No one who had ever
seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an
heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own
person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman,
without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name
was Richard -- and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable
independence, besides two good livings -- and he was not in the least addicted
to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with
a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had
three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the
latter into the world, as any body might expect, she still lived on -- lived to
have six children more -- to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy
excellent health herself. A family of ten children will be always called a fine
family, where there are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the
Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in general very
plain, and Catherine for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a
thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong
features;-- so much for her person;-- and not less unpropitious for heroism
seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys' plays, and greatly preferred cricket
not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a
dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no
taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the
pleasure of mischief -- at least so it was conjectured from her always
preferring those which she was forbidden to take.-- Such were her propensities
-- her abilities were quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or
understand any thing before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for
she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months
in teaching her only to repeat the "Beggar's Petition;" and after
all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid,-- by no means; she learnt the fable of "The
Hare and many Friends," as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother
wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she
was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight
years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it;-- and Mrs.
Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in spite of
incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which dismissed the
music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life. Her taste for drawing
was not superior; though whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from
her mother, or seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could
in that way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
one another.-- Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her
mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her
lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--
for with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a
bad heart nor a bad temper; was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and
very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she was
moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing
so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending; she
began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved, her
features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more animation,
and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination
for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had now the pleasure of
sometimes hearing her father and mother remark on her personal improvement. "Catherine
grows quite a good-looking girl, -- she is almost pretty to day," were
words which caught her ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To
look almost pretty, is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been
looking plain the first fifteen years of her life, than a beauty from her
cradle can ever receive. Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see
her children every thing they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably
left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful that Catherine who
had by nature nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, base ball,
riding on horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to
books -- or at least books of information -- for, provided that nothing like
useful knowledge could be gained from them, provided they were all story and no
reflection, she had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to
seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as
heroines must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives. From
Pope, she learnt to censure those who "bear about the mockery of
woe." From Gray, that "Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
"And waste its fragrance on the desert air." From Thompson, that
-------------- "It is a delightful task "To teach the young idea how
to shoot." And from Shakspeare she gained a great store of information --
amongst the rest, that ------------"Trifles light as air, "Are, to
the jealous, confirmation strong, "As proofs of Holy Writ." That
"The poor beetle, which we tread upon, "In corporal sufferance feels
a pang as great "As when a giant dies." And that a young woman in
love always looks -------- "like Patience on a monument "Smiling at
Grief." So far her improvement was sufficient -- and in many other points
she came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing
a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own
composition, she could listen to other people's performance with very little
fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil -- she had no notion of
drawing -- not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's profile, that she
might be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the true
heroic height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had no
lover to pourtray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without having seen
one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility; without having inspired
one real passion, and without having excited even any admiration but what was
very moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things
may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was
not one lord in the neighbourhood; no -- not even a baronet. There was not one
family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy accidentally
found at their door -- not one young man whose origin was unknown. Her father
had no ward, and the squire of the parish no children. But when a young lady is
to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent
her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way. Mr. Allen, who
owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where
the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a gouty
constitution;-- and his lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland and
probably aware that if adventures will not befal a young lady in her own
village, she must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs.
Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all happiness.
In addition to what has
been already said of Catherine Morland's personal and mental endowments, when
about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks'
residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's more certain information,
lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her
character is meant to be; that her heart was affectionate, her disposition
cheerful and open, without secret conceit or affectation of any kind -- her
manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person
pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty -- and her mind about as ignorant and
uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is. When the hour of
departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally
supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her
beloved Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with
sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being
together; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course
flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions
against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the
fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little
of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general
mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from
their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. "I
beg, Catherine you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat,
when you come from the Rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some
account of the money you spend;-- I will give you this little book on
purpose." Sally or rather Sarah, (for what young lady of common gentility
will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?)
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her
sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine's
writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of
every new acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that
Bath might produce. Every thing indeed relative to this important journey was
done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure,
which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than
with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first
separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father,
instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an
hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and
promised her more when she wanted it. Under these unpromising auspices, the
parting took place, and the journey began. It was performed with suitable
quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them,
nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming
occurred than a fear on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind
her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless. They arrived at
BathCatherine was all eager delight;-- her eyes were here, there, every where,
as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through
those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and
she felt happy already. They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in
Pulteney-street. It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen,
that the reader may be able to judge, in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably,
contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which
a last volume is capable -- whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy
-- whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her
out of doors. Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose
society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the
world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of
quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind, were all that could
account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man, like Mr. Allen.
In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public,
being as fond of going every where and seeing every thing herself as any young
lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being
fine; and our heroine's entre=e into life could not take place till after three
or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperon
was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some
purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important
evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and
dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and
her maid declared she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement,
Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for
admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on
it. Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing, that they did not enter the ball-room
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed
in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the
card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the
safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protege=e, Mrs. Allen made
her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary
caution would allow; Catherine however, kept close at her side, and linked her
arm too firmly within her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a
struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along
the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it
seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when
once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch
the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and
though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their
situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high
feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on -- something better was yet
in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found
themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive
view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage
through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that
evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an
acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case
by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my
dear, -- I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend
felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and
proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would
thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the
eminence they had so laboriously gained.-- Every body was shortly in motion for
tea, and they must squeeze out like the restCatherine began to feel something
of disappointment -- she was tired of being continually pressed against by people,
the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of
whom she was so wholly unacquainted, that she could not relieve the irksomeness
of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives;
and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of
having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist
them.-- They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for
a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at
which a large party were already placed, without having any thing to do there,
or any body to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself,
as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It
would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not
it? -- It is such a delicate muslin. -- For my part I have not seen any thing I
like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it
is," whispered Catherine, "not to have a single acquaintance
here!" "Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect
serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do?
-- The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came
here-- we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do.--
That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here."
"I wish we had any;-- it would be somebody to go to." "Very
true, my dear; and if we knew any body we would join them directly. The Skinners
were here last year-- I wish they were here now." "Had not we better
go away as it is?-- Here are no tea things for us, you see." "No more
there are, indeed.-- How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still,
for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear?-- Some body
gave me a push that has hurt it I am afraid!" "No, indeed, it looks
very nice.-- But, dearMrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all
this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody." "I don't
upon my word -- I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all
my heart, and then I should get you a partner.-- I should be so glad to have
you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got
on!-- How old fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they
received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully
accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who
offered it, which was the only time that any body spoke to them during the
evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was
over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have
had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied,
vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to
dance," said his wife, "I wish we could have got a partner for her.--
I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter
instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might
have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!"
"We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen's
consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over -- enough
to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the
time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the
events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by
removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was now
seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not one, however,
started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran
round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by any body. Yet Catherine
was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before,
they would now have thought her exceedingly handsome. She was looked at
however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen
pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she
immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before -- her
humble vanity was contented -- she felt more obliged to the two young men for
this simple praise than a true quality heroine would have been for fifteen
sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with
every body, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.
Every morning now
brought its regular duties;-- shops were to be visited; some new part of the
town to be looked at; and the Pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up
and down for an hour, looking at every body and speaking to no one. The wish of
a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she
repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her
knowing nobody at all. They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here
fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies
introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner;-- his name was
Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a
pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite
handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in
high luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced; but when
they were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given
him credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit -- and there was an
archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it was hardly
understood by her. After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose
from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with-- "I have
hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I
have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever
here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the
concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent --
but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I
will begin directly." "You need not give yourself that trouble,
sir." "No trouble I assure you, madam." Then forming his
features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a
simpering air, "Have you been long in Bath, madam?" "About a
week, sir," replied Catherine, trying not to laugh. "Really!"
with affected astonishment. "Why should you be surprized, sir?"
"Why, indeed!" said he, in his natural tone-- "but some emotion
must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprize is more easily assumed,
and not less reasonable than any other.-- Now let us go on. Were you never here
before, madam?" "Never, sir." "Indeed! Have you yet
honoured the Upper Rooms?" "Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."
"Have you been to the theatre?" "Yes, sir, I was at the play on
Tuesday." "To the concert?" "Yes, sir, on Wednesday."
"And are you altogether pleased with Bath?" "Yes -- I like it
very well." "Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational
again." Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might
venture to laugh. "I see what you think of me," said he gravely--
"I shall make but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow." "My
journal!" "Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the
Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings -- plain black
shoes -- appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer,
half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his
nonsense." "Indeed I shall say no such thing." "Shall I
tell you what you ought to say?" "If you please." "I danced
with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of
conversation with him -- seems a most extraordinary genius -- hope I may know
more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say." "But, perhaps,
I keep no journal." "Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I
am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible.
Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of
your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every
day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a
journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular
state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their
diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal? -- My dear madam, I
am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as you wish to believe me; it is this
delightful habit of journalizing which largely contributes to form the easy
style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Every body
allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female.
Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted
by the practice of keeping a journal." "I have sometimes
thought," said Catherine, doubtingly, "whether ladies do write so
much better letters than gentlemen! That is -- I should not think the
superiority was always on our side." "As far as I have had
opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing
among women is faultless, except in three particulars." "And what are
they?" "A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to
stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar." "Upon my word! I
need not have been afraid of disclaiming the compliment. You do not think too
highly of us in that way." "I should no more lay it down as a general
rule that women write better letters than men, than that they sing better
duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the
foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes." They
were interrupted by Mrs. Allen:-- "My dear Catherine," said she,
"do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole
already; I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
it cost but nine shillings a yard." "That is exactly what I should have
guessed it, madam," said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin. "Do you
understand muslins, sir?" "Particularly well; I always buy my own
cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often
trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it
was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but
five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin." Mrs. Allen was
quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little notice of those
things," said she: "I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns
from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir." "I
hope I am, madam." "And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss
Morland's gown?" "It is very pretty, madam," said he, gravely
examining it; "but I do not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will
fray." "How can you," said Catherine, laughing, "be so
----" she had almost said, strange. "I am quite of your opinion,
sir," replied Mrs. Allen; "and so I told Miss Morland when she bought
it." "But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account
or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap,
or a cloak.-- Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say
so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted,
or careless in cutting it to pieces." "Bath is a charming place, sir;
there are so many good shops here.-- We are sadly off in the country; not but
what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go;-- eight
miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it
cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag -- I come back tired to death.
