CHAPTER XII

linor 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.
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