Sense and Sensibility

CHAPTER 33

Af­ter some op­po­si­tion, Mar­ianne yield­ed to her sis­ter’s en­treaties, and con­sent­ed to go out with her and Mrs. Jen­nings one morn­ing for half an hour. She ex­press­ly con­di­tioned, how­ev­er, for pay­ing no vis­its, and would do no more than ac­com­pa­ny them to Gray’s in Sackville Street, where Eli­nor was car­ry­ing on a ne­go­ti­ation for the ex­change of a few old-​fash­ioned jew­els of her moth­er.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jen­nings rec­ol­lect­ed that there was a la­dy at the oth­er end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no busi­ness at Gray’s, it was re­solved, that while her young friends trans­act­ed their’s, she should pay her vis­it and re­turn for them.

On as­cend­ing the stairs, the Miss Dash­woods found so many peo­ple be­fore them in the room, that there was not a per­son at lib­er­ty to tend to their or­ders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quick­est suc­ces­sion; one gen­tle­man on­ly was stand­ing there, and it is prob­able that Eli­nor was not with­out hope of ex­cit­ing his po­lite­ness to a quick­er despatch. But the cor­rect­ness of his eye, and the del­ica­cy of his taste, proved to be be­yond his po­lite­ness. He was giv­ing or­ders for a tooth­pick-​case for him­self, and till its size, shape, and or­na­ments were de­ter­mined, all of which, af­ter ex­am­in­ing and de­bat­ing for a quar­ter of an hour over ev­ery tooth­pick-​case in the shop, were fi­nal­ly ar­ranged by his own in­ven­tive fan­cy, he had no leisure to be­stow any oth­er at­ten­tion on the two ladies, than what was com­prised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of no­tice which served to im­print on Eli­nor the re­mem­brance of a per­son and face, of strong, nat­ural, ster­ling in­signif­icance, though adorned in the first style of fash­ion.

Mar­ianne was spared from the trou­ble­some feel­ings of con­tempt and re­sent­ment, on this im­per­ti­nent ex­am­ina­tion of their fea­tures, and on the pup­py­ism of his man­ner in de­cid­ing on all the dif­fer­ent hor­rors of the dif­fer­ent tooth­pick-​cas­es pre­sent­ed to his in­spec­tion, by re­main­ing un­con­scious of it all; for she was as well able to col­lect her thoughts with­in her­self, and be as ig­no­rant of what was pass­ing around her, in Mr. Gray’s shop, as in her own bed­room.

At last the af­fair was de­cid­ed. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all re­ceived their ap­point­ment, and the gen­tle­man hav­ing named the last day on which his ex­is­tence could be con­tin­ued with­out the pos­ses­sion of the tooth­pick-​case, drew on his gloves with leisure­ly care, and be­stow­ing an­oth­er glance on the Miss Dash­woods, but such a one as seemed rather to de­mand than ex­press ad­mi­ra­tion, walked off with a hap­py air of re­al con­ceit and af­fect­ed in­dif­fer­ence.

Eli­nor lost no time in bring­ing her busi­ness for­ward, was on the point of con­clud­ing it, when an­oth­er gen­tle­man pre­sent­ed him­self at her side. She turned her eyes to­wards his face, and found him with some sur­prise to be her broth­er.

Their af­fec­tion and plea­sure in meet­ing was just enough to make a very cred­itable ap­pear­ance in Mr. Gray’s shop. John Dash­wood was re­al­ly far from be­ing sor­ry to see his sis­ters again; it rather gave them sat­is­fac­tion; and his in­quiries af­ter their moth­er were re­spect­ful and at­ten­tive.

Eli­nor found that he and Fan­ny had been in town two days.

“I wished very much to call up­on you yes­ter­day,” said he, “but it was im­pos­si­ble, for we were obliged to take Har­ry to see the wild beasts at Ex­eter Ex­change; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Fer­rars. Har­ry was vast­ly pleased. THIS morn­ing I had ful­ly in­tend­ed to call on you, if I could pos­si­bly find a spare half hour, but one has al­ways so much to do on first com­ing to town. I am come here to be­speak Fan­ny a seal. But to­mor­row I think I shall cer­tain­ly be able to call in Berke­ley Street, and be in­tro­duced to your friend Mrs. Jen­nings. I un­der­stand she is a wom­an of very good for­tune. And the Mid­dle­tons too, you must in­tro­duce me to THEM. As my moth­er-​in-​law’s re­la­tions, I shall be hap­py to show them ev­ery re­spect. They are ex­cel­lent neigh­bours to you in the coun­try, I un­der­stand.”

“Ex­cel­lent in­deed. Their at­ten­tion to our com­fort, their friend­li­ness in ev­ery par­tic­ular, is more than I can ex­press.”