Now here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes." Mr.
Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him
on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as
she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much
with the foibles of others.-- "What are you thinking of so
earnestly?" said he, as they walked back to the ball-room;-- "not of
your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not
satisfactory." Catherine coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of
any thing." "That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be
told at once that you will not tell me." "Well then, I will
not." "Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am
authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the
world advances intimacy so much." They danced again; and, when the
assembly closed, parted, on the lady's side at least, with a strong inclination
for continuing the acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she
drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight
slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer
has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before
the gentleman's love is declared, it must be very improper that a young lady
should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt
of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover, had not yet perhaps
entered Mr. Allen's head, but that he was not objectionable as a common
acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early
in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of
Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in
Gloucestershire.
With more than usual
eagerness did Catherine hasten to the Pump-room the next day, secure within
herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to
meet him with a smile:-- but no smile was demanded -- Mr. Tilney did not
appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at
different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment
passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and
nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place
Bath is," said Mrs. Allen, as they sat down near the great clock, after
parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if
we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in
vain, that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed
with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would
attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain;" and the
unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was
at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes
before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been
looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great
complaisance in these words;-- "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it
is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name
Allen?" This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced
her's to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a
former school-fellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their
respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was
very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of
each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed;
and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together,
how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to
see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to
their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to
give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the
other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over
Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of
her sons, and the beauty of her daughters,-- when she related their different
situations and views,-- that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant-Taylors',
and William at sea,-- and all of them more beloved and respected in their
different stations than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no
similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and
unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to
all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery,
which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not
half so handsome as that on her own. "Here come my dear girls," cried
Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart looking females, who, arm in arm, were
then moving towards her. "My dearMrs. Allen, I long to introduce them;
they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is
not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe
Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss
Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The
name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility,
the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like
her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!"
cried the mother -- and "I should have known her any where for his
sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment
Catherine was surprized; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun
the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered
that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his
own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the
Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained,
many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being
better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the
friendship of their brothers, &c. whichCatherine heard with pleasure, and
answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first
proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss
Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with
this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she
talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of
disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the
free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies; such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss
Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four
years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points;
she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge; its fashions with
the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many
articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman
and lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the
thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to
whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired
might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss
Thorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance
with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender
affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a
dozen turns in the Pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together,
that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen's
house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened
shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see
each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same
chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly up stairs, and watched
Miss Thorpe's progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired
the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress,
and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had procured her
such a friend. Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a
good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her eldest
daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to be
as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same style,
did very well. This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the
necessity of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past
adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy the
three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and
attornies might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed twenty years
before, be minutely repeated.
Catherine was not so
much engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of
Miss Thorpe, though they certainly claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to
look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could
reach; but she looked in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the
Pump-room. She hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for
fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a
doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,
and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell their
acquaintance what a charming day it is. As soon as divine service was over, the
Thorpes and Allens eagerly joined each other; and after staying long enough in
the Pump-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was
not a genteel face to be seen, which every body discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh
air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted
the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation;-- they talked much, and
with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine disappointed in her hope of
re-seeing her partner. He was no where to be met with; every search for him was
equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the
upper nor lower rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor
among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His
name was not in the Pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must be
gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so short! This
sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh
grace in Catherine's imagination around his person and manners, and increased
her anxiety to know more of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for
they had been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a
subject, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom
she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his
impression on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very
sure that he must be a charming young man; and was equally sure that he must
have been delighted with her dearCatherine, and would therefore shortly return.
She liked him the better for being a clergyman, "for she must confess
herself very partial to the profession;" and some thing like a sigh
escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the
cause of that gentle emotion -- but she was not experienced enough in the
finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery
was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced. Mrs. Allen was
now quite happy -- quite satisfied with Bath. She had found some acquaintance,
and been so lucky too as to find in them the family of a most worthy old
friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, had found these friends by no
means so expensively dressed as herself. Her daily expressions were no longer,
"I wish we had some acquaintance in Bath!" They were changed into--
"How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thorpe!" -- and she was as eager
in promoting the intercourse of the two families, as her young charge and
Isabella themselves could be; never satisfied with the day unless she spent the
chief of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but
in which there was scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any
resemblance of subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and
Mrs. Allen of her gowns. The progress of the friendship between Catherine and
Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly
through every gradation of increasing tenderness, that there was shortly no
fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each
other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned
up each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and
if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute
in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels
together. Yes, novels;-- for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom
so common with novel writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the
very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding -- joining
with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works,
and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she
accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with
disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of
another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of
it. Let us leave it to the Reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their
leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash
with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an
injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and
unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world,
no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or
fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of
the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who
collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior,
with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a
thousand pens,-- there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances
which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel
reader -- I seldom look into novels -- Do not imagine that I often read novels
-- It is really very well for a novel." -- Such is the common cant.--
"And what are you reading, Miss @@@ @@@?" "Oh! it is only a
novel!" replies the young lady; while she lays down her book with affected
indifference or momentary shame.-- "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or
Belinda;" or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the
mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the
happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and
humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language. Now, had the same
young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work,
how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the
chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous
publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young
person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the
statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of
conversation, which no longer concern any one living; and their language, too,
frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could
endure it.
The following
conversation, which took place between the two friends in the Pump-room one
morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of
their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of
thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before
her friend, her first address naturally was-- "My dearest creature, what
can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!"
"Have you, indeed! -- I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was
in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here
long?" "Oh! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this
half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and
enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I
was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it
looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I
saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom-street just
now -- very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite
longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with
yourself all this morning?-- Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I
have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil."
"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind
the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! yes,
quite; what can it be?-- But do not tell me -- I would not be told upon any
account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton.
Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in
reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come
away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! how much I am
obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho we will read the Italian
together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for
you." "Have you, indeed! How glad I am!-- What are they all?"
"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocket-book.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black
Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will
last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are
you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular
friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in
the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would
be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can
conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men
for not admiring her!-- I scold them all amazingly about it!" "Scold
them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There
is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion
of loving people by halves, it is not my nature. My attachments are always
excessively strong. I told Capt. Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter,
that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would
allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable
of real friendship you know, and I am determined to shew them the difference.
Now, if I were to hear any body speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a
moment:-- but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to
be a great favourite with the men." "Oh! dear," cried Catherine,
colouring, "how can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have
so much animation, which is exactly whatMiss Andrews wants, for I must confess
there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just
after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly -- I
am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again.
Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is;
you are indifferent to every body's admiration, except that of one gentleman,
who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you -- (speaking more seriously) --
your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know
very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of any body else.
Every thing is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the
beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you
should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps
I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature,
do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so."
"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody
could make me miserable. Oh! the dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am
sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to
me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland
objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir
Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way."
"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? -- I
remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is
not like Udolpho at all; yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do
you indeed! -- you surprize me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my
dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head to-night? I am
determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of
that sometimes you know." "But it does not signify if they do;"
said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule
never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you
do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance."
"Are they?-- Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to
me." "Oh! they give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!-- By the
bye, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask
you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or
fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something
between both, I think. Brown -- not fair, and not very dark." "Very
well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr.
Tilney;-- ""a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark
hair.""-- "Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and
as to complexion -- do you know -- I like a sallow better than any other. You
must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance
answering that description." "Betray you!-- What do you mean?"
"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the
subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied; and after remaining a
few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at
that time rather more than any thing else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton;
when her friend prevented her, by saying,-- "For Heaven's sake! let us
move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young
men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of
countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us
there." Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the
names, it was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with
unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the
gentlemen had just left the Pump-room. "And which way are they gone?"
said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young
man." "They went towards the churchyard." "Well, I am
amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to
Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like
to see it." Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added,
"perhaps we may overtake the two young men." "Oh! never mind
that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to shew
you my hat." "But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no
danger of our seeing them at all." "I shall not pay them any such
compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect.
That is the way to spoil them." Catherine had nothing to oppose against
such reasoning; and therefore, to shew the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her
resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could
walk, in pursuit of the two young men.
Half a minute conducted
them through the Pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union-passage; but here
they were stopped. Every body acquainted with Bath may remember the
difficulties of crossing Cheap-street at this point; it is indeed a street of
so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately connected with the great London and
Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which
parties of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of
pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not
detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had
been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since her
residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it once more, for
at the very moment of coming opposite to Union-passage, and within view of the
two gentlemen who were proceeding through the crowds, and threading the gutters
of that interesting alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a
gig, driven along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all
the vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion,
and his horse. "Oh, these odious gigs!" said Isabella, looking up,
"how I detest them." But this detestation, though so just, was of
short duration, for she looked again and exclaimed, "Delightful! Mr.
Morland and my brother!" "Good heaven! 'tis James!" was uttered
at the same moment by Catherine; and, on catching the young men's eyes, the
horse was immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his
haunches, and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and
the equipage was delivered to his care. Catherine, by whom this meeting was
wholly unexpected, received her brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he,
being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every
proof on his side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do,
while the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and
embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more expert in
the developement of other people's feelings, and less simply engrossed by her
own, that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she could do
herself. John Thorpe who in the mean time had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends which
were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of
Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a
stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form,
seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom, and
too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and
impudent where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: "How
long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?"
"I do not know the distance." Her brother told her that it was
twenty-three miles. "Three-and-twenty!" cried Thorpe;
"five-and-twenty if it is an inch." Morland remonstrated, pleaded the
authority of road-books, innkeepers, and milestones; but his friend disregarded
them all; he had a surer test of distance. "I know it must be
five-and-twenty," said he, "by the time we have been doing it. It is
now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town-clock
struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to make my horse go less than ten
miles an hour in harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five." "You
have lost an hour," said Morland; "it was only ten o'clock when we
came from Tetbury." "Ten o'clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! I
counted every stroke. This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses,
Miss Morland; do but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for
speed in your life?" (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was
driving off.) "Such true blood! Three hours and a half indeed coming only
three-and-twenty miles! look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you
can." "He does look very hot to be sure." "Hot! he had not
turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church: but look at his forehand; look at
his loins; only see how he moves; that horse cannot go less than ten miles an
hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you think of my gig, Miss
Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town built; I have not had it a
month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort
of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have
done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of
the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced
to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:
""Ah! Thorpe,"" said he, ""do you happen to want
such a little thing as this? it is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed
tired of it."" ""Oh! d@@"", said I, ""I
am your man; what do you ask?"" And how much do you think he did,
Miss Morland?" "I am sure I cannot guess at all."
