Mrs Dashwood could think of no other question,and Thomas and the table-cloth,now alike needless,were soon after dismissed.Marianne had already sent to say that she should eat nothing more;Mrs Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost,and Margaret might think herself very well off,that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced,so much reason as they had often had to be careless of the meals,she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged,and Mrs Dashwood and Elinor were left to themselves,they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.Mrs Dashwood feared to hazard any remark,and ventured not to offer consolation.She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself;and justly concluded that everything had been expressly softened at the time,to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.She found that she had been misled by the careful,the considerate attention of her daughter,to think the attachment which once she had so well understood,much slighter in reality than she had been wont to believe,or than it was now proved to be.She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust,inattentive-nay,almost unkind to her Elinor:-that Marianne's affliction,because more acknowledged,more immediately before her,had too much engrossed her tenderness,and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much,certainly with less self-provocation,and greater fortitude.
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 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 so 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 everything 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 of 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 someone 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 anyone 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 stopped at their gate.It was a gentleman,it was Colonel Brandon himself.Now she should 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 should 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.Her 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 everything,met him with a look of forced complacency,gave him her hand,and wished him joy.
