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, will it 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's;—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.
埃丽诺一见到他顿时惊慌失色，情不自禁地扭身往外就走。她手抓住锁柄刚想开门，不想被威洛比抢上前一把拦住，只听他带着命令而不是恳求的口气说道：
“达什伍德小姐，请你留一下——半个小时一—十分钟，”
“不，先生，”埃丽诺毅然答道，“我不想留下。你不会有事找我的。我想仆人忘了告诉你，帕尔默先生不在家。”
“即使他们告诉我，”威洛比激动地暖道，“帕尔默先生及其亲属都见阎王去了，也休想把我赶出门。我是来找你的，只找你一个人。”
“找我！”埃丽诺极其惊愕地说——“好吧，先生—一快说吧——如果可以的话，不要那么激动。”
“请你坐下，这两点我都能做到。”
埃丽诺踌躇了一下，有些茫然不知所措。她忽然想到，说不定布兰登上校会来这里撞见他。不过，她答应听他说下去，她不仅要讲信用，而且她的好奇心也给勾起来了。她思讨了片刻，觉得为了谨慎起见，还是让他快说快完，而要快说快完，她最好顺从他的意思，于是她悄悄走到桌边，坐下。威洛比坐到对面的椅子上，足足有半分钟工夫，两人没有说话。
“请快说吧，先生，”埃丽诺不附烦地说。“我没有闲工夫。”
威洛比坐在那儿像是在沉思，似乎没有听见她的话。
停了一刻，他突然说道：“你妹妹已经脱离危险。我是从仆人那里听说的。感谢上帝！可这是真的吗？的确是真的吗？”
埃丽诺不肯吱声。威洛比更加急切地又问了一次：
“看在上帝的份上，告诉我她脱离危险了没有？”
“我们希望她脱离危险了。”
威洛比立起身，走到房间对面。
“我若是半个小时以前得知这些情况—一可是既然我已经来了”—一他又回到座位上，装作快活的样子说道—一“这又有什么关系呢？达什伍德小姐—一也许这是我们最后一次一一就让我们快快乐乐地相见这么一次吧。我现在倒很有兴致。老实告诉我”——他两颊唰地变得通红——“你认为我是个坏人，还是个蠢人？”
埃丽诺更加惊讶地看着他。她在想，他一定喝醉了。不然，就很难解释他这奇怪的来访、奇怪的举止。因为有这样的印象，她立即站起身，说道：
“威洛比先生，我劝你现在还是回到库姆。我没有闲工夫和你呆在一起。不管你找我有什么事，最好还是等到明天，可以想得更周到，解释得更清楚。”
“我明白你的意思，”威洛比意味深长地微微一笑，带着极其镇定的语气说道。“是的，我喝得醉醺醺的。我在马尔博罗吃了点冷牛肉，喝上一品脱黑啤酒，就醉倒了。”
“在马尔博罗！”埃丽诺嚷道，越来越不明白他要干什么。
“是的——我今天早晨八点离开伦敦，从那之后，我只走出马车十分钟，在马尔博罗吃了点饭。”
威洛比说话的时候，态度稳重，两眼炯炯有神，这就使埃丽诺认识到，不管他会抱有什么不可宽恕的愚蠢动机，但他不是由于喝醉酒才来到克利夫兰。埃丽诺考虑了片刻，然后说道：
“威洛比先生，你应该明白，而我当然是明白的——出了这些事情之后，你再如此这般地来到这里，硬要找我谈话，那你一定有什么特殊理由啦。你来这里究竟是什么意思？”
