NORTHANGER ABBEY
PART 11
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
To be continued
