CHAPTER 48


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 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 inquire 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.