“我的意思是，”威洛比郑重有力地说道，“如果可能的话，使你比现在少恨我一点。我想为过去作点解释，表示点歉意——把全部的心里话说给你听听，让你相信：我虽说一直是个傻瓜蛋，但并非一直都是个坏蛋——以此能取得玛一—你妹妹的某种谅解。”
“这是你来这里的真实原因？”
“的的确确是这样，”威洛比答道，语气非常热切，使埃丽诺顿时想起了过去的威洛比。她情不自禁地觉得他是诚恳的。
“如果就为这个，那你早就可以满意了，因为玛丽安已经宽恕了你——她早就宽恕了你。”
“真的：”威洛比带着同样急切的语气嚷道。“那么她是没到时候就宽恕了我。不过她会再次宽恕我的，而且理由更加充分。好啦，现在可以听我说了吧？”
埃丽诺点点头表示同意。
她期待着，只见威洛比略思片刻，然后说道：“我不知道你是如何解释我对你妹妹的行为的，把什么邪恶的动机归罪到我身上。也许你不大会瞧得起我了，不过还是值得听我说说，我要源源本本地说给你听听。我最初与你一家人结识的时候，并没有别的用心、别的意图，只想使我在德文郡的日子过得愉快些，实际上是比以往过得更愉快。你妹妹那可爱的姿容和有趣的举止不可能不引起我的喜爱。而她对我，几乎从一开始就有点——仔细想想她当时的情况，想想她那副样子，简直令人吃惊，我的心竟然那么麻木不仁！不过应该承认，我起先只是被激起了虚荣心。我不顾她的幸福，只想到自己的快活，任凭我过去一贯沉溺其中的那种感情在心里兴风作浪，于是便干方百计地去讨好她，而并不想报答她的钟情。”
听到这里，达什伍德小姐向他投去极其愤怒、极其鄙夷的目光，打断了他的话头，对他说：
“威洛比先生，你没有必要再说下去，我也没有必要再听下去。像这样的话头不会导致任何结果，不要让我痛苦地听你说下去。”
“我一定要你听完，”威洛比答道。“我的财产历来不多，可我一贯大手大脚，一贯爱同比自己收入多的人交往。我成年以后，甚至我想是在成年以前，欠债逐年增多。虽然我的表姑史密斯太太一去世我就会获救，但那靠不住，很可能遥遥无期，于是我一直想娶个有钱的女人，以便重振家业。因此，让我去爱你妹妹，那是不可思议的。我是这样的卑鄙、自私、残忍——对此，达什伍德小姐，即便是你，不管用多么愤慨、多么鄙夷的目光加以谴责，都不会过分——我就是采取这样的行为，一方面想赢得她的喜爱，另一方面又不想去爱她。不过，有一点可以说明一下，即使在充满自私和虚荣的可怕情况下，我也不知道我造成了多大的危害，因为我当时还不懂得什么是爱情。但是我后来懂得了吗？这很值得怀疑，因为假若我真的爱她，我会牺牲感情而去追求虚荣和贪婪吗？再说，我会牺牲她的感情吗？可是我偏偏这样做了。我一心想避免陷入相对的贫穷，其实，有了她的恩爱和友谊，贫穷一点也不可怕。如今我虽然发了财，但是我失去了可以给我带来幸福的一切东西。”
“这么说来，”埃丽诺有点心软地说道，“你确实认为你一度爱过她啦。”，
“见到这样的丰姿美貌，这样的柔情蜜意而不动心！天下有哪个男人做得到呢！是的，我不知不觉地渐渐发现我从心里喜欢她。我生平最幸福的时刻，就是同她在一起度过的。那时，我觉得自己的用心正大光明，感情无可指责。不过，即便在当时，虽说我下定决心向她求爱，但是由于我不愿意在极其窘迫的境况下与她订婚，因此便极不恰当地一天天拖延下去。在这里，我不想进行争辩——也不想停下来让你数落我多么荒唐。本来是义不容辞的事情，我却迟迟疑疑地不讲情义，真比荒唐还糟糕。