No More Learning

The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you
can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you
never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are
with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you
esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men
never know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the
young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You
will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as
you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before
you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many
girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I
knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago,
and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was
always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no
notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned
directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even
look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have
followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your
brother! Pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy about
him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or
something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but
have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he
took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his
satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself
to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.
I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in
last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased
me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up
because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they
pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at
one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship;
but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a
pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a
turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made
wretched work of it--it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at
least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but
he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple
now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your dear
brother’s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest
Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.


Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the
very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever
loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her
excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her
behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her
again. ”

On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and
reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she had finished it--“So much for Isabella,” she
cried, “and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she
could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her
character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has
been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I
do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I
wish I had never known her. ”

“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.

“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has
had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and
then fly off himself? ”

“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe
them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the
chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet
injured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him
with you, we had better not seek after the cause. ”

“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her? ”

“I am persuaded that he never did. ”

“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake? ”

Henry bowed his assent.

“Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has
turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,
there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any
heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him? ”

“But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
lose--consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
case, she would have met with very different treatment. ”

“It is very right that you should stand by your brother. ”

“And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by
the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate
principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool
reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge. ”

Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more
of it.




CHAPTER 28


Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for
a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and anxiously
recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children
as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the
first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The
happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,
every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour,
walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,
and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the
restraint which the general’s presence had imposed, and most thankfully
feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her
love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not
been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and
an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at
each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in
the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth
week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she
stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it
occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very
soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,
and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might
be taken.

Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to
bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of
being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the
middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her
obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself
much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a
much longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose
that a much longer visit had been promised--and could not but think that
if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have
her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return. ” Catherine
explained: “Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As
long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied. ”

“Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them? ”

“Oh! Because she had been there so long. ”

“Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you
think it long--”

“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
long again. ” And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving
them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness
so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The
kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay,
and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined,
were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only
just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably
without. She did--almost always--believe that Henry loved her, and quite
always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong
to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely
sportive irritations.

Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly
at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London,
the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on
Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been
while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not
ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and
improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time
to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at
the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s
departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,
as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a
carriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the
idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation
of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven! What can be the matter? ”
it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose
arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and
accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.

Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she
could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting
herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and
the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of
her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as
would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never
speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of
the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as
all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave
to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was
certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and
have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival,
and Eleanor did not come up.

At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,
had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving
close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching
the very doorway--and in another moment a slight motion of the lock
proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea
of anyone’s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again
overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised
imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,
and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however, were
tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and
her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when
there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account,
could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be
seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with
affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not
indeed--” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite well.
This kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come to you on such an
errand! ”

“Errand! To me! ”

“How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you! ”

A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her
friend, she exclaimed, “‘Tis a messenger from Woodston! ”

“You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most
compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself. ”
Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she
mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make
Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed
there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes
still cast down, soon went on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think
the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most
unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been
settled between us--how joyfully, how thankfully on my side! --as to your
continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell
you that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that the happiness
your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by--But I must not
trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father
has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on
Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a fortnight.
Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt
either. ”

“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as
she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give
way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so
suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my
visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can
you, when you return from this lord’s, come to Fullerton? ”

“It will not be in my power, Catherine. ”

“Come when you can, then. ”

Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to something
more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday--so soon
as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of--I shall be able to
take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do
not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father
and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The
general will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way--and then
I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home. ”

“Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
but half what you ought. But--how can I tell you? --tomorrow morning is
fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;
the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o’clock, and no
servant will be offered you. ”

Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe
my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that
you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I
myself--but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest
anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say!
After courting you from the protection of real friends to this--almost
double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,
without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear
Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself
of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have
been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress
of it, that my real power is nothing. ”

“Have I offended the general? ” said Catherine in a faltering voice.

“Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I
answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He
certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him
more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to
ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,
which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly
suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible? ”

It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for
Eleanor’s sake that she attempted it. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very
sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly
have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must
be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might
have written home. But it is of very little consequence. ”

“I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;
but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort,
appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,
the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease;
a few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be
taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended! ”

“Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to
part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I
can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time. ” Eleanor saw that she
wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should
avoid any further conversation, now left her with, “I shall see you in
the morning. ”

Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence
friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was
she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and
in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that
could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of
it. Henry at a distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope,
every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how
long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such
a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore
so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was
mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would
end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in
which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any
reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance
of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the
earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he
might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but
an intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the
misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so
painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any
injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person
not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.

Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name
of sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene
of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the
source of her inquietude from what it had been then--how mournfully
superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in
fact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the
contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt
and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was
high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house,
she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or
terror.

Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give
assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.
Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing
almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the
general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as
that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only
wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly
be received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;
it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the
trial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on
meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial
were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in
busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than
experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they
left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend
to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and
went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She
tried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as
to make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not
swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast
in that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for
everything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they
had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different!
With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she
then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little
in future, beyond Henry’s going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy
breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped
her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address
from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the
appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall
them to the present moment.
Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it;
and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant
on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only
of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

“You must write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you must let me hear from
you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall
not have an hour’s comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I
must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe
at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask
for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct
to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice. ”

“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home
safe. ”

Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at
a distance from you. ” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying
it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly
said, “Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed. ”

There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with
money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it
to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be
exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that
moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for
this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house
without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced
to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate
embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and,
as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention
of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a
moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left
“her kind remembrance for her absent friend. ” But with this approach to
his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding
her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across
the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the
door.




