Advertisement by the Authoress, to Northanger Abbey
THIS little work was finished
in the year 1803, and intended for immediate publication. It was disposed of
to a bookseller, it was even advertised, and why the business proceeded no
farther, the author has never been able to learn. That any bookseller should
think it worth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to
publish seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the
public have any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon
those parts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively
obsolete. The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have
passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that during
that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone
considerable changes.
Chapter 1
No one who had ever seen
Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an
heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her
own person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father was a
clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man,
though his name was Richard — and he had never been handsome. He had a
considerable independence besides two good livings — and he was not in
the least addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of
useful plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a
good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead
of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she
still lived on — lived to have six children more — to see them
growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family of
ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are heads and
arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had little other right
to the word, for they were in general very plain, and Catherine, for many
years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow
skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong features — so much for
her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed her mind. She was
fond of all boy’s plays, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls,
but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a
canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden;
and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of
mischief — at least so it was conjectured from her always preferring
those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities —
her abilities were quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or
understand anything before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for
she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three
months in teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after
all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid — by no means; she learnt the fable of
“The Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother
wished her to learn music; and
Catherine was sure
she should like it,
for she was very fond of
tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight years old she
began.
She
learnt a year, and
could
not bear it;
and Mrs. Morland, who did
not insist on her daughters being accomplished in spite of incapacity or
distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which dismissed the music-master
was one of the happiest of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not
superior; though whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her
mother or seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in
that way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by
her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked
her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable
character! — for with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years
old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn,
scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few
interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement
and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the
green slope at the back of the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at
ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending; she began to curl her hair and
long for balls; her complexion improved, her features were softened by
plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more animation, and her figure more
consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she
grew clean as she grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing
her father and mother remark on her personal improvement.
“Catherine grows quite a
good-looking girl — she is almost pretty today,”
were words which caught her
ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is
an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the
first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever
receive.
Mrs. Morland was a very good
woman, and wished to see her children everything they ought to be; but her
time was so much occupied in lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her
elder daughters were inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not
very wonderful that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her,
should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
country at the age of fourteen, to books — or at least books of
information — for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could
be gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she had
never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen she was
in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines must read to
supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so
soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
“bear about the mockery of woe.”
From Gray, that
“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
From Thompson, that —
“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information — amongst the
rest, that —
“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”
That
“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”
And that a young woman in love always looks —
“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”
So far her improvement was
sufficient — and in many other points she came on exceedingly well;
for though she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them;
and though there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole party into
raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own composition, she could
listen to other people’s performance with very little fatigue. Her greatest
deficiency was in the pencil — she had no notion of drawing —
not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover’s profile, that she might
be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the true heroic
height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had no lover to
portray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without having seen one
amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility, without having inspired
one real passion, and without having excited even any admiration but what
was very moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange
things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out.
There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no — not even a baronet.
There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and
supported a boy accidentally found at their door — not one young man
whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the
parish no children.
But when a young lady is to
be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent
her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the
chief of the property about Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the
Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a gouty constitution
— and his lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland, and
probably aware that if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own
village, she must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr. and
Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all happiness.
Chapter 2
In addition to what has been
already said of Catherine Morland’s personal and mental endowments, when
about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’
residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader’s more certain
information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any
idea of what her character is meant to be, that her heart was affectionate;
her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation of any
kind — her manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a
girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty — and her
mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen
usually is.
When the hour of departure
drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed
to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved
Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness,
and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and
advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from
her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the
fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so
little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their
general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her
daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
following points.
“I beg, Catherine, you will
always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the
rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money
you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose.”
Sally, or rather Sarah (for
what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without
altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this time
the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable, however,
that she neither insisted on Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted
her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a
detail of every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed rather
consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the refined
susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a
heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead of
giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred
pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and promised her
more when she wanted it.
Under these unpromising
auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. It was performed
with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests
befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero.
Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having
once left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be
groundless.
They arrived at Bath.
Catherine was all eager delight — her eyes were here, there,
everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and
afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel.
She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.
They were soon settled in
comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.
It is now expedient to give
some description of Mrs. Allen, that the reader may be able to judge in what
manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of
the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to
all the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume is capable —
whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy — whether by
intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of
doors.
Mrs. Allen was one of that
numerous class of females, whose society can raise no other emotion than
surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough
to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner.
The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a
trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice
of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was
admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of
going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and
our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after three or four
days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone was
provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some
purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important
evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut
and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both
Mrs. Allen and her maid
declared
she looked quite as
she should do.
With such encouragement,
Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for
admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend
on it.
Mrs. Allen was so long in
dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was
full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they
could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left
them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new
gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through
the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would
allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too
firmly within her friend’s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a
struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed
along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the
crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had
imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find
seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was
far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even
the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of
the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on
— something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of
strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind
the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and
hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her,
and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid
sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a
ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs.
Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly,
every now and then,
“I wish you could dance, my
dear — I wish you could get a partner.”
For some time her young
friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so
often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last,
and would thank her no more.
They were not long able,
however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained.
Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the
rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment — she was
tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of
whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so
wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of
imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives;
and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness
of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist
them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain
for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a
table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything
to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated
herself,
as soon as they were
seated,
on having preserved
her gown from injury.
“It would have been
very shocking to have it torn,”
said she,
“would not it? It is
such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so
well in the whole room, I assure you.”
“How uncomfortable it
is,"
whispered
Catherine,
“not to have a single
acquaintance here!”
“Yes, my dear,”
replied Mrs. Allen, with
perfect serenity,
“it is very
uncomfortable indeed.”
“What shall we do? The
gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here
— we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”
“Aye, so we do. That is very
disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here.”
“I wish we had any — it
would be somebody to go to.”
“Very true, my dear; and if
we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last
year — I wish they were here now.”
“Had not we better go away as
it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see.”
“No more there are, indeed.
How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so
tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push
that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
“No, indeed, it looks very
nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all
this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody.”
“I don’t, upon my word
— I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my
heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you
dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on!
How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”
After some time they received
an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted,
and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it,
which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till
they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was
over.
“Well, Miss
Morland,”
said he,
directly,
“I hope you have had an
agreeable ball.”
“Very agreeable
indeed,”
she replied, vainly
endeavouring to hide a great yawn.
“I wish she had been
able to dance,”
said his wife;
“I wish we could have
got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the
Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had
come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I
am so sorry she has not had a partner!”
“We shall do better
another evening I hope,”
was Mr. Allen’s
consolation.
The company began to disperse
when the dancing was over — enough to leave space for the remainder to
walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had not
yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be
noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave
greater openings for her charms. She was now seen by many young men who had
not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on
beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she
once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and
had the company only seen her three years before, they would now have
thought her exceedingly handsome.
She was looked at, however,
and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing,
two gentlemen pronounced
her
to be
a pretty
girl.
Such words had their due
effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it
before — her humble vanity was contented — she felt more obliged
to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality heroine
would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went
to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her
share of public attention.
Chapter 3
Every morning now brought its
regular duties — shops were to be visited; some new part of the town
to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and
down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a
numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she
repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her
knowing nobody at all.
They made their appearance in
the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The
master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young man as
a partner; his name was Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and
twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and
lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was
good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for
speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him
as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with
fluency and spirit — and there was an archness and pleasantry in his
manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her.
After chatting some
time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, he
suddenly addressed her with —
“I have hitherto been
very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have
not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever
here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and
the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very
negligent — but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these
particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
“You need not give yourself
that trouble, sir.”
“No trouble, I assure
you, madam.”
Then forming his
features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added,
with a simpering air,
“Have you been long in
Bath, madam?”
“About a week,
sir,”
replied Catherine,
trying not to laugh.
“Really!”
with affected
astonishment.
“Why should you be surprised,
sir?”
“Why, indeed!”
said he, in his natural
tone.
“But some emotion must
appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,
and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never
here before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Indeed! Have you yet honoured
the Upper Rooms?”
“Yes, sir, I was there last
Monday.”
“Have you been to the
theatre?”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play
on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on
Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether
pleased with Bath?”
“Yes — I like it very
well.”
“Now I must give one
smirk, and then we may be rational again.” Catherine turned away
her head, not knowing whether she might venture to laugh. “I see what you think of
me,”
said he gravely
—
“I shall make but a poor
figure in your journal tomorrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you
will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with
blue trimmings — plain black shoes — appeared to much advantage;
but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me
dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such
thing.”
“Shall I tell you what you
ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very
agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of
conversation with him — seems a most extraordinary genius — hope
I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.”
“But, perhaps, I keep no
journal.”
“Perhaps you are not sitting
in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt
is equally possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to
understand the tenour of your life in Bath without one? How are the
civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be,
unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses
to be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of
your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant
recourse to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’
ways as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling
which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies
are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing
agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something, but
I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a
journal.”
“I have sometimes
thought,”
said Catherine,
doubtingly,
“whether ladies do write
so much better letters than gentlemen! That is — I should not
think the superiority was always on our side.”
“As far as I have had
opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style of
letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars.”
“And what are
they?”
“A general deficiency of
subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of
grammar.”
“Upon my word! I need not have
been afraid of disclaiming the compliment. You do not think too highly of us
in that way.”
“I should no more lay it down
as a general rule that women write better letters than men, than that they
sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste
is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between the
sexes.”
They were interrupted by
Mrs. Allen:
“My dear
Catherine,”
said she,
“do take this pin out of
my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall be quite
sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine
shillings a yard.”
“That is exactly what I
should have guessed it, madam,”
said Mr. Tilney, looking
at the muslin.
“Do you understand muslins,
sir?”
“Particularly well; I always
buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister
has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her the other
day, and it was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw
it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian
muslin.”
Mrs. Allen was quite struck
by his genius.
“Men commonly take so
little notice of those things,”
said she;
“I can never get Mr.
Allen to know one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort
to your sister, sir.”
“I hope I am,
madam.”
“And pray, sir, what do you
think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
“It is very pretty,
madam,”
said he, gravely
examining it;
“but I do not think it
will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
“How can you,”
said Catherine,
laughing,
“be so — "
She had almost
said
“strange.”
“I am quite of your
opinion, sir,”
replied Mrs.
Allen;
“and so I told Miss
Morland when she bought it.”
“But then you know, madam,
muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough
out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said
to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been
extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to
pieces.”
“Bath is a charming place,
sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not
but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go
— eight miles is a long way;
Mr. Allen says
it is nine, measured nine;
but I am sure it cannot be
more than eight; and it is such a fag — I come back tired to death.
Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five
minutes.”
Mr. Tilney was polite enough
to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of
muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared,
as she listened to their
discourse,
that
he indulged himself a little too
much with the foibles of others.
“What are you thinking
of so earnestly?”
said he, as they walked
back to the ballroom;
“not of your partner, I
hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not
satisfactory.”
Catherine coloured, and
said,
“I was not thinking of
anything.”
“That is artful and deep, to
be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell
me.”
“Well then, I will
not.”
“Thank you; for now we shall
soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever
we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much.”
They danced again; and, when
the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s side at least, with a strong
inclination for continuing the acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so
much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed,
as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no
more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true,
as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified
in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared, it must be very
improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman
is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a
dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head, but that he
was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was
on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know
who her partner was, and
had been assured of
Mr. Tilney’s
being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in
Gloucestershire.
Chapter 4
With more than usual
eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within
herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready
to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded — Mr. Tilney did
not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the
room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were
every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody
cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent.
“What a delightful
place Bath is,”
said Mrs. Allen as they
sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were
tired;
“and how pleasant it
would be if we had any acquaintance here.”
This sentiment had been
uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to
hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to
“despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied diligence our point
would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day
wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for
hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own
age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for
several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these
words:
“I think, madam, I
cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing
you, but is not your name Allen?”
This question answered, as
it readily was,
the stranger pronounced
hers to be
Thorpe;
and Mrs. Allen immediately
recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had
seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago.
Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had
been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years.
Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after
observing
how time had
slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of
meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend,
they proceeded to make
inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins,
talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information,
and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however,
had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of
children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty
of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views
— that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at
sea — and all of them more beloved and respected in their different
station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar
information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and
unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to
all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the
discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s
pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
“Here come my dear
girls,”
cried Mrs. Thorpe,
pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then
moving towards her.
“My dear Mrs. Allen, I
long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the
tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The
others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the
handsomest.”
The Miss Thorpes were
introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was
introduced likewise.
The name seemed to
strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the
eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest,
“How excessively like her
brother Miss Morland is!”
“The very picture of him
indeed!”
cried the mother —
and
“I should have known her
anywhere for his sister!”
was repeated by them
all, two or three times over.
For a moment Catherine was
surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history
of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before
she remembered that
her eldest brother had lately
formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of
Thorpe;
and
that
he had spent the last week of the
Christmas vacation with his family, near London.
The whole being explained,
many obliging things were said by
the Miss Thorpes
of their wish of being better
acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the
friendship of their brothers, etc.,
which Catherine heard with
pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command;
and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of
the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine
was delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost
forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly
the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.
Their conversation turned
upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do
in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as dress,
balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years
older than Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very
decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of
Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;
could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful
attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only
smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd.
These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they were
entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been
too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners,
and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with her,
softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection.
Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns
in the pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss
Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s house;
and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened
shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see
each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same
chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched
Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired
the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and
dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had
procured her such a friend.
Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and
not a very rich one; she was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very
indulgent mother. Her eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the
younger ones, by pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her
air, and dressing in the same style, did very well.
This brief account of the
family is intended to supersede the necessity of a long and minute detail
from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might
otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four following chapters; in
which the worthlessness of lords and attorneys might be set forth, and
conversations, which had passed twenty years before, be minutely
repeated.
Chapter 5
Catherine was not so much
engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of
Miss Thorpe, though they certainly claimed much of her leisure, as to forget
to look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye
could reach; but she looked in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play
than the pump-room. She hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when
her wishes for fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she
hardly felt a doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of
its inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about
and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.
As soon as divine service was
over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly joined each other; and after staying
long enough in the pump-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable,
and that there was not a genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers
every Sunday throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to
breathe the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in
arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation;
they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine
disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to be met
with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or
evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or
undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen, or
the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name was not in the pump-room book,
and curiosity could do no more.
He must be gone from Bath. Yet he
had not mentioned that his stay would be so short!
This sort of mysteriousness,
which is always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s
imagination around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to know
more of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been
only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject,
however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she
received every possible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his
impression on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken.
Isabella was very sure
that
he must be a charming young man,
and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear
Catherine, and would therefore shortly return.
She liked him the
better for being a clergyman,
“for she must confess
herself very partial to the profession”; and something like a
sigh escaped her as she said it.
Perhaps Catherine was wrong
in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion — but she was not
experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to
know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence
should be forced.
Mrs. Allen was now quite
happy — quite satisfied with Bath. She had found some acquaintance,
had been so lucky too as to find in them the family of a most worthy old
friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, had found these friends by
no means so expensively dressed as herself.
Her daily expressions
were no longer,
“I wish we had some
acquaintance in Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met
with Mrs. Thorpe!”
and she was as eager in
promoting the intercourse of the two families, as her young charge and
Isabella themselves could be; never satisfied with the day unless she
spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called
conversation, but in which there was scarcely ever any exchange of
opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for Mrs. Thorpe
talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen of her
gowns.
The progress of the
friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick as its beginning had
been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing
tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their
friends or themselves. They called each other by their Christian name, were
always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the
dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning
deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in
defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.
Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so
common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the
very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding —
joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on
such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own
heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its
insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not
patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection
and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to
abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to
talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let
us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions
have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other
literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so
much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many
as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of
the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume
some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the
Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens
— there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances
which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
“I am no novel-reader
— I seldom look into novels — Do not imagine that I often read
novels — It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the
common cant. “And what are
you reading, Miss —?”
“Oh! It is only a
novel!”
replies the young lady,
while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary
shame.
“It is only Cecilia, or
Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the
greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough
knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the
liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the
best-chosen language.
Now, had the same young lady
been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how
proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the
chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous
publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young
person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the
statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of
conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too,
frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that
could endure it.
Chapter 6
The following conversation,
which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after
an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very
warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought,
and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that
attachment.
They met by appointment;
and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her
first address naturally was,
“My dearest creature,
what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least
this age!”
“Have you, indeed! I am very
sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just
one. I hope you have not been here long?”
“Oh! These ten ages at least.
I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down
at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things
to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this
morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would
have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can
imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now — very like yours,
only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But,
my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this
morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?”
“Yes, I have been reading it
ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil.”
“Are you, indeed? How
delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the
world! Are not you wild to know?”
“Oh! Yes, quite; what can it
be? But do not tell me — I would not be told upon any account. I know
it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! I am
delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it.
I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away
from it for all the world.”
“Dear creature! How much I am
obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian
together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind
for you.”
“Have you, indeed! How glad I
am! What are they all?”
“I will read you their names
directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont,
Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan
of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some
time.”
“Yes, pretty well; but are
they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?”
“Yes, quite sure; for a
particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest
creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss
Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the
sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I
am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly
about it.”
“Scold them! Do you scold them
for not admiring her?”
“Yes, that I do. There is
nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion
of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always
excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter
that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he
would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us
incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I
should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just
the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh, dear!”
cried Catherine,
colouring.
“How can you say
so?”
“I know you very well;
you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants,
for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I
must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man
looking at you so earnestly — I am sure he is in love with
you.”
Catherine coloured, and
disclaimed again. Isabella laughed.
“It is very true, upon my
honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s
admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I
cannot blame you” —
speaking more seriously
—
“your feelings are easily
understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how
little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything
is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved
object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
“But you should not persuade
me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see
him again.”
“Not see him again! My dearest
creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought
so!”
“No, indeed, I should not. I
do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I
have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The
dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s
skeleton behind it.”
“It is so odd to me, that you
should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to
novels.”
“No, she does not. She very
often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our
way.”
“Sir Charles Grandison! That
is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get
through the first volume.”
“It is not like Udolpho at
all; but yet I think it is very entertaining.”
“Do you indeed! You surprise
me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you
settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to
be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of that sometimes, you
know.”
“But it does not signify
if they do,”
said Catherine, very
innocently.
“Signify! Oh, heavens! I make
it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly
impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their
distance.”
“Are they? Well, I never
observed that. They always behave very well to me.”
“Oh! They give themselves such
airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think
themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a
hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite
complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?”
“I hardly know. I never much
thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown — not fair,
and — and not very dark.”
“Very well, Catherine. That is
exactly he. I have not forgot
your description of Mr.
Tilney —
'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and
rather dark hair.'
Well, my taste is different.
I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion — do you know — I like
a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever
meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description.”
“Betray you! What do you
mean?”
“Nay, do not distress me. I
believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject.”
Catherine, in some
amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on
the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more
than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s skeleton, when her friend
prevented her, by saying,
“For heaven’s sake! Let
us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two
odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really
put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.
They will hardly follow us there.”
Away they walked to the book;
and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine’s employment to
watch the proceedings of these alarming young men.
“They are not coming this way,
are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me
know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up.”
In a few moments
Catherine,
with unaffected
pleasure,
assured her that
she need not be longer uneasy, as
the gentlemen had just left the pump-room.
“And which way are they
gone?”
said Isabella, turning
hastily round.
“One was a very
good-looking young man.”
“They went towards the
church-yard.”
“Well, I am amazingly glad I
have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar’s Buildings
with me, and looking at my new hat?
You said
you should like to see
it.”
Catherine readily
agreed.
“Only,”
she added,
“perhaps we may overtake
the two young men.”
“Oh! Never mind that. If we
make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my
hat.”
“But if we only wait a few
minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all.”
“I shall not pay them any such
compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such
respect. That is the way to spoil them.”
Catherine had nothing to
oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of
Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off
immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young
men.
Chapter 7
Half a minute conducted them
through the pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they
were stopped. Everybody acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties
of crossing Cheap Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so
impertinent a nature, so unfortunately connected with the great London and
Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in
which parties of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest
of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not
detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil
had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since
her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it once
more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage, and within
view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the crowds, and
threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they were prevented
crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad pavement by a most
knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that could most fitly
endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.
“Oh, these odious
gigs!”
said Isabella, looking
up.
“How I detest
them.”
But this detestation,
though so just, was of short duration, for she looked again and
exclaimed,
“Delightful! Mr. Morland
and my brother!”
“Good heaven! 'Tis
James!”
was uttered at the same
moment by Catherine; and, on catching the young men’s eyes, the horse
was immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his
haunches, and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped
out, and the equipage was delivered to his care.
Catherine, by whom this
meeting was wholly unexpected, received her brother with the liveliest
pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely
attached to her, gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction, which
he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were
incessantly challenging his notice; and to her his devoirs were speedily
paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which might have informed
Catherine, had she been more expert in the development of other people’s
feelings, and less simply engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her
friend quite as pretty as she could do herself.
John Thorpe, who in the
meantime had been giving orders about the horses, soon joined them, and from
him she directly received the amends which were her due; for while he
slightly and carelessly touched the hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a
whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a stout young man of middling
height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being
too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a
gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where
he might be allowed to be easy.
He took out his
watch:
“How long do you think
we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”
“I do not know the
distance.”
Her brother told her
that
it was twenty-three miles.
“Three and
twenty!”
cried Thorpe.
“Five and twenty if it
is an inch.”
Morland remonstrated,
pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers, and milestones; but his
friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test of distance.
“I know it must be five
and twenty,” said he, “by the time we have been doing it. It is now half
after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock
struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to make my horse go less
than ten miles an hour in harness; that makes it exactly
twenty-five.”
“You have lost an
hour,”
said Morland;
“it was only ten o’clock
when we came from Tetbury.”
“Ten o’clock! It was
eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This brother of yours
would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do but look at my
horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your
life?”
(The servant had just
mounted the carriage and was driving off.)
“Such true blood! Three
hours and and a half indeed coming only three and twenty miles! Look at
that creature, and suppose it possible if you can.”
“He does look very hot, to be
sure.”
“Hot! He had not turned a
hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look at his forehand; look at his
loins; only see how he moves; that horse cannot go less than ten miles an
hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you think of my gig, Miss
Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a
month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good
sort of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to
have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light
thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too;
but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford,
last term: ‘Ah!
Thorpe,’
said he,
‘do you happen to
want such a little thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I
am cursed tired of it.’
‘Oh! D—,' said I;
‘I am your man; what do you ask?’ And how much do you think he
did, Miss Morland?”
“I am sure I cannot guess at
all.”
“Curricle-hung, you see;
seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you
see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or better.
He asked
fifty guineas;
I closed with him directly,
threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.”
“And I am sure,”
said Catherine,
“I know so little of such
things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or
dear.”
“Neither one nor t’other; I
might have got it for less, I dare say; but I hate haggling, and poor
Freeman wanted cash.”
“That was very
good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased.
“Oh! D— it, when one
has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be
pitiful.”
An inquiry now took place
into the intended movements of the young ladies; and, on finding whither
they were going, it was decided that the gentlemen should accompany them to
Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella
led the way; and so well satisfied was the latter with her lot, so
contentedly was she endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who
brought the double recommendation of being her brother’s friend, and her
friend’s brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though
they overtook and passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she
was so far from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at
them only three times.
John Thorpe kept of
course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes’ silence, renewed the
conversation about his gig.
“You will find, however,
Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some people, for I
might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day; Jackson, of Oriel,
bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the time.”
“Yes,”
said Morland, who
overheard this;
“but you forget that your
horse was included.”
“My horse! Oh, d — it!
I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are you fond of an open carriage,
Miss Morland?”
“Yes, very; I have hardly ever
an opportunity of being in one; but I am particularly fond of
it.”
“I am glad of it; I will
drive you out in mine every day.”
“Thank you,”
said Catherine, in some
distress, from a doubt of the propriety of accepting such an
offer.
“I will drive you up Lansdown
Hill tomorrow.”
“Thank you; but will not your
horse want rest?”
