NORTHANGER ABBEY
PART 12
CHAPTER 26
From this
time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young people; and
Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young friends were perfectly
agreed in considering Isabella's want of consequence and fortune as likely to
throw great difficulties in the way of her marrying their brother. Their
persuasion that the general would, upon this ground alone, independent of the
objection that might be raised against her character, oppose the connection,
turned her feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as
insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the
Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point of
interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very painful
reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by a dependence
on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she was given to
understand by his words as well as his actions, she had from the first been so
fortunate as to excite in the general; and by a recollection of some most
generous and disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she had
more than once heard him utter, and which tempted her to think his disposition
in such matters misunderstood by his children.
They were
so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not have the courage to
apply in person for his father's consent, and so repeatedly assured her that he
had never in his life been less likely to come to Northanger than at the
present time, that she suffered her mind to be at ease as to the necessity of
any sudden removal of her own. But as it was not to be supposed that Captain
Tilney, whenever he made his application, would give his father any just idea
of Isabella's conduct, it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should
lay the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the general by
that means to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on
a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him
accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had
expected. "No," said he, "my father's hands need not be
strengthened, and Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He
must tell his own story."
"But
he will tell only half of it."
"A
quarter would be enough."
A day or
two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His brother and
sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to them as if his silence
would be the natural result of the suspected engagement, and at others that it
was wholly incompatible with it. The general, meanwhile, though offended every
morning by Frederick's remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety
about him, and had no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss
Morland's time at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness
on this head, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments would
disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the country,
talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner, and once or twice
began even to calculate the number of young dancing people in the
neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time of year, no wild-fowl, no game,
and the Lady Frasers were not in the country. And it all ended, at last, in his
telling Henry one morning that when he next went to Woodston, they would take
him by surprise there some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry
was greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the
scheme. "And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure?
I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall
probably be obliged to stay two or three days."
"Well,
well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is no need to fix.
You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to
have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer for the young ladies
making allowance for a bachelor's table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day
with you, we will not come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I
expect my surveyor from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards
I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my
acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it
would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never
to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and
attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men. They have half a
buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them whenever I can.
Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I
think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may
have time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to
Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter
before one on Wednesday, you may look for us."
A ball
itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this little
excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston; and her
heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came
booted and greatcoated into the room where she and Eleanor were sitting, and
said, "I am come, young ladies, in a very moralizing strain, to observe
that our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for, and that we often
purchase them at a great disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for
a draft on the future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this
present hour. Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at
Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent,
I must go away directly, two days before I intended it."
"Go
away!" said Catherine, with a very long face. "And why?"
"Why!
How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in frightening my
old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and prepare a dinner for
you, to be sure."
"Oh!
Not seriously!"
"Aye,
and sadly too—for I had much rather stay."
"But
how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said? When he so
particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble, because anything
would do."
Henry
only smiled. "I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's account
and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such a point of your
providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not said half so much as he
did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home, that sitting down to a
middling one for one day could not signify."
"I
wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As tomorrow is
Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return."
He went;
and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine to doubt her
own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon obliged to give him credit for
being right, however disagreeable to her his going. But the inexplicability of
the general's conduct dwelt much on her thoughts. That he was very particular
in his eating, she had, by her own unassisted observation, already discovered;
but why he should say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while,
was most unaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who
but Henry could have been aware of what his father was at?
From
Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry. This was the
sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney's letter would certainly
come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very sure would be wet. The past,
present, and future were all equally in gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and her
loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor's spirits always affected by Henry's
absence! What was there to interest or amuse her? She was tired of the woods
and the shrubberies—always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no
more to her now than any other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it
had helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from
a consideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who had
so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming to her
imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected parsonage,
something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston
probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!
It did
come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It came—it was
fine—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise and four conveyed
the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles,
they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not
unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it, as the
general seemed to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the country,
and the size of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to any place she
had ever been at, and looked with great admiration at every neat house above
the rank of a cottage, and at all the little chandler's shops which they
passed. At the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the
rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with its
semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the door, Henry,
with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three
terriers, was ready to receive and make much of them.
Catherine's
mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either to observe or to
say a great deal; and, till called on by the general for her opinion of it, she
had very little idea of the room in which she was sitting. Upon looking round
it then, she perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable room in the
world; but she was too guarded to say so, and the coldness of her praise
disappointed him.
"We
are not calling it a good house," said he. "We are not comparing it
with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere parsonage, small
and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and altogether not
inferior to the generality; or, in other words, I believe there are few country
parsonages in England half so good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far
be it from me to say otherwise; and anything in reason—a bow thrown out,
perhaps—though, between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my
aversion, it is a patched-on bow."