"Curricle-hung you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps,
silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or better.
He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly, threw down the money, and
the carriage was mine." "And I am sure," said Catherine, "I
know so little of such things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or
dear." "Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less I dare
say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash." "That was
very good-natured of you," said Catherine, quite pleased. "Oh! d@@
it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be
pitiful." An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the
young ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that the
gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their respects to
Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well satisfied was the
latter with her lot, so contentedly was she endeavouring to ensure a pleasant
walk to him who brought the double recommendation of being her brother's
friend, and her friend's brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings,
that, though they overtook and passed the two offending young men in
Milsom-street, she was so far from seeking to attract their notice, that she
looked back at them only three times. John Thorpe kept of course with
Catherine, and, after a few minutes' silence, renewed the conversation about
his gig -- "You will find, however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a
cheap thing by some people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the
next day; Jackson of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
time." "Yes," said Morland, who overheard this; "but you
forget that your horse was included." "My horse! oh, d@@ it! I would
not sell my horse for a hundred. Are you fond of an open carriage, Miss
Morland?" "Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in
one; but I am particularly fond of it." "I am glad of it; I will
drive you out in mine every day." "Thank you," said Catherine,
in some distress, from a doubt of the propriety of accepting such an offer.
"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow." "Thank you; but
will not your horse want rest?" "Rest! he has only come
three-and-twenty miles to-day; all nonsense; nothing ruins horses so much as
rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exercise mine at the
average of four hours every day while I am here." "Shall you
indeed!" said Catherine very seriously, "that will be forty miles a
day." "Forty! aye fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up
Lansdown to-morrow; mind, I am engaged." "How delightful that will
be!" cried Isabella, turning round; "my dearest Catherine, I quite
envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will not have room for a third."
"A third indeed! no, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about;
that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you." This
brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but Catherine heard
neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's discourse now sunk from
its hitherto animated pitch, to nothing more than a short decisive sentence of
praise or condemnation on the face of every woman they met; and Catherine,
after listening and agreeing as long as she could, with all the civility and deference
of the youthful female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in
opposition to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her
own sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question
which had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, "Have you ever read
Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?" "Udolpho! Oh, Lord! not I; I never read novels;
I have something else to do." Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to
apologize for her question, but he prevented her by saying, "Novels are
all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one
come out since Tom Jones, except the Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for
all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation." "I think
you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very interesting."
"Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliff's; her novels
are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them."
"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliff," said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him. "No sure; was it? Aye, I
remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by that
woman they make such a fuss about, she who married the French emigrant." "I
suppose you mean Camilla?" "Yes, that's the book; such unnatural
stuff!-- An old man playing at see-saw! I took up the first volume once, and
looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of
stuff it must be before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an
emigrant, I was sure I should never be able to get through it." "I
have never read it." "You had no loss I assure you; it is the
horridest nonsense you can imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an
old man's playing at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is
not." This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the feelings
of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to the feelings
of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried
them from above, in the passage. "Ah, mother! how do you do?" said
he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand: "where did you get that quiz of
a hat, it makes you look like an old witch? Here is Morland and I come to stay
a few days with you, so you must look out for a couple of good beds some where
near." And this address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the
mother's heart, for she received him with the most delighted and exulting
affection. On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his
fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that
they both looked very ugly. These manners did not please Catherine; but he was
James's friend and Isabella's brother; and her judgment was further bought off
by Isabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that John
thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's engaging her before
they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she been older or vainer, such
attacks might have done little; but, where youth and diffidence are united, it
requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called
the most charming girl in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a
partner; and the consequence was, that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an
hour with the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as
the door was closed on them, said, "Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe?" instead of answering, as she probably would have done, had
there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, "I do not like him
at all;" she directly replied, "I like him very much; he seems very
agreeable." "He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little
of a rattle; but that will recommend him to your sex I believe: and how do you
like the rest of the family?" "Very, very much indeed: Isabella
particularly." "I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the
kind of young woman I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good
sense, and is so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know
her; and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your praise
that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you,
Catherine," taking her hand with affection, "may be proud of."
"Indeed I am," she replied; "I love her exceedingly, and am
delighted to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned any thing of her,
when you wrote to me after your visit there." "Because I thought I
should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a great deal together while you
are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl; such a superior understanding! How
fond all the family are of her; she is evidently the general favourite; and how
much she must be admired in such a place as this -- is not she?"
"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl
in Bath." "I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a
better judge of beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy
here, my dearCatherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it
would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens I am sure are very
kind to you?" "Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now
you are come it will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to
come so far on purpose to see me." James accepted this tribute of
gratitude, and qualified his conscience for accepting it too, by saying with
perfect sincerity, "Indeed, Catherine, I love you dearly." Inquiries
and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the situation of some, the
growth of the rest, and other family matters, now passed between them, and continued,
with only one small digression on James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till
they reached Pulteney-street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr.
and Mrs. Allen, invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the
latter to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet. A
pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the invitation of
one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he had satisfied the
demands of the other. The time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon Room
being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then left to the luxury of a raised,
restless, and frightened imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all
worldly concerns of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen's
fears on the delay of an expected dress-maker, and having only one minute in
sixty to bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already
engaged for the evening.
In spite of Udolpho and
the dress-maker, however, the party from Pulteney-street reached the
Upper-rooms in very good time. The Thorpes and James Morland were there only
two minutes before them; and Isabella having gone through the usual ceremonial
of meeting her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring
the set of her gown, and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their
chaperons, arm in arm, into the ball-room, whispering to each other whenever a
thought occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand
or a smile of affection. The dancing began within a few minutes after they were
seated; and James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the card-room to
speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce her to join the set
before her dearCatherine could join it too: "I assure you," said she,
"I would not stand up without your dear sister for all the world; for if I
did we should certainly be separated the whole evening." Catherine
accepted this kindness with gratitude, and they continued as they were for
three minutes longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other
side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered, "My dear creature,
I am afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin;
I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a
moment, and then you may easily find me out." Catherine, though a little
disappointed, had too much good-nature to make any opposition, and the others
rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and say,
"Good bye, my dear love," before they hurried off. The younger Miss
Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and
Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help being vexed at
the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but
was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be
known, she was sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting down
all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the
world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity, her
actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true source of her
debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the
heroine's life, and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies her
character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.
From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten minutes, to a
pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within three
yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be moving that way, but he did
not see her, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his sudden
reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her heroic
importance. He looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was talking with
interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his
arm, and whomCatherine immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly
throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her for ever, by
being married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it had
never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not behaved, he
had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been used; he had never
mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances
sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's now being by his side; and
therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike paleness, and falling in a fit on
Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and
with cheeks only a little redder than usual. Mr. Tilney and his companion, who
continued, though slowly, to approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an
acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as
belonging to her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye,
instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it
with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs.
Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. "I am very happy to see you
again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath." He thanked her for
her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning
after his having had the pleasure of seeing her. "Well, sir, and I dare
say you are not sorry to be back again, for it is just the place for young
people -- and indeed for every body else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks
of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not complain, for it is so very
agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at this dull
time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his
health." "And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like
the place, from finding it of service to him." "Thank you, sir. I
have no doubt that he will.-- A neighbour of ours, Dr. Skinner, was here for
his health last winter, and came away quite stout." "That
circumstance must give great encouragement." "Yes, sir -- and Dr.
Skinner and his family were here three months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not
be in a hurry to get away." Here they were interrupted by a request from
Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen, that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs.
Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This
was accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and
after a few minutes consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This
compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the lady;
and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion so very much
as if she really felt it, that had Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been
half a minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather too acute.
The very easy manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting,
did not by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars
which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs of
the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers
between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking very often towards
that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to
whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman, she could see
nothing. They were in different sets. She was separated from all her party, and
away from all her acquaintance;-- one mortification succeeded another, and from
the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a
ball, does not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young
lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by a touch
on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her,
attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. "I beg your pardon, Miss
Morland," said she, "for this liberty,-- but I cannot any how get to
Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would not have the least
objection to letting in this young lady by you." Mrs. Hughes could not
have applied to any creature in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine.
The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper
sense of such goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind
making light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so
respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party. Miss Tilney had a
good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable countenance; and her air,
though it had not all the decided pretension, the resolute stilishness of Miss
Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her manners shewed good sense and good
breeding; they were neither shy, nor affectedly open; and she seemed capable of
being young, attractive, and at a ball, without wanting to fix the attention of
every man near her, and without exaggerated feelings of extatic delight or
inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine,
interested at once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was
desirous of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever
she could think of any thing to say, and had courage and leisure for saying it.
But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by the frequent
want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their doing more than going
through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how
well the other liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding
country, whether she drew, or played or sang, and whether she was fond of
riding on horseback. The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine
found her arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits
exclaimed -- "At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been
looking for you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when
you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you."
"My dearIsabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not
even see where you were." "So I told your brother all the time -- but
he would not believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I -- but all
in vain -- he would not stir an inch. Was not it soMr. Morland? But you men are
all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear
Catherine, you would be quite amazed.-- You know I never stand upon ceremony
with such people." "Look at that young lady with the white beads
round her head," whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James --
"It is Mr. Tilney's sister." "Oh! heavens! You don't say so! Let
me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw any thing half
so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point
him out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are
not to listen. We are not talking about you." "But what is all this whispering
about? What is going on?" "There now, I knew how it would be. You men
have such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed!-- 'tis
nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know any thing at all of the
matter." "And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?"