“Rest! He has only come three
and twenty miles today; all nonsense; nothing ruins horses so much as rest;
nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average
of four hours every day while I am here.”
“Shall you
indeed!”
said Catherine very
seriously.
“That will be forty miles
a day.”
“Forty! Aye, fifty, for what
I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown tomorrow; mind, I am
engaged.”
“How delightful that will
be!”
cried Isabella, turning
round.
“My dearest Catherine, I
quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will not have room for a
third.”
“A third indeed! No, no; I
did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about; that would be a good joke,
faith! Morland must take care of you.”
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than a
short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman
they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as she could,
with all the civility and deference of the youthful female mind, fearful of
hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-assured man,
especially where the beauty of her own sex is concerned, ventured at length
to vary the subject by a question which had been long uppermost in her
thoughts; it was, “Have
you ever read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?”
“Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I
never read novels; I have something else to do.”
Catherine, humbled and
ashamed, was going to apologize for her question, but he prevented her
by saying,
“Novels are all so full
of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come
out since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as
for all the others, they are the stupidest things in
creation.”
“I think you must like
Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very interesting.”
“Not I, faith! No, if I read
any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusing enough; they are
worth reading; some fun and nature in them.”
“Udolpho was written by
Mrs. Radcliffe,”
said Catherine, with
some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
“No sure; was it? Aye, I
remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by
that woman they make such a fuss about, she who married the French
emigrant.”
“I suppose you mean
Camilla?”
“Yes, that’s the book; such
unnatural stuff! An old man playing at see-saw, I took up the first volume
once and looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed I guessed
what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had
married an emigrant, I was sure I should never be able to get through
it.”
“I have never read
it.”
“You had no loss, I assure
you; it is the horridest nonsense you can imagine; there is nothing in the
world in it but an old man’s playing at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my
soul there is not.”
This critique, the justness
of which was unfortunately lost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door
of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the feelings of the discerning and
unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and
affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried them from above,
in the passage.
“Ah, Mother! How do you
do?”
said he, giving her a
hearty shake of the hand.
“Where did you get that
quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and
I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look out for a couple of
good beds somewhere near.”
And this address seemed to
satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she received him
with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters
he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for
he asked each of
them
how they did,
and observed that
they both looked very
ugly.
These manners did not please
Catherine; but he was James’s friend and Isabella’s brother; and her
judgment was further bought off by
Isabella’s assuring
her,
when they withdrew to see
the new hat,
that
John thought her the most charming
girl in the world,
and by John’s engaging her
before they parted to dance with him that evening.
Had she been older or
vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where youth and
diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of reason to
resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl in the
world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the
door was closed on them, said,
“Well, Catherine, how do
you like my friend Thorpe?”
instead of answering,
as she probably would have done, had there been no friendship and no
flattery in the case,
“I do not like him at
all,” she directly replied, “I like him very much; he seems very
agreeable.”
“He is as good-natured a
fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but that will recommend him to
your sex, I believe: and how do you like the rest of the family?”
“Very, very much indeed:
Isabella particularly.”
“I am very glad to hear
you say so; she is just the kind of young woman I could wish to see you
attached to; she has so much good sense, and is so thoroughly unaffected
and amiable; I always wanted you to know her; and she seems very fond of
you. She said the highest things in your praise that could possibly be;
and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you,
Catherine,”
taking her hand with
affection,
“may be proud
of.”
“Indeed I am,”
she replied;
“I love her exceedingly,
and am delighted to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned
anything of her when you wrote to me after your visit
there.”
“Because I thought I should
soon see you myself. I hope you will be a great deal together while you are
in Bath. She is a most amiable girl; such a superior understanding! How fond
all the family are of her; she is evidently the general favourite; and how
much she must be admired in such a place as this — is not
she?”
“Yes, very much indeed, I
fancy;
Mr. Allen thinks her
the prettiest girl in
Bath.”
“I dare say he does; and I do
not know any man who is a better judge of beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not
ask you whether you are happy here, my dear Catherine; with such a companion
and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it would be impossible for you to be
otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure, are very kind to you?”
“Yes, very kind; I never was
so happy before; and now you are come it will be more delightful than ever;
how good it is of you to come so far on purpose to see me.”
James accepted this
tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience for accepting it too,
by saying with perfect sincerity,
“Indeed, Catherine, I
love you dearly.”
Inquiries and communications
concerning brothers and sisters, the situation of some, the growth of the
rest, and other family matters now passed between them, and continued, with
only one small digression on James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till
they reached Pulteney Street, where
he was
welcomed
with great kindness by Mr.
and Mrs. Allen,
invited by the
former
to dine with them,
and
summoned by the latter
to
guess the price and weigh the
merits of a new muff and tippet.
A pre-engagement in Edgar’s
Buildings prevented his accepting the invitation of one friend, and obliged
him to hurry away as soon as he had satisfied the demands of the other. The
time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly
adjusted, Catherine was then left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and
frightened imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly
concerns of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on
the delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged
for the evening.
Chapter 8
In spite of Udolpho and the
dressmaker, however, the party from Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms
in very good time. The Thorpes and James Morland were there only two minutes
before them; and Isabella having gone through the usual ceremonial of
meeting her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring
the set of her gown, and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their
chaperones, arm in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever
a thought occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of
the hand or a smile of affection.
The dancing began within a
few minutes after they were seated; and James, who had been engaged quite as
long as his sister, was very importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John
was gone into the card-room to speak to a friend, and
nothing,
she declared,
should induce her to join the set
before her dear Catherine could join it too.
“I assure you,”
said she,
“I would not stand up
without your dear sister for all the world; for if I did we should
certainly be separated the whole evening.”
Catherine accepted this
kindness with gratitude, and they continued as they were for three
minutes longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the
other side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered,
“My dear creature, I am
afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to
begin; I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will
be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out.”
Catherine, though a
little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition,
and the others rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend’s
hand and say,
“Good-bye, my dear
love,” before they hurried off.
The younger Miss Thorpes
being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs.
Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help being vexed at the
non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was
likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be
known, she was sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting
down all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of
the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity,
her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true source of
her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the
heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies her
character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed
her lips.
From this state of
humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten minutes, to a pleasanter
feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within three yards of
the place where they sat; he seemed to be moving that way, but he did not
see her, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his sudden
reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her heroic
importance. He looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was talking
with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant
on his arm, and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his sister; thus
unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her
forever, by being married already. But guided only by what was simple and
probable, it had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he
had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had
been used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.
From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister’s now
being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike paleness
and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen’s bosom, Catherine sat erect, in the
perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little redder than
usual.
Mr. Tilney and his companion,
who continued, though slowly, to approach, were immediately preceded by a
lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to
her, they, as belonging to her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching
Mr. Tilney’s eye, instantly received from him the smiling tribute of
recognition. She returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer,
he spoke both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly
acknowledged.
“I am very happy to see you
again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.”
He thanked her for her
fears, and
said that
he had quitted it for a week, on
the very morning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.
“Well, sir, and I dare say you
are not sorry to be back again, for it is just the place for young people
— and indeed for everybody else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks
of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not complain, for it is so
very agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at
this dull time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent here for
his health.”
“And I hope, madam, that Mr.
Allen will be obliged to like the place, from finding it of service to
him.”
“Thank you, sir. I have no
doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr. Skinner, was here for his
health last winter, and came away quite stout.”
“That circumstance must give
great encouragement.”
“Yes, sir — and Dr.
Skinner and his family were here three months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must
not be in a hurry to get away.”
Here they were interrupted
by
a request from Mrs. Thorpe
to Mrs. Allen, that
she would move a little to
accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as they had agreed to
join their party.
This was accordingly done,
Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a few minutes’
consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This compliment,
delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the lady; and in
giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion so very much as
if she really felt it that had Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been
half a minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather too
acute. The very easy manner in which he then told her that he had kept her
waiting did not by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the
particulars which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses
and dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of
terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking very
often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her
dear Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman,
she could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was separated from
all her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one mortification
succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that
to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the
dignity or enjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this,
she was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,
perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a
gentleman.
“I beg your pardon,
Miss Morland,”
said she,
“for this liberty
— but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and
Mrs. Thorpe said
she was sure you
would not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by
you.”
Mrs. Hughes could not have
applied to any creature in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine.
The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a
proper sense of such goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a
generous mind making light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied
with having so respectably settled her young charge, returned to her
party.
Miss Tilney had a good
figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable countenance; and her air, though
it had not all the decided pretension, the resolute stylishness of Miss
Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her manners showed good sense and good
breeding; they were neither shy nor affectedly open; and she seemed capable
of being young, attractive, and at a ball without wanting to fix the
attention of every man near her, and without exaggerated feelings of
ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling
occurrence. Catherine, interested at once by her appearance and her
relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted with her, and
readily talked therefore whenever she could think of anything to say, and
had courage and leisure for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in the way
of a very speedy intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of these
requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the first
rudiments of an acquaintance, by
informing themselves
how well the other
liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding country,
whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on
horseback.
The two dances were
scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm gently seized by her
faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,
“At last I have got you.
My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour. What could
induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in the other? I
have been quite wretched without you.”
“My dear Isabella, how was it
possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you
were.”
“So I told your brother all
the time — but he would not believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr.
Morland, said I— but all in vain — he would not stir an inch.
Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have
been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you would be quite
amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people.”
“Look at that young lady
with the white beads round her head,”
whispered Catherine,
detaching her friend from James.
“It is Mr. Tilney’s
sister.”
“Oh! Heavens! You don’t say
so! Let me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw
anything half so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he
in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him.
Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking about
you.”
“But what is all this
whispering about? What is going on?”
“There now, I knew how it
would be. You men have such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of
women, indeed! ‘Tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know
anything at all of the matter.”
“And is that likely to satisfy
me, do you think?”
“Well, I declare I never knew
anything like you. What can it signify to you, what we are talking of.
Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I would advise you not to
listen, or you may happen to hear something not very agreeable.”
In this commonplace chatter,
which lasted some time, the original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and
though Catherine was very well pleased to have it dropped for a while, she
could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella’s
impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh
dance, James would have led his fair partner away, but she resisted.
“I tell you, Mr.
Morland,”
she cried,
“I would not do such a
thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my
dear Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance
with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and
entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if
we were not to change partners.”
“Upon my honour,”
said James,
“in these public
assemblies, it is as often done as not.”
“Nonsense, how can you say so?
But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at anything. My
sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is.
Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would
not it?”
“No, not at all; but if you
think it wrong, you had much better change.”
“There,”
cried Isabella,
“you hear what your
sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is
not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come
along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven’s sake, and stand by me.”
And off they went, to
regain their former place.
John Thorpe, in the
meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney
an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already
flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as
she could, in the hope of finding him still with them — a hope which,
when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly
unreasonable.
“Well, my dear,”
said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, “I hope you have had an agreeable
partner.”
“Very agreeable,
madam.”
“I am glad of it. John has
charming spirits, has not he?”
“Did you meet Mr.
Tilney, my dear?”
said Mrs.
Allen.
“No, where is he?”
“He was with us just now,
and
said
he was so tired of lounging
about, that he was resolved to go and dance;
so I thought perhaps he
would ask you, if he met with you.”
“Where can he be?”
said Catherine, looking
round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a
young lady to the dance.
“Ah! He has got a
partner; I wish he had asked you,”
said Mrs. Allen; and
after a short silence, she added,
“he is a very agreeable
young man.”
“Indeed he is, Mrs.
Allen,”
said Mrs. Thorpe,
smiling complacently;
“I must say it, though I
am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the
world.”
This inapplicable answer
might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not
puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment’s consideration, she said, in
a whisper to Catherine,
“I dare say she thought
I was speaking of her son.”
Catherine was
disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very
object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to a
very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and
said,
“Well, Miss Morland, I
suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together
again.”
“Oh, no; I am much obliged to
you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to
dance any more.”
“Do not you? Then let us walk
about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four
greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I
have been laughing at them this half hour.”
Again Catherine excused
herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his sisters by himself. The
rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from
their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney, though
belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella were so
much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure to
bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one
“dearest
Catherine.”
Chapter 9
The progress of Catherine’s
unhappiness from the events of the evening was as follows. It appeared first
in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her, while she remained in
the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness and a violent
desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction
of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest
longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when
there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and
from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh
hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her
acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek her
for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so newly
arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had already found so
favourable for the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of
female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited
confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend
from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled, she sat
quietly down to her book after breakfast,
resolving
to remain in the same place and
the same employment till the clock struck one;
and from habitude very
little incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose
vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never
talked a great deal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore,
while she sat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if
she heard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must
observe it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or
not.
At about half past
twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and
scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there being two open
carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driving
Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came running upstairs,
calling out,
“Well, Miss Morland,
here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come before; the old
devil of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be
got into, and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before
we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last
night, was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a
confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble
over.”
“What do you
mean?”
said Catherine.
“Where are you all going
to?”
“Going to? Why, you have not
forgot our engagement! Did not we agree together to take a drive this
morning? What a head you have! We are going up Claverton Down.”
“Something was said about
it, I remember,”
said Catherine, looking
at Mrs. Allen for her opinion;
“but really I did not
expect you.”
“Not expect me! That’s a good
one! And what a dust you would have made, if I had not come.”
Catherine’s silent
appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown away, for Mrs.
Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any expression herself
by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended by anybody else;
and
Catherine, whose desire
of
seeing Miss
Tilney again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a
drive,
and
who thought
there could be no
impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the
same time with James,
was therefore obliged to
speak plainer.
“Well, ma’am, what do you
say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? Shall I
go?”
“Do just as you please,
my dear,”
replied Mrs. Allen, with
the most placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to
get ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed
the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig;
and then receiving her friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried
downstairs.
“My dearest
creature,”
cried Isabella, to whom
the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could get into
the carriage,
“you have been at least
three hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful
ball we had last night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make
haste and get in, for I long to be off.”
Catherine followed her
orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear her friend exclaim
aloud to James,
“What a sweet girl she
is! I quite dote on her.”
“You will not be
frightened, Miss Morland,”
said Thorpe, as he
handed her in,
“if my horse should
dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a
plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon
know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is
no vice in him.”
Catherine did not think the
portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was
too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning herself to her fate, and
trusting to the animal’s boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably
down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her.
Everything being then
arranged, the servant who stood at the horse’s head was bid in an
important voice
“to let him go,”
and off they went in the
quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything
like one.
Catherine, delighted at so
happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her
companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that
it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had
then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which
he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering
that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to
alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on
being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the
animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the
smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its
inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave
herself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating
kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of
safety.
A silence of several
minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe’s
saying very abruptly,
“Old Allen is as rich as
a Jew — is not he?” Catherine did not understand him — and
he repeated his question, adding in explanation, “Old Allen, the man you
are with.”
“Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes,
I believe, he is very rich.”
“And no children at
all?”
“No — not
any.”
“A famous thing for his next
heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?”
“My godfather! No.”
“But you are always very much
with them.”
“Yes, very much.”
“Aye, that is what I meant.
He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his
time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a
day now?”
“His bottle a day! No. Why
should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could
not fancy him in liquor last night?”
“Lord help you! You women are
always thinking of men’s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is
overset by a bottle? I am sure of this — that if everybody was to
drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world
there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all.”
“I cannot believe
it.”
“Oh! Lord, it would be the
saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in
this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants
help.”
“And yet I have heard that
there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford.”
“Oxford! There is no drinking
at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with
a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it
was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an
average we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something
out of the common way. Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not
often meet with anything like it in Oxford — and that may account for
it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking
there.”
“Yes, it does give a
notion,”
said Catherine
warmly,
“and that is, that you
all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am
sure James does not drink so much.”
This declaration brought on a
loud and overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the
frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it, and
Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather a strengthened belief of
there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy
conviction of her brother’s comparative sobriety.
Thorpe’s ideas then all
reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
she was called on to
admire
the spirit and freedom with which
his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the
excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage.
She followed him in all his
admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible.
His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression,
and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she could strike
out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to
assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that
his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his
carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best
coachman.
“You do not really
think, Mr. Thorpe,”
said Catherine,
venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided,
and to offer some little variation on the subject,
“that James’s gig will
break down?”
“Break down! Oh! Lord! Did
you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound
piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years
at least — and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to
pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety
business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be
bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds.”
“Good heavens!”
cried Catherine, quite
frightened.
“Then pray let us turn
back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us
turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how
very unsafe it is.”
“Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is
there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is
plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is
safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good
hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless
you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again,
without losing a nail.”
Catherine listened with
astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts
of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the
propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and
impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own family were
plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her
father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother with a
proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase
their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict
the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and
was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer
insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself,
because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving those clearer
insights, in making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous;
and, joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his
sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily
preserve them,
she concluded at last
that
he must know the carriage to be in
fact perfectly safe,
and therefore would alarm
herself no longer. By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and
all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with
himself and his own concerns.
He told her of
horses which he had bought for a
trifle and sold for incredible sums;
of
racing matches, in which his
judgment had infallibly foretold the winner;
of
shooting parties, in which he had
killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his
companions together;
and
described to her
some famous day’s sport, with
the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had
repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the
boldness of his riding,
though it had never endangered
his own life for a moment,
had been constantly leading
others into difficulties,
which
he calmly concluded
had broken the necks of
many.
Little as Catherine was in
the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of
what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore
with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether
completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella’s brother;
and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to
all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company,
which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued
unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced
her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust
his powers of giving universal pleasure.
When they arrived at
Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be
expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend
her friend into the house:
“Past three
o’clock!”
It was inconceivable, incredible,
impossible!
And she would neither
believe her own watch, nor her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would
believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland
produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment
longer then would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and
impossible; and
she could only protest,
over and over again, that
no two hours and a half had ever
gone off so swiftly before,
as Catherine was called on
to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella;
but the latter was spared the misery of her friend’s dissenting voice, by
not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her
wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly
home.
It was ages since she had had a
moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such
thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be
together again;
so, with sniffles of most
exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her
friend adieu and went on.
Catherine found Mrs.
Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was
immediately greeted with,
“Well, my dear, here you
are,”
a truth which she had no
greater inclination than power to dispute;
“and I hope you have had
a pleasant airing?”
“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we
could not have had a nicer day.”
“So
Mrs. Thorpe said;
she was vastly
pleased at your all going.”
“You have seen Mrs. Thorpe,
then?”
“Yes, I went to the pump-room
as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of
talk together.
She says
there was hardly any
veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly
scarce.”
“Did you see anybody else of
our acquaintance?”
“Yes; we agreed to take a
turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney
walking with her.”
“Did you indeed? And did they
speak to you?”
“Yes, we walked along the
Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss
Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can
learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a
great deal about the family.”
“And what did she tell you of
them?”
“Oh! A vast deal indeed; she
hardly talked of anything else.”
“Did she tell you what part of
Gloucestershire they come from?”
“Yes, she did; but I cannot
recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich.
Mrs. Tilney was a
Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond
had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty
thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw
all the clothes after they came from the warehouse.”
“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney
in Bath?”
“Yes, I fancy they are, but I
am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are
both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead,
because
Mrs. Hughes told me
there was a very
beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her
wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her
when her mother died.”
“And is Mr. Tilney, my
partner, the only son?”
“I cannot be quite positive
about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but, however,
he is a very fine
young man,
Mrs. Hughes says,
and likely to do
very well.”
Catherine inquired no
further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real
intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself
in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have
foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded her to go out
with the others; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and
think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by
no means been very pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite
disagreeable.
Chapter 10
The Allens, Thorpes, and
Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre; and, as Catherine and
Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter to
utter some few of the many thousand things which had been collecting
within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time which
had divided them.
“Oh, heavens! My beloved
Catherine, have I got you at last?”
was her address on
Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by her.
“Now, Mr.
Morland,”
for he was close to her
on the other side,
“I shall not speak
another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to
expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I
need not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your
hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do
you want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love
with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney — but that is a settled
thing — even your modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his
coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see
him! I really am quite wild with impatience.
My mother says
he is the most
delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning,
you know; you must
introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven’s
sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him.”
“No,”
said Catherine,
“he is not here; I cannot
see him anywhere.”
“Oh, horrid! Am I never to be
acquainted with him? How do you like my gown? I think it does not look
amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own thought. Do you know, I get so
immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning
that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live
here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in
preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so
exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in
which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a
sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about
it.”
“No, indeed I should
not.”
“Oh, yes you would indeed; I
know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we
seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have
distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your
roses; I would not have had you by for the world.”
“Indeed you do me injustice; I
would not have made so improper a remark upon any account; and besides, I am
sure it would never have entered my head.”
Isabella smiled incredulously
and talked the rest of the evening to James.
Catherine’s resolution of
endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next
morning; and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she felt some
alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind
occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in
good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and
conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water,
joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the
accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing
every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of
the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in
less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual
place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance,
maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of
their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine began
to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining her entirely to her
friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They
were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but
their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity
attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion
was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to
give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she
was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity
of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the
room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer
determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command,
had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney
met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and
they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the
room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an
expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of
times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their
being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might
be something uncommon.
“How well your brother
dances!”
was an artless
exclamation of Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation,
which at once surprised and amused her companion.
“Henry!”
she replied with a
smile.
“Yes, he does dance very
well.”
“He must have thought it
very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me
sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr.
Thorpe.”
Miss Tilney could only
bow.
“You cannot
think,”
added Catherine after a
moment’s silence,
“how surprised I was to
see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone
away.”
“When Henry had the pleasure
of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only
to engage lodgings for us.”
“That never occurred to me;
and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not
the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?”
“Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Hughes.”
“I dare say she was very glad
to dance. Do you think her pretty?”
“Not very.”
“He never comes to the
pump-room, I suppose?”
“Yes, sometimes; but he has
rid out this morning with my father.”
Mrs. Hughes
now joined them, and
asked Miss Tilney
if
she was ready to go.
“I hope I shall have the
pleasure of seeing you again soon,”
said Catherine.
“Shall you be at the
cotillion ball tomorrow?”
“Perhaps we — Yes, I
think we certainly shall.”
“I am glad of it, for we shall
all be there.”
This civility was duly
returned; and they parted — on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge
of her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the smallest
consciousness of having explained them.
She went home very happy. The
morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was
now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what
head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She
cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction,
and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew
all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject
only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday
night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but
the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.
This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from
which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a
great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the
insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the
feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the
heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how
little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of
peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the
jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire
her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion
are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will
be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections
troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.
She entered the rooms on
Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her
thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to
Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should
engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney
should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all
centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this
critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the
same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to
be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all
have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please.
As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she
fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as
possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him.
The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing
of the Tilneys.
“Do not be frightened, my
dear Catherine,”
whispered
Isabella,
“but I am really going to
dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite
shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John
must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to
us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a
moment.”
Catherine had neither time
nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in
view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however,
to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and
a
self-condemnation
for
her folly, in supposing that among
such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable
time,
had just passed through her
mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to
dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with
him to the set, may be easily imagined.
To escape,
and,
as she believed,
so narrowly escape John Thorpe,
and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as
if he had sought her on purpose! — it did not appear to her that life
could supply any greater felicity.
Scarcely had they worked
themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when her attention
was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her.
“Heyday, Miss
Morland!”
said he.
“What is the meaning of
this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”
“I wonder you should think so,
for you never asked me.”
“That is a good one, by Jove!
I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you
again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby
trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with you, and I firmly believe
you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while
you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling
all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the
room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz
me famously.”
“Oh, no; they will never think
of me, after such a description as that.”
“By heavens, if they do
not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads. What chap have you
there?”
Catherine satisfied his
curiosity.
“Tilney,”
he repeated.
“Hum — I do not
know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a
horse? Here is a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that
would suit anybody. A famous clever animal for the road — only
forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my
maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one; but it would not
answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I would give any money
for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that ever were
backed. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I
mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so
d — uncomfortable, living at an inn.”
This was the last sentence by
which he could weary Catherine’s attention, for he was just then borne off
by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies.