Catherine
did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained by it; and other
subjects being studiously brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same
time that a tray full of refreshments was introduced by his servant, the
general was shortly restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her usual
ease of spirits.
The room
in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted
up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she
was shown, first into a smaller apartment, belonging peculiarly to the master
of the house, and made unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what
was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,
Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily
shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them
pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her admiration at
the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she felt it. "Oh! Why
do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up!
It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the
world!"
"I
trust," said the general, with a most satisfied smile, "that it will
very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!"
"Well,
if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a sweet little
cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! It is the prettiest
cottage!"
"You
like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson
is spoken to about it. The cottage remains."
Such a
compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced her directly;
and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her choice of the
prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion on the
subject could be drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and fresh air,
however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassing associations; and,
having reached the ornamental part of the premises, consisting of a walk round
two sides of a meadow, on which Henry's genius had begun to act about half a
year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any
pleasure-ground she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it
higher than the green bench in the corner.
A saunter
into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a visit to the
stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter
of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four o'clock, when
Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At four they were to dine, and at
six to set off on their return. Never had any day passed so quickly!
She could
not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem to create the
smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was even looking at the
side-table for cold meat which was not there. His son and daughter's
observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen him eat so heartily
at any table but his own, and never before known him so little disconcerted by
the melted butter's being oiled.
At six
o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again received them;
and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit,
so well assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that, could
she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have
quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return
to it.
CHAPTER 27
The next
morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella:
Bath,
April
My
dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight,
and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I really
am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place one can find time for
nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day
since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler or
other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave
this vile place tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the
dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I
could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody
can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from
him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind
offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I
trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the
hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly,
but am afraid you never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the
family you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against
those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men
never know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the young man
whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from
this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was
amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he
got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for
never were such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to
his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again.
He is the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two
days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took
no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned
directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even look at
him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him
for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me
some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so
uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his
spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I
hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain
everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from
himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.
I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last
night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and
I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone.
We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised
to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me,
but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by
them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried
to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but
made wretched work of it—it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least
Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the
last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look
hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother's favourite colour. Lose
no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever
am, etc.
Such a
strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its
inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first.
She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her
professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and
her demands impudent. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should
never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her again."
On
Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their
brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud
the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had
finished it—"So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our
intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but
perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is
to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks
have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or
for me, and I wish I had never known her."
"It
will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.
"There
is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on
Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain
Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as
to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?"
"I
have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe them to have
been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is,
that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the effect
of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after
the cause."
"Then
you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?"
"I
am persuaded that he never did."
"And
only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?"
Henry
bowed his assent.
"Well,
then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so
well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm
done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he
had made her very much in love with him?"
"But
we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose—consequently to have
been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very
different treatment."
"It
is very right that you should stand by your brother."
"And
if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by the
disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle
of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of
family partiality, or a desire of revenge."
Catherine
was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably
guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering
Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more of it.
CHAPTER 28
Soon
after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and
he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even
for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously recommending the study of
her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence.
His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may
be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every
employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good
humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,
and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the
restraint which the general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel
their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the
place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread
of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not
being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have
been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before
the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might
seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration
whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she
very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,
and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be
taken.
Aware
that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring
forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being
suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the middle of a speech
about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away
very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had
"hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time—had been
misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been
promised—and could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the
pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten
her return." Catherine explained: "Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma
were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be
satisfied."
"Then
why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?"
"Oh!
Because she had been there so long."
"Nay,
if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it
long—"
"Oh!
No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long
again." And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them
was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly
removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the
earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry's gratified
look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her
importance with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human
mind can never do comfortably without. She did—almost always—believe that Henry
loved her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished
her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were
merely sportive irritations.
Henry was
not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining wholly at Northanger in
attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagements of his
curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of
nights. His loss was not now what it had been while the general was at home; it
lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls
agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well
sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather a
late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of
Henry's departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,
as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage
was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud
noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation of surprise had passed
away, in a "Good heaven! What can be the matter?" it was quickly
decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden,
if not quite so unseasonable, and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.
Catherine
walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she could, to a further
acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant
impression his conduct had given her, and the persuasion of his being by far
too fine a gentleman to approve of her, that at least they should not meet
under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially painful. She
trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this
time be ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and
as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could
behave to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was
certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so
much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor
did not come up.
