NORTHANGER ABBEY
PART 13
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.
The End