Her partner now drew
near, and said,
“That gentleman would
have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute
longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from
me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the
space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each
other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one,
without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as
an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal
duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry
themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their
neighbours.”
“But they are such very
different things!”
“ — That you think they
cannot be compared together.”
“To be sure not. People that
marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance
only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour.”
“And such is your definition
of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance
is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will
allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power
of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed
for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong
exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is
their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he
or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep
their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their
neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone
else. You will allow all this?”
“Yes, to be sure, as you state
it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I
cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties
belong to them.”
“In one respect, there
certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for
the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man;
he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are
exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him,
while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the
difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable
of comparison.”
“No, indeed, I never thought
of that.”
“Then I am quite at a loss.
One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather
alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I
not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are
not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if
the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other
gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from
conversing with him as long as you chose?”
“Mr. Thorpe is such a very
particular friend of my brother’s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to
him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that
I have any acquaintance with.”
“And is that to be my only
security? Alas, alas!”
“Nay, I am sure you cannot
have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk
to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody.”
“Now you have given me a
security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as
agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?”
“Yes, quite — more so,
indeed.”
“More so! Take care, or you
will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at
the end of six weeks.”
“I do not think I should be
tired, if I were to stay here six months.”
“Bath, compared with London,
has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. ‘For six weeks, I
allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is the most tiresome
place in the world.’ You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who
come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve,
and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer.”
“Well, other people must judge
for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I,
who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater
sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety
of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I
can know nothing of there.”
“You are not fond of the
country.”
“Yes, I am. I have always
lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more
sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is
exactly like another.”
“But then you spend your time
so much more rationally in the country.”
“Do I?”
“Do you not?”
“I do not believe there is
much difference.”
“Here you are in pursuit only
of amusement all day long.”
“And so I am at home —
only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but
here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and
call on Mrs. Allen.”
Mr. Tilney was very much
amused.
“Only go and call on Mrs.
Allen!”
he repeated.
“What a picture of
intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you
will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that
you did here.”
“Oh! Yes. I shall never be in
want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really
believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again — I
do like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of
them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James’s coming (my eldest
brother) is quite delightful — and especially as it turns out that the
very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends
already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”
“Not those who bring such
fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and
brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the
frequenters of Bath — and the honest relish of balls and plays, and
everyday sights, is past with them.”
Here their conversation
closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided
attention.
Soon after their reaching the
bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a
gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He
was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not
past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she
saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his
notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong
in her appearance, she turned away her head.
But while she did so,
the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said,
“I see that you guess
what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you
have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my
father.”
Catherine’s answer was
only
“Oh!” — but
it was an “Oh!”
expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance
on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now
follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a family they are!”
was her secret
remark.
In chatting with Miss Tilney
before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had
never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom
all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms
which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on
her openly fearing
that
she might find nobody to go with
her,
it was proposed by the
brother and sister that
they should join
in a walk, some morning or other.
“I shall like
it,”
she cried,
“beyond anything in the
world; and do not let us put it off — let us go
tomorrow.”
This was readily agreed to,
with only
a proviso of Miss
Tilney’s, that
it did not rain,
which
Catherine was sure
it would not.
At twelve o’clock, they
were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and
“Remember — twelve
o’clock,”
was her parting speech
to her new friend.
Of her other, her older, her
more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had
enjoyed a fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the
evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she
cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early
away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the
way home.
Chapter 11
The morrow brought a very
sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and
Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes.
A bright morning so early in the
year,
she allowed,
would generally turn to rain, but
a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced.
She applied to Mr. Allen for
confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and
barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She
applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen’s opinion was more positive.
“She had no doubt in the
world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the
sun keep out.”
At about eleven o’clock,
however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine’s
watchful eye, and
“Oh! dear, I do believe
it will be wet,”
broke from her in a most
desponding tone.
“I thought how it would
be,”
said Mrs.
Allen.
“No walk for me
today,”
sighed Catherine;
“but perhaps it may come
to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”
“Perhaps it may, but then, my
dear, it will be so dirty.”
“Oh! That will not signify; I
never mind dirt.”
“No,”
replied her friend very
placidly,
“I know you never mind
dirt.”
After a short pause, “It
comes on faster and faster!”
said Catherine, as she
stood watching at a window.
“So it does indeed. If it
keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”
“There are four umbrellas up
already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!”
“They are disagreeable things
to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time.”
“It was such a nice-looking
morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!”
“Anybody would have thought
so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all
the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I
dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk
out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so
comfortable.”
The rain continued —
fast, though not heavy.
Catherine
went every five minutes to
the clock,
threatening on each return
that,
if it still kept on raining
another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless.
The clock struck twelve, and
it still rained.
“You will not be able to go,
my dear.”
“I do not quite despair yet. I
shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of
day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it
is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I shall give it up entirely. Oh!
That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany
and the south of France! — the night that poor St. Aubin died! —
such beautiful weather!”
At half past twelve, when
Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather was over and she could no
longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to
clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprise; she looked round; the
clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over
and encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a
bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who
had
“always thought it would
clear up.”
But whether Catherine might
still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss
Tilney to venture, must yet be a question.
It was too dirty for Mrs.
Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-room; he accordingly set off by
himself, and Catherine had barely watched him down the street when her
notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open carriages,
containing the same three people that had surprised her so much a few
mornings back.
“Isabella, my brother, and Mr.
Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps — but I shall not go
— I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call.”
Mrs. Allen agreed to it.
John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for
on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick.
“Make haste! Make
haste!”
as he threw open the
door.
“Put on your hat this
moment — there is no time to be lost — we are going to
Bristol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”
“To Bristol! Is not that a
great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am
engaged; I expect some friends every moment.”
This was of course
vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to
second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance.
“My sweetest Catherine, is
not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank
your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at
breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have
been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it
does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully.
Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and
quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly
to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time
for it, go on to Kingsweston.”
“I doubt our being able
to do so much,”
said
Morland.
“You croaking
fellow!”
cried Thorpe.
“We shall be able to do
ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything
else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not
go.”
“Blaize Castle!”
cried Catherine.
“What is
that’?”
“The finest place in England
— worth going fifty miles at any time to see.”
“What, is it really a castle,
an old castle?”
“The oldest in the
kingdom.”
“But is it like what one reads
of?”
“Exactly — the very
same.”
“But now really — are
there towers and long galleries?”
“By dozens.”
“Then I should like to see it;
but I cannot — I cannot go.
“Not go! My beloved creature,
what do you mean’?”
“I cannot go,
because”
— looking down as
she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s smile —
“I expect Miss Tilney and
her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come
at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they
will be here soon.”
“Not they
indeed,”
cried Thorpe;
“for, as we turned into
Broad Street, I saw them — does he not drive a phaeton with bright
chestnuts?”
“I do not know
indeed.”
“Yes, I know he does; I saw
him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not
you?”
“Yes.
“Well, I saw him at that
moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl.”
“Did you indeed?”
“Did upon my soul; knew him
again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle
too.”
“It is very odd! But I suppose
they thought it would be too dirty for a walk.”
“And well they might, for I
never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you
could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep
everywhere.”
Isabella corroborated
it:
“My dearest Catherine,
you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot
refuse going now.”
“I should like to see the
castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into
every suite of rooms?”
“Yes, yes, every hole and
corner.”
“But then, if they should only
be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?”
“Make yourself easy, there is
no danger of that, for I heard
Tilney hallooing
to a man who was just
passing by on horseback,
that
they were going as far as Wick
Rocks.”
“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs.
Allen?”
“Just as you please, my
dear.”
“Mrs. Allen, you must
persuade her to go,”
was the general
cry.
Mrs. Allen was not
inattentive to it:
“Well, my dear,”
said she,
“suppose you go.”
And in two minutes they
were off.
Catherine’s feelings, as she
got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between
regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying
another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind.
She could not think
the Tilneys had acted quite well
by her, in so readily giving up their engagement, without sending her any
message of excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for
the beginning of their walk;
and, in spite of what she
had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour,
she could not from her own observation help
thinking that
they might have gone with very
little inconvenience.
To feel herself slighted by
them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of exploring an
edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such
a counterpoise of good as might console her for almost anything.
They passed briskly down
Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place, without the exchange of many
words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns, on broken
promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Tilneys and
trap-doors.
As they entered Argyle
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her
companion,
“Who is that girl who
looked at you so hard as she went by?”
“Who? Where?”
“On the right-hand pavement
— she must be almost out of sight now.”
Catherine looked round and
saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s arm, walking slowly down the
street. She saw them both looking back at her.
“Stop, stop, Mr.
Thorpe,”
she impatiently
cried;
“it is Miss Tilney; it is
indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out
this moment and go to them.”
But to what purpose did
she speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the
Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of
sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was
herself whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the
length of another street, she entreated him to stop.
“Pray, pray stop, Mr.
Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss
Tilney.”
But Mr. Thorpe only
laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and
drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no power of
getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit. Her
reproaches, however, were not spared.
“How could you deceive me
so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the
Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They
must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without
saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure
at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times
rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw
them driving out in a phaeton?”
Thorpe defended himself
very stoutly, declared
he had never
seen two men so much alike in his life,
and would hardly give up
the point of its having been Tilney himself.
Their drive, even when this
subject was over, was not likely to be very agreeable. Catherine’s
complaisance was no longer what it had been in their former airing. She
listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her
only comfort; towards that, she still looked at intervals with pleasure;
though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially
rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given
up all the happiness which its walls could supply — the happiness of a
progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of
magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted — the
happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a
low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness.
In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance, and
were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who
was behind them, made his friend pull up,
to know
what was the matter.
The others then came close
enough for conversation, and Morland said,
“We had better go back,
Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I.
We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more
than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will
never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off
till another day, and turn round.”
“It is all one to
me,”
replied Thorpe rather
angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to
Bath.
“If your brother had not
got such a d — beast to drive,”
said he soon
afterwards,
“we might have done it
very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if
left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to
that cursed broken-winded jade’s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping
a horse and gig of his own.”
“No, he is not,”
said Catherine
warmly,
“for I am sure he could
not afford it.”
“And why cannot he afford
it?”
“Because he has not money
enough.”
“And whose fault is
that?”
“Nobody’s, that I know
of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which
he had often recourse, about its being a d — thing to be miserly; and that
if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who
could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of
what was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less
and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so;
and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.
As she entered the
house,
the footman told her
that
a gentleman and lady had called
and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off;
that,
when he told them she was gone
out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left
for her; and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none
about her, and went away.
Pondering over these
heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs.
At the head of them she
was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return,
said,
“I am glad your brother
had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild
scheme.”
They all spent the evening
together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits; but
Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of which she shared,
by private partnership with Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet
and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at
the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once.
“How I pity the poor
creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I
wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing
yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an
evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball.
I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is.
But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you
do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say we
could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such
consequence.”
Catherine could almost have
accused Isabella of being wanting in tenderness towards herself and her
sorrows, so very little did they appear to dwell on her mind, and so very
inadequate was the comfort she offered.
“Do not be so dull, my
dearest creature,” she whispered. “You will quite break my heart. It was
amazingly shocking, to be sure; but the Tilneys were entirely to blame.
Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that
signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind
going through anything, where a friend is concerned; that is my
disposition, and John is just the same; he has amazing strong feelings.
Good heavens! What a delightful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I never
was so happy in my life! I would fifty times rather you should have them
than myself.”
And now I may dismiss my
heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine’s portion; to a
pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think
herself, if she get another good night’s rest in the course of the next
three months.
Chapter 12
“Mrs. Allen,”
said Catherine the next
morning,
“will there be any harm
in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have
explained everything.”
“Go, by all means, my dear;
only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always wears white.”
Catherine cheerfully
complied, and being properly equipped, was more impatient than ever to be at
the pump-room, that she might inform herself of General Tilney's lodgings,
for though she believed they were in Milsom Street, she was not certain of
the house, and Mrs. Allen’s wavering convictions only made it more doubtful.
To Milsom Street she was directed, and having made herself perfect in the
number, hastened away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit,
explain her conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the
church-yard, and resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be
obliged to see
her beloved Isabella and her dear
family,
who, she had reason to
believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for Miss
Tilney.
The man
believed Miss Tilney to be at
home, but was not quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her
name?
She gave her card. In a few
minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did not quite confirm
his words,
said
he had been mistaken, for that
Miss Tilney was walked out.
Catherine, with a blush of
mortification, left the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney
was at home, and too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the
street, could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the bottom
of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a window,
but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was followed by
a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they turned up
towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep mortification, proceeded on
her way. She could almost be angry herself at such angry incivility; but she
checked the resentful sensation; she remembered her own ignorance. She knew
not how such an offence as hers might be classed by the laws of worldly
politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it might with propriety
lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make her
amenable.
Dejected and humbled, she had
even some thoughts of not going with the others to the theatre that night;
but it must be confessed that they were not of long continuance, for she
soon recollected, in the first place, that she was without any excuse for
staying at home; and, in the second, that it was a play she wanted very much
to see. To the theatre accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to
plague or please her; she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the
family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was
because they were habituated to the finer performances of the London stage,
which she knew, on
Isabella’s
authority,
rendered everything else of
the kind
“quite horrid.”
She was not deceived in her
own expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no
one, observing her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had
any wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the
sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the
opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no
longer excite genuine merriment — no longer keep her whole attention.
Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and,
for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without
being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of
indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage
during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her, and he
bowed — but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended it;
his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine was
restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to the box in which he
sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings rather natural than
heroic possessed her; instead of considering her own dignity injured by this
ready condemnation — instead of proudly resolving, in conscious
innocence, to show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of
it, to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with
somebody else — she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at
least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining
its cause.
The play concluded —
the curtain fell — Henry Tilney was no longer to be seen where he had
hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he might be now coming
round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes he appeared, and, making
his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with like calm politeness to
Mrs. Allen and her friend.
Not with such calmness
was he answered by the latter:
“Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have
been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have
thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs.
Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out
in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand
times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs.
Allen?”
“My dear, you tumble my
gown,”
was Mrs. Allen’s
reply.
Her assurance, however,
standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it brought a more cordial,
more natural smile into his countenance, and he replied in a tone which
retained only a little affected reserve:
“We were much obliged to
you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing you in
Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back on
purpose.”
“But indeed I did not wish you
a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so
earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs.
Allen, did not — Oh! You were not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr.
Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run after
you.”
Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a declaration?
Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said everything that
need be said of his sister’s concern, regret, and dependence on Catherine’s
honour. “Oh! Do not say
Miss Tilney was not angry,”
cried Catherine,
“because I know she was;
for she would not see me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out
of the house the next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was
not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had been
there.”
“I was not within at the time;
but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she has been wishing ever since to see
you, to explain the reason of such incivility; but perhaps I can do it as
well. It was nothing more than that my father — they were just
preparing to walk out, and he being hurried for time, and not caring to have
it put off — made a point of her being denied. That was all, I do
assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to make her apology as soon
as possible.”
Catherine’s mind was
greatly eased by this information, yet a something of solicitude
remained, from which sprang the following question, thoroughly artless
in itself, though rather distressing to the gentleman:
“But, Mr. Tilney, why
were you less generous than your sister? If she felt such confidence in
my good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a mistake, why
should you be so ready to take offence?”
“Me! I take
offence!”
“Nay, I am sure by your look,
when you came into the box, you were angry.”
“I angry! I could have no
right.”
“Well, nobody would have
thought you had no right who saw your face.”
He replied by asking her
to
make room for him,
and talking of the
play.
He remained with them some
time, and was only too agreeable for Catherine to be contented when he went
away. Before they parted, however, it was agreed that the projected walk
should be taken as soon as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his
quitting their box, she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest
creatures in the world.
While talking to each other,
she had observed with some surprise that John Thorpe, who was never in the
same part of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged in conversation
with General Tilney; and she felt something more than surprise when she
thought she could perceive herself the object of their attention and
discourse.
What could they have to say of
her?
She feared
General Tilney did not like her
appearance:
she found
it was implied in his preventing
her admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few
minutes.
“How came Mr. Thorpe to
know your father?”
was her anxious inquiry,
as she pointed them out to her companion.
He
knew nothing about it; but his
father, like every military man, had a very large acquaintance.
When the entertainment
was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting out. Catherine was the
immediate object of his gallantry; and, while they waited in the lobby
for a chair,
he
prevented the inquiry
which had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue,
by
asking,
in a consequential
manner,
whether she had
seen him talking with General Tilney:
“He is a fine old
fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active — looks as young as his son. I
have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort
of fellow as ever lived.”
“But how came you to know
him?”
“Know him! There are few
people much about town that I do not know. I have met him forever at the
Bedford; and I knew his face again today the moment he came into the
billiard-room. One of the best players we have, by the by; and we had a
little touch together, though I was almost afraid of him at first: the odds
were five to four against me; and, if I had not made one of the cleanest
strokes that perhaps ever was made in this world — I took his ball
exactly — but I could not make you understand it without a table;
however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like
to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners. But what do you think
we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! And
the general thinks
you the finest girl in
Bath.”
“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say
so?”
“And what do you think I
said?”
— lowering his
voice —
“well done, general,
said I; I am quite of your mind.”
Here Catherine, who was much
less gratified by his admiration than by General Tilney’s, was not sorry to
be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe, however, would see her to her chair,
and, till she entered it, continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in
spite of her entreating him to have done.
That General Tilney, instead
of disliking, should admire her, was very delightful; and
she joyfully thought
that
there was not one of the family
whom she need now fear to meet.
The evening had done more, much
more, for her than could have been expected.
Chapter 13
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now passed in review before the reader;
the events of each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications and pleasures,
have been separately stated, and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be
described, and close the week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not
relinquished, and on the afternoon’s crescent of this day, it was brought
forward again. In a private consultation between Isabella and James, the
former of whom had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no
less anxiously placed his upon pleasing her,
it was agreed that,
provided the
weather were fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and
they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined,
and Thorpe’s approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of
it. She had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that
interval the plan was completed, and as soon as she came again, her
agreement was demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by
Isabella,
Catherine
looked grave,
was very sorry, but could not go.
The engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the former
attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had that
moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk tomorrow; it was
quite determined, and she would not, upon any account, retract.
But
that
she must and should
retract
was instantly the eager cry
of both the Thorpes;
they must go to Clifton tomorrow,
they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk
for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.
Catherine was distressed,
but not subdued.
“Do not urge me, Isabella. I
am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.”
This availed nothing. The
same arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they
would not hear of a refusal.
“It would be so easy to tell
Miss Tilney that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must
only beg to put off the walk till Tuesday.”
“No, it would not be easy. I
could not do it. There has been no prior engagement.”
But Isabella became only
more and more urgent, calling on her in the most affectionate manner,
addressing her by the most endearing names.
She was sure
her dearest, sweetest Catherine
would not seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her
so dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved.
But all in vain; Catherine
felt herself to be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such
flattering supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then
tried another method.
She reproached her
with
having more affection for Miss
Tilney, though she had known her so little a while, than for her best and
oldest friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards
herself.
“I cannot help being jealous,
Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so
excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not in the power of
anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than
anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself
supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own.
These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else.”
Catherine thought this
reproach equally strange and unkind.
Was it the part of a friend thus
to expose her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella appeared to her
ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her own
gratification.
These painful ideas crossed
her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could
not help saying,
“Nay, Catherine. I think you
cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige
such a friend — I shall think you quite unkind, if you still
refuse.”
This was the first time of
her brother’s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his
displeasure,
she proposed a
compromise.
If they would only put off their
scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on
themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be
satisfied.
But
“No, no, no!”
was the immediate
answer;
“that could not be, for
Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on
Tuesday.”
Catherine was sorry,
but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by
Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said,
“Very well, then there is
an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the
only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a
thing.”
“Catherine, you must
go,”
said
James.
“But why cannot Mr. Thorpe
drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to
go.”
“Thank ye,”
cried Thorpe,
“but I did not come to
Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not
go, d — me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving
you.”
“That is a compliment which
gives me no pleasure.”
But her words were lost on
Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.
The three others still
continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor
Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked
with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within
Isabella’s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened,
at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady.
“I did not think you had
been so obstinate, Catherine,”
said James;
“you were not used to be
so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my
sisters.”
“I hope I am not less so
now,”
she replied, very
feelingly;
“but indeed I cannot go.
If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”
“I suspect,”
said Isabella, in a low
voice,
“there is no great
struggle.”
Catherine’s heart
swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus
passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who,
coming to them with a gayer look, said,
“Well, I have settled
the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I
have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”
“You have not!”
cried
Catherine.
“I have, upon my soul. Left
her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just
recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you
could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday.
She said
very well, Tuesday was
just as convenient to her;
so there is an end of all
our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine — hey?”
Isabella’s countenance was
once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy
again.
“A most heavenly thought
indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are
honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party.”
“This will not
do,”
said Catherine;
“I cannot submit to this.
I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her
right.”
Isabella, however, caught
hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all
three. Even James was quite angry.
When everything was settled, when
Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite
ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection.
“I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had
no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it
off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a
ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has — He may be mistaken
again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday.
Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me.”
Thorpe told her
it would be in vain to go after
the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had
overtaken them, and were at home by this time.
“Then I will go after
them,”
said Catherine;
“wherever they are I will
go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into
it.”
And with these words she
broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland
withheld him.
“Let her go, let her go, if
she will go. She is as obstinate as — ”
Thorpe never finished the
simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one.
Away walked Catherine in
great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being
pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what
had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them,
particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent her
resistance.
Setting her own inclination apart,
to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have
retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a
false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them
on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted merely her own
gratification; that might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion
itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to
others, and to her own character in their opinion.
Her conviction of being
right, however, was not enough to restore her composure; till she had spoken
to Miss Tilney she could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she
got clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground till she
gained the top of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in
spite of the Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning
into their lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
remaining at the open door,
she
used only the ceremony
of
saying that
she must speak with Miss Tilney
that moment,
and hurrying by him
proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which happened
to be the right, she immediately found herself in the drawing-room with
General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in
being — from her irritation of nerves and shortness of breath —
no explanation at all, was instantly given.
“I am come in a great hurry
— It was all a mistake — I never promised to go — I told
them from the first I could not go. — I ran away in a great hurry to
explain it. — I did not care what you thought of me. — I would
not stay for the servant.”
The business, however, though
not perfectly elucidated by this speech, soon ceased to be a puzzle.
Catherine found
that
John Thorpe had given the
message;
and
Miss Tilney had no scruple
in
owning herself greatly surprised
by it.
But whether her brother had
still exceeded her in resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively
addressed herself as much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no
means of knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her
eager declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as
she could desire.
The affair thus happily
settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to her father, and received by
him with such ready, such solicitous politeness as recalled Thorpe’s
information to her mind, and
made her think
with pleasure
that
he might be sometimes depended
on.
To such anxious attention
was the general’s civility carried, that not aware of her extraordinary
swiftness in entering the house,
he was quite angry
with the servant whose neglect had
reduced her to open the door of the apartment herself.
“What did William mean by it?
He should make a point of inquiring into the matter.”
And if Catherine had not
most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose
the favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her
rapidity.
After sitting with them a
quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave, and was then most agreeably
surprised by
General Tilney’s asking
her
if she would do his daughter the
honour of dining and spending the rest of the day with her.
Miss Tilney added her own
wishes.
Catherine
was greatly obliged; but it was
quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back every
moment.
The general declared
he could say no more; the claims of
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on some other day he
trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would not refuse to spare
her to her friend.
“Oh, no; Catherine was sure they
would not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure in
coming.”
The general
attended her himself to the
street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs,
admiring
the elasticity of her walk, which
corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing,
and making her one of the
most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.
Catherine, delighted by all
that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney Street,
walking,
as she concluded,
with great elasticity,
though she had never thought
of it before. She reached home without seeing anything more of the offended
party; and now that she had been triumphant throughout, had carried her
point, and was secure of her walk,
she began
(as the flutter of her
spirits subsided)
to doubt
whether she had been perfectly
right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way to their
entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of a friend
displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness to both
destroyed, perhaps through her means.