At that
moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for
its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she convicted her
fancy of error, when the noise of something moving close to her door made her
start; it seemed as if someone was touching the very doorway—and in another
moment a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it. She
trembled a little at the idea of anyone's approaching so cautiously; but
resolving not to be again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled
by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door.
Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits, however, were
tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and her
manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it seemed an
effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when there. Catherine,
supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account, could only express her
concern by silent attention, obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples with
lavender-water, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. "My dear
Catherine, you must not—you must not indeed—" were Eleanor's first
connected words. "I am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot
bear it—I come to you on such an errand!"
"Errand!
To me!"
"How
shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!"
A new
idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale as her friend, she
exclaimed, "'Tis a messenger from Woodston!"
"You
are mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking at her most
compassionately; "it is no one from Woodston. It is my father
himself." Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as
she mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make
Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were
anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to
collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon
went on. "You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the
part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After
what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us—how joyfully, how
thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many
weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted—and
that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—But I
must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father
has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We
are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and
apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt either."
"My
dear Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as she
could, "do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a
first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too; but I
am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know, at any
time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord's,
come to Fullerton?"
"It
will not be in my power, Catherine."
"Come
when you can, then."
Eleanor made
no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something more directly
interesting, she added, thinking aloud, "Monday—so soon as Monday; and you
all go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to take leave, however. I need
not go till just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can
go on Monday very well. My father and mother's having no notice of it is of
very little consequence. The general will send a servant with me, I dare say,
half the way—and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine
miles from home."
"Ah,
Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable, though in
such common attentions you would have received but half what you ought. But—how
can I tell you?—tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us, and not even the
hour is left to your choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at
seven o'clock, and no servant will be offered you."
Catherine
sat down, breathless and speechless. "I could hardly believe my senses,
when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at this
moment, however justly great, can be more than I myself—but I must not talk of
what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What
will your father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of real
friends to this—almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out
of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear
Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all
its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough
in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power
is nothing."
"Have
I offended the general?" said Catherine in a faltering voice.
"Alas!
For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I answer for, is that
you can have given him no just cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very
greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy,
and something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some
disappointment, some vexation, which just at this moment seems important, but
which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it
possible?"
It was
with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for Eleanor's sake
that she attempted it. "I am sure," said she, "I am very sorry
if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done. But
do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I am only
sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is
of very little consequence."
"I
hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none; but to
everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance,
propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still
in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours would take you
there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age,
alone, unattended!"
"Oh,
the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to part, a few
hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven.
Let me be called in time." Eleanor saw that she wished to be alone; and
believing it better for each that they should avoid any further conversation,
now left her with, "I shall see you in the morning."
Catherine's
swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence friendship and pride had
equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth
in torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason that
could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness,
nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him
farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who
could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by
such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so
particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and
grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations
of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly
uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience, or
allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her
travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest
hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning,
that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an
intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to
offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but
Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could
provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not
supposed to be connected with it.
Heavily
passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of sleep, was out of
the question. That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her
on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits and unquiet
slumbers. Yet how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had
been then—how mournfully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had
foundation in fact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in
the contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt and
considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was high, and
often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard it all
as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or terror.
Soon
after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance
where it was possible; but very little remained to be done. Catherine had not
loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The
possibility of some conciliatory message from the general occurred to her as his
daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger should pass away and
repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know how far, after what had
passed, an apology might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would
have been useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was
put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on
meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were
the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in busy
agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience
intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they left the room,
Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance
on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour,
where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from
the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but she had no
appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and
her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her
distaste for everything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since
they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different! With
what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she then looked
around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond
Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy breakfast! For Henry had been
there; Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections were long
indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep in
thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first thing to
startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the
sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that
instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible
only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.
"You
must write to me, Catherine," she cried; "you must let me hear from
you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have
an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat.
Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and
have found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence
as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown's, and,
I must ask it, under cover to Alice."
"No,
Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had
better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe."
Eleanor
only replied, "I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you.
I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a distance from
you." But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to
melt Catherine's pride in a moment, and she instantly said, "Oh, Eleanor,
I will write to you indeed."
There was
yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle, though somewhat
embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that after so long an
absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with money enough for the
expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to her with most affectionate
offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly the case. Catherine had never
thought on the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was
convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned
from the house without even the means of getting home; and the distress in
which she must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining together.
Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and
Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place
of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable
to leave the house without some mention of one whose name had not yet been
spoken by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
intelligible that she left "her kind remembrance for her absent
friend." But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of
restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her
handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment
was driven from the door.
To be
continued
