legacy, and left him with heavy debts. Willoughby also tries to excuse himself for seducing and dumping Miss Williams, Colonel Brandon's ward, although he is making poor excuses for his truly inexcusable behavior. Apparently, he also avoided them while they were in town, and watched them to make sure he wouldn't stumble on them accidentally. He also says that the letter he sent Marianne was written by his wife, again attempting to excuse his cruel behavior. By saying that he also has no regard for his wife, and still loves Marianne, he attempts to gain Elinor's compassion; Elinor's opinion of him is somewhat bettered in being assured that he did, and still does, have affection for Marianne. Elinor cannot think him a total blackguard since he has been heavily punished for all his mistakes, and now must endure a loveless marriage for the sake of money; Willoughby leaves with this assurance, lamenting that Marianne is lost to him forever.
feat_summary_analysis: The reintroduction of Willoughby seems particularly designed to prove him as callow and cruel as his behavior to Marianne in London suggested. He is little like he was at Barton, and indeed seems like a pure villain at first; there could not be any greater contrast between his former appearance, and how he is acting to Elinor when he tries to make light of his completely irresponsible behavior. He does become somewhat more sympathetic through the course of the conversation, as flashes of sincerity become apparent, and his continuing regard for Marianne is confirmed. Elinor may be right, in believing that he would be of a character wholly as open and good as Marianne's, had he been possessed with less vanity and less tendency toward idleness and irresponsibility. But, Willoughby has been punished and deserves all of this punishment, although with his present bitterness there is perhaps little hope of him amending his character. Willoughby's cryptic statement about Marianne soon marrying someone he "could least bear" obviously is meant to foreshadow a union between Marianne and Colonel Brandon. However, how Willoughby would be able to guess at this is a mystery. The Colonel is certainly as resolved on Marianne as he always was, and has proved his honor, and his regard for her and her family, repeatedly. Although Marianne has not yet come to love or appreciate the Colonel, this final appearance of Willoughby will probably finally put her grief from her mind, and perhaps prepare her to accept the honorable affections of the Colonel