To ease her mind, and
ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct had
really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled
scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen
caught at it directly.
“Well,”
said he,
“and do you think of
going too?”
“No; I had just engaged myself
to walk with Miss Tilney before they told me of it; and therefore you know I
could not go with them, could I?”
“No, certainly not; and I am
glad you do not think of it. These schemes are not at all the thing. Young
men and women driving about the country in open carriages! Now and then it
is very well; but going to inns and public places together! It is not right;
and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should allow it. I am glad you do not think of
going; I am sure Mrs. Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you
of my way of thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects
objectionable?”
“Yes, very much so indeed.
Open carriages are nasty things. A clean gown is not five minutes’ wear in
them. You are splashed getting in and getting out; and the wind takes your
hair and your bonnet in every direction. I hate an open carriage
myself.”
“I know you do; but that is
not the question. Do not you think it has an odd appearance, if young ladies
are frequently driven about in them by young men, to whom they are not even
related?”
“Yes, my dear, a very odd
appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
“Dear madam,”
cried Catherine,
“then why did not you
tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would
not have gone with Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell
me, if you thought I was doing wrong.”
“And so I should, my dear,
you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs. Morland at parting, I would always
do the best for you in my power. But one must not be over particular.
Young people will
be young people,
as your good mother says
herself.
You know I wanted you, when
we first came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people
do not like to be always thwarted.”
“But this was something of
real consequence; and I do not think you would have found me hard to
persuade.”
“As far as it has gone
hitherto, there is no harm done,”
said Mr. Allen;
“and I would only advise
you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any more.”
“That is just what I was going to say,”
added his
wife.
Catherine,
relieved for herself, felt
uneasy for Isabella, and after a moment’s thought,
asked Mr. Allen
whether it would not be both
proper and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of
which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella
might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what
had passed.
Mr. Allen, however,
discouraged her from doing any such thing.
“You had better leave her
alone, my dear; she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has
a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but,
however, you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go,
and you will be only getting ill will.”
Catherine submitted, and
though sorry to think that Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly
relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her own conduct, and truly rejoiced
to be preserved by his advice from the danger of falling into such an error
herself. Her escape from being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape
indeed; for
what would the Tilneys have thought
of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong
in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable
her to be guilty of another?
Chapter 14
The next morning was fair,
and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With
Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would
gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was
heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them.
The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty
arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent
intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able
to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They
determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful
verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost
every opening in Bath.
“I never look at
it,”
said Catherine, as they
walked along the side of the river,
“without thinking of the
south of France.”
“You have been abroad
then?”
said Henry, a little
surprised.
“Oh! No, I only mean what I
have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her
father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read
novels, I dare say?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are not clever
enough for you — gentlemen read better books.”
“The person, be it gentleman
or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I
have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and most of them with great pleasure.
The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down
again; I remember finishing it in two days — my hair standing on end
the whole time.”
“Yes,”
added Miss
Tilney,
“and I remember that you
undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for
only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took
the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you
had finished it.”
“Thank you, Eleanor — a
most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your
suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only
five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it
aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running
away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly
her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me
in your good opinion.”
“I am very glad to hear it
indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I
really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly.”
“It is amazingly; it may well
suggest amazement if they do — for they read nearly as many as women.
I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope
with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars,
and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ and ‘Have
you read that?’ I shall soon leave you as far behind me as — what
shall I say? — I want an appropriate simile. — as far as your
friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into
Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on
my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler
at home!”
“Not very good, I am afraid.
But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the
world?”
“The nicest — by which I
suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding.”
“Henry,”
said Miss Tilney,
“you are very
impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his
sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of
language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word
‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it
as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair
all the rest of the way.”
“I am sure,”
cried Catherine,
“I did not mean to say
anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call it
so?”
“Very true,”
said Henry,
“and this is a very nice
day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young
ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything.
Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety,
delicacy, or refinement — people were nice in their dress, in
their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every
subject is comprised in that one word.”
“While, in fact,”
cried his sister,
“it ought only to be
applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than
wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults
in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever
terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that
kind of reading?”
“To say the truth, I do not
much like any other.”
“Indeed!”
“That is, I can read poetry
and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history,
real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?”
“Yes, I am fond of
history.”
“I wish I were too. I read it
a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or
weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in
every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all
— it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be
so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put
into the heroes’ mouths, their thoughts and designs — the chief of all
this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other
books.”
“Historians, you
think,”
said Miss Tilney,
“are not happy in their
flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
am fond of history — and am very well contented to take the false
with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence
in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I
conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one’s own
observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are
embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I
read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made — and probably
with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than
if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the
Great.”
“You are fond of history! And
so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike
it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At
this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people
like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble
in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly
ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and
girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very
right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s courage that
could sit down on purpose to do it.”
“That little boys and
girls should be tormented,”
said Henry,
“is what no one at all
acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in
behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they
might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that
by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment
readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the
verb ‘to torment,’ as I observed to be your own method, instead of ‘to
instruct,’ supposing them to be now admitted as
synonymous.”
“You think me foolish to call
instruction a torment, but if you had been as much used as myself to hear
poor little children first learning their letters and then learning to
spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be for a whole morning
together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it, as I am in the
habit of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you would allow that
‘to torment’ and ‘to instruct’ might sometimes be used as synonymous
words.”
“Very probably. But historians
are not accountable for the difficulty of learning to read; and even you
yourself, who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to very severe,
very intense application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is
very well worth-while to be tormented for two or three years of one’s life,
for the sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider — if
reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain
— or perhaps might not have written at all.”
Catherine assented —
and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady’s merits closed the subject.
The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on which she had nothing to say.
They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons accustomed to
drawing, and decided on its capability of being formed into pictures, with
all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew
nothing of drawing — nothing of taste: and she listened to them with
an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases
which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could
understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she had
entertained on the matter before.
It seemed as if a good view were
no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue
sky was no longer a proof of a fine day.
She was heartily ashamed of
her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should
always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an
inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person
would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune
of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
The advantages of natural
folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of
a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject I will only add, in
justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex,
imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there
is a portion of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to
desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her
own advantages — did not know that a good-looking girl, with an
affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a
clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the
present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge,
declared that
she would give anything in the
world to be able to draw;
and a lecture on the
picturesque immediately followed, in which his instructions were so clear
that she soon began to see beauty in everything admired by him, and her
attention was so earnest that
he became perfectly
satisfied of
her having a great deal of natural
taste.
He talked of
foregrounds, distances, and
second distances — side-screens and perspectives — lights and
shades;
and Catherine was so hopeful
a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.
Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much
wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy
transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had
placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of
them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly found himself
arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an easy step to
silence.
The general pause which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of
the nation was put an end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of
voice, uttered these words, “I have heard that something very shocking indeed will
soon come out in London.”
Miss Tilney, to whom
this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied,
“Indeed! And of what
nature?”
“That I do not know, nor who
is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than
anything we have met with yet.”
“Good heaven! Where could you
hear of such a thing?”
“A particular friend of mine
had an account of it in a letter from London yesterday. It is to be
uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the
kind.”
“You speak with astonishing
composure! But I hope your friend’s accounts have been exaggerated; and if
such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken
by government to prevent its coming to effect.”
“Government,”
said Henry, endeavouring
not to smile,
“neither desires nor
dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government
cares not how much.”
The ladies stared.
He laughed, and
added,
“Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you
can? No — I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by
the generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no
patience with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down
to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are
neither sound nor acute — neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they
may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and
wit.”
“Miss Morland, do not mind
what he says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful
riot.”
“Riot! What riot?”
“My dear Eleanor, the riot is
only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has
been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is
shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six
pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a
lantern — do you understand? And you, Miss Morland — my stupid
sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected
horrors in London — and instead of instantly conceiving, as any
rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a
circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three
thousand men assembling in St. George’s Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower
threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the
Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton
to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the
moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a
simpleton in general.”
Catherine looked
grave.
“And now, Henry,”
said Miss Tilney,
“that you have made us
understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand
yourself — unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude
to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general.
Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”
“I shall be most happy to make
her better acquainted with them.”
“No doubt; but that is no
explanation of the present.”
“What am I to do?”
“You know what you ought to
do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very
highly of the understanding of women.”
“Miss Morland, I think very
highly of the understanding of all the women in the world — especially
of those — whoever they may be — with whom I happen to be in
company.”
“That is not enough. Be more
serious.”
“Miss Morland, no one can
think more highly of the understanding of women than I do. In my opinion,
nature has given them so much that they never find it necessary to use more
than half.”
“We shall get nothing more
serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do
assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to
say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me.”
It was no effort to
Catherine to believe
that
Henry Tilney could never be
wrong.
His manner might sometimes surprise,
but his meaning must always be just:
and what she did not
understand, she was almost as ready to admire, as what she did. The whole
walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was
delightful too; her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney,
before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs.
Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner
on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen’s side, and
the only difficulty on Catherine’s was in concealing the excess of her
pleasure.
The morning had passed away
so charmingly as to banish all her friendship and natural affection, for no
thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the
Tilneys were gone, she became amiable again, but she was amiable for some
time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could
relieve her anxiety;
she had heard
nothing of any of them.
Towards the end of the
morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of
ribbon which must be bought without a moment’s delay, walked out into the
town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was
loitering towards Edgar’s Buildings between
two of the sweetest girls in the
world,
who had been
her dear friends
all the morning. From her,
she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place.
“They set off at eight
this morning,”
said Miss Anne,
“and I am sure I do not
envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of
the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not
a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother,
and John drove Maria.”
Catherine spoke the pleasure
she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement.
“Oh! yes,”
rejoined the
other,
“Maria is gone. She was
quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot
say I admire her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first
not to go, if they pressed me ever so much.”
Catherine, a little
doubtful of this, could not help answering,
“I wish you could have
gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.”
“Thank you; but it is quite a
matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account.
I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us.”
Catherine was still
unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a
Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and
returned home,
pleased that
the party had not been prevented
by her refusing to join it,
and very heartily
wishing that
it might be too pleasant to allow
either James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer.
Chapter 15
Early the next day, a note
from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness in every line, and entreating
the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance,
hastened Catherine, in the happiest state of confidence and curiosity, to
Edgar’s Buildings. The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the
parlour; and, on Anne’s quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the
opportunity of asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday’s
party.
Maria
desired no greater pleasure
than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learnt
that
it had been altogether the most
delightful scheme in the world,
that
nobody could imagine how charming
it had been,
and
that
it had been more delightful than
anybody could conceive.
Such was the information of
the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in detail
—
that
they had driven directly to the
York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the
pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and
spars; thence adjoined to eat ice at a pastry-cook’s, and hurrying back to
the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark;
and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it
rained a little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he could hardly get it
along.
Catherine listened with
heartfelt satisfaction.
It appeared that
Blaize Castle had never been
thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret for half
an instant.
Maria’s intelligence
concluded with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne,
whom she represented
as
insupportably cross, from being
excluded the party.
“She will never forgive me, I
am sure; but, you know, how could I help it? John would have me go,
for
he vowed
he would not drive her, because
she had such thick ankles.
I dare say she will not be in
good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is
not a little matter that puts me out of temper.”
Isabella now entered the room
with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all
her friend’s notice.
Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus
began:
“Yes, my dear Catherine,
it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch
eye of yours! It sees through everything.”
Catherine replied only by a
look of wondering ignorance.
“Nay, my beloved,
sweetest friend,”
continued the
other,
“compose yourself. I am
amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in
comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly
creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge
of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I
only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father
and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so
agitated!”
Catherine’s
understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into
her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried
out,
“Good heaven! My dear
Isabella, what do you mean? Can you — can you really be in love
with James?”
This bold surmise, however,
she soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which
she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella’s every look and
action, had, in the course of their yesterday’s party, received the
delightful confession of an equal love.
Her heart and faith were alike
engaged to James.
Never had Catherine listened
to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy.
Her brother and her friend
engaged!
New to such circumstances,
the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as
one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly
afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the
nature of them, however, contented her friend.
The happiness of
having such a sister
was their first
effusion,
and the fair ladies mingled
in embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as
Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, it must be
acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations.
“You will be so infinitely
dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall
be so much more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my
own.”
This was a pitch of
friendship beyond Catherine.
“You are so like your
dear brother,”
continued
Isabella,
“that I quite doted on
you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me; the first
moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us
last Christmas — the very first moment I beheld him — my
heart was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my
hair done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John
introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome
before.”
Here
Catherine secretly
acknowledged
the power of love;
for, though exceedingly fond
of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had never in her life
thought him handsome.
“I remember too, Miss Andrews
drank tea with us that evening, and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she
looked so heavenly that I thought your brother must certainly fall in love
with her; I could not sleep a wink all right for thinking of it. Oh!
Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother’s account! I
would not have you suffer half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin,
I know; but I will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen
enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually — so
unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church! But my secret I was
always sure would be safe with you.”
Catherine felt that
nothing could have been
safer;
but ashamed of an ignorance
little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor refuse to have
been as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy as Isabella chose
to consider her. Her brother, she found, was preparing to set off with all
speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask consent; and here
was a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella.
Catherine
endeavoured to persuade her,
as she was herself persuaded,
that
her father and mother would never oppose their son’s
wishes.
“It is
impossible,”
said she,
“for parents to be more
kind, or more desirous of their children’s happiness; I have no doubt of
their consenting immediately.”
“Morland says exactly the
same,”
replied Isabella;
“and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.
Your brother, who might marry anybody!”
Here Catherine again
discerned the force of love.
“Indeed, Isabella, you are too
humble. The difference of fortune can be nothing to signify.”
“Oh! My sweet Catherine, in
your generous heart I know it would signify nothing; but we must not expect
such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our
situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of
the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.”
This charming sentiment,
recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing
remembrance of all the heroines of her acquaintance; and she thought her
friend never looked more lovely than in uttering the grand idea.
“I am sure they will
consent,”
was her frequent
declaration;
“I am sure they will be
delighted with you.”
“For my own part,”
said Isabella,
“my wishes are so
moderate that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me.
Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I
detest: I would not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some
retired village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas
about Richmond.”
“Richmond!”
cried Catherine.
“You must settle near
Fullerton. You must be near us.”
“I am sure I shall be
miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you, I shall be satisfied. But
this is idle talking! I will not allow myself to think of such things, till
we have your father’s answer.
Morland says that
by sending it tonight to
Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow.
Tomorrow? I know I shall
never have courage to open the letter. I know it will be the death of
me.”
A reverie succeeded this
conviction — and when Isabella spoke again, it was to resolve on the
quality of her wedding-gown.
Their conference was put an
end to by the anxious young lover himself, who came to breathe his parting
sigh before he set off for Wiltshire. Catherine wished to congratulate him,
but knew not what to say, and her eloquence was only in her eyes. From them,
however, the eight parts of speech shone out most expressively, and James
could combine them with ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he
hoped at home, his adieus were not long; and they would have been yet
shorter, had he not been frequently detained by
the urgent
entreaties
of his fair one
that
he would go.
Twice was he called almost
from the door by her eagerness to have him gone.
“Indeed, Morland, I must
drive you away. Consider how far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you
linger so. For heaven’s sake, waste no more time. There, go, go — I
insist on it.”
The two friends, with hearts
now more united than ever, were inseparable for the day; and in schemes of
sisterly happiness the hours flew along.
Mrs. Thorpe and her
son,
who were acquainted with
everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent,
to consider
Isabella’s
engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their
family,
were allowed to join their
counsels, and add their quota of significant looks and mysterious
expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the
unprivileged younger sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort
of reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart
at ease by the sagacity of their
“I know what”;
and the evening was spent in
a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on one side in the
mystery of an affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all
equally acute.
Catherine was with her friend
again the next day, endeavouring to support her spirits and while away the
many tedious hours before the delivery of the letters; a needful exertion,
for as the time of reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more
and more desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into
a state of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress be
found?
“I have had no
difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am promised
that everything in their power shall be done to forward my
happiness,”
were the first three lines,
and in one moment all was joyful security.
The brightest glow was
instantly spread over Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed
removed, her spirits became almost too high for control, and she called
herself without scruple the happiest of mortals.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of
joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her visitor, and could have embraced
half the inhabitants of Bath with satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing
with tenderness.
It was
“dear John”
and
“dear Catherine”
at every word;
“dear Anne and dear
Maria”
must immediately be made
sharers in their felicity; and two
“dears”
at once before the name
of Isabella were not more than that beloved child had now well
earned.
John himself was no skulker
in joy.
He not only bestowed on Mr.
Morland the high commendation of
being one of the finest fellows
in the world,
but swore off many sentences
in his praise.
The letter, whence sprang all
this felicity, was short, containing little more than this assurance of
success; and every particular was deferred till James could write again. But
for particulars Isabella could well afford to wait. The needful was
comprised in Mr. Morland’s promise; his honour was pledged to make
everything easy; and by what means their income was to be formed, whether
landed property were to be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter
in which her disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel
secure of an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a
rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end of a
few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at Fullerton,
the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a carriage at her
command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings
on her finger.
When the contents of the
letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had only waited its arrival to
begin his journey to London, prepared to set off.
“Well, Miss
Morland,”
said he, on finding her
alone in the parlour,
“I am come to bid you
good-bye.”
Catherine wished him
a good journey.
Without appearing to hear
her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed
wholly self-occupied.
“Shall not you be late at
Devizes?”
said
Catherine.
He made no answer; but
after a minute’s silence burst out with,
“A famous good thing
this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland’s and
Belle’s. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad
notion.”
“I am sure I think it a very
good one.”
“Do you? That’s honest, by
heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to matrimony, however. Did you ever hear
the old song ‘Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?’ I say, you will come
to Belle’s wedding, I hope.”
“Yes; I have promised your
sister to be with her, if possible.”
“And then you
know”
— twisting himself
about and forcing a foolish laugh —
“I say, then you know,
we may try the truth of this same old song.”
“May we? But I never sing.
Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with Miss Tilney today, and must now
be going home.”
“Nay, but there is no such
confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be together again? Not but that I
shall be down again by the end of a fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight
it will appear to me.”
“Then why do you stay
away so long?”
replied Catherine
— finding that he waited for an answer.
“That is kind of you, however
— kind and good-natured. I shall not forget it in a hurry. But you
have more good nature and all that, than anybody living, I believe. A
monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good nature, but you have
so much, so much of everything; and then you have such — upon my soul,
I do not know anybody like you.”
“Oh! dear, there are a great
many people like me, I dare say, only a great deal better. Good morning to
you.”
“But I say, Miss Morland, I
shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not
disagreeable.”
“Pray do. My father and mother
will be very glad to see you.”
“And I hope — I hope,
Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.”
“Oh! dear, not at all. There
are very few people I am sorry to see. Company is always
cheerful.”
“That is just my way of
thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company, let me only have the
company of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I
like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And I am heartily glad to hear you
say the same. But I have a notion, Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much
alike upon most matters.”
“Perhaps we may; but it is
more than I ever thought of. And as to most matters, to say the truth, there
are not many that I know my own mind about.”
“By Jove, no more do I. It is
not my way to bother my brains with what does not concern me. My notion of
things is simple enough. Let me only have the girl I like, say I, with a
comfortable house over my head, and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is
nothing. I am sure of a good income of my own; and if she had not a penny,
why, so much the better.”
“Very true. I think like you
there. If there is a good fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for
any on the other. No matter which has it, so that there is enough. I hate
the idea of one great fortune looking out for another. And to marry for
money I think the wickedest thing in existence. Good day. We shall be very
glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient.”
And away she went. It was
not in the power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news
to communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to be
delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away, leaving him
to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and her explicit
encouragement.
The agitation which she had
herself experienced on first learning her brother’s engagement made her
expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the
communication of the wonderful event. How great was her disappointment! The
important affair, which many words of preparation ushered in, had been
foreseen by them both ever since her brother’s arrival; and all that they
felt on the occasion was comprehended in
a wish for
the young
people’s happiness,
with a remark,
on the gentleman’s
side,
in favour of
Isabella’s beauty,
and on the lady’s,
of
her great good luck.
It was to Catherine the most
surprising insensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of
James’s going to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in
Mrs. Allen.
She could not listen to that
with perfect calmness, but repeatedly
regretted
the necessity of its
concealment,
wished
she could have known his
intention,
wished
she could have seen him before he
went, as she should certainly have troubled him with her best regards to his
father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.
Chapter 16
Catherine’s expectations of
pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street were so very high that
disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, though she was most politely
received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed by his daughter, though
Henry was at home, and no one else of the party, she found, on her return,
without spending many hours in the examination of her feelings, that she had
gone to her appointment preparing for happiness which it had not afforded.
Instead of finding herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from
the intercourse of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as
before; instead of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in
the ease of a family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little
agreeable; and, in spite of their father’s great civilities to her —
in spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments —
it had been a release to get away
from him.
It puzzled her to account
for all this.
It could not be General Tilney’s
fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and good-natured, and altogether a
very charming man, did not admit of a doubt, for he was tall and handsome,
and Henry’s father. He could not be accountable for his children’s want of
spirits, or for her want of enjoyment in his company.
The former she hoped at last
might have been accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her
own stupidity.
Isabella, on hearing
the particulars of the visit, gave a different explanation:
“It was all pride,
pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the
family to be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of
behaviour as Miss Tilney’s she had never heard of in her life! Not to do
the honours of her house with common good breeding! To behave to her
guest with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to
her!”
“But it was not so bad as
that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness; she was very
civil.”
“Oh! Don’t defend her! And
then the brother, he, who had appeared so attached to you! Good heavens!
Well, some people’s feelings are incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked
once at you the whole day?”
“I do not say so; but he did
not seem in good spirits.”
“How contemptible! Of all
things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to
think of him again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of
you.”
“Unworthy! I do not suppose he
ever thinks of me.”
“That is exactly what I say;
he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your brother
and to mine! I really believe John has the most constant heart.”
“But as for General Tilney, I
assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater
civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make
me happy.”
“Oh! I know no harm of him; I
do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John
thinks very well of him, and John’s judgment — ”
“Well, I shall see how they
behave to me this evening; we shall meet them at the rooms.”
“And must I go?”
“Do not you intend it? I
thought it was all settled.”
“Nay, since you make such a
point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very
agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off. And as for
dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is quite out of the question.
Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very
short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want
to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to
himself.”
Isabella’s opinion of the
Tilneys did not influence her friend;
she was sure
there had been no insolence in the
manners either of brother or sister;
and
she did not credit
there being any pride in their
hearts.
The evening rewarded her
confidence; she was met by one with the same kindness, and by the other with
the same attention, as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains to be near her,
and
Henry asked her
to dance.
Having heard
the day before in Milsom
Street
that
their elder
brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour,
she was at no loss for the
name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had never
seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party.
Shelooked at him with great
admiration, and even
supposed
it possible
that
some people might think him
handsomer than his brother,
though, in her eyes, his air
was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and
manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within her
hearing,
he
not only
protested
against every thought of dancing
himself,
but even
laughed openly at Henry
for
finding it possible.
From the latter circumstance
it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine’s opinion of him, his
admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce
animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be
the instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s greatcoats, by whom she
will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive
off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by
presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having
but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry
Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding
him irresistible, becoming so herself.
At the end of the first
dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine’s
dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together;
and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay
it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent
misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his
brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her
partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense
was of full five minutes’ duration; and
she was beginning to
think
it a very long quarter of an
hour,
when they both returned, and
an explanation was given, by Henry’s requesting to know if she thought her
friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother
would be most happy to be introduced to her.
Catherine,
without hesitation,
replied that
she was very sure Miss Thorpe did
not mean to dance at all.
The cruel reply was passed
on to the other, and he immediately walked away.
“Your brother will not
mind it, I know,”
said she,
“because I heard him say
before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to
think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she
might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not
dance upon any account in the world.”
Henry smiled, and
said,
“How very little trouble
it can give you to understand the motive of other people’s
actions.”
“Why? What do you
mean?”
“With you, it is not, How is
such a one likely to be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to
act upon such a person’s feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of
life considered — but, How should I be influenced, What would be my
inducement in acting so and so?”