事实证明，我是个狡猾的傻瓜，谨小慎微地制造机会，使自己永远成为一个不齿于人类的可怜虫。不过，我最后终于拿定主意，一有机会与她单独相会，就向她表明我一直在追求她，公开对她说我爱她。事实上，我早已在尽力设法表露这种爱。但是，在这当口——就在随后的儿个钟头里，我还没能找到机会私下同她交谈，却出现了一个情况．—一一个不幸的情况，使得我的决心、我的幸福毁于一旦。我的事情败露了，”一说到这里，他有些犹豫，不禁垂下了头。“史密斯太太不知道怎么听说了，我想是哪个远房亲戚告密的，这个亲戚一心想使我失宠于史密斯太太，便告发了我的私情，我与别人的瓜葛——但是我不需要亲自再作解释，”他补充说，面孔涨得通红，直拿探询的目光望着埃丽诺。“你和布兰登上校的关系特别亲密——你大概早就“是的，”埃丽诺答道，脸色同样变得通红，但她重新狠了狠心，决定不再怜悯他。“我全都听说了。坦白地说，我无法理解，在这起可怕的事件中，你有哪一点能给自己开脱罪责。”
“请你不要忘记，”威洛比嚷道，“你是听谁说的。那会公平无私吗？我承认，伊丽莎的身份和人格应该受到我的尊重。我并不想替自己辩解，但是也不能让你认为：我就无可辩解了，而她因为受了损害就无可指责了，好像因为我是个浪荡子，她就一定是个圣人。如果她那强烈的感情和贫乏的理智——然而，我并非有意为自己辩护。她对我的一片深情，应该受到更好的对待，我经常怀着自咎的心情，缅怀她的柔情蜜意，而这股柔情蜜意在一个短时期里不能不引起我的反响，我但愿——我由衷地但愿，要是没有这码事就好了。我不仅伤害了我自己，而且还伤害了另一个人，此人对我的一片深情（我可以这样说吗？）简直不亚于那个姑娘的，此人的心地—一哦！真是高尚无比！”
“然而，你对那个不幸姑娘的冷漠无情——尽管我很不愿意谈论这件事，但我还是一定要说——你的冷漠无情并不能为你对她残酷的弃置不顾作辩解。你不要以为借口她脆弱，天生缺乏理智，就可以为你自己的蛮横残忍作辩解。你应该知道，当你在德文郡尽情享乐，欢天喜地地追求新欢的时候，她却陷入了穷困潦倒的深渊。”
“我以名誉担保，我并不知道这个情况，”威洛比急切地答道。“我不记得忘了告诉她我的地址。况且，普通常识就能告诉她如何查到。”
“好啦，先生，史密斯太太说了些什么？”
“她一见到我就立即责备我的过失，我的窘态可想而知。她这个人一向洁身自好、思想正统、不晓世故一—这一切都对我不利。事情本身我无法否认，企图大事化小也是徒劳无益的。我相信，她事前就大体上对我的行为准则发生了怀疑，而且对我这次来访期间对她不够关心、很少把时间花在她身上，感到不满。总之一句话，最后导致了总决裂。也许，我有一个办法可以挽救自己。在她最崇尚道德的时候（慈善的女人！），她表示如果我愿意娶伊丽莎，她就原谅我的过去。这是不可能的一—于是她正式宣布不再喜爱我，把我赶出了家门。就在事情发生之后的那天夜里——我第二天早晨就得离开——我一直在反复考虑将来怎么办。思想斗争是激烈的——但结束得太突兀。我爱玛丽安，而且我深信她也爱我——可是这都不足以克服我对贫穷的恐惧心理，不足以克服我贪财爱富的错误思想。我本来就有这种自然倾向，再加上尽跟些大手大脚的人混在—起，进一步助长了这些错误思想。我当时有理由认为，我目前的妻子是靠得住的，只要我愿意向她求婚就行，我自以为谨慎考虑—下也没有别的出路。可是我还没来得及离开德文郡，便遇到一个令人苦恼的场面。就在那天，我约定同你们一道吃饭，因而必须对我不能践约表示道歉。但是，究竟是写信，还是当面陈说，我一直举棋不定。去见玛丽安吧，我感到这很可怕。我甚至怀疑我再见到她能否不动摇自己的决心。可是事实证明，我在这点上低估了自己的气量；因为我去了，见到了她，发现她很痛苦，我离开她时她仍然很痛苦——我离开了她，希望永远别再见到她。”
