Julia’s elopement could affect her comparatively but little. She was amazed and shocked, but it could not occupy her. She was obliged to make herself think of it in the midst of all the agitating pressing joy.

There is nothing like employment for relieving sorrow. She had so much to do, that not even the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth—now fixed to the last point of certainty—could affect her as it had before. She had no time to be miserable.

Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone. Her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything readied. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. She was imparting happiness, unalloyed by the black communication which must briefly precede it. Her father and mother gave joyful consent to Susan’s going with her. There was general satisfaction with which their departure was regarded, and there was the ecstasy of Susan herself—all this served to support Fanny’s spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes. But how to find anything to hold Susan’s clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts.

As for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing—if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left to Mrs. Price, or the good offices of Rebecca (who still had not mended the carpet), everything was duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow. It was impossible to get much sleep to prepare them for their journey. The cousin who was travelling towards them completely occupied their agitated spirits—one all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, knowing what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings.

He—so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she entered the parlour.

He was alone, and met her instantly. Fanny found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just articulate, “My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!” She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself. And when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any further allusion.

“Have you breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?” were questions following each other rapidly.