Sense and Sensibility
“They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy—Mrs. Ferrars told me.”
“And are they going farther westward?”
“Yes, ma’am—but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and
then they’d be sure and call here.”
Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed
in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to
Mr. Pratt’s, near Plymouth.
Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to
hear more.
“Did you see them off, before you came away?”
“No, ma’am—the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late.”
“Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?”
“Yes, ma’am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady—and she seemed vastly contented.”
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards 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 their 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 by 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 every thing 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 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.
CHAPTER XLIX.
Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to
what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
by all;—for after experiencing the blessings of _one_ imprudent
engagement, contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in
the failure of _that_, than the immediate contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him;—and considering that he was not altogether
inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in
need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how
soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
told. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at
four o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous
profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one
of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell
his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach
to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from
a woman whom he had long ceased to love;—and elevated at once to that
security with another, which he must have thought of almost with
despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was
brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;—and