CHAPTER XLVIII.
Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant
event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty
itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a
hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to
prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own, some
mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for
the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married;
and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much
heightened the pain of the intelligence.
That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living,
surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy,
in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every
thing but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now
hastening down to her uncle’s. What had Edward felt on being within four
miles from Barton, on seeing her mother’s servant, on hearing Lucy’s
message!
They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.—Delaford,—that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished
to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant
in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager,
uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and
ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;—pursuing her
own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of
Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward—she knew not what
she saw, nor what she wished to see;—happy or unhappy,—nothing pleased
her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,—
but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though
uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent
friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.
“When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma’am?” was an inquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
“I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear
from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be
surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.”
This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback
drew her eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman, it
was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled
in expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Brandon; neither his air, nor his
height. Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked again.
He had just dismounted: she could not be mistaken,—it was Edward. She
moved away and sat down. “He comes from Mr. Pratt’s purposely to see us.
I will be calm; I will be mistress of myself.”
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look at
herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given
the world to be able to speak—and to make them understand that she hoped
no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;—but she
had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance
of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment
he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful
of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs.
Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that
daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided
in every thing, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave him her
hand, and wished him joy.
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor’s lips had
moved with her mother’s, and, when the moment of action was over, she
wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and
with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of
the weather.
Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the
case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat
as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt
obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner,
he replied in the affirmative.
Another pause.
Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said,
“Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?”
“At Longstaple!” he replied, with an air of surprise. “No, my mother is in
town.”
“I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, “to enquire
for Mrs. Edward Ferrars.”
She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after
some hesitation, said,—
“Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. Robert
Ferrars.”
“Mrs. Robert Ferrars!” was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even
her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from
his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to
do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them
and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried
voice,—
“Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.”
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as
made her hardly know where she was.
“Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.”
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon
as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought
would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than
at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw—or even heard, her emotion;
for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no
inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at
last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the
village—leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a
change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;—a perplexity which
they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.