"Well, I declare I never knew any thing like you. What can it signify to
you, what we are talking of? Perhaps we are talking about you, therefore I
would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear some thing not very
agreeable." In this common-place chatter, which lasted some time, the
original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion
at the total suspension of all Isabella's desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the
orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led his fair partner away,
but she resisted. "I tell you, Mr. Morland," she cried, "I would
not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only
conceive, my dearCatherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to
dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and
entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were
not to change partners." "Upon my honour," said James, "in
these public assemblies, it is as often done as not." "Nonsense, how
can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at any
thing. My sweet Catherine, do support me, persuade your brother how impossible
it is. Tell him, that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now
would not it?" "No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had
much better change." "There," cried Isabella, "you hear
what your sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is
not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my
dearest Catherine, for heaven's sake, and stand by me." And off they went,
to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away;
and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the
agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs.
Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still
with them -- a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have
been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe,
impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable
partner." "Very agreeable, madam." "I am glad of it. John
has charming spirits, has not he?" "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my
dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us
just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to
go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you."
"Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not
looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.
"Ah! he has got a partner, I wish he had asked you," said Mrs. Allen;
and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young
man." "Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen," said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling
complacently; "I must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a
more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might
have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs.
Allen, for after only a moment's consideration, she said, in a whisper to
Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son."
Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little
the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to
a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards, and
said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it
together again." "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances
are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more."
"Do not you?-- then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me,
and I will shew you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger
sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour."
Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his sisters
by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn
away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney,
though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella were so
much engaged in conversing together, that the latter had no leisure to bestow
more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest
Catherine."
The progress of
Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening, was as follows. It
appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with every body about her, while
she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness and
a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney-street, took the
direction of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an
earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for
when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and
from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes
and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance
with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek her for that
purpose, in the Pump-room at noon. In the Pump-room, one so newly arrived in
Bath must be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable
for the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female intimacy, so
admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was
most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her
plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after
breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment till
the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks
and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for
thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could never
be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if she lost her
needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the street, or saw a
speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were any one at
leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap
drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine
of there being two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her
brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came running up
stairs, calling out, "Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting
long? We could not come before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an
eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to
one, but they break down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs.
Allen? a famous ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for
the others are in a confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble
over." "What do you mean?" said Catherine, "where are you
all going to?" "Going to? why, you have not forgot our engagement!
Did not we agree together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have!
We are going up Claverton Down." "Some thing was said about it, I
remember," said Catherine, looking at Mrs. Allen for her opinion;
"but really I did not expect you." "Not expect me! that's a good
one! And what a dust you would have made, if I had not come." Catherine's
silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown away, for Mrs.
Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any expression herself by a
look, was not aware of its being ever intended by any body else; and Catherine,
whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again could at that moment bear a short
delay in favour of a drive, and who thought there could be no impropriety in
her going with Mr. Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the same time with James,
was therefore obliged to speak plainer. "Well, ma'am, what do you say to
it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? shall I go?" "Do just as you
please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with the most placid indifference.
Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes she
re-appeared, having scarcely allowed the two others time enough to get through
a few short sentences in her praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's
admiration of his gig; and then receiving her friend's parting good wishes,
they both hurried down stairs. "My dearest creature," cried Isabella,
to whom the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could get into
the carriage, "you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was
afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a
thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to be
off." Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to
hear her friend exclaim aloud to James, "What a sweet girl she is! I quite
doat on her." "You will not be frightened, Miss Morland," said
Thorpe, as he handed her in, "if my horse should dance about a little at
first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take
the rest for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,
playful as can be, but there is no vice in him." Catherine did not think
the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was
too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning herself to her fate, and
trusting to the animal's boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably
down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her. Every thing being then arranged, the
servant who stood at the horse's head was bid in an important voice "to
let him go," and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a
plunge or a caper, or any thing like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an
escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprize; and her companion
immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was
entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the
reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed
his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect
command of his horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation
of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so
excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the
same quiet manner, without shewing the smallest propensity towards any
unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an
hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air
and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February,
with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded their
first short dialogue;-- it was broken by Thorpe's saying very abruptly,
"Old Allen is as rich as a Jew -- is not he?" Catherine did not
understand him -- and he repeated his question, adding in explanation,
"Old Allen, the man you are with." "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean.
Yes, I believe, he is very rich." "And no children at all?"
"No -- not any." "A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your
godfather, is not he?" "My godfather!-- no." "But you are
always very much with them." "Yes, very much." "Aye, that
is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very
well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his
bottle a-day now?" "His bottle a-day!-- no. Why should you think of
such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor
last night?" "Lord help you!-- You women are always thinking of men's
being in liquor. Why you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure
of this-- that if every body was to drink their bottle a-day, there would not
be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good
thing for us all." "I cannot believe it." "Oh! lord, it
would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine
consumed in this kingdom, that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants
help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drank
in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure
you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his
four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing
at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints
a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way. Mine is famous
good stuff to be sure. You would not often meet with any thing like it in
Oxford -- and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of
the general rate of drinking there." "Yes, it does give a notion,"
said Catherine, warmly, "and that is, that you all drink a great deal more
wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so
much." This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which
no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost
to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather
a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drank in Oxford, and
the same happy conviction of her brother's comparative sobriety. Thorpe's ideas
then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and she was called on to
admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease
which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of
the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To
go before, or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the
subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out
of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily
echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them
without any difficulty, that his equipage was altogether the most complete of
its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and
himself the best coachman.-- "You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe,"
said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely
decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, "that James's
gig will break down?" "Break down! Oh! lord! Did you ever see such a
little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about
it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least -- and as for
the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It
is the most devilish little ricketty business I ever beheld!-- Thank God! we
have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
thousand pounds." "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite
frightened, "then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an
accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my
brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is." "Unsafe! Oh, lord! what
is there in that? they will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is
plenty of dirt, it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! the carriage is
safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands
will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I
would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without
losing a nail." Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to
reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been
brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many
idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own
family were plain matter-of-fact people, who seldom aimed at wit of any kind;
her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother with a
proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their
importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next.
She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than
once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real
opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to her
that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making those things
plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the
consideration, that he would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be
exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve them, she concluded at
last, that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe, and
therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole matter seemed
entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk, began
and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told her of horses which he had
bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which
his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which
he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his
companions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with the
fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired
the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his
riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been
constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had
broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for
herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she
could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his
endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold
surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by James, that
his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the
extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out
an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney-street
again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to
distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs.
Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on
finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the
house:-- "Past three o'clock!" it was inconceivable, incredible,
impossible! and she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother's, nor
the servant's; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or
reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have
doubted a moment longer then, would have been equally inconceivable,
incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again,
that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine
was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please
Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting
voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her;
her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly
home.-- It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation with her dearest
Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it
appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most
exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her
friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the
busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my
dear, here you are;" a truth which she had no greater inclination than
power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?"
"Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day."
"SoMrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going."
"You have seen Mrs. Thorpe then?" "Yes, I went to the Pump-room
as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk
together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning,
it is so uncommonly scarce." "Did you see any body else of our
acquaintance?" "Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and
there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her."
"Did you indeed? and did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked
along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people.
Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can
learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a
great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of
them?" "Oh! a vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of any thing
else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come
from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very
good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she
and Mrs. Hughes were school-fellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large
fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and
five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they
came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?"
"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am
sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very
beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day
and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother
died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I
cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but,
however, he is a very fine young man Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very
well." Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that
Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly
unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and
sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded
her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only lament her
ill-luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her, that the
drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite
disagreeable.
The Allens, Thorpes,
and Morlands, all met in the evening at the theatre; and, as Catherine and
Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter to utter
some few of the many thousand things which had been collecting within her for
communication, in the immeasurable length of time which had divided them.--
"Oh, heavens! my beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?" was her
address on Catherine's entering the box and sitting by her. "Now, Mr.
Morland," for he was close to her on the other side, "I shall not
speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to
expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? but I need
not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a
more heavenly style than ever: you mischievous creature, do you want to attract
every body? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you already; and as
for Mr. Tilney -- but that is a settled thing -- even your modesty cannot doubt
his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! what would
not I give to see him! I really am quite wild with impatience. My mother says
he is the most delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning you
know: you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now?-- Look about for
heaven's sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him."
"No," said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see him any
where." "Oh, horrid! am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you
like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
thought. Do you know I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I
were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few
weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes
were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our
opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a
single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world;
you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or
other about it." "No, indeed I should not." "Oh, yes you
would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that
we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have
distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your
roses; I would not have had you by for the world." "Indeed you do me
injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark upon any account; and
besides, I am sure it would never have entered my head." Isabella smiled
incredulously, and talked the rest of the evening to James. Catherine's
resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the
next morning; and till the usual moment of going to the Pump-room, she felt
some alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind
occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in
good time for the Pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and
conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined
some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of
their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new
face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe
family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a
quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side
of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar
position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked
in that manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a
situation which confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very
little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in
such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that
though Catherine's supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or
the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the
subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend,
by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw
just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a
firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to
command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss
Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal good will,
and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the
room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an
expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of
times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their
being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be
something uncommon.-- "How well your brother dances!" was an artless
exclamation of Catherine's towards the close of their conversation, which at
once surprized and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a
smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it
very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting
down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss
Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a
moment's silence, "how surprized I was to see him again. I felt so sure of
his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing
you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage
lodgings for us." "That never occurred to me; and of course, not
seeing him any where, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he
danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her
pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the Pump-room, I
suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my
father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was
ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,"
said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?"
"Perhaps we -- yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of
it, for we shall all be there." -- This civility was duly returned; and
they parted -- on Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance's
feelings, and on Catherine's, without the smallest consciousness of having
explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her
hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation,
the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion
became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times
a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its
own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a
lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten
minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured
muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new
one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though
not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother
rather than a great aunt might have warned her, for man only can be aware of
the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the
feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart
of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is
biassed by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar
tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull or the jackonet. Woman
is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no
woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the
former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to
the latter.-- But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity
of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very
different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then
been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid
his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not
expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes
and plans all centered in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my
heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other
known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed
themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of some one whom they wished to
avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of some one whom they
wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony
began; she fidgetted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much
as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him.
The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of
the Tilneys. "Do not be frightened, my dearCatherine," whispered
Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I
declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of
himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear
creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a
moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others
walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.
