NORTHANGER ABBEY
PART 5
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.
To be
continued
