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 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 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.