That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes
intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing
that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any
reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found
herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With
what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how
pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined.
To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be
asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
sought her on purpose!-- it did not appear to her that life could supply any
greater felicity. Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession
of a place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood
behind her. "Hey-day, Miss Morland!" said he, "what is the
meaning of this?-- I thought you and I were to dance together." "I
wonder you should think so, for you never asked me." "That is a good
one, by Jove!-- I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just
going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! -- this is a
cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with you, and I firmly
believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you
while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been
telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl
in the room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will
quiz me famously." "Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a
description as that." "By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them
out of the room for blockheads. What chap have you there?" Catherine
satisfied his curiosity. "Tilney," he repeated, "Hum -- I do not
know him. A good figure of a man; well put together.-- Does he want a horse?--
Here is a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit any
body. A famous clever animal for the road -- only forty guineas. I had fifty
minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse
when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for
the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the
best that ever were back'd. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them.
Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next season.
It is so d@@ uncomfortable, living at an inn." This was the last sentence
by which he could weary Catherine's attention, for he was just then born off by
the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now
drew near, and said. "That gentleman would have put me out of patience,
had he staid with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the
attention of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual
agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely
to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one,
without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an
emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both;
and those men who do not chuse to dance or marry themselves, have no business
with the partners or wives of their neighbours." "But they are such
very different things!--" "-- That you think they cannot be compared
together." "To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but
must go and keep house together. People that dance, only stand opposite each
other in a long room for half an hour." "And such is your definition
of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is
not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view.-- You will allow,
that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal;
that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the
advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to
each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to
endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed
themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations
from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that
they should have been better off with any one else. You will allow all
this?" "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well;
but still they are so very different.-- I cannot look upon them at all in the
same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." "In one
respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to
provide for the support of the woman; the woman to make the home agreeable to
the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are
exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while
she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the
difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of
comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I
am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on
your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the
obligations; and may I not thence infer, that your notions of the duties of the
dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason
to fear, that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if
any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you
from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a
very particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to
him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him, that I
have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security?
alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do
not know any body, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do
not want to talk to any body." "Now you have given me a security
worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable
as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?" "Yes, quite
-- more so, indeed." "More so!-- Take care, or you will forget to be
tired of it at the proper time.-- You ought to be tired at the end of six
weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six
months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so
every body finds out every year. ""For six weeks, I allow Bath is
pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the
world."" You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come
regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go
away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other
people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing
of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never
find greater sameness in such a place as this, than in my own home; for here
are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day
long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the
country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very
happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a
Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then
you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?"
"Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference."
"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And
so I am at home -- only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so
I do there;-- but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I
can only go and call on Mrs. Allen." Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture
of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will
have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did
here." "Oh! yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of
again to Mrs. Allen, or any body else. I really believe I shall always be
talking of Bath, when I am at home again -- I do like it so very much. If I
could but have papa and mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be
too happy! James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful -- and
especially as it turns out, that the very family we are just got so intimate
with, are his intimate friends already. Oh! who can ever be tired of
Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it,
as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers and intimate friends are a good
deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath -- and the honest relish of
balls and plays, and every-day sights, is past with them." Here their
conversation closed; the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for
a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine
perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a
commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with
his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in
a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its
being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head.
But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner coming nearer,
said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman
knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my
father." Catherine's answer was only "Oh!" -- but it was an
"Oh!" expressing every thing needful; attention to his words, and
perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did
her eye now follow the General, as he moved through the crowd, and "How
handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss
Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She
had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom
all the commonly-frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms
which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that
she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like
it," she cried, "beyond any thing in the world; and do not let us put
it off -- let us go to-morrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a
proviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain, whichCatherine was sure it
would not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney-street --
and "remember -- twelve o'clock," was her parting speech to her new
friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella of whose
fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's experience, she scarcely saw
any thing during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with
her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took
them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her
chair all the way home.
The morrow brought a
very sober looking morning; the sun making only a few efforts to appear; and
Catherine augured from it, every thing most favourable to her wishes. A bright
morning so early in the year, she allowed would generally turn to rain, but a
cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen
for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen not having his own skies and
barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She
applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive. "She
had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would
only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o'clock however, a few
specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and "Oh!
dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding
tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for
me to-day," sighed Catherine;-- "but perhaps it may come to nothing,
or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear,
it will be so dirty." "Oh! that will not signify; I never mind
dirt." "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you
never mind dirt." After a short pause, "It comes on faster and
faster!" said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window. "So it
does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet."
"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
umbrella!" "They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much
rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice looking
morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Any body would have
thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the Pump-room, if it rains
all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his great coat when he goes, but
I dare say he will not, for he had rather do any thing in the world than walk
out in a great coat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so
comfortable." The rain continued -- fast, though not heavy. Catherine went
every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still
kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless.
The clock struck twelve, and it still rained.-- "You will not be able to
go, my dear." "I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till
a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I
do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve,
and now I shall give it up entirely. Oh! that we had such weather here as they
had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the South of France!-- the night
that poor St. Aubin died!-- such beautiful weather!" At half past twelve,
when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather was over, and she could no
longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear.
A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprize; she looked round; the clouds
were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over and
encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright
afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had
"always thought it would clear up." But whether Catherine might still
expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to
venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany
her husband to the Pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine
had barely watched him down the street, when her notice was claimed by the
approach of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that
had surprized her so much a few mornings back. "Isabella, my brother, and
Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps -- but I shall not go --
I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen
agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet
sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick.
"Make haste! make haste!" as he threw open the door -- "put on
your hat this moment -- there is no time to be lost -- we are going to
Bristol.-- How d'ye do, Mrs. Allen?" "To Bristol! Is not that a great
way off?-- But, however, I cannot go with you to-day, because I am engaged; I
expect some friends every moment." This was of course vehemently talked
down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two
others walked in, to give their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not
this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your
brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I
verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago
if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the
nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such extasies at
the thoughts of a little country air and quiet!-- so much better than going to
the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as
soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston."
"I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You
croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe, "we shall be able to do ten times
more. Kingsweston! aye, and Blaize Castle too, and any thing else we can hear
of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize
Castle!" cried Catherine; "what is that?" "The finest place
in England -- worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is
it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom."
"But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly -- the very
same." "But now really -- are there towers and long galleries?"
"By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot -- I
cannot go." "Not go!-- my beloved creature, what do you mean?"
"I cannot go, because" -- looking down as she spoke, fearful of
Isabella's smile) "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to
take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they
indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad-street, I saw them
-- does he not drive a phaeton with bright chesnuts?" "I do not know
indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man
you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I
saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, -- driving a smart-looking
girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again
directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It
is very odd! but I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk."
"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! you
could no more walk than you could fly! it has not been so dirty the whole
winter; it is ancle-deep every where." Isabella corroborated it:--
"My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must
go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle;
but may we go all over it? may we go up every staircase, and into every suite
of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then,--
if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is drier, and call by and
bye?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard
Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?"
"Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade
her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it:--
"Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go."-- And in two
minutes they were off. Catherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were
in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree,
however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite well by
her, in so readily giving up their engagement, without sending her any message
of excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for the
beginning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the prodigious
accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not from her own
observation help thinking, that they might have gone with very little
inconvenience. To feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other
hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented
Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good, as might console her for
almost any thing. They passed briskly down Pulteney-street, and through
Laura-place, without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse,
and she meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle-buildings,
however, she was roused by this address from her companion, "Who is that
girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?" "Who?-- where?"
"On the right-hand pavement -- she must be almost out of sight now."
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother's arm,
walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.
"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried, "it is Miss
Tilney; it is indeed.-- How could you tell me they were gone?-- Stop, stop, I
will get out this moment and go to them." But to what purpose did she
speak?-- Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had
soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner
of Laura-place, and in another moment she was herself whisked into the
Market-place. Still, however, and during the length of another street, she
intreated him to stop. "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe.-- I cannot go on.-- I
will not go on.-- I must go back to Miss Tilney." But Mr. Thorpe only
laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on;
and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was
obliged to give up the point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not
spared. "How could you deceive me soMr. Thorpe?-- How could you say, that
you saw them driving up the Lansdown-road?-- I would not have had it happen so
for the world.-- They must think it so strange; so rude of me! to go by them,
too, without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am.-- I shall have no
pleasure at Clifton, nor in any thing else. I had rather, ten thousand times
rather get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say, you saw them
driving out in a phaeton?" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared
he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up
the point of its having been Tilney himself. Their drive, even when this
subject was over, was not likely to be very agreeable. Catherine's complaisance
was no longer what it had been in their former airing. She listened
reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her only
comfort; towards that, she still looked at intervals with pleasure; though
rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be
thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the
happiness which its walls could supply -- the happiness of a progress through a
long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture,
though now for many years deserted -- the happiness of being stopped in their
way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their
lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left
in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without
any mischance; and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from
Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the
matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland said,
"We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on to-day; your
sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from
Pulteney-street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at
least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We
had much better put it off till another day, and turn round." "It is
all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his
horse, they were on their way back to Bath. "If your brother had not got
such a d@@ beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have
done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if
left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that
cursed broken-winded jade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and
gig of his own." "No, he is not," said Catherine warmly,
"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he
afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose
fault is that?" "Nobody's, that I know of." Thorpe then said
some thing in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about
its being a d@@ thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money
could not afford things, he did not know who could; whichCatherine did not even
endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation
for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed either to be
agreeable herself, or to find her companion so; and they returned to
Pulteney-street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house,
the footman told her, that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her
a few minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she was gone out
with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her;
and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and
went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly
up stairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the
reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so much
sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme." They
all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed and out of
spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of which
she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very good equivalent for the
quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being
at the Lower Rooms, was spoken more than once. "How I pity the poor
creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I
wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet.
I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening
now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the
Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity every body that is. But I dare
say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well,
pray do not let any body here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do
very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such consequence."
Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in tenderness
towards herself and her sorrows; so very little did they appear to dwell on her
mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered. "Do not be so
dull, my dearest creature," she whispered. "You will quite break my
heart. It was amazingly shocking to be sure; but the Tilneys were entirely to
blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that
signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind going
through any thing, where a friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and
John is just the same; he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! what a
delightful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I
would fifty times rather you should have them than myself." And now I may
dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion;
to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think
herself, if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next three
months.