“威洛比先生，你为什么要去呢？”埃丽诺用责备的口吻说道。“写一封信就足够了，为什么一定要去呢？”
“这对我的自尊心是必要的，我不忍心就这样离开乡下，让你们和左邻右舍怀疑我与史密斯太太之间真的出了什么事，因此，我决定在去霍尼顿的途中，顺便到乡舍看看。见到你妹妹确实很可怕。而且更糟糕的是，我只见到她一个人。你们都不在，不晓得到哪儿去了。我头天夜里才离开她，当时我心里暗暗下定决心，一定要对得起她：只要再多几个小时，她就永远属于我的了。我记得，我从乡舍往艾伦汉走去时，不知有多高兴，多快活，自鸣得意的，逢人便乐：但是，在我们友好相处的这最后一次会见中，我怀着一种内疚的感觉来到她的跟前，简直连掩饰感情的能力都没有了。当我告诉她我必须马上离开德文郡时，她是那样悲伤，那样失望，那样懊悔——我永远不会忘怀。另外，她还那样信赖我，信任我！哦，上帝！我是个多么狠心的无赖！”
两人沉默了一阵。埃丽诺首先开口。
“你告诉她你不久就会回来？”
“我不知道告诉了她些什么，”威洛比不耐烦地答道。“毫无疑问，这与其说是由于过去的缘故，不如说是由于后来的缘故。我想不起来说了些什么——想也无用。接着，你亲爱的母亲进来了，她那样和蔼可亲，那样推心置腹，使我愈加痛苦。谢天谢地！这确实使我感到痛苦。我当时很悲伤。达什伍德小姐，你不可能知道，回想过去的悲伤对我是一种宽慰。我憎恨自己太愚蠢，太卑鄙，过去忍受的一切痛苦如今反倒使我感到洋洋得意，欣喜万分。你瞧，我走了，离开了我喜爱的人，去找那些我并不感兴趣的人。我进城的途中——我是骑自己的马走的，路上也没人作伴，因而无聊得很——没有个人可以说说话＿＿心里却是多么愉快——展望未来，一切都那么引入入胜！回顾巴顿，多么令人宽慰的情景！哦！那是一次愉快的旅行。”
他停住了。
“嗯，先生，”埃丽诺说，她虽然怜悯他，但是又急于想让他快走。“就这些？”
“就这些！——不——难道你忘了城里发生的事情？那封卑鄙的信！她没给你看？”
“看过，来往的信件我都看过。”
“我收到她第一封信的时候（因为我一直呆在城里，信马上就收到了），我当时的心情—一用常言说，不可名状。用更简单的话来说——也许简单得令人无动于衷——我的心情非常痛苦。那一字字、一行行，用个陈腐的比喻来说——假使那亲爱的写信人在这里的话，她会禁止使用这个比喻的———犹如一把把利剑刺进我的心窝。听说玛丽安就在城里，用同样陈腐的比喻说一—如同晴天霹雳，晴天游雳，利剑钻心！她会狠狠责备我的！她的情趣、她的见解——我相信我比对自己的情趣和见解更了解，当然也更亲切。”
埃丽诺的心在这次异乎寻常的谈话过程中经历了多次变化，现在不觉又软了下来。然而，她觉得自己有义务制止她的同伴抱有最后的那种想法。
“这是不正常的，威洛比先生。别忘了你是有妇之夫。你只要说些你认为我的确要听的内容。”