CHAPTER 29


Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or
feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in
a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls
of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground
within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable
of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed
along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every
bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on
which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when
within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and
thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation
were excessive.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made
use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so
spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his
actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he
elated her by his pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too
significant reference! And now--what had she done, or what had she
omitted to do, to merit such a change?

The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own
heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.
Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by
any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of
what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies
and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his
indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification
so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.

Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,
the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of
her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every
other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others
was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To
the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what
might he not say to Eleanor about her?

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article
of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours
passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.
The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,
saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no
object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found no stage
of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by
feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion; for to return in such
a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting
with those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers--an eleven
weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and
pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession
of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent
with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice
to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt it too strongly for expression;
and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of
unfavourably, on their father’s account, it would cut her to the heart.

With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view
of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of
home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but
after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the
names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great
had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,
to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal
pay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could
require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for
about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven
o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.

A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,
in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of
a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several
phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author
must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and
disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no
attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her
post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and
speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her
carriage--and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being
a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the
window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten
every eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked for by all
but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old,
who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance
that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the
discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George
or Harriet could never be exactly understood.

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the
door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken
the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as
she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything
that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even
happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was
subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little
leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table,
which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller,
whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so
direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they
at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden
return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any
quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,
when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,
for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any
romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and lonely
journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been
productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could
never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such
a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor
feelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual
ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining
as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;
and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange
business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all
their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the
sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful
ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,”
said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not at all
worth understanding. ”

“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly? ”

“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must
have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;
Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
Tilney. ” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I
am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all
over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for
young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear
Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but
now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much
changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you
have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets. ”

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s
next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in
her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified
feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,
parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and
though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal
to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first
excursion from home, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to
Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her
friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with
having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough
commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The
strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;
and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor
Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her
sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret,
be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment--a letter
which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,
which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an
undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after
long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she
could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore
which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful
thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.

“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the
letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens
so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and
you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well,
we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be
better worth keeping. ”

Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor. ”

“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do
not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the
course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be! ”

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope
of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into
Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting
dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him
with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget
her; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled with tears as she
pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her
comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another
expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs.
Allen.

The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,
Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of
James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but otherwise
there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be
a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the
smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and
now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at
present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and
I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness
of his first choice. ”

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,
and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits
since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months
ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards
and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and
independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and
free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three
months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she
return!

She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her
unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally
call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,
on hearing how she had been treated--though Mrs. Morland’s account of
it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.
“Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She
travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till
Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all
of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out
of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd
man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great
comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift
very well for herself. ”

Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,
with the addition of this single remark--“I really have not patience
with the general”--to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really
have not patience with the general,” was uttered twice after Mr.
Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended
the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately
added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent
in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one
can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath
is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half
like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to us,
was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first. ”

“Yes, but that did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes brightening
at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence
there.

“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well?
I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you
know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that
evening? ”

“Do I! Oh! Perfectly. ”

“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a
notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my
favourite gown on. ”

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
Mrs. Allen again returned to--“I really have not patience with the
general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not
suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His
lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no
wonder; Milsom Street, you know. ”

As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her
daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.
and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with
her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but
there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has
very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every
position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very
slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and
while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting
that now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard
of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for
Hereford.




CHAPTER 30


Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits
been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her
defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be
greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for
ten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and
again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she
could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time
in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her
rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but
in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had
been before.

For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint;
but when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,
improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for
needlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, “My
dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not
know when poor Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend
but you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for
everything--a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have
had a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful. ”

Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that
“her head did not run upon Bath--much. ”

“Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple
of you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never
fret about trifles. ” After a short silence--“I hope, my Catherine, you
are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand
as Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed.
Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home,
because there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite
like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at
Northanger. ”

“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what
I eat. ”

“There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by
great acquaintance--The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some
day or other, because I am sure it will do you good. ”

Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied
to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it
herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her
needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
in her daughter’s absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that
repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of
cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some
time before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters
occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she
returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her
avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself,
she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes,
till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young
man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he
immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter
as “Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real sensibility began
to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had
passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating
his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home
in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to
an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or
his sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always
kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance,
received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;
thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that
the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating
him to say not another word of the past.

He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was
greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that
moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence
to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly
answering all Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather and
roads. Catherine meanwhile--the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
Catherine--said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye
made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set
her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the
first volume of The Mirror for a future hour.

Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home--and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of
an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken
silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her
mother’s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.
Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her
perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his
respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would
have the goodness to show him the way. “You may see the house from this
window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a
bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from
her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary
consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he
might have some explanation to give of his father’s behaviour, which it
must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would
not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk,
and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it.
Some explanation on his father’s account he had to give; but his first
purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen’s
grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could
ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that
heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally
knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely
attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies
of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his
affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other
words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only
cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in
romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine’s
dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild
imagination will at least be all my own.

A very short visit to Mrs.