“I do not understand
you.”
“Then we are on very unequal
terms, for I understand you perfectly well.”
“Me? Yes; I cannot speak well
enough to be unintelligible.”
“Bravo! An excellent satire on
modern language.”
“But pray tell me what you
mean.”
“Shall I indeed? Do you really
desire it? But you are not aware of the consequences; it will involve you in
a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement between
us.
“No, no; it shall not do
either; I am not afraid.”
“Well, then, I only meant that
your attributing my brother’s wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good
nature alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature yourself to
all the rest of the world.”
Catherine blushed and
disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were verified. There was a
something, however, in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion;
and that something occupied her mind so much that she drew back for some
time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was;
till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with
Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across.
Isabella shrugged her
shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change
which could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for
Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to
her partner.
“I cannot think how it could
happen! Isabella was so determined not to dance.”
“And did Isabella never change
her mind before?”
“Oh! But, because — And
your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going
to ask her?”
“I cannot take surprise to
myself on that head. You bid me be surprised on your friend’s account, and
therefore I am; but as for my brother, his conduct in the business, I must
own, has been no more than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness
of your friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be
understood by yourself.”
“You are laughing; but, I
assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.”
“It is as much as should be
said of anyone. To be always firm must be to be often obstinate. When
properly to relax is the trial of judgment; and, without reference to my
brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen ill in fixing on
the present hour.”
The friends were not
able to get together for any confidential discourse till all the dancing
was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella
thus explained herself:
“I do not wonder at your
surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!
Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given
the world to sit still.”
“Then why did not
you?”
“Oh! My dear! It would have
looked so particular; and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as
long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial. You have no idea how
he pressed me. I begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner —
but no, not
he;
after aspiring to my
hand,
there was nobody else in the room
he could bear to think of; and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he
wanted to be with me.
Oh! Such nonsense! I told him
he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me; for, of all things in
the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so — and so then
I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought
Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I did not: and your
dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down the
whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with
listening to his nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw
every eye was upon us.”
“He is very handsome
indeed.”
“Handsome! Yes, I suppose he
may. I dare say people would admire him in general; but he is not at all in
my style of beauty. I hate a florid complexion and dark eyes in a man.
However, he is very well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down
several times, you know, in my way.”
When the young ladies next
met, they had a far more interesting subject to discuss. James Morland’s
second letter was then received, and the kind intentions of his father fully
explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland was himself patron and incumbent,
of about four hundred pounds yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as
soon as he should be old enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the
family income, no niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of
at least equal value, moreover, was assured as his future
inheritance.
James expressed himself on
the occasion with becoming gratitude; and the necessity of waiting between
two and three years before they could marry, being, however unwelcome, no
more than he had expected, was borne by him without discontent.
Catherine,
whose expectations had been
as unfixed as her ideas of her father’s income, and whose judgment was now
entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and
heartily congratulated
Isabella on
having everything so pleasantly
settled.
“It is very charming
indeed,”
said Isabella, with a
grave face.
“Mr. Morland has
behaved vastly handsome indeed,”
said the gentle Mrs.
Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter.
“I only wish I could do
as much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he
can do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an
excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin
on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do
not consider how little you ever want, my dear.”
“It is not on my own account I
wish for more; but I cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear
Morland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the
common necessaries of life. For myself, it is nothing; I never think of
myself.”
“I know you never do, my
dear; and you will always find your reward in the affection it makes
everybody feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved as you are
by everybody that knows you; and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my
dear child — but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking
of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always
heard he was a most excellent man; and you know, my dear, we are not to
suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down
with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded
man.”
“Nobody can think better of
Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know,
and everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money.”
Catherine was hurt by these
insinuations.
“I am very sure,”
said she,
“that my father has
promised to do as much as he can afford.”
Isabella recollected
herself.
“As to that, my sweet
Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be
sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of
more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate
money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a
year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have
found me out. There’s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and
half that are to pass before your brother can hold the
living.”
“Yes, yes, my darling
Isabella,”
said Mrs. Thorpe,
“we perfectly see into
your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present
vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest
affection.”
Catherine’s uncomfortable
feelings began to lessen.
She endeavoured to believe
that
the delay of the marriage was the
only source of Isabella’s regret;
and when she saw her at
their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget
that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter,
and was received with the most gratifying kindness.
Chapter 17
The Allens had now entered on
the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was
for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating
heart.
To have her acquaintance with the
Tilneys end so soon
was an evil which nothing
could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair
was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the
lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional
fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing
Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice
indeed, since James’s engagement had taught her what could be done, she had
got so far as to indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the felicity
of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now
comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that
period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little
interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she
visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to
be a day of trial. No sooner had
she expressed
her delight in Mr. Allen’s
lengthened stay
than
Miss Tilney told her
of
her father’s having just
determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week.
Here was a blow! The past
suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present
disappointment.
Catherine’s countenance
fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney’s
concluding words,
“By the end of another
week!”
“Yes, my father can seldom be
prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been
disappointed of some friends’ arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as
he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home.”
“I am very sorry for
it,”
said Catherine
dejectedly;
“if I had known this
before — ”
“Perhaps,”
said Miss Tilney in an
embarrassed manner,
“you would be so good
— it would make me very happy if — ”
The entrance of her father
put a stop to the civility, which
Catherine was beginning to
hope
might introduce a desire of their
corresponding.
After addressing her
with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said,
“Well, Eleanor, may I
congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair
friend?”
“I was just beginning to make
the request, sir, as you came in.”
“Well, proceed by all
means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss
Morland,”
he continued, without
leaving his daughter time to speak,
“has been forming a very
bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday
se’nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted
at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of
Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there
is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish
point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in
short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige
your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost
ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly
appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as
yours — but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If
you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy
beyond expression. ‘Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties
of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor
splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and
unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make
Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.”
Northanger Abbey! These were
thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s feelings to the highest point of
ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its
expressions within the language of tolerable calmness.
To receive so flattering an
invitation!
To have her company so
warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present
enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance,
with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s approbation, was eagerly
given.
“I will write home
directly,”
said she,
“and if they do not
object, as I dare say they will not — ”
General Tilney was not less
sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street,
and obtained their sanction of his wishes.
“Since they can consent
to part with you,” said he, “we may expect philosophy from all the
world.”
Miss Tilney was earnest,
though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few
minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would
allow.
The circumstances of the
morning had led Catherine’s feelings through the varieties of suspense,
security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect
bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and
Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and
Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had
already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an
acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by
return of post their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire.
This indulgence,
though not more than
Catherine had hoped for,
completed her conviction
of
being favoured beyond every other
human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything
seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends,
the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every
kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the
happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to
create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister.
The Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought
of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their
intimacy was to be continued.
She was to be their chosen visitor,
she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society
she mostly prized — and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to
be the roof of an abbey!
Her passion for ancient
edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney — and
castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those reveries which his image
did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or
the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though
to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for
desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of
house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,
and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells
and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she could not
entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials
of an injured and ill-fated nun.
It was wonderful that her friends
should seem so little elated by the possession of such a home, that the
consciousness of it should be so meekly borne. The power of early habit only
could account for it. A distinction to which they had been born gave no
pride. Their superiority of abode was no more to them than their superiority
of person.
Many were the inquiries she
was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so active were her thoughts, that when
these inquiries were answered,
she was hardly more assured
than before, of
Northanger Abbey having been a
richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having fallen
into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large
portion of the ancient building still making a part of the present dwelling
although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered
from the north and east by rising woods of oak.
Chapter 18
With a mind thus full of
happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two or three days had passed
away, without her seeing Isabella for more than a few minutes together. She
began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh for her conversation, as she
walked along the pump-room one morning, by Mrs. Allen’s side, without
anything to say or to hear; and scarcely had she felt a five minutes’
longing of friendship, before the object of it appeared, and inviting her to
a secret conference, led the way to a seat.
“This is my favourite
place,”
said she as they sat
down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of
everybody entering at either;
“it is so out of the
way.”
Catherine, observing
that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards one door or the
other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how often she had been
falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine opportunity
for being really so; and therefore gaily said,
“Do not be uneasy,
Isabella, James will soon be here.”
“Psha! My dear
creature,”
she replied,
“do not think me such a
simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would
be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest of the place.
And so you are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one
of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a
most particular description of it.”
“You shall certainly have the
best in my power to give. But who are you looking for? Are your sisters
coming?”
“I am not looking for anybody.
One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of
fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly
absent; I believe I am the most absent creature in the world.
Tilney says
it is always the case with minds
of a certain stamp.”
“But I thought, Isabella, you
had something in particular to tell me?”
“Oh! Yes, and so I have. But
here is a proof of what I was saying. My poor head, I had quite forgot it.
Well, the thing is this: I have just had a letter from John; you can guess
the contents.”
“No, indeed, I
cannot.”
“My sweet love, do not be so
abominably affected. What can he write about, but yourself? You know he is
over head and ears in love with you.”
“With me, dear
Isabella!”
“Nay, my sweetest Catherine,
this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and all that, is very well in its way,
but really a little common honesty is sometimes quite as becoming. I have no
idea of being so overstrained! It is fishing for compliments. His attentions
were such as a child must have noticed. And
it was but half an
hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most positive
encouragement.
He says so in this letter,
says that
he as good as made
you an offer, and
that
you received his
advances in the kindest way;
and now
he wants me to
urge his suit, and
say all manner of pretty things to you.
So it is in vain to affect
ignorance.”
Catherine,
with all the earnestness of
truth,
expressed
her astonishment at such a
charge,
protesting
her innocence of every thought of
Mr. Thorpe’s being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of her
having ever intended to encourage him.
“As to any attentions on his
side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a
moment — except just his asking me to dance the first day of his
coming. And as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be
some unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that
kind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest that
no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. The last half hour
before he went away! It must be all and completely a mistake — for I
did not see him once that whole morning.”
“But that you certainly did,
for you spent the whole morning in Edgar’s Buildings — it was the day
your father’s consent came — and I am pretty sure that you and John
were alone in the parlour some time before you left the house.”
“Are you? Well, if you
say it, it was so, I dare say — but for the life of me, I cannot
recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and seeing him as well
as the rest — but that we were ever alone for five minutes —
However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass on his
side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it, that I
never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind from
him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for me
— but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never
had the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and
tell him I beg his pardon — that is — I do not know what I
ought to say — but make him understand what I mean, in the
properest way. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours,
Isabella, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could think of one
man more than another — he is not the person.”
Isabella was
silent.
“My dear friend, you must
not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much
about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters.”
“Yes, yes”
(with a blush),
“there are more ways than
one of our being sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear
Catherine, the case seems to be that you are determined against poor
John — is not it so?”
“I certainly cannot return his
affection, and as certainly never meant to encourage it.”
“Since that is the case, I am
sure I shall not tease you any further. John desired me to speak to you on
the subject, and therefore I have. But I confess, as soon as I read his
letter, I thought it a very foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to
promote the good of either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you
came together? You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a
trifle that will support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may
say, there is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it;
he could not have received my last.”
“You do acquit me, then, of
anything wrong? — You are convinced that I never meant to deceive your
brother, never suspected him of liking me till this moment?”
“Oh! As to that,”
answered Isabella
laughingly,
“I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All
that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will
occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one
wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in
the world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for
in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not
mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
“But my opinion of your
brother never did alter; it was always the same. You are describing what
never happened.”
“My dearest
Catherine,”
continued the other
without at all listening to her,
“I would not for all the
world be the means of hurrying you into an engagement before you knew
what you were about. I do not think anything would justify me in wishing
you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because
he is my brother, and who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as
happy without you, for people seldom know what they would be at, young
men especially, they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I
say is, why should a brother’s happiness be dearer to me than a
friend’s? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But,
above all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word
for it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to
repent it.
Tilney says
there is nothing
people are so often deceived in as the state of their own
affections,
and I believe he is very
right. Ah! Here he comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am
sure.”
Catherine, looking up,
perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella, earnestly fixing her eye on him as
she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached immediately, and took the
seat to which her movements invited him. His first address made Catherine
start.
Though spoken low, she
could distinguish,
“What! Always to be
watched, in person or by proxy!”
“Psha, nonsense!”
was Isabella’s answer in
the same half whisper.
“Why do you put such
things into my head? If I could believe it — my spirit, you know,
is pretty independent.”
“I wish your heart were
independent. That would be enough for me.”
“My heart, indeed! What can
you have to do with hearts? You men have none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we
have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
“Do they? I am sorry for
it; I am sorry they find anything so disagreeable in me. I will look
another way. I hope this pleases you” (turning her back on him);
“I hope your eyes are not
tormented now.”
“Never more so; for the edge
of a blooming cheek is still in view — at once too much and too
little.”
Catherine heard all this, and
quite out of countenance, could listen no longer. Amazed that Isabella could
endure it, and jealous for her brother, she rose up, and
saying
she should join Mrs. Allen,
proposed
their walking.
But for this Isabella showed
no inclination.
She was so amazingly tired, and it
was so odious to parade about the pump-room; and if she moved from her seat
she should miss her sisters; she was expecting her sisters every moment; so
that her dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly down
again.
But Catherine could be
stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their returning
home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving Isabella still
sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did she thus leave
them.
It seemed to her
that
Captain Tilney was falling in love
with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him; unconsciously it
must be, for Isabella’s attachment to James was as certain and well
acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or good intentions was
impossible; and yet, during the whole of their conversation her manner had
been odd.
She wished
Isabella had talked more like her
usual self, and not so much about money, and had not looked so well pleased
at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she should not perceive his
admiration!
Catherine longed to
give her a hint of it,
to
put her on her guard, and prevent
all the pain which her too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for
him and her brother.
The compliment of John
Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this thoughtlessness in his
sister. She was almost as far from believing as from wishing it to be
sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could mistake, and his assertion
of the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his mistakes could
sometimes be very egregious. In vanity, therefore, she gained but little;
her chief profit was in wonder.
That he should think it worth his
while to fancy himself in love with her
was a matter of lively
astonishment.
Isabella talked of his attentions;
she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said many things which
she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never be said again;
and upon this she was glad
to rest altogether for present ease and comfort.
Chapter 19
A few days passed away, and
Catherine, though not allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help
watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable.
Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded
only by their immediate friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her
change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might
have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that
boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would
occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might
only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when
Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions as
readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with
James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be
passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend
could be at, was beyond her comprehension.
Isabella could not be aware of the
pain she was inflicting;
but it was a degree of
wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the
sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present
comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to her it was always
an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his
looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she
thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in
spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his
behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that
she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it.
He might be jealous of her brother
as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her
misapprehension.
She wished, by a gentle
remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of
this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or
comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella
could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the
Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into
Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s
removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain
Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the
party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this,
her resolution was directly made.
She
spoke to Henry Tilney on the
subject,
regretting
his brother’s evident partiality
for Miss Thorpe,
and
entreating
him to make known her prior
engagement.
“My brother does know
it,”
was Henry’s
answer.
“Does he? Then why does he
stay here?”
He made no reply, and
was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly
continued,
“Why do not you persuade
him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at
last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody’s sake, to
leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again;
but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be
miserable.”
Henry smiled and
said,
“I am sure my brother
would not wish to do that.”
“Then you will persuade him to
go away?”
“Persuasion is not at command;
but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself
told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be
his own master.”
“No, he does not know
what he is about,”
cried Catherine;
“he does not know the
pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I
am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
“And are you sure it is my
brother’s doing?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Is it my brother’s attentions
to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s admission of them, that gives the
pain?”
“Is not it the same
thing?”
“I think Mr. Morland would
acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man’s admiration of
the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a
torment.”
Catherine blushed for
her friend, and said,
“Isabella is wrong. But I
am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and
while my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into
a fever. You know she must be attached to him.”
“I understand: she is in love
with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
“Oh! no, not flirts. A woman
in love with one man cannot flirt with another.”
“It is probable that she will
neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The
gentlemen must each give up a little.”
After a short pause,
Catherine resumed with,
“Then you do not believe
Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”
“I can have no opinion on that
subject.”
“But what can your brother
mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his
behaviour?”
“You are a very close
questioner.”
“Am I? I only ask what I want
to be told.”
“But do you only ask what I
can be expected to tell?”
“Yes, I think so; for you must
know your brother’s heart.”
“My brother’s heart, as you
term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess
at.”
“Well?”
“Well! Nay, if it is to be
guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand
conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively
and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week’s
acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as
long as he has known her.”
“Well,” said
Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “you may be able to guess at your
brother’s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not
your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to
go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would
go.”
“My dear Miss
Morland,”
said Henry,
“in this amiable
solicitude for your brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken?
Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his
own account or Miss Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at
least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of
Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to
him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this —
and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say,
‘Do not be uneasy,’ because I know that you are so, at this moment; but
be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual
attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore,
that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no
disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open
to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is
required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will
never tease the other beyond what is known to be
pleasant.”
Perceiving her still to
look doubtful and grave, he added,
“Though Frederick does
not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time,
perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon
expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their
acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight,
and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney’s passion for a
month.”
Catherine would contend no
longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole
length of a speech, but it now carried her captive.
Henry Tilney must know
best.
She blamed herself for the
extent of her fears, and
resolved
never to think so seriously on the
subject again.
Her resolution was supported
by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the
last evening of Catherine’s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed
between the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit them in
apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly
placid. Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her
heart; but that at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover
a flat contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine
remembered Henry’s instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection.
The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be
fancied.
Chapter 20
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry
to lose their young friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her
a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had
been gently increased. Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however,
prevented their wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one
more week in Bath themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt.
Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw
her seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was
she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve
their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes,
she could almost have wished to return with him to Pulteney
Street.
Miss Tilney’s manners and
Henry’s smile soon did away some of her unpleasant feelings; but still she
was far from being at ease; nor could the incessant attentions of the
general himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she
doubted whether she might not have felt less, had she been less attended to.
His anxiety for her comfort — his continual solicitations that she
would eat, and his often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste
— though never in her life before had she beheld half such variety on
a breakfast-table — made it impossible for her to forget for a moment
that she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew
not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the general’s
impatience for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he
expressed at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was
quite pained by the severity of his father’s reproof, which seemed
disproportionate to the offence; and much was her concern increased when she
found herself the principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was
chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a
very uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain
Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.
He listened to his father in
silence, and attempted not any defence,
which confirmed her in
fearing that
the inquietude of his mind, on
Isabella’s account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been the real
cause of his rising late.
It was the first time of her
being decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form her
opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father remained
in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she
could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper to Eleanor,
“How glad I shall be when you
are all off.”
The bustle of going was not
pleasant. The clock struck ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the
general had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour.
His greatcoat, instead of being
brought for him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which
he was to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn
out, though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had
so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to
sit;
and, so much was he
influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some
difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into the
street. At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and
they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses
of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the
distance of Northanger from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages.
Catherine’s spirits revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss
Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new
to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view
of Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected
it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was
nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without
anything to see, next followed — and her admiration of the style in
which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four — postilions
handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous
outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent
inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would
have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed
always a check upon his children’s spirits, and scarcely anything was said
but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever
the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine
grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours
into four. At last, however, the order of release was given; and much was
Catherine then surprised by the general’s proposal of her taking his place
in his son’s curricle for the rest of the journey:
“the day was fine, and he was
anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”
The remembrance of Mr.
Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open carriages, made her blush at
the mention of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it; but her
second was of greater deference for General Tilney’s judgment;
he could not propose anything
improper for her;
and, in the course of a few
minutes, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as
ever existed.
A very short trial
convinced her that
a curricle was the prettiest
equipage in the world; the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur,
to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business,
and she could not easily
forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would
have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own carriage
lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a minute. But the
merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;
Henry drove so well — so
quietly — without making any disturbance, without parading to her, or
swearing at them:
so different from the only
gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with!
And then his hat sat so well, and
the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be
driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest
happiness in the world.
In addition to every other
delight, she had now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked
at least, on his sister’s account, for her kindness in thus becoming her
visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating
real gratitude.
His sister,
he said,
was uncomfortably circumstanced
— she had no female companion — and, in the frequent absence of
her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.
“But how can that
be?”
said Catherine.
“Are not you with
her?”
“Northanger is not more than
half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is
nearly twenty miles from my father’s, and some of my time is necessarily
spent there.”
“How sorry you must be for
that!”
“I am always sorry to leave
Eleanor.”
“Yes; but besides your
affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to
such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very
disagreeable.”
He smiled, and said, “You
have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey.”
“To be sure, I have. Is not it
a fine old place, just like what one reads about?”
“And are you prepared to
encounter all the horrors that a building such as ‘what one reads about’ may
produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and
tapestry?”
“Oh! yes — I do not
think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people
in the house — and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left
deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without
giving any notice, as generally happens.”
“No, certainly. We shall not
have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of
a wood fire — nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room
without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a
young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind,
she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly
repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy,
the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy
passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it
about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not
your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber —
too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp
to take in its size — its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures
as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet,
presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within
you?”
“Oh! But this will not happen
to me, I am sure.”
“How fearfully will you
examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not
tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the
remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts
can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior,
whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be
able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by
your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few
unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason
to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted,
and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With
this parting cordial she curtsies off — you listen to the sound of her
receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you — and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with
increased alarm, that it has no lock.”
“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how
frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am
sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?”
“Nothing further to alarm
perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable
horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet
slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your
arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as
to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the
neighbouring mountains — and during the frightful gusts of wind which
accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not
extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest.
Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for
indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown
around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you
will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy
the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear
— which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you
will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening — and, with your lamp in
your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.”
“No, indeed; I should be too
much frightened to do any such thing.”
“What! Not when Dorothy has
given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication
between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles
off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed
into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without
perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a
dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some
instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common
way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own
apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes
will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold,
which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed
unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly
advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer
— but for some time without discovering anything of importance —
perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by
touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open — a roll of
paper appears — you seize it — it contains many sheets of
manuscript — you hasten with the precious treasure into your own
chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher ‘Oh! Thou —
whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched
Matilda may fall’ — when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and
leaves you in total darkness.”
“Oh! No, no — do not say
so. Well, go on.”
But Henry was too much amused
by the interest he had raised to be able to carry it farther; he could no
longer command solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to
entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal of Matilda’s woes.
Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began
earnestly
to assure him that
her attention had been fixed
without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he
related.
“Miss Tilney, she was sure, would
never put her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all
afraid.”
As they drew near the end of
their journey, her impatience for a sight of the abbey — for some time
suspended by his conversation on subjects very different — returned in
full force, and every bend in the road was expected with solemn awe to
afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone, rising amidst a grove of
ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in beautiful splendour
on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building stand, that she
found herself passing through the great gates of the lodge into the very
grounds of Northanger, without having discerned even an antique
chimney.
She knew not that she had any
right to be surprised, but there was a something in this mode of approach
which she certainly had not expected. To pass between lodges of a modern
appearance, to find herself with such ease in the very precincts of the
abbey, and driven so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel,
without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of any kind, struck her as odd and
inconsistent. She was not long at leisure, however, for such considerations.
A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it impossible for her
to observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of
her new straw bonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was
springing, with Henry’s assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the
shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her
friend and the general were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one
awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one moment’s suspicion of
any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze
had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted
nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake to
her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room, and
capable of considering where she was.
An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to
be really in an abbey!
But she doubted, as she
looked round the room, whether anything within her observation would have
given her the consciousness. The furniture was in all the profusion and
elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had expected the ample
width and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted to a Rumford,
with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and ornaments over it of the
prettiest English china. The windows, to which she looked with peculiar
dependence, from having heard the general talk of his preserving them in
their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had
portrayed.
To be sure, the pointed arch was
preserved — the form of them was Gothic — they might be even
casements — but every pane was so large, so clear, so light!
To an imagination which had
hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for painted
glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.
The general,
perceiving how her eye was
employed,
began to talk
of the smallness of the room and
simplicity of the furniture, where everything, being for daily use,
pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering himself, however, that there
were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthy her notice
— and was proceeding
to mention the costly gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his
watch, he stopped short
to pronounce it with
surprise
within twenty minutes of
five!