“玛丽安在信中对我说，她仍然像以前那样爱我——尽管我们分离了许多个星期，她的感情始终不渝，她也深信我的感情始终不渝。这些话唤起了我的悔恨之感。我说唤起了，那是因为久居伦敦，忙于事务也好，到处放荡也好，我渐渐心安理得了，变成了一个冷酷无情的恶棍。我自以为对她情淡爱弛，便硬是认为她对我也一定情淡爱弛。我对自己说，我们过去的倾心相爱只不过是闲散无聊时干的一桩区区小事，而且还要耸耸肩膀，证明事情确实如此。为了堵住一切责难，消除一切顾忌，我时常暗自说道，‘我将非常高兴地听说她嫁给了个好人家。’可是这封信使我进一步认清了自己。我感到，她对我比天下任何女人都无比可亲，而我却无耻地利用了她。但是，我和格雷小姐的事情刚刚确定，退却是不可能的。我唯一的办法就是避开你们两个人。我没有给玛丽安回信，想以此避开她的进一步注意。我一度甚至决定不去伯克利街。但是我最后断定，最明智的办法还是装成一个普通的朋友，摆出一副冷漠的神气，于是有天早晨，我眼瞅着你们都出了门，走远了，便进去留下了我的名片。”
“眼瞅着我们出了门？”
“正是如此。你若是听说我经常在注视你们，多次差一点撞见你们，你准会感到惊讶。你们的马车驶过的时候，我钻过好多商店，为的是不让你们看见。我既然住在邦德街，几乎每天都能瞧见你们中的某一位。只有坚持不懈地加以提防，只有始终不渝地想要避开你们，才能使我们分离这么久。我尽量避开米德尔顿夫妇，以及我们双方都可能认识的其他任何人。但是，我不知道他们来到城里，我想就在约翰爵士进城的第一天，还有我去詹宁斯太太家的第二天，我两次撞见了他。他邀请我晚上到他府上参加舞会。若不是他为了引诱我，对我说你们姐妹俩都要光临，我当然会放心大胆地前往助兴。第二天早晨，我又接到玛丽安寄来的一封短信——仍然那样情深意长，开诚布公，朴实无华，推心置腹—一一切都使我的行为显得可恶透顶。我无法回信。我试了试，但是一句话也写不出来。不过我相信，我那天时时刻刻都在想着她。达什伍德小姐，如果你能可怜我，就请可怜可怜我当时的处境吧。我一门心思想着你妹妹，又不得不向另一位女人扮演一个愉快的情人的角色！那三四个星期是再糟糕不过了，最后，这就不用我说啦，我硬是碰上了你们。我表现了好一幅妙不可言的丑态！那是个好不痛苦的夜晚！一方面，玛丽安美丽得像个天使，用那样的语气在喊我！哦，上帝！她向我伸出手，一双迷人的眼睛带着深沉急切的神情盯着我的面孔，要我向她作解释！另一方面，索菲接着，两人沉思了一会儿。威洛比首先从沉思中醒来，随即说道：
“好啦，让我赶快说完走吧。你妹妹肯定有所好转，肯定脱离危险了吗？”
“我们对此确信无疑。”
“你那可怜的母亲也确信无疑？——她可溺爱玛丽安啦。”
“可是那封信，威洛比，你的那封信。对此你还有什么话要说吗？”
“是的，是的，这要特别说说。你知道，就在第二天早晨，你妹妹又给我写了封信。你见到她写了些什么内容。我当时正在埃利森府上吃早饭，有人从我住所给我带来了她的那封信，还有其他几封。不巧，索菲娅比我眼快，先看见了这封信。一见到那么大的一封信，纸张那么精致，还有那娟秀的笔迹，这一切立即引起了她的疑心。本来，她早就听人模模糊糊地传说，我爱上了德文郡的一位年轻小姐，而她头天夜里见到的情况表明，准是这位年轻小姐，于是，她变得比以往更加妒忌。因此，她装出一副开玩笑的神气（一个被你爱上的女人作出这番举动，那是很讨人喜欢的），马上拆开信，读了起来。她的无礼行径大有收获。她读到了使她感到沮丧的内容。她的沮丧我倒可以忍受，但是她的那种感情——她的那股恶意—一却无论如何也得平息下去。总而言之，你对我妻子的写信风格有何看法？细腻，温存，地地道道的女人气——难道不是吗？”