"Mrs. Allen,"
said Catherine the next morning, "will there be any harm in my calling on
Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not be easy till I have explained every
thing." "Go by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss
Tilney always wears white." Catherine cheerfully complied; and being
properly equipped, was more impatient than ever to be at the Pump-room, that
she might inform herself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed
they were in Milsom-street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom-street she was
directed; and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened away with
eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be
forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning away
her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see her beloved Isabella and her
dear family, who, she had reason to believe, were in a shop hard by. She
reached the house without any impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the
door, and inquired for Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home,
but was not quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave
her card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did not
quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss Tilney was
walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left the house. She felt
almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and too much offended to admit
her; and as she retired down the street, could not withhold one glance at the
drawing-room windows, in expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared
at them. At the bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then,
not at a window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She
was followed by a gentleman, whomCatherine believed to be her father, and they
turned up towards Edgar's-buildings. Catherine, in deep mortification,
proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself at such angry
incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she remembered her own
ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as her's might be classed by the
laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it might with
propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make
her amenable. Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going
with the others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
were not of long continuance: for she soon recollected, in the first place,
that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the second, that
it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre accordingly they all
went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her; she feared that, amongst the
many perfections of the family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked; but
perhaps it was because they were habituated to the finer performances of the
London stage, which she knew, on Isabella's authority, rendered every thing
else of the kind "quite horrid." She was not deceived in her own
expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care, that no one,
observing her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any
wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view
of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite genuine
merriment -- no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look upon an
average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space of two entire
scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without being once able to catch his
eye. No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was
never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, however, he
did look towards her, and he bowed -- but such a bow! no smile, no continued
observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former
direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round
to the box in which he sat, and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings
rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her own
dignity injured by this ready condemnation -- instead of proudly resolving, in
conscious innocence, to shew her resentment towards him who could harbour a
doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody
else, she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its
appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause. The
play concluded -- the curtain fell -- Henry Tilney was no longer to be seen
where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he might be now
coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes he appeared, and,
making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with like calm politeness
to Mrs. Allen and her friend.-- Not with such calmness was he answered by the
latter: "Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make
my apologies. You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own
fault,-- was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his
sister were gone out in a phaeton together? and then what could I do? But I had
ten thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?"
"My dear, you tumble my gown," was Mrs. Allen's reply. Her assurance,
however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it brought a more
cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and he replied in a tone
which retained only a little affected reserve:-- "We were much obliged to
you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing you in
Argyle-street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose." "But
indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a thing; but
I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I
saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not -- Oh! you were not there; but indeed I did;
and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run
after you." Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such
a declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said
every thing that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and dependence
on Catherine's honour.-- "Oh! do not say Miss Tilney was not angry,"
cried Catherine, "because I know she was; for she would not see me this
morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after my
leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had
been there." "I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from
Eleanor, and she has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason
of such incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
that my father ---- they were just preparing to walk out, and he being hurried
for time, and not caring to have it put off, made a point of her being denied.
That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to make her
apology as soon as possible." Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this
information, yet a something of solicitude remained, from which sprang the
following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to
the gentleman:-- "But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose it
to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take offence?"
"Me!-- I take offence!" "Nay, I am sure by your look, when you
came into the box, you were angry." "I angry! I could have no
right." "Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw
your face." He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of
the play. He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however, it
was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible; and,
setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, she was, upon the whole,
left one of the happiest creatures in the world. While talking to each other,
she had observed with some surprize, that John Thorpe, who was never in the
same part of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged in conversation
with General Tilney; and she felt something more than surprize, when she
thought she could perceive herself the object of their attention and discourse.
What could they have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like her
appearance: she found it was implied in his preventing her admittance to his
daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes. "How came Mr.
Thorpe to know your father?" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them
out to her companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every
military man, had a very large acquaintance. When the entertainment was over,
Thorpe came to assist them in getting out. Catherine was the immediate object
of his gallantry; and, while they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented
the inquiry which had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue,
by asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with
General Tilney:-- "He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul!-- stout,
active,-- looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure
you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived." "But how
came you to know him?" "Know him!-- There are few people much about
town that I do not know. I have met him for ever at the Bedford; and I knew his
face again to-day the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best
players we have, by the bye; and we had a little touch together, though I was
almost afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if I
had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this
world -- I took his ball exactly -- but I could not make you understand it
without a table;-- however I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich as a
Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners. But
what do you think we have been talking of?-- You. Yes, by heavens!-- and the
General thinks you the finest girl in Bath." "Oh! nonsense! how can
you say so?" "And what do you think I said?" (lowering his
voice) "Well done, General, said I, I am quite of your mind." Here,
Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by General
Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe, however, would
see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued the same kind of
delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done. That General
Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very delightful; and she
joyfully thought, that there was not one of the family whom she need now fear
to meet.-- The evening had done more, much more, for her, than could have been
expected.
Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday have now passed in review before the
reader; the events of each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications and
pleasures have been separately stated, and the pangs of Sunday only now remain
to be described, and close the week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not
relinquished, and on the afternoon's Crescent of this day, it was brought
forward again. In a private consultation between Isabella and James, the former
of whom had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less
anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the
weather were fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and
they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time. The
affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine only
remained to be apprized of it. She had left them for a few minutes to speak to
Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as soon as she came
again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected
by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The
engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the former attempt,
would make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had that moment
settled with Miss Tilney to take their promised walk to-morrow; it was quite
determined, and she would not, upon any account, retract. But that she must and
should retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go
to Clifton to-morrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put
off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.
Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. "Do not urge me, Isabella. I am
engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go." This availed nothing. The same
arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not
hear of a refusal. "It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had
just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off the walk
till Tuesday." "No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There
has been no prior engagement." But Isabella became only more and more
urgent; calling on her in the most affectionate manner; addressing her by the
most endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so dearly.
She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper,
to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all in vain; Catherine felt
herself to be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such flattering
supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another
method. She reproached her with have more affection for Miss Tilney, though she
had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest friends; with
being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot
help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not in the
power of any thing to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than
any body's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself
supplanted in your friendship by strangers, does cut me to the quick, I own.
These Tilneys seem to swallow up every thing else." Catherine thought this
reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the part of a friend thus to expose
her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and
selfish, regardless of every thing but her own gratification. These painful
ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile,
had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any
longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend -- I shall
think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of
her brother's openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure,
she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till
Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she
could go with them, and every body might then be satisfied. But "No, no,
no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not
know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but
could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella; who
in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of
the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I
would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing."
"Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe
drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to
go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath
to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d@@ me
if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a
compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe,
who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together,
walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; some times not a word
was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches,
and her arm was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were at
war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed,
but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate,
Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade;
you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am
not less so now," she replied, very feelingly; "but indeed I cannot
go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I
suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great
struggle." Catherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella
made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined
by Thorpe, who coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have
settled the matter, and now we may all go to-morrow with a safe conscience. I
have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have
not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment.
Told her you had sent me to say, that having just recollected a prior
engagement of going to Clifton with us to-morrow, you could not have the
pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just
as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. -- A pretty
good thought of mine -- hey?" Isabella's countenance was once more all
smiles and good-humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly
thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are
honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party."
"This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I
must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however,
caught hold of one hand; Thorpe of the other; and remonstrances poured in from
all three. Even James was quite angry. When every thing was settled, when Miss
Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite
ridiculous, quite absurd to make any further objection. "I do not care.
Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it
right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only
doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has -- he may be mistaken
again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let
me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her 113:101. 6@e
! it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner
into Brock-street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time.
"Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are
I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And
with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after
her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if she will
go." "She is as obstinate as ----." Thorpe never finished the simile,
for it could hardly have been a proper one. Away walked Catherine in great
agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet
determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It
was painful to her to disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease
her brother; but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own
inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss
Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted merely her
own gratification; that might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion
itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to
others, and to her own character in their opinion. Her conviction of being
right however was not enough to restore her composure, till she had spoken to
Miss Tilney she could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got
clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained
the top of Milsom-street. So rapid had been her movements, that in spite of the
Tilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings
as she came within view of them; and the servant still remaining at the open
door, she used only the ceremony of saying that she must speak with Miss Tilney
that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded up stairs. Then, opening the first
door before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately found herself
in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his son and daughter. Her explanation,
defective only in being -- from her irritation of nerves and shortness of
breath -- no explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am come in a
great hurry -- It was all a mistake -- I never promised to go -- I told them
from the first I could not go.-- I ran away in a great hurry to explain it.-- I
did not care what you thought of me.-- I would not stay for the servant."
The business however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech, soon
ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given the message;
and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly surprized by it. But
whether her brother had still exceeded her in resentment, Catherine, though she
instinctively addressed herself as much to one as to the other in her
vindication, had no means of knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her
arrival, her eager declarations immediately made every look and sentence as
friendly as she could desire. The affair thus happily settled, she was
introduced by Miss Tilney to her father, and received by him with such ready,
such solicitous politeness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made
her think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such anxious
attention was the General's civility carried, that not aware of her
extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry with the
servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apartment
herself. "What did William mean by it? He should make a point of inquiring
into the matter." And if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his
innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the favour of his master
for ever, if not his place, by her rapidity. After sitting with them a quarter
of an hour, she rose to take leave, and was then most agreeably surprized by
General Tilney's asking her if she would do his daughter the honour of dining
and spending the rest of the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes.
Catherine was greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs.
Allen would expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say no
more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on some
other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would not refuse
to spare her to her friend. "Oh, no; Catherine was sure they would not
have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure in coming."
The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying every thing gallant
as they went down stairs, admiring the elasticity of her walk, which
corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the
most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted. Catherine, delighted
by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney-street; walking, as she
concluded, with great elasticity, though she had never thought of it before.
She reached home without seeing any thing more of the offended party; and now
that she had been triumphant throughout, had carried her point and was secure
of her walk, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt
whether she had been perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she
had given way to their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing
idea of a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness
to both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and ascertain
by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct had really been,
she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her
brother and the Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly.
