 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 all
gone off in a fright, etc. - 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 anything -
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