“你妻子！可信上是你自己的笔迹呀。”
“是的，不过我的功劳只在于，我奴隶般地抄写了一些我都没脸署名的语句。原信全是她写的，她的巧妙构思，她的文雅措词。可我有什么办法？我们订了婚，一切都在准备之中，几乎连日子都择定了——不过我说起话来像个傻瓜。什么准备呀！日子呀！说老实话，我需要她的钱。处在我这样的境地，为了避免引起关系破裂，那是什么事情都做得出来的。话说到底，我用什么样的语言写回信，这会使我的人格在玛丽安和她的亲友们的心目中产生什么结果呢？只能产生一个结果。我这事等于宣布我自己是个恶棍，至于做起来是点头哈腰还是吹胡子瞪眼，那是无关紧要的。‘照她们看来，我是永远毁灭了，’我对自己说，‘我永远同她们绝缘了。她们已经把我看成了无耻之徒，这封信只会使她们把我看成恶棍。’我一面这样推想，一面无所顾忌地抄写我妻子的话，退回了玛丽安的最后几件信物。她的三封信——不巧都放在我的皮夹子里，不然我会否认有这些信，并把它们珍藏起来。可我不得不把信拿出来，连吻一下都做不到。还有那绺头发——也放在那同一只皮夹子里，我随时带在身边，不想让夫人半讨好半使坏地给搜查了——那绺心爱的头发——每一件信物都给夺走了。”
“你搞错了，威洛比先生，你有很大的责任，”埃丽诺说，语气中情不自禁地流露出怜悯的感情。“你不该这样谈论威洛比夫人，或者我妹妹。那是你自己作出的抉择，不是别人强加给你的。你妻子有权利要求你待她客气些，至少得尊重她。她一定很爱你，否则不会嫁给你。你这么不客气地对待她，这么不尊重地议论她，这对玛丽安并不是什么补偿，我认为也不可能使你的良心得到安慰。”
“不要对我谈起我妻子，”威洛比说着，重重叹了日气。“她不值得你怜悯。我们结婚的时候，她知道我不爱她。就这样，我们结了婚，来到库姆大厦度蜜月，后来又回城寻欢作乐。达什伍德小姐，现在你是可怜我了呢，还是我这些话都白说了？依你看来，我的罪过是不是比以前少了点呢，——哪怕少一丁点也好。我的用心并非总是不好。我的罪过解释掉一点没有呢？”
“不错，你当然解释掉一点——只是一点。总的来说，你证明了你的过失没有我想象的那么大。你证明了你的心不是那么坏，远远没有那么坏。但是我简直不知道——你使别人遭受这么大的痛苦——我简直不知道，怎么会有比这更恶劣的事情。”
“你妹妹痊愈之后，你能不能把我对你说的话向她重复说说？让我在她的心目中像在你的心目中一样，也能减少一点罪过。你说她己经宽恕了我。让我这样设想：她若是更好地了解我的心，了解我当前的心情，她就会更加自然、更加本能、更加温和，而不那么一本正经地宽恕我。告诉她我的痛苦、我的忏悔，告诉她我从没对她变过心。如果你愿意的话，请告诉她我此刻比以往任何时候都爱她。”
“我会把那些相对来说可以为你开脱的话都告诉她。但是你还没向我说明你今天来这里究竟有什么特殊缘故，也没说明你是怎么听说她生病了？，