"Well," said he, "and do you think of going too?" "No;
I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told me of it;
and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?" "No,
certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes are not at
all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country in open carriages!
Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and public places together! It
is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should allow it. I am glad you do not
think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are
not you of my way of thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects
objectionable?" "Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty
things. A clean gown is not five minutes wear in them. You are splashed getting
in and getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every
direction. I hate an open carriage myself." "I know you do; but that
is not the question. Do not you think it has an odd appearance, if young ladies
are frequently driven about in them by young men, to whom they are not even
related?" "Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear
to see it." "Dear madam," cried Catherine, "then why did
not you tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not
have gone with Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you
thought I was doing wrong." "And so I should, my dear, you may depend
on it; for as I told Mrs. Morland at parting. I would always do the best for
you in my power. But one must not be over particular. Young people will be
young people, as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we
first came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do not
like to be always thwarted." "But this was something of real
consequence; and I do not think you would have found me hard to persuade."
"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done," said Mr.
Allen; "and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr.
Thorpe any more." "That is just what I was going to say," added
his wife. Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella; and after
a moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper and
kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she
must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella might
otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had
passed. Mr. Allen however discouraged her from doing any such thing. "You
had better leave her alone, my dear, she is old enough to know what she is
about; and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent
beyond a doubt; but however you had better not interfere. She and your brother
chuse to go, and you will be only getting ill-will." Catherine submitted;
and though sorry to think that Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly
relieved by Mr. Allen's approbation of her own conduct, and truly rejoiced to
be preserved by his advice from the danger of falling into such an error
herself. Her escape from being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape
indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her
promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself? if she had been guilty
of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?
The next morning was
fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party.
With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would
gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful; and was heartily
rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing any thing of them. The Tilneys
called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert
their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement,
though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round
Beechen Cliff, that noble hill, whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice
render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I
never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the
river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been
abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprized. "Oh! no, I only mean
what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country thatEmily and
her father travelled through, in the ""Mysteries of
Udolpho."" But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why
not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you -- gentlemen read
better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not
pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs.
Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of
Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again;-- I remember
finishing it in two days -- my hair standing on end the whole time."
"Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to
read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage-walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."
"Thank you, Eleanor; -- a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss
Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get
on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister; breaking the promise I
had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting
part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own,
particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must
establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it
indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really
thought before, young men despised novels amazingly." "It is
amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do -- for they read nearly as
many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that
you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to
particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of ""Have you
read this?"" and ""Have you read that?"" I shall
soon leave you as far behind me as -- what shall I say?-- I want an appropriate
simile;-- as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she
went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of
you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl
working your sampler at home!" "Not very good I am afraid. But now
really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The
nicest;-- by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the
binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very
impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He
is for ever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now
he is taking the same liberty with you. The word
""nicest"", as you used it, did not suit him; and you had
better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson
and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried
Catherine, "I did not mean to say any thing wrong; but it is a nice book,
and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry,
"and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you
are two very nice young ladies. Oh! it is a very nice word indeed!-- it does
for every thing. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness,
propriety, delicacy, or refinement;-- people were nice in their dress, in their
sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is
comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister,
"it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You
are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over
our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in
whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of
that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any
other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays,
and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn
history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of
history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it
tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes
and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
nothing, and hardly any women at all -- it is very tiresome: and yet I often think
it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The
speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs --
the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in
other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney,
"are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without
raising interest. I am fond of history -- and am very well contented to take
the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of
intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,
I conclude, as any thing that does not actually pass under one's own
observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are
embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read
it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made -- and probably with much
greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine
words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "You are fond of
history! -- and so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do
not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is
remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer.
If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much
trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would
willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys
and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very
right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage that could
sit down on purpose to do it." "That little boys and girls should be
tormented," said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human
nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished
historians, I must observe, that they might well be offended at being supposed
to have no higher aim; and that by their method and style, they are perfectly
well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time
of life. I use the verb ""to torment"", as I observed to be
your own method, instead of ""to instruct,"" supposing them
to be now admitted as synonimous." "You think me foolish to call
instruction a torment, but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor
little children first learning their letters and then learning to spell, if you
had ever seen how stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how
tired my poor mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost
every day of my life at home, you would allow that to torment and to instruct
might sometimes be used as synonimous words." "Very probably. But
historians are not accountable for the difficulty of learning to read; and even
you yourself, who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to very severe,
very intense application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very
well worth while to be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the
sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider -- if reading had not
been taught Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain -- or perhaps might not
have written at all." Catherine assented -- and a very warm panegyric from
her on that lady's merits, closed the subject.-- The Tilneys were soon engaged
in another on which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with
the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of
being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing -- nothing of taste:--
and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for
they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little
which she could understand however appeared to contradict the very few notions
she had entertained on the matter before. 114:110.31@a ! It seemed as if a good
view were no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear
blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her
ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always
be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind, is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always
wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing any
thing, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in
a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of a sister
author;-- and to her treatment of the subject I will only add in justice to
men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in
females is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of
them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire any thing more
in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages -- did
not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very
ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless
circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present instance, she confessed
and lamented her want of knowledge; declared that she would give any thing in
the world to be able to draw; and a lecture on the picturesque immediately
followed, in which his instructions were so clear that she soon began to see
beauty in every thing admired by him, and her attention was so earnest, that he
became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He
talked of fore-grounds, distances, and second distances -- side-screens and
perspectives -- lights and shades;-- and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar,
that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the
whole city of Bath, as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with her
progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much wisdom at once, Henry
suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece of
rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to
oaks in general, to forests, the inclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands
and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from
politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his
short disquisition on the state of the nation, was put an end to by Catherine,
who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have heard
that something very shocking indeed, will soon come out in London." Miss
Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied,
"Indeed!-- and of what nature?" "That I do not know, nor who is
the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than any thing we
have met with yet." "Good heaven!-- Where could you hear of such a
thing?" "A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter
from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder
and every thing of the kind." "You speak with astonishing composure!
But I hope your friend's accounts have been exaggerated;-- and if such a design
is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to
prevent its coming to effect." "Government," said Henry,
endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such
matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much." The
ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you understand
each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you can? No -- I will
be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the generosity of my soul than
the clearness of my head. I have no patience with such of my sex as disdain to
let themselves sometimes down to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps the
abilities of women are neither sound nor acute -- neither vigorous nor keen.
Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and
wit." "Miss Morland, do not mind what he says;-- but have the
goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot." "Riot!-- what
riot?" "My dearEleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The
confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a
frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern -- do you
understand?-- And you, Miss Morland -- my stupid sister has mistaken all your
clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London -- and instead
of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such
words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to
herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George's Fields; the Bank
attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a
detachment of the 12th Light Dragoons, (the hopes of the nation,) called up
from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Capt. Frederick
Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his
horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of
the sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a
simpleton in general." Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry,"
said Miss Tilney "that you have made us understand each other, you may as
well make Miss Morland understand yourself -- unless you mean to have her think
you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women
in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways." "I shall be
most happy to make her better acquainted with them." "No doubt;-- but
that is no explanation of the present." "What am I to do?"
"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women."
"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women
in the world -- especially of those -- whoever they may be -- with whom I
happen to be in company." "That is not enough. Be more serious."
"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of women
than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much, that they never find
it necessary to use more than half." "We shall get nothing more
serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure
you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an
unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me." It was no
effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His
manner might sometimes surprize, but his meaning must always be just:-- and
what she did not understand, she was almost as ready to admire, as what she
did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its
conclusion was delightful too;-- her friends attended her into the house, and
Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as
much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company
to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's
side -- and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of
her pleasure. The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection; for no thought of Isabella or James had
crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became amiable
again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no
intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety, she had heard nothing of
any of them. Towards the end of the morning however, Catherine having occasion
for some indispensable yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's
delay, walked out into the town, and in Bond-street overtook the second Miss
Thorpe, as she was loitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the
sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning.
From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place.
"They set off at eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am
sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out
of the scrape.-- It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a
soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John
drove Maria." Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this
part of the arrangement. "Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria
is gone. She was quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine.
I cannot say I admire her taste; and for my part I was determined from the
first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much." Catherine, a little
doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish you could have gone
too. It is a pity you could not all go." "Thank you; but it is quite
a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account. I
was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you over took us." Catherine was
still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily
and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and
returned home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her refusing to
join it, and very heartily wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow
either James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer.
Early the next day, a
note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness in every line, and entreating
the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance,
hastened Catherine, in the happiest state of confidence and curiosity, to
Edgar's Buildings.-- The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the
parlour; and, on Anne's quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the
opportunity of asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday's
party. Maria desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine
immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in
the world; that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that it had
been more delightful than any body could conceive. Such was the information of
the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in detail,-- that they
had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early
dinner, walked down to the Pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some
shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook's,
and hurrying back to the Hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent
being in the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not
up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could
hardly get it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It
appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the
rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant.-- Maria's intelligence
concluded with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she
represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party. "She
will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help it? John
would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because she had such
thick ancles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month; but I
am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out
of temper." Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look
of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began:-- "Yes,
my dearCatherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you.-- Oh!
that arch eye of yours!-- It sees through every thing." Catherine replied
only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest
friend," continued the other, "compose yourself.-- I am amazingly
agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so
you guessed it the moment you had my note?-- Sly creature!-- Oh! my
dearCatherine, you alone who know my heart can judge of my present happiness.
Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of
him.-- But what will your excellent father and mother say?-- Oh! heavens! when I
think of them I am so agitated!" Catherine's understanding began to awake:
an idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush
of so new an emotion, she cried out, "Good heaven!-- my dearIsabella, what
do you mean? Can you -- can you really be in love with James?" This bold
surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious
affection, which she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella's
every look and action, had, in the course of their yesterday's party, received
the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike
engaged to James.-- Never had Catherine listened to any thing so full of
interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged!-- New to such circumstances,
the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one
of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a
return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature of them,
however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a sister was their
first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the
connexion, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in tender
anticipations.-- "You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine,
than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my
dearMorland's family than to my own." This was a pitch of friendship
beyond Catherine. "You are so like your dear brother," continued
Isabella, "that I quite doated on you the first moment I saw you. But so
it always is with me; the first moment settles every thing. The very first day
thatMorland came to us last Christmas -- the very first moment I beheld him --
my heart was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair
done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John introduced
him, I thought I never saw any body so handsome before." Here Catherine
secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though exceedingly fond of her
brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had never in her life thought
him handsome. "I remember tooMiss Andrews drank tea with us that evening,
and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly, that I thought
your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a wink all
night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had
on your brother's account!-- I would not have you suffer half what I have done!