“I am ex­treme­ly glad to hear it, up­on my word; ex­treme­ly glad in­deed. But so it ought to be; they are peo­ple of large for­tune, they are re­lat­ed to you, and ev­ery ci­vil­ity and ac­com­mo­da­tion that can serve to make your sit­ua­tion pleas­ant might be rea­son­ably ex­pect­ed. And so you are most com­fort­ably set­tled in your lit­tle cot­tage and want for noth­ing! Ed­ward brought us a most charm­ing ac­count of the place: the most com­plete thing of its kind, he said, that ev­er was, and you all seemed to en­joy it be­yond any thing. It was a great sat­is­fac­tion to us to hear it, I as­sure you.”

Eli­nor did feel a lit­tle ashamed of her broth­er; and was not sor­ry to be spared the ne­ces­si­ty of an­swer­ing him, by the ar­rival of Mrs. Jen­nings’s ser­vant, who came to tell her that his mis­tress wait­ed for them at the door.

Mr. Dash­wood at­tend­ed them down stairs, was in­tro­duced to Mrs. Jen­nings at the door of her car­riage, and re­peat­ing his hope of be­ing able to call on them the next day, took leave.

His vis­it was du­ly paid. He came with a pre­tence at an apol­ogy from their sis­ter-​in-​law, for not com­ing too; “but she was so much en­gaged with her moth­er, that re­al­ly she had no leisure for go­ing any where.” Mrs. Jen­nings, how­ev­er, as­sured him di­rect­ly, that she should not stand up­on cer­emo­ny, for they were all cousins, or some­thing like it, and she should cer­tain­ly wait on Mrs. John Dash­wood very soon, and bring her sis­ters to see her. His man­ners to THEM, though calm, were per­fect­ly kind; to Mrs. Jen­nings, most at­ten­tive­ly civ­il; and on Colonel Bran­don’s com­ing in soon af­ter him­self, he eyed him with a cu­rios­ity which seemed to say, that he on­ly want­ed to know him to be rich, to be equal­ly civ­il to HIM.

Af­ter stay­ing with them half an hour, he asked Eli­nor to walk with him to Con­duit Street, and in­tro­duce him to Sir John and La­dy Mid­dle­ton. The weath­er was re­mark­ably fine, and she read­ily con­sent­ed. As soon as they were out of the house, his en­quiries be­gan.

“Who is Colonel Bran­don? Is he a man of for­tune?”

“Yes; he has very good prop­er­ty in Dorset­shire.”

“I am glad of it. He seems a most gen­tle­man­like man; and I think, Eli­nor, I may con­grat­ulate you on the prospect of a very re­spectable es­tab­lish­ment in life.”

“Me, broth­er! what do you mean?”

“He likes you. I ob­served him nar­row­ly, and am con­vinced of it. What is the amount of his for­tune?”

“I be­lieve about two thou­sand a year.”

“Two thou­sand a-​year;” and then work­ing him­self up to a pitch of en­thu­si­as­tic gen­eros­ity, he added, “Eli­nor, I wish with all my heart it were TWICE as much, for your sake.”

“In­deed I be­lieve you,” replied Eli­nor; “but I am very sure that Colonel Bran­don has not the small­est wish of mar­ry­ing ME.”

“You are mis­tak­en, Eli­nor; you are very much mis­tak­en. A very lit­tle trou­ble on your side se­cures him. Per­haps just at present he may be un­de­cid­ed; the small­ness of your for­tune may make him hang back; his friends may all ad­vise him against it. But some of those lit­tle at­ten­tions and en­cour­age­ments which ladies can so eas­ily give will fix him, in spite of him­self. And there can be no rea­son why you should not try for him. It is not to be sup­posed that any pri­or at­tach­ment on your side–in short, you know as to an at­tach­ment of that kind, it is quite out of the ques­tion, the ob­jec­tions are in­sur­mount­able– you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Bran­don must be the man; and no ci­vil­ity shall be want­ing on my part to make him pleased with you and your fam­ily. It is a match that must give uni­ver­sal sat­is­fac­tion. In short, it is a kind of thing that”–low­er­ing his voice to an im­por­tant whis­per–“will be ex­ceed­ing­ly wel­come to ALL PAR­TIES.” Rec­ol­lect­ing him­self, how­ev­er, he added, “That is, I mean to say–your friends are all tru­ly anx­ious to see you well set­tled; Fan­ny par­tic­ular­ly, for she has your in­ter­est very much at heart, I as­sure you. And her moth­er too, Mrs. Fer­rars, a very good-​na­tured wom­an, I am sure it would give her great plea­sure; she said as much the oth­er day.”

Eli­nor would not vouch­safe any an­swer.