“昨天夜晚，我在德鲁里巷剧院的门厅里碰见了约翰．米德尔顿爵士，他一认出我是谁（这是近两个月来的第一次），就跟我说起话来。自我结婚以来，他一直不理睬我，对此我既不惊讶，也不怨恨。可是现在，他那么温厚诚实而又糊里糊涂的一个人，怀着对我的满腔愤怒，对你妹妹的深切关心，情不自禁地想把那些他觉得应该使我气恼的事情告诉我，虽然他很可能不认为我真会十分气恼。因此，他索性直接了当地告诉我：玛丽安，达什伍德在克利夫兰得了斑疹伤寒，生命垂危＿＿那天早晨收到詹宁斯太太的一封信说，她危在旦夕——帕尔默夫妇都给吓跑了，等等。我一听大为震惊，没法装出无动于衷的样子，即使感觉迟钝的约翰爵士也察觉了这一点。他见我心里难过，忍不住也心软了。他消除了几分敌意，临别时差一点跟我握握手，并说看见我他想起了老早答应送我一只小猎犬的事。我听说你妹妹生命垂危——而且垂危中把我视为人间的最大恶棍，在最后时刻蔑视我，仇视我，我心里是什么滋味呀？因为我怎么说得清有什么可怕的阴谋不能移栽到我身上呢？有一个人准会把我描绘得无所不为。我感到很可怕！我很快打定主意，今天早晨八点就登上马车。现在你全明白了。”
埃丽诺没有回答。她在沉思默想：一个才貌出众的人，天生的好脾气，坦率诚实，多情善感，谁想只因独立得过早，染上了游乎好闲、放荡不羁、爱好奢侈的坏习气，于是对他的心灵、性情和幸福造成了不可弥补的损害。世态人情使他变得奢侈虚荣；而奢侈虚荣又使他变得冷漠自私。为了达到追求虚荣的可耻目的，他不惜损人利己，结果卷入了一场真正的爱情，但是对奢侈的追求，或者至少是由此而引起的拮据，又要求他牺牲这真正的爱情。每一种错误倾向不仅导致他弃善从恶，而且使他受到惩罚。先前，他不顾道义，不顾情感，不顾一切利害关系，从表面上割断了这股爱情。可是现在，这种爱情再也得不到了，却又支配了他的全部思绪。再说那门婚事，他为此曾无所顾忌地让她妹妹吃尽了苦头，如今可能证明是他自己不幸的源泉，而且是更加不可挽回的不幸的源泉。埃丽诺如此这般地沉思了几分钟，蓦地被威洛比打断了。原来，他刚从至少是同样痛苦的沉思中惊醒过来，忽地站起身准备走，顺口说道：
“呆在这里没有用，我该走啦。”
“你回城吗？”
“不，去库姆大厦。我去那儿有事，过一两天再从那儿回城。再见。”
威洛比伸出手。埃丽诺不好不把手伸给他。威洛比亲热地一把握住了。
“你确实有点改变了对我的看法？”他说着松开她的手，一面靠在壁炉架上，仿佛忘记了他要走。
埃丽诺对他说，她确实有点改变了对他的看法。她还说原谅他，同情他，祝他幸运一—甚至对他的幸福表示关心——并对他在行动上如何最有效地促进自己的幸福，提出了忠告。威洛比的回答却并不十分令人鼓舞。
“说到这点，”他说，“我一定尽力勉勉强强地过下去。家庭幸福是不可能的。不过，加果我能想到你和你妹妹在关心我的命运和行动，这就会成为一一这会让我有所戒备——至少，这会成为生活的动力。当然，我永远失去了玛丽安。假如我有幸可以再次自由——”
埃丽诺一声斥责，打断了他的话头。
“好吧，”威洛比答道，“再见。我要走了，提心吊胆的就怕一件事。”
“你这是什么意思？”
“就怕你妹妹结婚。”
“你完全错了。你现在更休想得到她啦。”
“但是她会让别人获得的。假若那人偏偏就是我最不能容忍的他——不过，我不想呆在这里，让你看出我伤害得最深的人，倒是我最不能原谅的人，从而让你一点也不同情我，可怜我。再见，上帝保佑你！”
说着，他几乎是从房里跑着出去的。
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