This seemed the word of
separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss Tilney in such
a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality to the family hours
would be expected at Northanger.
Returning through the large
and lofty hall, they ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after
many flights and many landing-places, brought them upon a long, wide
gallery. On one side it had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the
other by windows which Catherine had only time to discover looked into a
quadrangle, before
Miss Tilney
led the way into a chamber,
and
scarcely staying to
hope
she would find it
comfortable,
left her
with an anxious entreaty
that
she would make as little
alteration as possible in her dress.
Chapter 21
A moment’s glance was enough
to satisfy Catherine that her apartment was very unlike the one which Henry
had endeavoured to alarm her by the description of. It was by no means
unreasonably large, and contained neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls
were papered, the floor was carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect
nor more dim than those of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not
of the latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on this
point,
she resolved
to lose no time in particular
examination of anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by
any delay.
Her habit therefore was
thrown off with all possible haste, and she was preparing to unpin the linen
package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation,
when her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep
recess on one side of the fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and,
forgetting everything else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder,
while these thoughts crossed her:
“This is strange indeed! I
did not expect such a sight as this! An immense heavy chest! What can it
hold? Why should it be placed here? Pushed back too, as if meant to be out
of sight! I will look into it — cost me what it may, I will look into
it — and directly too — by daylight. If I stay till evening my
candle may go out.”
She advanced and examined it
closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and
raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the same. The
lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect
remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some
strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher, in
the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but without being able to
distinguish anything with certainty. She could not, in whatever direction
she took it, believe the last letter to be a T; and yet that it should be
anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of
astonishment.
If not originally theirs, by what
strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?
Her fearful curiosity was
every moment growing greater; and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of
the lock, she resolved at all hazards to satisfy herself at least as to its
contents. With difficulty, for something seemed to resist her efforts, she
raised the lid a few inches; but at that moment a sudden knocking at the
door of the room made her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with
alarming violence. This ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by
her mistress to be of use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately
dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense of what she ought to be doing,
and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to
proceed in her dressing without further delay. Her progress was not quick,
for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object so well
calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared not waste a moment
upon a second attempt, she could not remain many paces from the chest. At
length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her toilette seemed
so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might safely be
indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate should be the
exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by supernatural means, the
lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this spirit she sprang
forward, and her confidence did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw
back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton
counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed
possession!
She was gazing on it with the
first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney, anxious for her friend’s being
ready, entered the room, and to the rising shame of having harboured for
some minutes an absurd expectation, was then added the shame of being caught
in so idle a search.
“That is a curious old
chest, is not it?”
said Miss Tilney, as
Catherine hastily closed it and turned away to the glass.
“It is impossible to say
how many generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in
this room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it
might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it
is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however,
it is at least out of the way.”
Catherine had no leisure for
speech, being at once blushing, tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions
with the most violent dispatch.
Miss Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they
ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General
Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having, on
the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered
“Dinner to be on
table directly!”
Catherine trembled at the
emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale and breathless, in a most humble
mood, concerned for his children, and detesting old chests; and
the general,
recovering his politeness
as he looked at her, spent the rest of his time in
scolding his
daughter
for so foolishly hurrying her fair
friend, who was absolutely out of breath from haste, when there was not the
least occasion for hurry in the world:
but Catherine could not at
all get over the double distress of having involved her friend in a lecture
and been a great simpleton herself, till they were happily seated at the
dinner-table, when the general’s complacent smiles, and a good appetite of
her own, restored her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room,
suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in
common use, and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost
lost on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants.
Of the former, she spoke
aloud her admiration; and
the general,
with a very gracious
countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and
further
confessed that,
though as careless on such subjects
as most people, he did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the
necessaries of life;
he supposed, however,
“that she must have been used to
much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen’s?”
“No, indeed,”
was Catherine’s honest
assurance;
“Mr. Allen’s
dining-parlour was not more than half as large,”
and
she had never seen
so large a room as this in her life. The general’s good humour increased.
Why, as he had such rooms, he
thought it would be simple not to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he
believed there might be more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr.
Allen’s house, he was sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational
happiness.
The evening passed without
any further disturbance, and, in the occasional absence of General Tilney,
with much positive cheerfulness. It was only in his presence that Catherine
felt the smallest fatigue from her journey; and even then, even in moments
of languor or restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she
could think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with
them.
The night was stormy; the
wind had been rising at intervals the whole afternoon; and by the time the
party broke up, it blew and rained violently. Catherine, as she crossed the
hall, listened to the tempest with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it
rage round a corner of the ancient building and close with sudden fury a
distant door, felt for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes,
these were characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a
countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such
buildings had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did
she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls
so solemn!
She had nothing to dread from
midnight assassins or drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in
jest in what he had told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so
guarded, she could have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her
bedroom as securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton.
Thus wisely fortifying her
mind, as she proceeded upstairs,
she was enabled, especially
on perceiving that
Miss Tilney slept only two doors
from her,
to enter her room with a
tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately assisted by the
cheerful blaze of a wood fire.
“How much better is
this,”
said she, as she walked
to the fender —
“how much better to find
a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all
the family are in bed, as so many poor girls have been obliged to do,
and then to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in
with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had
been like some other places, I do not know that, in such a night as
this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there
is nothing to alarm one.”
She looked round the room.
The window curtains seemed in motion. It could be nothing but the violence
of the wind penetrating through the divisions of the shutters; and she
stepped boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune, to assure herself of its
being so, peeped courageously behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low
window seat to scare her, and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt
the strongest conviction of the wind’s force. A glance at the old chest, as
she turned away from this examination, was not without its use; she scorned
the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy
indifference to prepare herself for bed.
“She should take her time; she
should not hurry herself; she did not care if she were the last person up in
the house. But she would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly, as
if she wished for the protection of light after she were in bed.”
The fire therefore died
away, and Catherine, having spent the best part of an hour in her
arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a
parting glance round the room, she was struck by the appearance of a high,
old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous
enough, had never caught her notice before. Henry’s words, his description
of the ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation at first,
immediately rushed across her; and
though there could be nothing
really in it, there was something whimsical, it was certainly a very
remarkable coincidence!
She took her candle and
looked closely at the cabinet.
It was not absolutely ebony and
gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and
as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key
was in the door,
and she had a strange fancy
to look into it;
not, however, with the smallest
expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd, after what Henry
had said.
In short, she could not
sleep till she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on
a chair, she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it;
but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried
it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself successful;
but how strangely mysterious! The
door was still immovable.
She paused a moment in
breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in
torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness
of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point,
would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a
cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore,
she applied herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way
for some instants with the determined celerity of hope’s last effort, the
door suddenly yielded to her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such
a victory, and having thrown open each folding door, the second being
secured only by bolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though
in that her eye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small
drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and
in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in all
probability a cavity of importance.
Catherine’s heart beat quick,
but her courage did not fail her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye
straining with curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and
drew it forth. It was entirely empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness
she seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was
left unsearched, and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of
concealing a treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did
not escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in
vain.
The place in the middle
alone remained now unexplored; and though she had
“never from the
first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the
cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus
far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was
about it.”
It was some time however
before she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the
management of this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open;
and not vain, as hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a
roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently
for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her
heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized,
with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed
to ascertain written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful
sensations this striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold,
resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to
rest.
The dimness of the light her
candle emitted made her turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger of
its sudden extinction; it had yet some hours to burn; and that she might not
have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its
ancient date might occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed
and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful
effect. Catherine, for a few moments, was motionless with horror. It was
done completely; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the
rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A
violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the
moment. Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded,
a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on
her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat stood
on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping her way to
the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by
creeping far underneath the clothes.
To close her eyes in sleep that
night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity so
justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose must be
absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful! She had not been
used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful
intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully
accomplishing the morning’s prediction, how was it to be accounted for? What
could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it have been
so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall to her lot
to discover it! Till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however,
she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s first rays she
was determined to peruse it.
But many were the tedious
hours which must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and
envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were the
noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals on her
startled ear. The very curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion,
and at another the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of
somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and
more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour
after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed
by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.
Chapter 22
The housemaid’s folding back
her window-shutters at eight o’clock the next day was the sound which first
roused Catherine; and
she
opened her eyes,
wondering that
they could ever have been closed,
on objects of cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright
morning had succeeded the tempest of the night.
Instantaneously, with the
consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript; and
springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s going away, she
eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its
falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on
her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of
equal length with the generality of what she had shuddered over in books,
for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was
altogether but of trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to
be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced
rapidly over a page. She started at its import.
Could it be possible, or did not
her senses play her false? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern
characters, seemed all that was before her!
If the evidence of sight
might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand. She seized another
sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation; a third, a fourth,
and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and
waistcoats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an
expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string,
and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed
by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”
—
a farrier’s bill!
Such was the collection of
papers (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the negligence of a
servant in the place whence she had taken them) which had filled her with
expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her night’s rest! She felt
humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her
wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in
judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her
recent fancies.
To suppose that a manuscript of
many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as
that, so modern, so habitable! — Or that she should be the first to
possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to
all!
How could she have so imposed on
herself? Heaven forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly! And it
was in a great measure his own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so
exactly to agree with his description of her adventures, she should never
have felt the smallest curiosity about it.
This was the only comfort
that occurred. Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly,
those detestable papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and
folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned
them to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish
that
no untoward accident might ever
bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.
Why the locks should have been so
difficult to open, however, was still something remarkable,
for she could now manage
them with perfect ease.
In this there was surely something
mysterious,
and she indulged in the
flattering suggestion for half a minute,
till the possibility of the
door’s having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its
fastener,
darted into her
head,
and cost her another
blush.
She got away as soon as she
could from a room in which her conduct produced such unpleasant reflections,
and found her way with all speed to the breakfast-parlour, as it had been
pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it;
and
his immediate hope
of
her having been undisturbed by the
tempest,
with an arch reference to
the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.
For the world would she not have
her weakness suspected,
and yet, unequal to an
absolute falsehood,
was constrained to
acknowledge that
the wind had kept her awake a
little.
“But we have a charming
morning after it,”
she added, desiring to
get rid of the subject;
“and storms and
sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths!
I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”
“And how might you learn? By
accident or argument?”
“Your sister taught me; I
cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains, year after year, to make me
like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom
Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”
“But now you love a hyacinth.
So much the better. You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is
well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for
flowers is always desirable in your sex, as a means of getting you out of
doors, and tempting you to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise
take. And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can
tell, the sentiment once raised, but you may in time come to love a
rose?”
“But I do not want any such
pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh
air is enough for me, and in fine weather I am out more than half my
time.
Mamma says
I am never within.”
“At any rate, however, I am
pleased that you have learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning
to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is
a great blessing. Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”
Catherine was saved the
embarrassment of attempting an answer by the entrance of the general, whose
smiling compliments announced a happy state of mind, but whose gentle hint
of sympathetic early rising did not advance her composure.
The elegance of the breakfast
set forced itself on Catherine’s notice when they were seated at table; and,
lucidly, it had been the general’s choice. He was enchanted by her
approbation of his taste, confessed it to be neat and simple, thought it
right to encourage the manufacture of his country; and
for his part, to his uncritical
palate, the tea was as well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as
from that of Dresden or Save. But this was quite an old set, purchased two
years ago. The manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen
some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly
without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new set. He
trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting one
— though not for himself.
Catherine was probably the
only one of the party who did not understand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry
left them for Woodston, where business required and would keep him two or
three days. They all attended in the hall to see him mount his horse, and
immediately on re-entering the breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window
in the hope of catching another glimpse of his figure.
“This is a somewhat
heavy call upon your brother’s fortitude,”
observed the general to
Eleanor.
“Woodston will make but a
sombre appearance today.”
“Is it a pretty
place?”
asked
Catherine.
“What say you, Eleanor? Speak
your opinion, for ladies can best tell the taste of ladies in regard to
places as well as men. I think it would be acknowledged by the most
impartial eye to have many recommendations. The house stands among fine
meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same
aspect; the walls surrounding which I built and stocked myself about ten
years ago, for the benefit of my son. It is a family living, Miss Morland;
and the property in the place being chiefly my own, you may believe I take
care that it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry’s income depend solely on
this living, he would not be ill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that
with only two younger children, I should think any profession necessary for
him; and certainly there are moments when we could all wish him disengaged
from every tie of business. But though I may not exactly make converts of
you young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me
in thinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The money
is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the thing. Even
Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as considerable
a landed property as any private man in the county, has his
profession.”
The imposing effect of this
last argument was equal to his wishes. The silence of the lady proved it to
be unanswerable.
Something had been said the
evening before of her being shown over the house, and he now offered himself
as her conductor; and though Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied
only by his daughter,
it was a proposal of too much
happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for
she had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of
its rooms.
The netting-box, just
leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to
attend him in a moment.
“And when they had gone over the
house, he promised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into
the shrubberies and garden.”
She curtsied her
acquiescence.
“But perhaps it might be more
agreeable to her to make those her first object. The weather was at present
favourable, and at this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its
continuing so. Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which
did his daughter think would most accord with her fair friend’s wishes? But
he thought he could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland’s eyes a
judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But when did
she judge amiss? The abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded
implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.”
He left the room, and
Catherine,
with a disappointed, anxious
face,
began to speak of
her unwillingness that he should
be taking them out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken
idea of pleasing her;
but she was stopped by Miss
Tilney’s saying, with a little confusion,
“I believe it will be wisest
to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s
account; he always walks out at this time of day.”
Catherine did not exactly
know how this was to be understood.
Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed?
Could there be any unwillingness on the general’s side to show her over the
abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that he should always
take his walk so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was
certainly very provoking.
She was all impatience to see the
house, and had scarcely any curiosity about the grounds.
If Henry had been with them indeed!
But now she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it.
Such were her
thoughts,
but she kept them to
herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.
She was struck, however,
beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the abbey, as she saw it for the
first time from the lawn. The whole building enclosed a large court; and two
sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for
admiration. The remainder was shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant
plantations, and the steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter,
were beautiful even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen
nothing to compare with it; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that
without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder
and praise. The general listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as
if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that
hour.
The kitchen-garden was to be
next admired, and he led the way to it across a small portion of the
park.
The number of acres contained
in this garden was such as Catherine could not listen to without dismay,
being more than double the extent of all Mr. Allen’s, as well her father’s,
including church-yard and orchard. The walls seemed countless in number,
endless in length; a village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a
whole parish to be at work within the enclosure. The general was flattered
by her looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon
forced her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all
equal to them before; and he then modestly owned that,
“without any ambition of that sort
himself — without any solicitude about it — he did believe them
to be unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that. He
loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved
good fruit — or if he did not, his friends and children did. There
were great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The utmost
care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery had
yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel
these inconveniences as well as himself.”
“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not
care about the garden, and never went into it.”
With a triumphant smile of
self-satisfaction,
the general wished
he could do the same, for he never
entered his, without being vexed in some way or other, by its falling short
of his plan.
“How were Mr.
Allen’s succession-houses worked?”
describing the nature of
his own as they entered them.
“Mr. Allen had only one small
hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use of for her plants in winter, and
there was a fire in it now and then.”
“He is a happy
man!”
said the general, with a
look of very happy contempt.
Having taken her into every
division, and led her under every wall, till she was heartily weary of
seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls at last to seize the advantage
of an outer door, and then expressing his wish to examine the effect of some
recent alterations about the tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant
extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not tired.
“But where are you going,
Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get
wet. Our best way is across the park.”
“This is so favourite a
walk of mine,”
said Miss Tilney,
“that I always think it
the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
It was a narrow winding path
through a thick grove of old Scotch firs; and Catherine, struck by its
gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, could not, even by the general’s
disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward. He perceived her inclination,
and having again urged the plea of health in vain, was too polite to make
further opposition. He excused himself, however, from attending them:
“The rays of the sun were not too
cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another course.”
He turned away; and
Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the
separation. The shock, however, being less real than the relief, offered it
no injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful
melancholy which such a grove inspired.
“I am particularly fond
of this spot,”
said her companion, with
a sigh.
“It was my mother’s
favourite walk.”
Catherine had never heard
Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before, and the interest excited by this
tender remembrance showed itself directly in her altered countenance, and in
the attentive pause with which she waited for something more.
“I used to walk here so
often with her!”
added Eleanor;
“though I never loved it
then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder at
her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
“And ought it
not,”
reflected
Catherine,
“to endear it to her
husband? Yet the general would not enter it.”
Miss Tilney continuing
silent, she ventured to say,
“Her death must have been
a great affliction!”
“A great and increasing
one,”
replied the other, in a
low voice.
“I was only thirteen when
it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so
young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know what a loss it
was.”
She stopped for a
moment, and then added, with great firmness,
“I have no sister, you
know — and though Henry — though my brothers are very
affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful
for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”
“To be sure you must miss him
very much.”
“A mother would have been
always present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence
would have been beyond all other.”
“Was she a very
charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture of her in the
abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was it from
dejection of spirits?”
— were questions
now eagerly poured forth; the first three received a ready affirmative,
the two others were passed by; and Catherine’s interest in the deceased
Mrs. Tilney augmented with every question, whether answered or
not.
Of her unhappiness in
marriage, she felt persuaded.
The general certainly had been an
unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her?
And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his
features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
“Her picture, I
suppose,”
blushing at the
consummate art of her own question,
“hangs in your father’s
room?”
“No; it was intended for the
drawing-room; but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some
time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and
hung it in my bed-chamber — where I shall be happy to show it you; it
is very like."
Here was another proof. A portrait
— very like — of a departed wife, not valued by the husband! He
must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
Catherine attempted no
longer to hide from herself
the nature of the feelings which,
in spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited; and what had been
terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion.
Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such
a charming woman made him odious
to her.
She had often read of such
characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and
overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the contrary.
She had just settled this
point when the end of the path brought them directly upon the general; and
in spite of all her virtuous indignation, she found herself again obliged to
walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled. Being no
longer able, however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she
soon began to walk with lassitude; the general perceived it, and with a
concern for her health, which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him,
was most urgent for returning with his daughter to the house.
He would follow them in a quarter
of an hour.
Again they parted —
but
Eleanor was called back in
half a minute to receive
a strict charge against taking her
friend round the abbey till his return.
This second instance of his
anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck Catherine as very
remarkable.
Chapter 23
An hour passed away before
the general came in, spent, on the part of his young guest, in no very
favourable consideration of his character.
“This lengthened absence, these
solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or a conscience void of
reproach.”
At length he appeared; and,
whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile
with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s curiosity to see
the house, soon revived the subject; and her father being, contrary to
Catherine’s expectations, unprovided with any pretence for further delay,
beyond that of stopping five minutes to order refreshments to be in the room
by their return, was at last ready to escort them.
They set forward; and, with a
grandeur of air, a dignified step, which caught the eye, but could not shake
the doubts of the well-read Catherine, he led the way across the hall,
through the common drawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room
magnificent both in size and furniture —
the real drawing-room, used only
with company of consequence.
It was very noble — very
grand — very charming! —
was all
that Catherine had to
say,
for her indiscriminating eye
scarcely discerned the colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise,
all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the general: the
costliness or elegance of any room’s fitting-up could be nothing to her; she
cared for no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century.
When the general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of
every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in
its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on which
an humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard, admired, and
wondered with more genuine feeling than before — gathered all that she
could from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of half
a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments did not spring
up with her wishes. Large as was the building, she had already visited the
greatest part; though, on
being told that,
with the addition of the kitchen,
the six or seven rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the
court,
she could scarcely believe
it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted.
It was some relief,
however, that
they were to return to the rooms
in common use, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the
court, which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected
the different sides;
and
she was further
soothed
in her progress by
being told that
she was treading what had once
been a cloister,
having traces of cells
pointed out, and observing several doors that were neither opened nor
explained to her — by finding herself successively in a billiard-room,
and in the general’s private apartment, without comprehending their
connection, or being able to turn aright when she left them; and lastly, by
passing through a dark little room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed
with his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.
From the dining-room, of
which, though already seen, and always to be seen at five o’clock, the
general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing out the length, for the more
certain information of Miss Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor
cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to the kitchen — the
ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls and smoke of former
days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The general’s
improving hand had not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate
the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious
theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had often
produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at
any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the
convent.
With the walls of the kitchen
ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the fourth side of the quadrangle
having, on account of its decaying state, been removed by the general’s
father, and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable ceased
here. The new building was not only new, but declared itself to be so;
intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no
uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary. Catherine could have
raved at the hand which had swept away what must have been beyond the value
of all the rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would
willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so
fallen, had the general allowed it; but
if he had a vanity, it was in the
arrangement of his offices;
and
as he was convinced
that,
to a mind like Miss Morland’s, a
view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her
inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make no
apology for leading her on.
They took a slight survey of
all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their
multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless
pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton,
were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The
number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than the
number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl stopped to
curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off.
Yet this was an abbey! How
inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from such as she had
read about — from abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly
larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by
two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it all
had often amazed Mrs. Allen;
and, when Catherine saw what
was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.
They returned to the hall,
that the chief staircase might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and
ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out: having gained the top, they
turned in an opposite direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and
shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth.
She was here shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their
dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that
money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had
been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years,
they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in
all that could give pleasure to Catherine.
As they were surveying
the last,
the general,
after slightly naming a
few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been
honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and
ventured to hope
that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be
“our friends from
Fullerton.”
She felt the unexpected
compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man
so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her
family.
The gallery was terminated by
folding doors, which Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed
through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the
left, in another long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards,
called her hastily, and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back,
demanding
whither she were going? — And
what was there more to be seen? — Had not Miss Morland already seen
all that could be worth her notice? — And did she not suppose her
friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise?
Miss Tilney drew back
directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who,
having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more
numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at
last within the reach of something worth her notice; and
felt,
as she unwillingly paced
back the gallery,
that
she would rather be allowed to
examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the
rest.
The general’s evident
desire of preventing such an examination was an additional
stimulant.
Something was
certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately
once or twice, could not mislead her here;
and what that something
was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed the general at
some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:
“I was going to
take you into what was my mother’s room — the room in which she
died — “
were all her words; but
few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to
Catherine.
It was no wonder that the general
should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a
room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had
passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of
conscience.
She ventured,
when next alone with
Eleanor,
to express
her wish of being
permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the
house;
and
Eleanor promised
to attend her
there, whenever they should have a convenient hour.
Catherine understood
her:
the general must
be watched from home, before that room could be entered.
“It remains as it was, I
suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling.
“Yes, entirely.”
“And how long ago may it be
that your mother died?”
“She has been dead these nine
years.”
And nine years,
Catherine knew,
was a trifle of time, compared
with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her
room was put to rights.
“You were with her, I suppose,
to the last?”
“No,”
said Miss Tilney,
sighing;
“I was unfortunately from
home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all
over.”
Catherine’s blood ran cold
with the horrid suggestions which naturally sprang from these words.
Could it be possible? Could Henry’s
father —? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the
blackest suspicions!
And, when she saw him in the
evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room
for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and
contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging
him.
It was the air and attitude of a
Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not
wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes
of guilt? Unhappy man!
And the anxiousness of her
spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss
Tilney’s notice.
“My father,”
she whispered,
“often walks about the
room in this way; it is nothing unusual.”
“So much the
worse!”
thought Catherine;
such ill-timed
exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning
walks, and boded nothing good.
After an evening, the little
variety and seeming length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry’s
importance among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was
a look from the general not designed for her observation which sent his
daughter to the bell. When the butler would have lit his master’s candle,
however, he was forbidden.
The latter was not going to
retire.
“I have many pamphlets
to finish,”
said he to
Catherine,
“before I can close my
eyes, and perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours
after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes
will be blinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for
future mischief.”
But neither the business
alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking
that some very different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper
repose.
To be kept up for hours, after the
family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be
some deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done only while
the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up
for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a
nightly supply of coarse food,
was the conclusion which
necessarily followed.