“It would be some­thing re­mark­able, now,” he con­tin­ued, “some­thing droll, if Fan­ny should have a broth­er and I a sis­ter set­tling at the same time. And yet it is not very un­like­ly.”

“Is Mr. Ed­ward Fer­rars,” said Eli­nor, with res­olu­tion, “go­ing to be mar­ried?”

“It is not ac­tu­al­ly set­tled, but there is such a thing in ag­ita­tion. He has a most ex­cel­lent moth­er. Mrs. Fer­rars, with the ut­most lib­er­al­ity, will come for­ward, and set­tle on him a thou­sand a year, if the match takes place. The la­dy is the Hon. Miss Mor­ton, on­ly daugh­ter of the late Lord Mor­ton, with thir­ty thou­sand pounds. A very de­sir­able con­nec­tion on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its tak­ing place in time. A thou­sand a-​year is a great deal for a moth­er to give away, to make over for ev­er; but Mrs. Fer­rars has a no­ble spir­it. To give you an­oth­er in­stance of her lib­er­al­ity:–The oth­er day, as soon as we came to town, aware that mon­ey could not be very plen­ty with us just now, she put bank-​notes in­to Fan­ny’s hands to the amount of two hun­dred pounds. And ex­treme­ly ac­cept­able it is, for we must live at a great ex­pense while we are here.”

He paused for her as­sent and com­pas­sion; and she forced her­self to say,

“Your ex­pens­es both in town and coun­try must cer­tain­ly be con­sid­er­able; but your in­come is a large one.”

“Not so large, I dare say, as many peo­ple sup­pose. I do not mean to com­plain, how­ev­er; it is un­doubt­ed­ly a com­fort­able one, and I hope will in time be bet­ter. The en­clo­sure of Nor­land Com­mon, now car­ry­ing on, is a most se­ri­ous drain. And then I have made a lit­tle pur­chase with­in this half year; East King­ham Farm, you must re­mem­ber the place, where old Gib­son used to live. The land was so very de­sir­able for me in ev­ery re­spect, so im­me­di­ate­ly ad­join­ing my own prop­er­ty, that I felt it my du­ty to buy it. I could not have an­swered it to my con­science to let it fall in­to any oth­er hands. A man must pay for his con­ve­nience; and it HAS cost me a vast deal of mon­ey.”

“More than you think it re­al­ly and in­trin­si­cal­ly worth.”

“Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for more than I gave: but, with re­gard to the pur­chase-​mon­ey, I might have been very un­for­tu­nate in­deed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not hap­pened to have the nec­es­sary sum in my banker’s hands, I must have sold out to very great loss.”

Eli­nor could on­ly smile.

“Oth­er great and in­evitable ex­pens­es too we have had on first com­ing to Nor­land. Our re­spect­ed fa­ther, as you well know, be­queathed all the Stan­hill ef­fects that re­mained at Nor­land (and very valu­able they were) to your moth­er. Far be it from me to re­pine at his do­ing so; he had an un­doubt­ed right to dis­pose of his own prop­er­ty as he chose, but, in con­se­quence of it, we have been obliged to make large pur­chas­es of linen, chi­na, &c. to sup­ply the place of what was tak­en away. You may guess, af­ter all these ex­pens­es, how very far we must be from be­ing rich, and how ac­cept­able Mrs. Fer­rars’s kind­ness is.”

“Cer­tain­ly,” said Eli­nor; “and as­sist­ed by her lib­er­al­ity, I hope you may yet live to be in easy cir­cum­stances.”

“An­oth­er year or two may do much to­wards it,” he grave­ly replied; “but how­ev­er there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid of Fan­ny’s green-​house, and noth­ing but the plan of the flow­er-​gar­den marked out.”

“Where is the green-​house to be?”

“Up­on the knoll be­hind the house. The old wal­nut trees are all come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine ob­ject from many parts of the park, and the flow­er-​gar­den will slope down just be­fore it, and be ex­ceed­ing­ly pret­ty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patch­es over the brow.”

Eli­nor kept her con­cern and her cen­sure to her­self; and was very thank­ful that Mar­ianne was not present, to share the provo­ca­tion.

Hav­ing now said enough to make his pover­ty clear, and to do away the ne­ces­si­ty of buy­ing a pair of ear-​rings for each of his sis­ters, in his next vis­it at Gray’s his thoughts took a cheer­fuller turn, and he be­gan to con­grat­ulate Eli­nor on hav­ing such a friend as Mrs. Jen­nings.

“She seems a most valu­able wom­an in­deed–Her house, her style of liv­ing, all be­speak an ex­ceed­ing good in­come; and it is an ac­quain­tance that has not on­ly been of great use to you hith­er­to, but in the end may prove ma­te­ri­al­ly ad­van­ta­geous.–Her invit­ing you to town is cer­tain­ly a vast thing in your favour; and in­deed, it speaks al­to­geth­er so great a re­gard for you, that in all prob­abil­ity when she dies you will not be for­got­ten.– She must have a great deal to leave.”

