No More Learning

Who found no woman good enough to be loved! ”

“That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.
Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to
suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other
was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased
man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,
and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,
guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
and knowing no disguise. ”

“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a
smile.

“But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by our
family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man
she likes, she may be constant. ”

“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will
be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is
Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the
arrivals. ”

“You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first
knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed
that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s character in
my life before. ”

“Among all the great variety that you have known and studied. ”

“My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it. ”

“Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we
must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,
I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a
void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming
irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at
Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,
for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no
longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard
you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could
rely on. You feel all this? ”

“No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not--ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
thought. ”

“You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.
Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves. ”

Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much
relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had
produced it.




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.




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.