Shocking as was the idea, it was
at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of
things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed
illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children, at
the time — all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment. Its
origin — jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty — was yet to be
unravelled.
In revolving these matters,
while she undressed,
it suddenly struck her
as
not unlikely that she might that
morning have passed near the very spot of this unfortunate woman’s
confinement — might have been within a few paces of the cell in which
she languished out her days; for what part of the abbey could be more fitted
for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic division? In
the high-arched passage, paved with stone, which already she had trodden
with peculiar awe, she well remembered the doors of which the general had
given no account. To what might not those doors lead?
In support of the
plausibility of this conjecture,
it further occurred to her
that
the forbidden gallery, in which
lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as certainly as
her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and
the staircase by the side of those apartments of which she had caught a
transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those cells,
might well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband.
Down that staircase she had
perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!
Catherine sometimes started
at the boldness of her own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she
had gone too far; but they were supported by such appearances as made their
dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle,
in which she supposed the guilty scene to be acting, being, according to her
belief, just opposite her own,
it struck her that,
if judiciously watched, some rays
of light from the general’s lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as
he passed to the prison of his wife;
and, twice before she
stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room to the corresponding window
in the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must
yet be too early. The various ascending noises convinced her that the
servants must still be up.
Till midnight,
she supposed
it would be in vain to watch; but
then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not
quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more.
The clock struck twelve
— and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.
Chapter 24
The next day afforded no
opportunity for the proposed examination of the mysterious apartments. It
was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was
required by the general in exercise abroad or eating cold meat at home; and
great as was Catherine’s curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of
exploring them after dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between
six and seven o’clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger
illumination of a treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by
anything to interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant
monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family
pew. By that her eye was instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal
of the highly strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by
the inconsolable husband,
who must have been in some way or
other her destroyer,
affected her even to
tears.
That the general, having erected
such a monument, should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange,
and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its view, maintain so
elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter
the church,
seemed wonderful to
Catherine.
Not, however, that many instances
of beings equally hardened in guilt might not be produced.
She could remember
dozens who had persevered in every
possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they
chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a
religious retirement closed their black career. The erection of the monument
itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s
actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her
ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they
were said to be enclosed — what could it avail in such a case?
Catherine had read too much
not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be
introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.
The succeeding morning
promised something better. The general’s early walk, ill-timed as it was in
every other view, was favourable here; and when she knew him to be out of
the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her
promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and Catherine reminding her as
they went of another promise, their first visit in consequence was to the
portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild
and pensive countenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its new
observer; but they were not in every respect answered, for Catherine had
depended upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the
very counterpart, the very image, if not of Henry’s, of Eleanor’s —
the only portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing
always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken
for generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study for
a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback, with
much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left it
unwillingly.
Her agitation as they entered
the great gallery was too much for any endeavour at discourse; she could
only look at her companion. Eleanor’s countenance was dejected, yet sedate;
and its composure spoke her inured to all the gloomy objects to which they
were advancing. Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand
was upon the important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was
turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the
dreaded figure of the general himself at the further end of the gallery,
stood before her!
The name of
“Eleanor” at the
same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving to
his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror
upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive
movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his
eye; and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by
her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own
room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have courage
to go down again.
She remained there at least
an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her
poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry general to
attend him in his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last,
on seeing a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend
and meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay
with company; and
she was named to them by
the general
as
the friend of his daughter,
in a complimentary style,
which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at
least of life for the present.
And Eleanor, with a
command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his
character, taking an early occasion of saying to her,
“My father only wanted me
to answer a note,”
she began to hope that
she had either been unseen by the general, or that from some
consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself
so.
Upon this trust she dared
still to remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing
occurred to disturb it.
In the course of this
morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution of making her next attempt
on the forbidden door alone.
It would be much better in every
respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in
the danger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment which must
wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The general’s utmost
anger could not be to herself what it might be to a daughter; and,
besides,
she thought
the examination itself would be
more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to
explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other had, in all
likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in her
presence, search for those proofs of the general’s cruelty, which however
they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere
drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the
last gasp.
Of the way to the apartment
she was now perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before
Henry’s return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be
lost. The day was bright, her courage high; at four o’clock, the sun was now
two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half
an hour earlier than usual.
It was done; and Catherine
found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike.
It was no time for thought; she hurried on, slipped with the least possible
noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe,
rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and,
luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she
entered; the room was before her; but it was some minutes before she could
advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated
every feature. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome
dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid’s care, a bright Bath
stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm
beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had
expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and
doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added
some bitter emotions of shame.
She could not be mistaken as to
the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else! — in Miss
Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation!
This apartment, to which she
had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end of
what the general’s father had built. There were two other doors in the
chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had no inclination
to open either.
Would the veil in which Mrs.
Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to
tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been
the general’s crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for
detection.
She was sick of exploring,
and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to
its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had
entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her
pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be
unpleasant; but by the general (and he seemed always at hand when least
wanted), much worse! She listened — the sound had ceased; and
resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At
that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift
steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before
she could gain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of
terror not very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few
moments it gave Henry to her view.
“Mr. Tilney!”
she exclaimed in a voice
of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too.
“Good God!”
she continued, not
attending to his address.
“How came you here? How
came you up that staircase?”
“How came I up that
staircase!”
he replied, greatly
surprised.
“Because it is my nearest
way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up
it?”
Catherine recollected
herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in
her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford. She
moved on towards the gallery.
“And may I not, in my
turn,”
said he, as he pushed
back the folding doors,
“ask how you came here?
This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the
breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the
stables to mine.”
“I have been,”
said Catherine, looking
down,
“to see your mother’s
room.”
“My mother’s room! Is there
anything extraordinary to be seen there?”
“No, nothing at all. I thought
you did not mean to come back till tomorrow.”
“I did not expect to be able
to return sooner, when I went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure
of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by
running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know — you were
not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?”
“No, I was not. You have had a
very fine day for your ride.”
“Very; and does Eleanor leave
you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by
yourself?”
“Oh! No; she showed me
over the greatest part on Saturday — and we were coming here to
these rooms — but only”
— dropping her
voice —
“your father was with
us.”
“And that prevented
you,”
said Henry, earnestly
regarding her.
“Have you looked into all
the rooms in that passage?”
“No, I only wanted to see
— Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”
“It is only a quarter
past four”
showing his watch
—
“and you are not now in
Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger
must be enough.”
She could not contradict it,
and therefore suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further
questions made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave
him. They walked slowly up the gallery.
“Have you had any letter from
Bath since I saw you?”
“No, and I am very much
surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.”
“Promised so faithfully! A
faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance.
But a faithful promise — the fidelity of promising! It is a power
little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. My
mother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and
the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most
comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should
not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?”
“No.”
“It has been your own
doing entirely?”
Catherine said nothing.
After a short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he
added,
“As there is nothing in
the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a
sentiment of respect for my mother’s character, as described by Eleanor,
which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a
better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such
as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do
not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would
prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great
deal?”
“Yes, a great deal. That
is — no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her
dying so suddenly”
(slowly, and with
hesitation it was spoken),
“and you — none of
you being at home — and your father, I thought — perhaps had
not been very fond of her.”
“And from these
circumstances,”
he replied (his quick
eye fixed on hers),
“you infer perhaps the
probability of some negligence — some”
— (involuntarily
she shook her head) —
“or it may be — of
something still less pardonable.”
She raised her eyes
towards him more fully than she had ever done before.
“My mother’s
illness,”
he continued,
“the seizure which ended
in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had
often suffered, a bilious fever — its cause therefore
constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be
prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one
in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her
danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost
constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she
died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we were both
at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear
witness to her having received every possible attention which could
spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in
life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as
to return only to see her mother in her coffin.”
“But your father,”
said Catherine,
“was he
afflicted?”
“For a time, greatly so. You
have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am
persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to — we have not all,
you know, the same tenderness of disposition — and I will not pretend
to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but
though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was
sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her
death.”
“I am very glad of
it,”
said Catherine;
“it would have been very
shocking!”
“If I understand you rightly,
you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to —
Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have
entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the
age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians.
Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own
observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for
such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated
without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary
intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a
neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay
everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been
admitting?”
They had reached the end of
the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room.
Chapter 25
The visions of romance were
over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry’s address, short as it had
been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late
fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was
she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry.
It was not only with herself that
she was sunk — but with Henry.
Her folly, which now seemed even
criminal, was all exposed to him,
and he must despise her forever.
The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of
his father — could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity
and her fears — could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more
than she could express. He had — she thought he had, once or twice
before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now
—
in short, she made herself
as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock
struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible
answer to
Eleanor’s inquiry
if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon
followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her
was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never
wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no
abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised
to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the
past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and
that it might not cost her Henry’s entire regard. Her thoughts being still
chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done,
nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary,
self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from
an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one
purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to
be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the
mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the
whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had
there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs.
Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators,
it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in the Midland
counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with
their pine forests and their vices, they might give a faithful delineation;
and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in
horrors as they were there represented.
Catherine dared not doubt
beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have
yielded the northern and western extremities.
But in the central part of England
there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not beloved,
in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not
tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions
to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and
Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not
as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in
England it was not so; among the English,
she believed,
in their hearts and habits, there
was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad.
Upon this conviction, she
would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight
imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not
fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father,
who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must
ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration,
to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these
several points, and
her resolution formed,
of
always judging and acting in
future with the greatest good sense,
she had nothing to do but to
forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time did
much for her by insensible gradations in the course of another day.
Henry’s astonishing generosity and
nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had
passed,
was of the greatest
assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in
the beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable,
and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything he said.
There were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must
always tremble — the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance
— and she did not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she
could allow that an occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might
not be without use.
The anxieties of common life
began soon to succeed to the alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from
Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite impatient to know how the
Bath world went on, and how the rooms were attended; and especially was she
anxious to be assured of Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton,
on which she had left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms
with James. Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella.
James had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and
Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it so
particularly strange!
For nine successive mornings,
Catherine wondered over the repetition of a disappointment, which each
morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she entered the
breakfast-room, her first object was a letter, held out by Henry’s willing
hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had written it himself.
“’Tis only from James,
however,”
as she looked at the
direction.
She opened it; it was from
Oxford; and to this purpose:
“Dear
Catherine,
“Though, God knows,
with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you
that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her
and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter
into particulars — they would only pain you more. You will
soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame;
and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of
too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am
undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father’s
consent had been so kindly given — but no more of this. She
has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear
Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build upon. I wish
your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his
engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor
Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would
feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity
hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with
her,
she
declared
herself as much
attached to me as ever,
and laughed at my
fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever
man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot
understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need
of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at
last by mutual consent — happy for me had we never met! I can
never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware
how you give your heart. “Believe me,” &c.
Catherine had not read three
lines before her sudden change of countenance, and short exclamations of
sorrowing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry,
earnestly watching her through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended
no better than it began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his
surprise by his father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but
Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran
down her cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in
her lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she
did. The general, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no
leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally
visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own
room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down
again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor
had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation
about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle
violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after
Eleanor had affectionately
expressed
a wish of being of use or comfort
to her.
After half an hour’s free
indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her
friends; but whether she should make her distress known to them was another
consideration.
Perhaps, if particularly
questioned, she might just give an idea — just distantly hint at it
— but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been
to her — and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!
She believed
she must waive the subject
altogether.
Henry and Eleanor were by
themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it, looked at her
anxiously.
Catherine took her
place at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said,
“No bad news from
Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland — your brothers and
sisters — I hope they are none of them ill?”
“No, I thank you”
(sighing as she
spoke);
“they are all very well.
My letter was from my brother at Oxford.”
Nothing further was said
for a few minutes; and then speaking through her tears, she
added,
“I do not think I shall
ever wish for a letter again!”
“I am sorry,”
said Henry, closing the
book he had just opened;
“if I had suspected the
letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with
very different feelings.”
“It contained something worse
than anybody could suppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know
why.”
“To have so kind-hearted,
so affectionate a sister,”
replied Henry
warmly,
“must be a comfort to him
under any distress.”
“I have one favour to
beg,”
said Catherine, shortly
afterwards, in an agitated manner,
“that, if your brother
should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go
away.”
“Our brother!
Frederick!”
“Yes; I am sure I should be
very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make
it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain
Tilney.”
Eleanor’s work was suspended
while she gazed with increasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the
truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his
lips.
“How quick you
are!”
cried Catherine:
“you have guessed it, I
declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of
its ending so. Isabella — no wonder now I have not heard from her
— Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could
you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and
everything that is bad in the world?”
“I hope, so far as concerns my
brother, you are misinformed. I hope he has not had any material share in
bringing on Mr. Morland’s disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not
probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr.
Morland — sorry that anyone you love should be unhappy; but my
surprise would be greater at Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part
of the story.”
“It is very true,
however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay — There is
one part — “
recollecting with a
blush the last line.
“Will you take the trouble of
reading to us the passages which concern my brother?”
“No, read it
yourself,”
cried Catherine, whose
second thoughts were clearer.
“I do not know what I was
thinking of”
(blushing again that she
had blushed before);
“James only means to give
me good advice."
He gladly received the
letter, and, having read it through, with close attention, returned it
saying,
“Well, if it is to be so,
I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first
man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do
not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son.”
Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s
invitation, now read the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her
concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe’s connections and
fortune.
“Her mother is a very
good sort of woman,”
was Catherine’s
answer.
“What was her
father?”
“A lawyer, I believe. They
live at Putney.”
“Are they a wealthy
family?”
“No, not very. I do not
believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that will not signify in your
family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he
only valued money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his
children.”
The brother and sister
looked at each other.
“But,”
said Eleanor, after a
short pause,
“would it be to promote
his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an
unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how
strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his eyes,
is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is
not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so
proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!”
“That is the most unpromising
circumstance, the strongest presumption against him. When I think of his
past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of
Miss Thorpe’s prudence to suppose that she would part with one gentleman
before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a
deceased man — defunct in understanding. Prepare for your
sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in!
Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming
no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.”
“Such a sister-in-law,
Henry, I should delight in,”
said Eleanor with a
smile.
“But perhaps,”
observed
Catherine,
“though she has behaved
so ill by our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really
got the man she likes, she may be constant.”
“Indeed I am afraid she
will,”
replied Henry;
“I am afraid she will be
very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is
Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the
arrivals.”
“You think it is all for
ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are some things that seem very like
it. I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my father would do for
them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more. I never was so
deceived in anyone’s character in my life before.”
“Among all the great variety
that you have known and studied.”
“My own disappointment and
loss in her is very great; but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly
ever recover it.”
“Your brother is certainly
very much to be pitied at present; but we must not, in our concern for his
sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella,
you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else can
occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you
were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent.
You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that
you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose
regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you
could rely on. You feel all this?”
“No,”
said Catherine, after a
few moments’ reflection,
“I do not — ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
thought.”
“You feel, as you always do,
what is most to the credit of human nature. Such feelings ought to be
investigated, that they may know themselves.”
Catherine, by some chance or
other, found her spirits so very much relieved by this conversation that she
could not regret her being led on, though so unaccountably, to mention the
circumstance which had produced it.
Chapter 26
From this time, the subject
was frequently canvassed by the three young people; and Catherine found,
with some surprise, that her two young friends were perfectly agreed in
considering Isabella’s want of consequence and fortune as likely to throw
great difficulties in the way of her marrying their brother. Their
persuasion that the general would, upon this ground alone, independent of
the objection that might be raised against her character, oppose the
connection, turned her feelings moreover with some alarm towards
herself.
She was as insignificant, and
perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney property
had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point of interest
were the demands of his younger brother to rest?
The very painful reflections
to which this thought led could only be dispersed by
a dependence on
the effect of that particular
partiality, which, as she was given to understand by his words as well as
his actions, she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the
general;
and by
a recollection of
some most generous and
disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she had more than
once heard him utter, and which tempted her to think his disposition in such
matters misunderstood by his children.
They were so fully convinced,
however, that their brother would not have the courage to apply in person
for his father’s consent, and so repeatedly assured her that he had never in
his life been less likely to come to Northanger than at the present time,
that she suffered her mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden
removal of her own.
But as it was not to be supposed
that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his application, would give his father
any just idea of Isabella’s conduct,
it occurred to her
as
highly expedient that Henry should
lay the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the general by
that means to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections
on a fairer ground than inequality of situations.
She proposed it to him
accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had
expected.
“No,”
said he,
“my father’s hands need
not be strengthened, and Frederick’s confession of folly need not be
forestalled. He must tell his own story.”
“But he will tell only half of
it.”
“A quarter would be
enough.”
A day or two passed away and
brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His brother and sister knew not what
to think. Sometimes it appeared to them as if his silence would be the
natural result of the suspected engagement, and at others that it was wholly
incompatible with it.
The general,
meanwhile, though offended
every morning by Frederick’s remissness in writing, was free from any real
anxiety about him, and
had no more pressing
solicitude than that of
making Miss Morland’s time at
Northanger pass pleasantly.
He
often expressed his
uneasiness on this head,
feared
the sameness of every day’s
society and employments would disgust her with the place,
wished
the Lady Frasers had been in the
country,
talked
every now and then
of having a large party to
dinner,
and once or twice began even
to calculate the number of young dancing people in the neighbourhood.
But then it was such a dead time
of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the
country.
And it all ended, at last,
in
his telling Henry one
morning that
when he next went to Woodston,
they would take him by surprise there some day or other, and eat their
mutton with him.
Henry was greatly honoured
and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme.
“And when do you think, sir,
I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to
attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be obliged to stay two or
three days.”
“Well, well, we will take our
chance some one of those days. There is no need to fix. You are not to put
yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to have in the
house will be enough. I think I can answer for the young ladies making
allowance for a bachelor’s table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with
you, we will not come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I
expect my surveyor from Brockham with his report in the morning; and
afterwards I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really could not
face my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the
country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss
Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice
of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men.
They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them
whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question. But
on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with you
early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters
will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten;
so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for
us.”
A ball itself could not
have been more welcome to Catherine than this little excursion, so
strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston; and her heart was
still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came
booted and greatcoated into the room where she and Eleanor were sitting,
and said,
“I am come, young ladies,
in a very moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world
are always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great
disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the
future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.
Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on
Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I
must go away directly, two days before I intended it.”
“Go away!”
said Catherine, with a
very long face.
“And
why?”
“Why! How can you ask the
question? Because no time is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper
out of her wits, because I must go and prepare a dinner for you, to be
sure.”
“Oh! Not
seriously!”
“Aye, and sadly too —
for I had much rather stay.”
“But how can you think of such
a thing, after what the general said? When he so particularly desired you
not to give yourself any trouble, because anything would do.”
Henry only smiled.
“I am sure it is quite
unnecessary upon your sister’s account and mine. You must know it to be so;
and the general made such a point of your providing nothing extraordinary:
besides, if he had not said half so much as he did, he has always such an
excellent dinner at home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day
could not signify.”
“I wish I could reason like
you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I
shall not return.”
He went; and, it being at any
time a much simpler operation to Catherine to doubt her own judgment than
Henry’s, she was very soon obliged to give him credit for being right,
however disagreeable to her his going. But the inexplicability of the
general’s conduct dwelt much on her thoughts.
That he was very particular in his
eating, she had, by her own unassisted observation, already discovered; but
why he should say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while,
was most unaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who
but Henry could have been aware of what his father was at?
From Saturday to Wednesday,
however, they were now to be without Henry.
This was the sad finale of
every reflection:
and Captain Tilney’s letter would
certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday
she was very sure
would be wet.
The past, present, and
future were all equally in gloom.
Her brother so unhappy, and her
loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor’s spirits always affected by Henry’s
absence! What was there to interest or amuse her?
She was tired of the woods
and the shrubberies — always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey in
itself was no more to her now than any other house. The painful remembrance
of the folly it had helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion which
could spring from a consideration of the building.
What a revolution in her ideas!
She, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming
to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected
parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults,
but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!
It did come, and exactly when
it might be reasonably looked for. It came — it was fine — and
Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise and four conveyed the two
from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they
entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not
unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it, as the
general seemed to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the
country, and the size of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to
any place she had ever been at, and looked with great admiration at every
neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the little chandler’s
shops which they passed. At the further end of the village, and tolerably
disengaged from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial
stone house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove
up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large
Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make
much of them.
Catherine’s mind was too
full, as she entered the house, for her either to observe or to say a great
deal; and, till called on by the general for her opinion of it, she had very
little idea of the room in which she was sitting. Upon looking round it
then,
she perceived in a moment
that
it was the most comfortable room
in the world;
but she was too guarded to
say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.
“We are not calling it a
good house,”
said he.
“We are not comparing it
with Fullerton and Northanger — we are considering it as a mere
parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and
habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other
words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so
good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say
otherwise; and anything in reason — a bow thrown out, perhaps
— though, between ourselves, if there is one thing more than
another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow.”
Catherine did not hear enough
of this speech to understand or be pained by it; and other subjects being
studiously brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same time that a
tray full of refreshments was introduced by his servant, the general was
shortly restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of
spirits.
The room in question was of a
commodious, well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a
dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was
shown, first into a smaller apartment, belonging peculiarly to the master of
the house, and made unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what
was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though
unfurnished, Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general. It
was a prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view
from them pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her
admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she felt
it.
“Oh! Why do not you fit up
this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the
prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the
world!”
“I trust,”
said the general, with a
most satisfied smile,
“that it will very
speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s
taste!”
“Well, if it was my house, I
should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is
among the trees — apple trees, too! It is the prettiest
cottage!”
“You like it — you
approve it as an object — it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson
is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”
Such a compliment recalled
all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced her directly; and, though
pointedly applied to by the general for her choice of the prevailing colour
of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion on the subject could be
drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was
of great use in dissipating these embarrassing associations; and, having
reached the ornamental part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two
sides of a meadow, on which Henry’s genius had begun to act about half a
year ago,
she
was sufficiently
recovered
to think
it prettier than any
pleasure-ground she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in
it higher than the green bench in the corner.
A saunter into other meadows,
and through part of the village, with a visit to the stables to examine some
improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies just able
to roll about, brought them to four o’clock, when
Catherine scarcely
thought
it could be three. At four they
were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had any day
passed so quickly!
She could not but observe
that the abundance of the dinner did not seem to create the smallest
astonishment in the general;
nay,
that
he was even looking at the
side-table for cold meat which was not there.
His son and daughter’s
observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen him eat so
heartily at any table but his own, and never before known him so little
disconcerted by the melted butter’s being oiled.
At six o’clock, the general
having taken his coffee, the carriage again received them; and so gratifying
had been the tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well
assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that, could she
have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have
quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might
return to it.
Chapter 27
The next morning brought the
following very unexpected letter from Isabella:
Bath,
April
My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and have
a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I really
am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place one can
find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a
letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always
been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me
soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place
tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it —
the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I
believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are
dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your
dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and
am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all
right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you
will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and
the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your
time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me. I will not say
all that I could of the family you are with, because I would not be
ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it is very
difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know their
minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the young man whom,
of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know,
from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may
remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you
went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many
girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but
I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two
days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is
the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The
last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied
his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in
Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not
speak to me; I would not even look at him. He went into the
pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all the
world. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me
some news of the latter — I am quite unhappy about him; he
seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something
that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have
mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took
something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his
satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from
himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all
to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play,
except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half
price: they teased me into it; and I was determined they should not
say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by
the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me
out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me,
but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be
taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own.
Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it
the week before at the concert, but made wretched work of it
—
it happened
to become my odd face,
I believe, at
least
Tilney told me so
at the time, and said
every eye was
upon me;
but he is the last
man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I
look hideous in it, but no matter — it is your dear brother’s
favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in
writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.
Such a strain of shallow
artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies,
contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was
ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions
of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her
demands impudent.
“Write to James on her behalf! No,
James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”
On Henry’s arrival from
Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother’s safety,
congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most
material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had
finished it —
“So much for
Isabella,”
she cried,
“and for all our
intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so;
but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me
than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain
coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had
ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known
her.”
“It will soon be as if
you never had,”
said
Henry.
“There is but one thing that I
cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which
have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been
about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her
quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?”