“Noth­ing at all, I should rather sup­pose; for she has on­ly her join­ture, which will de­scend to her chil­dren.”

“But it is not to be imag­ined that she lives up to her in­come. Few peo­ple of com­mon pru­dence will do THAT; and what­ev­er she saves, she will be able to dis­pose of.”

“And do you not think it more like­ly that she should leave it to her daugh­ters, than to us?”

“Her daugh­ters are both ex­ceed­ing­ly well mar­ried, and there­fore I can­not per­ceive the ne­ces­si­ty of her re­mem­ber­ing them far­ther. Where­as, in my opin­ion, by her tak­ing so much no­tice of you, and treat­ing you in this kind of way, she has giv­en you a sort of claim on her fu­ture con­sid­er­ation, which a con­sci­en­tious wom­an would not dis­re­gard. Noth­ing can be kinder than her be­haviour; and she can hard­ly do all this, with­out be­ing aware of the ex­pec­ta­tion it rais­es.”

“But she rais­es none in those most con­cerned. In­deed, broth­er, your anx­iety for our wel­fare and pros­per­ity car­ries you too far.”

“Why, to be sure,” said he, seem­ing to rec­ol­lect him­self, “peo­ple have lit­tle, have very lit­tle in their pow­er. But, my dear Eli­nor, what is the mat­ter with Mar­ianne?– she looks very un­well, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?”

“She is not well, she has had a ner­vous com­plaint on her for sev­er­al weeks.”

“I am sor­ry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an ill­ness de­stroys the bloom for ev­er! Her’s has been a very short one! She was as hand­some a girl last Septem­ber, as I ev­er saw; and as like­ly to at­tract the man. There was some­thing in her style of beau­ty, to please them par­tic­ular­ly. I re­mem­ber Fan­ny used to say that she would mar­ry soon­er and bet­ter than you did; not but what she is ex­ceed­ing­ly fond of YOU, but so it hap­pened to strike her. She will be mis­tak­en, how­ev­er. I ques­tion whether Mar­ianne NOW, will mar­ry a man worth more than five or six hun­dred a-​year, at the ut­most, and I am very much de­ceived if YOU do not do bet­ter. Dorset­shire! I know very lit­tle of Dorset­shire; but, my dear Eli­nor, I shall be ex­ceed­ing­ly glad to know more of it; and I think I can an­swer for your hav­ing Fan­ny and my­self among the ear­li­est and best pleased of your vis­itors.”

Eli­nor tried very se­ri­ous­ly to con­vince him that there was no like­li­hood of her mar­ry­ing Colonel Bran­don; but it was an ex­pec­ta­tion of too much plea­sure to him­self to be re­lin­quished, and he was re­al­ly re­solved on seek­ing an in­ti­ma­cy with that gen­tle­man, and pro­mot­ing the mar­riage by ev­ery pos­si­ble at­ten­tion. He had just com­punc­tion enough for hav­ing done noth­ing for his sis­ters him­self, to be ex­ceed­ing­ly anx­ious that ev­ery­body else should do a great deal; and an of­fer from Colonel Bran­don, or a lega­cy from Mrs. Jen­nings, was the eas­iest means of aton­ing for his own ne­glect.

They were lucky enough to find La­dy Mid­dle­ton at home, and Sir John came in be­fore their vis­it end­ed. Abun­dance of ci­vil­ities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like any­body, and though Mr. Dash­wood did not seem to know much about hors­es, he soon set him down as a very good-​na­tured fel­low: while La­dy Mid­dle­ton saw enough of fash­ion in his ap­pear­ance to think his ac­quain­tance worth hav­ing; and Mr. Dash­wood went away de­light­ed with both.

“I shall have a charm­ing ac­count to car­ry to Fan­ny,” said he, as he walked back with his sis­ter. “La­dy Mid­dle­ton is re­al­ly a most el­egant wom­an! Such a wom­an as I am sure Fan­ny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jen­nings too, an ex­ceed­ing­ly well-​be­haved wom­an, though not so el­egant as her daugh­ter. Your sis­ter need not have any scru­ple even of vis­it­ing HER, which, to say the truth, has been a lit­tle the case, and very nat­ural­ly; for we on­ly knew that Mrs. Jen­nings was the wid­ow of a man who had got all his mon­ey in a low way; and Fan­ny and Mrs. Fer­rars were both strong­ly pre­pos­sessed, that nei­ther she nor her daugh­ters were such kind of wom­en as Fan­ny would like to as­so­ciate with. But now I can car­ry her a most sat­is­fac­to­ry ac­count of both.”