“I have very little to say for
Frederick’s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his
vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a
stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the effect of his
behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the
cause.”
“Then you do not suppose he
ever really cared about her?”
“I am persuaded that he never
did.”
“And only made believe to do
so for mischief’s sake?”
Henry bowed his assent.
“Well, then, I must say that I
do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not
like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do
not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very
much in love with him?”
“But we must first suppose
Isabella to have had a heart to lose — consequently to have been a
very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very
different treatment.”
“It is very right that you
should stand by your brother.”
“And if you would stand by
yours, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss
Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity,
and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or
a desire of revenge.”
Catherine was complimented
out of further bitterness.
Frederick could not be
unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable.
She resolved on not
answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more of it.
Chapter 28
Soon after this, the general
found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger
earnestly
regretting that
any necessity should rob him even
for an hour of Miss Morland’s company,
and anxiously recommending
the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object
in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental
conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which
their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged,
every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and
when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command,
made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general’s presence
had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such
ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more
every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to
leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the
other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but
she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home,
the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if
she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it
occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind,
she very soon
resolved
to speak to Eleanor about it at
once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in
which her proposal might be taken.
Aware that if she gave
herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so
unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone
with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the middle of a speech about
something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very
soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had
“hoped for the pleasure of her
company for a much longer time — had been misled (perhaps by her
wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised — and
could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure
it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her
return.”
Catherine explained:
“Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma
were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be
satisfied.”
“Then why, might she ask, in such a
hurry herself to leave them?”
“Oh! Because she had been there so
long.”
“Nay, if you can use such a
word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it long — ”
“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For
my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long again.” And it was
directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought
of. In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the
other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner
in pressing her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay
was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her
only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without.
She did — almost always — believe that Henry loved her, and quite
always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them;
and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive
irritations.
Henry was not able to obey
his father’s injunction of remaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on
the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagements of his curate at
Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights. His
loss was not now what it had been while the general was at home; it lessened
their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in
occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient
for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour
at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s
departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed, as
far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage
was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the idea by the
loud noise of the house-bell.
After the first
perturbation of surprise had passed away, in a
“Good heaven! What can be
the matter?”
it was quickly decided
by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden,
if not quite so unseasonable, and accordingly she hurried down to
welcome him.
Catherine walked on to her
chamber, making up her mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance
with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant impression
his conduct had given her, and
the persuasion of
his being by far too fine a
gentleman to approve of her,
that
at least they should not meet
under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially
painful.
She trusted
he would never speak of Miss
Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had
acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath
scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very
civilly.
In such considerations time
passed away, and
it was certainly in his favour
that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say,
for half an hour was almost
gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment Catherine
thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for its continuance;
but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she convicted her fancy of error,
when the noise of something moving close to her door made her start; it
seemed as if someone was touching the very doorway — and in another
moment a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it. She
trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously; but
resolving not to be again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or
misled by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the
door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however,
were tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and
her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when there.
Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account, could only
express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be seated, rubbed
her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with affectionate
solicitude.
“My dear Catherine, you
must not — you must not indeed — “
were Eleanor’s first
connected words.
“I am quite well. This
kindness distracts me — I cannot bear it — I come to you on
such an errand!”
“Errand! To me!”
“How shall I tell you! Oh! How
shall I tell you!”
A new idea now darted
into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her friend, she
exclaimed,
“’Tis a messenger from
Woodston!”
“You are mistaken,
indeed,”
returned Eleanor,
looking at her most compassionately;
“it is no one from
Woodston. It is my father himself.”
Her voice faltered, and
her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name. His
unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s heart sink,
and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything worse to
be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect herself
and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon went
on.
“You are too good, I am
sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I
am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed,
so lately been settled between us — how joyfully, how thankfully
on my side! — as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many
weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be
accepted — and that the happiness your company has hitherto given
us is to be repaid by — But I must not trust myself with words. My
dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement
that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord
Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are
equally impossible. I cannot attempt either.”
“My dear Eleanor,”
cried Catherine,
suppressing her feelings as well as she could,
“do not be so distressed.
A second engagement must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we
are to part — so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended,
indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know, at any time; or I
hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord’s,
come to Fullerton?”
“It will not be in my power,
Catherine.”
“Come when you can,
then.”
Eleanor made no answer;
and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to something more directly
interesting, she added, thinking aloud,
“Monday — so soon
as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of — I shall be able
to take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know.
Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father
and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The
general will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way —
and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles
from home.”
“Ah, Catherine! Were it
settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable, though in such common
attentions you would have received but half what you ought. But — how
can I tell you? — tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us, and
not even the hour is left to your choice; the very carriage is ordered, and
will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered
you.”
Catherine sat down,
breathless and speechless.
“I could hardly believe my
senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel
at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I myself — but
I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest anything in
extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After courting
you from the protection of real friends to this — almost double
distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the
considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the
bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I
trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house
to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is
nothing.”
“Have I offended the
general?”
said Catherine in a
faltering voice.
“Alas! For my feelings as a
daughter, all that I know, all that I answer for, is that you can have given
him no just cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly
discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy, and
something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some
disappointment, some vexation, which just at this moment seems important,
but which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it
possible?”
It was with pain that
Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for Eleanor’s sake that she
attempted it.
“I am sure,”
said she,
“I am very sorry if I
have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done.
But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I
am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written
home. But it is of very little consequence.”
“I hope, I earnestly hope,
that to your real safety it will be of none; but to everything else it is of
the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family,
to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to
them with comparative ease; a few hours would take you there; but a journey
of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age, alone,
unattended!”
“Oh, the journey is nothing.
Do not think about that. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later,
you know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in
time.”
Eleanor saw that she
wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should
avoid any further conversation, now left her with,
“I shall see you in the
morning.”
Catherine’s swelling heart
needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence friendship and pride had equally
restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in
torrents.
Turned from the house, and in such
a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone
for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a
distance — not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every
expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who
could say when they might meet again? And all this by such a man as General
Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her!
It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous.
From what it could arise,
and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and
alarm.
The manner in which it was done so
grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own
convenience, or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or
mode of her travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that
almost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was
stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see her. What
could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other she
must have had the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her
from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that
any injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person
not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with
it.
Heavily passed the night.
Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of sleep, was out of the question.
That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first
arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet
how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then
— how mournfully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had
foundation in fact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in
the contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt and
considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was high, and
often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard it
all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or
terror.
Soon after six Eleanor
entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance where it was
possible; but very little remained to be done. Catherine had not loitered;
she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The possibility of
some conciliatory message from the general occurred to her as his daughter
appeared.
What so natural, as that anger
should pass away and repentance succeed it?
And
she only wanted to
know
how far, after what had passed, an
apology might properly be received by her.
But the knowledge would have
been useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was
put to the trial — Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed
between them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few
and trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,
Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more
goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was
done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her
friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and
went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried
to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as to make her
friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not swallow many
mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast in that room
gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for everything before
her.
It was not four and twenty hours
ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how
different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had
she then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little
in future, beyond Henry’s going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy
breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped
her.
These reflections were long
indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep in
thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first thing
to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine’s colour rose at
the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at
that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time
sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and
speech.
“You must write to me,
Catherine,”
she cried;
“you must let me hear
from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I
shall not have an hour’s comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all
hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that
you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then,
till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not
expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under
cover to Alice.”
“No, Eleanor, if you are not
allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. There
can be no doubt of my getting home safe.”
Eleanor only
replied,
“I cannot wonder at your
feelings. I will not importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of
heart when I am at a distance from you.”
But this, with the look
of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a
moment, and she instantly said,
“Oh, Eleanor, I will
write to you indeed.”
There was yet another point
which
Miss Tilney was anxious to
settle,
though somewhat embarrassed
in speaking of.
It had occurred to her that after
so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with money
enough for the expenses of her journey,
and, upon suggesting it to
her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly
the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but,
upon examining her purse,
was convinced that
but for this kindness of her
friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of
getting home;
and the distress in which
she must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining together.
Short, however, was that time.
The carriage was soon
announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each
other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by
either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just
made it intelligible
that she left
“her kind
remembrance for her absent friend.”
But with this approach to
his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her
face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall,
jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.
Chapter 29
Catherine was too wretched to
be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it
without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back
in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed
some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the
highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view
before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the
road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so
happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles,
every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on
which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it
brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the
distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of
Henry,
so near, yet so
unconscious,
her grief and agitation were
excessive.
The day which she had spent at that
place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that
day, that the general had made use of such expressions with regard to Henry
and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive
conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago
had he elated her by his pointed regard — had he even confused her by
his too significant reference! And now — what had she done, or what
had she omitted to do, to merit such a change?
The only offence against him of
which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to
reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking
suspicions which she had so idly entertained; and equally safe
did she believe
her secret with each. Designedly,
at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange
mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared
to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations,
she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her
having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning
her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself, she
trusted, would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her
conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt
most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous
concern.
How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her
being gone,
was a question of force and
interest to rise over every other,
to be never ceasing,
alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested the dread of his
calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in
his regret and resentment.
To the general, of course, he would
not dare to speak; but to Eleanor — what might he not say to Eleanor
about her?
In this unceasing recurrence
of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of which her mind was incapable
of more than momentary repose, the hours passed away, and her journey
advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought,
which prevented her from noticing anything before her, when once beyond the
neighbourhood of Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her
progress; and though no object on the road could engage a moment’s
attention, she found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved
too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion;
for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the
pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence such
as hers — an eleven weeks’ absence.
What had she to say that would not
humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by
the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the
innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do
justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt it too strongly for
expression; and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be
thought of unfavourably, on their father’s account, it would cut her to the
heart.
With these feelings, she
rather dreaded than sought for the first view of that well-known spire which
would announce her within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had known to
be her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she had been
indebted to the post-masters for the names of the places which were then to
conduct her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route. She met
with nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil
manners, and liberal pay procured her all the attention that a traveller
like herself could require; and stopping only to change horses, she
travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between
six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself entering
Fullerton.
A heroine returning, at the
close of her career, to her native village, in all the triumph of recovered
reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble
relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling
chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver
may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the
author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and
disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A
heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no attempt
at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy
drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall
be her descent from it.
But, whatever might be the
distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus advanced towards the parsonage,
and whatever the humiliation of her biographer in relating it, she was
preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature for those to whom she went; first,
in the appearance of her carriage — and secondly, in herself. The
chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were
immediately at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a
pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy — a pleasure
quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of
six and four years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage.
Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that
proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful
property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.
Her father, mother, Sarah,
George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with
affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings of
Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the
carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had believed
possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! In the joyfulness
of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of
seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they
were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the
comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her
notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was
addressed to her.
Reluctantly, and with much
hesitation, did she then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an
hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but
scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect
the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable
race; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting,
affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be
overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without
suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long
and lonely journey,
Mr. and Mrs. Morland could
not but feel that
it might have
been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could
never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure,
General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly — neither as
a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked
him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial
regard for their daughter into actual ill will,
was a matter which they were
at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress
them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture,
that
“it was a strange
business, and that he must be a very strange man,”
grew enough for all their
indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of
incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful
ardour.
“My dear, you give yourself
a great deal of needless trouble,”
said her mother at
last;
“depend upon it, it is
something not at all worth understanding.”
“I can allow for his
wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,”
said Sarah,
“but why not do it
civilly?”
“I am sorry for the
young people,”
returned Mrs.
Morland;
“they must have a sad
time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is
safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
Tilney.”
Catherine sighed.
“Well,”
continued her
philosophic mother,
“I am glad I did not
know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there
is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon
exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a
sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced
to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so
forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind
you in any of the pockets.”
Catherine hoped so too, and
tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite
worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she
readily agreed to her mother’s next counsel of going early to bed. Her
parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural
consequence of mortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue
of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon
slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was
not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there
being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion
from home, was odd enough!
As soon as breakfast was
over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the
effect of time and distance on her friend’s disposition was already
justified, for
already did Catherine
reproach herself
with having parted from Eleanor
coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never
enough commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to
endure.
The strength of these
feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been
harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney.
To compose a letter which might at
once do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude
without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without
resentment — a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal
of — and, above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry
should chance to see,
was an undertaking to
frighten away all her powers of performance;
and, after long thought and
much perplexity,
to be very brief
was all that she could
determine on
with any confidence of
safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with
little more than
grateful thanks, and the thousand
good wishes of a most affectionate heart.
“This has been a strange
acquaintance,”
observed Mrs. Morland,
as the letter was finished;
“soon made and soon
ended. I am sorry it happens so, for
Mrs. Allen thought
them
very pretty kind of young
people;
and you were sadly out
of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we must live and
learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better worth
keeping.”
Catherine coloured as
she warmly answered,
“No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor.”
“If so, my dear, I dare say
you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one
but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then
what a pleasure it will be!”
Mrs. Morland was not happy in
her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few
years could only put into Catherine’s head what might happen within that
time to make a meeting dreadful to her.
She could never forget Henry
Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment;
but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet —!
Her eyes filled with tears
as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and
her mother,
perceiving her comfortable
suggestions to have had no good effect,
proposed,
as another expedient for
restoring her spirits,
that
they should call on Mrs.
Allen.
The two houses were only a
quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly
dispatched all that she felt on the score of James’s disappointment.
“We are sorry for
him,”
said she;
“but otherwise there is
no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable
thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest
acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now,
after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at
present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and
I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness
of his first choice.”
This was just such a summary
view of the affair as Catherine could listen to; another sentence might have
endangered her complaisance, and made her reply less rational; for soon were
all her thinking powers swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of
feelings and spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road.
It was not three months ago since,
wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards some
ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward
to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil
as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and
now, how altered a being did she return!
She was received by the
Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a
steady affection, would naturally call forth; and great was their surprise,
and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated —
though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated representation, no
studied appeal to their passions.
“Catherine took us
quite by surprise yesterday evening,”
said she.
“She travelled all the
way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till Saturday night; for
General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired
of having her there, and almost turned her out of the house. Very
unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man; but we are so glad
to have her amongst us again! And it is a great comfort to find that she
is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for
herself.”
Mr. Allen expressed himself
on the occasion with the reasonable resentment of a sensible friend; and
Mrs. Allen thought his expressions quite good enough to be immediately made
use of again by herself.
His wonder, his
conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers, with the
addition of this single remark —
“I really have not
patience with the general” — to fill up every accidental
pause. And, “I really
have not patience with the general,” was uttered twice after Mr.
Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended the
third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately added,
“Only think, my
dear, of my having got that frightful great rent in my best Mechlin so
charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it
was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place,
Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half like coming
away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to us, was not it?
You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.”
“Yes, but that did not
last long,”
said Catherine, her eyes
brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her
existence there.
“Very true: we soon met with
Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think these
silk gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first time of our going to
the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you
remember that evening?”
“Do I! Oh!
Perfectly.”
“It was very agreeable, was
not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I always thought him a great
addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but
am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite gown on.”
Catherine could not
answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs. Allen again
returned to —
“I really have not
patience with the general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to
be! I do not suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in
your life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them,
Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know.”
As they walked home
again,
Mrs. Morland endeavoured
to impress on her daughter’s mind
the happiness of having such
steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration
which the neglect or unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys
ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and
affection of her earliest friends.
There was a great deal of
good sense in all this; but there are some situations of the human mind in
which good sense has very little power; and Catherine’s feelings
contradicted almost every position her mother advanced. It was upon the
behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her present happiness
depended; and while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own
opinions by the justness of her own representations,
Catherine was silently
reflecting that
now Henry must have arrived at
Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now, perhaps, they
were all setting off for Hereford.
Chapter 30
Catherine’s disposition was
not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits been ever very industrious; but
whatever might hitherto have been her defects of that sort, her mother could
not but perceive them now to be greatly increased. She could neither sit
still nor employ herself for ten minutes together, walking round the garden
and orchard again and again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it
seemed as if she could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed
for any time in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater
alteration. In her rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature
of herself; but in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all
that she had been before.
For two days Mrs.
Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but when a third night’s
rest had neither restored her cheerfulness, improved her in useful
activity, nor given her a greater inclination for needlework, she could
no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of,
“My dear Catherine, I am
afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not know when poor
Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend but you. Your head
runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for everything — a
time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have had a long run
of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.”
Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that “her head did not run upon
Bath — much.”
“Then you are fretting
about General Tilney, and that is very simple of you; for ten to one
whether you ever see him again. You should never fret about
trifles.”
After a short silence — “I hope, my Catherine, you are not getting out of
humour with home because it is not so grand as Northanger. That would be
turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should
always be contented, but especially at home, because there you must
spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear
you talk so much about the French bread at Northanger.”
“I am sure I do not care about
the bread. It is all the same to me what I eat.”
“There is a very clever essay
in one of the books upstairs upon much such a subject, about young girls
that have been spoilt for home by great acquaintance — The Mirror, I
think. I will look it out for you some day or other, because I am sure it
will do you good.”
Catherine said no more, and,
with an endeavour to do right, applied to her work; but, after a few
minutes, sunk again, without knowing it herself, into languor and
listlessness, moving herself in her chair, from the irritation of weariness,
much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of
this relapse; and seeing, in her daughter’s absent and dissatisfied look,
the full proof of that repining spirit to which she had now begun to
attribute her want of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book
in question, anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It
was some time before she could find what she looked for; and other family
matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she
returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her
avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself, she
knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on
entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had
never seen before.
With a look of much
respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her
conscious daughter as
“Mr. Henry
Tilney,”
with the embarrassment
of real sensibility
began to
apologize
for his
appearance there,
acknowledging
that
after what had
passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton,
and
stating
his impatience to
be assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home in safety, as the
cause of his intrusion.
He did not address himself
to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his
sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly
disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received
him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;
thanking him for
such an attention to her
daughter,
assuring him that the
friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say
not another word of the past.
He was not ill-inclined to
obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such
unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say
anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he
remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland’s common
remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile — the
anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine — said not a word; but
her glowing cheek and brightened eye
made her mother trust
that
this good-natured
visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time,
and gladly therefore did she
lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour.
Desirous of Mr. Morland’s
assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for
her guest, whose embarrassment on his father’s account she earnestly pitied,
Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him;
but Mr. Morland was from home — and being thus without any support, at
the end of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of
minutes’ unbroken silence,
Henry,
turning to Catherine for the
first time since her mother’s entrance,
asked her,
with sudden
alacrity,
if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at
Fullerton?
And
on developing,
from amidst all her
perplexity of words in reply,
the meaning,
which one short syllable
would have given,
immediately
expressed
his intention of paying his
respects to them,
and, with a rising
colour,
asked her
if she would have the goodness to
show him the way.
“You may see the house
from this window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a
bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her
mother; for
Mrs. Morland,
thinking
it probable, as
a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy
neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father’s
behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to
Catherine,
would not on any account
prevent her accompanying him.
They began their walk, and
Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some
explanation on his father’s account he had to give; but his first purpose
was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen’s grounds he had
done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too
often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was
solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his
own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and
delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her
society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than
gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him
had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new
circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an
heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild
imagination will at least be all my own.
A very short visit to Mrs.
Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and
Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness,
scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another
tete-a-tete; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge
how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present
application.
On his return from Woodston, two
days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily
informed in angry terms of
Miss Morland’s
departure, and
ordered
to think of her
no more.
Such was the permission upon
which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all
the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but
rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the
necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he
mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and
explain the motives of his father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into
even a triumphant delight.
The general had had nothing to
accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary,
unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and
which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of
being less rich than he had supposed her to be.
Under a mistaken persuasion of her
possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited
her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On
discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to
his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his
contempt of her family.
John Thorpe had first misled
him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying
considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of
Thorpe
if he knew more of her than her
name.
Thorpe, most happy to be on
speaking terms with a man of General Tilney’s importance, had been joyfully
and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily
expectation of Morland’s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well
resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to
represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had
made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be
connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great,
and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their
fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first
overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually
increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the
moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland’s
preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking
half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general
in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of
the general’s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more
in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could
give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen’s estate. Her intimacy
there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied
hereafter; and
to speak of
her therefore as the almost
acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton
naturally followed. Upon
such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to
him to doubt its authority. Thorpe’s interest in the family, by his sister’s
approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another
(circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed
sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute
facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland’s being
under their care, and — as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to
judge — of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution
was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in
the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe’s communication, he
almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted
interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more
ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor,
perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father’s
particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance,
and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had
accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his
power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father’s believing it to be
an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at
Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which
had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the
very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced
to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite
feelings, irritated by Catherine’s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a
very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and
Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a
friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all
that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands —
confessed himself
to have been totally mistaken in
his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade
of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas
the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither;
for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between
the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to
the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge
himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They
were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example;
by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had
particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which
their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy
connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.
The terrified general
pronounced the name of
Allen
with an inquiring look; and
here too Thorpe had learnt his error.
The Allens,
he believed,
had lived near them too long, and
he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve.
The general needed no more.
Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next
day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen.
I leave it to my reader’s
sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to
communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt
from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and
what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have
united for their case what they must divide for mine.
Catherine,
at any rate,
heard enough to feel
that
in suspecting General Tilney of
either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against
his character, or magnified his cruelty.
Henry, in having such things
to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to
himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to
expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most
unfriendly kind. Henry’s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been
treated, on comprehending his father’s views, and being ordered to acquiesce
in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary
occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of
feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words,
could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason
and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his
anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained
in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much
in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be
his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a
tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his
fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.
He steadily refused to
accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the
moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his
intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger,
and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind
which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost
instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun
his journey to Fullerton.
Chapter 31
Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s
surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying
their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered
their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after
all, could be more natural than Catherine’s being beloved, they soon learnt
to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far
as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His
pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and
having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil
could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character
needed no attestation.
“Catherine would make a
sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure,”
was her mother’s
foreboding remark; but quick was
the consolation
of
there being
nothing like practice.
There was but one obstacle,
in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be
impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but
their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the
connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the
general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even
very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading
stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that
once obtained — and their own hearts made them trust that it could not
be very long denied — their willing approbation was instantly to
follow. His consent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined
than entitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son
was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was an
income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a
match beyond the claims of their daughter.
The young people could not be
surprised at a decision like this. They felt and they deplored — but
they could not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a
change in the general, as each believed almost impossible, might speedily
take place, to unite them again in the fullness of privileged affection.
Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his young
plantations, and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in
them he looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to
cry. Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine
correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did —
they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received
a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked
another way.
The anxiety, which in this
state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of
all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to
the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the
pages before them, that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity.
The means by which their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt:
what probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the general’s? The
circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a
man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer
— an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good humour,
from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his
forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him
“to be a fool if he liked
it!”
The marriage of Eleanor
Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been
made by Henry’s banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her
choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction among all
her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one
more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual
suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman
was not of recent origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority
of situation from addressing her.
His unexpected
accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and
never had the general loved his daughter so well in all her hours of
companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed
her
“Your
Ladyship!”
Her husband was really
deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and his
attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the world.
Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the most charming
young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all.
Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to add — aware
that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character not
connected with my fable — that this was the very gentleman whose
negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing-bills,
resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my heroine was involved
in one of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the viscount
and viscountess in their brother’s behalf was assisted by that right
understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances which, as soon as the general
would allow himself to be informed, they were qualified to give. It taught
him that he had been scarcely more misled by Thorpe’s first boast of the
family wealth than by his subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no
sense of the word were they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would
have three thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late
expectations that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride;
and by no means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he
was at some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at
the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
greedy speculation.
On the strength of this, the
general, soon after Eleanor’s marriage, permitted his son to return to
Northanger, and thence made him the bearer of his consent, very courteously
worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. Morland. The event which
it authorized soon followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells
rang, and everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth
from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the
dreadful delays occasioned by the general’s cruelty, that they were
essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of
twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover
convinced that the general’s unjust interference, so far from being really
injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by
improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their
attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether
the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or
reward filial disobedience.