I am grown wretchedly thin I know; but I will not pain you by describing my
anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself
perpetually;-- so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church!-- But
my secret I was always sure would be safe with you." Catherine felt that
nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she
dared no longer contest the point, nor refuse to have been as full of arch
penetration and affectionate sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her
brother she found was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make
known his situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real
agitation to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as
she was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose their
son's wishes.-- "It is impossible," said she, "for parents to be
more kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no doubt of
their consenting immediately." "Morland says exactly the same,"
replied Isabella; "and yet I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so
small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry any
body!" Here Catherine again discerned the force of love. "Indeed,
Isabella, you are too humble.-- The difference of fortune can be nothing to
signify." "Oh! my sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it
would signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many.
As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be
my only choice." This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as
novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than in
uttering the grand idea.-- "I am sure they will consent," was her
frequent declaration; "I am sure they will be delighted with you."
"For my own part," said Isabella, "my wishes are so moderate,
that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are
really attached, poverty itself is wealth: grandeur I detest: I would not
settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be
extasy. There are some charming little villas about Richmond."
"Richmond!" cried Catherine.-- "You must settle near Fullerton.
You must be near us." "I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not.
If I can but be near you, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I
will not allow myself to think of such things, till we have your father's
answer. Morland says that by sending it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it
to-morrow.-- To-morrow?-- I know I shall never have courage to open the letter.
I know it will be the death of me." A reverie succeeded this conviction --
and when Isabella spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality of her
wedding-gown. Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover
himself, who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them however the eight parts of speech
shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with ease. Impatient
for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his adieus were not long; and
they would have been yet shorter, had he not been frequently detained by the
urgent entreaties of his fair one that he would go. Twice was he called almost
from the door by her eagerness to have him gone. "Indeed, Morland, I must
drive you away. Consider how far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you
linger so. For Heaven's sake, waste no more time. There, go, go -- I insist on
it." The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were
inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew
along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with every thing, and who
seemed only to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's engagement as
the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed to
join their counsels, and add their quota of significant looks and mysterious
expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the
unprivileged younger sisters. To Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of
reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborn pointing out, had its inconsistency
been less their friend;-- but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the
sagacity of their "I know what;" and the evening was spent in a sort
of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity; on one side in the mystery of an
affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.
Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to support her
spirits, and while away the many tedious hours before the delivery of the
letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable expectation drew
near, Isabella became more and more desponding, and before the letter arrived,
had worked herself into a state of real distress. But when it did come, where
could distress be found? "I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent
of my kind parents, and am promised that every thing in their power shall be
done to forward my happiness," were the first three lines, and in one
moment all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over
Isabella's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits became
almost too high for controul, and she called herself without scruple the
happiest of mortals. Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her
son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was
"dearJohn," and "dearCatherine" at every word;--
"dearAnne and dearMaria" must immediately be made sharers in their
felicity; and two "dears" at once before the name of Isabella were
not more than that beloved child had now well earned. John himself was no
skulker in joy. He not only bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of
being one of the finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in
his praise. The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was deferred
till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella could well afford to
wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's promise; his honour was
pledged to make every thing easy; and by what means their income was to be
formed, whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded money made over,
was a matter in which her disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough
to feel secure of an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination
took a rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end
of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at Fullerton,
the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a carriage at her command,
a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings on her
finger. When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set off.
"Well, Miss Morland," said he, on finding her alone in the parlour,
"I am come to bid you good bye." Catherine wished him a good journey.
Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgetted about, hummed
a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied. "Shall not you be late at
Devizes?" said Catherine. He made no answer; but after a minute's silence
burst out with, "A famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A
clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I
say it is no bad notion." "I am sure I think it a very good
one." "Do you?-- that's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no
enemy to matrimony however. Did you ever hear the old song, ""Going
to one wedding brings on another?"" I say, you will come to Belle's
wedding, I hope." "Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her,
if possible." "And then you know"-- twisting himself about and
forcing a foolish laugh-- "I say, then you know, we may try the truth of
this same old song." "May we?-- but I never sing. Well, I wish you a
good journey. I dine with Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be going home."
"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry.-- Who knows when we may be
together again?-- Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a fortnight,
and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me." "Then why do you
stay away so long?" replied Catherine -- finding that he waited for an
answer. "That is kind of you, however -- kind and good-natured.-- I shall
not forget it in a hurry.-- But you have more good-nature and all that, than
any body living I believe. A monstrous deal of good-nature, and it is not only
good-nature, but you have so much, so much of every thing; and then you have
such -- upon my soul I do not know any body like you." "Oh! dear,
there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a great deal better.
Good morning to you." "But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay
my respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable."
"Pray do.-- My father and mother will be very glad to see you."
"And I hope -- I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see
me." "Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to
see. Company is always cheerful." "That is just my way of thinking.
Give me but a little cheerful company, let me only have the company of the
people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil
take the rest, say I.-- And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I
have a notion, Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most
matters." "Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And
as to most matters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own
mind about." "By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my
brains with what does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let
me only have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and
what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of
my own; and if she had not a penny, why so much the better." "Very
true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one side, there can
be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which has it, so that there is
enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another. And to
marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence.-- Good day.-- We
shall be very glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient."
And away she went. It was not in the power of all his gallantry to detain her
longer. With such news to communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her
departure was not to be delayed by any thing in his nature to urge; and she
hurried away, leaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy
address, and her explicit encouragement. The agitation which she had herself
experienced on first learning her brother's engagement, made her expect to
raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of
the wonderful event. How great was her disappointment! The important affair,
which many words of preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever
since her brother's arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was
comprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark, on the
gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the lady's, of her
great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprizing insensibility. The
disclosure however of the great secret of James's going to Fullerton the day
before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen to that with
perfect calmness; but repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment,
wished she could have known his intention, wished she could have seen him
before he went, as she should certainly have troubled him with her best regards
to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.
Catherine's
expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom-street were so very high,
that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, though she was most
politely received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed by his daughter,
though Henry was at home, and no one else of the party, she found, on her
return, without spending many hours in the examination of her feelings, that
she had gone to her appointment preparing for happiness which it had not
afforded. Instead of finding herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney,
from the intercourse of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as
before; instead of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the
ease of a family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little
agreeable; and, in spite of their father's great civilities to her -- in spite
of his thanks, invitations, and compliments -- it had been a release to get away
from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not be General
Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and good-natured, and
altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a doubt, for he was tall and
handsome, and Henry's father. He could not be accountable for his children's
want of spirits, or for her want of enjoyment in his company. The former she
hoped at last might have been accidental, and the latter she could only
attribute to her own stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the
visit, gave a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride,
insufferable haughtiness and pride!" She had long suspected the family to
be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss
Tilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of her house
with common good-breeding! -- To behave to her guest with such
superciliousness!-- Hardly even to speak to her! "But it was not so bad as
thatIsabella; there was no superciliousness; she was very civil."
"Oh! don't defend her! And then the brother, he who had appeared so
attached to you! Good heavens! well, some people's feelings are
incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?"
"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits." "How
contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me
entreat you never to think of him again, my dearCatherine; indeed he is
unworthy of you." "Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of
me." "That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you.-- Such
fickleness! Oh! how different to your brother and to mine! I really believe
John has the most constant heart." "But as for General Tilney, I
assure you it would be impossible for any body to behave to me with greater
civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me
happy." "Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I
believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and
John's judgment ----" "Well, I shall see how they behave to me this
evening; we shall meet them at the rooms." "And must I go?"
"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled." "Nay,
since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist
upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles
off. And as for dancing, do not mention it I beg; that is quite out of the
question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death I dare say; but I shall cut
him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly what
I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to
himself." Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend;
she was sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or
sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts. The
evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same kindness, and
by the other with the same attention as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains to
be near her, and Henry asked her to dance. Having heard the day before in
Milsom-street, that their elder brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost
every hour, she was at no loss for the name of a very fashionable-looking,
handsome young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently
belonged to their party. She looked at him with great admiration, and even
supposed it possible, that some people might think him handsomer than his
brother, though, in her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance
less prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly
inferior; for, within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought
of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible.
From the latter circumstance it may be presumed, that, whatever might be our
heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous
kind; not likely to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions
to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen's
great coats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a travelling-chaise and
four, which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile,
undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except
that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with
Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to every thing he said; and, in
finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance,
Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine's
dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together;
and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay it
down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent
misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his brother,
in the hope of separating them for ever, she could not have her partner
conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of
full five minutes' duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long
quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by
Henry's requesting to know, if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have
any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced
to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied, that she was very sure Miss
Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the
other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it I
know," said she, "because I heard him say before, that he hated
dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw
Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is
quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world."
Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to
understand the motive of other people's actions." "Why?-- What do you
mean?" "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be
influenced? What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's
feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered?-- but, how
should I be influenced, what would be my inducement in acting so and so?"
"I do not understand you." "Then we are on very unequal terms, for
I understand you perfectly well." "Me?-- yes; I cannot speak well
enough to be unintelligible." "Bravo!-- an excellent satire on modern
language." "But pray tell me what you mean." "Shall I
indeed?-- Do you really desire it?-- But you are not aware of the consequences;
it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a
disagreement between us." "No, no; it shall not do either; I am not
afraid." "Well then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's
wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good-nature alone, convinced me of your
being superior in good-nature yourself to all the rest of the world."
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions were
verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her for the
pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much, that she drew
back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost forgetting
where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her
with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across. Isabella shrugged her
shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which
could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for Catherine's
comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.
"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to
dance." "And did Isabella never change her mind before?"
"Oh! but, because -- and your brother!-- After what you told him from me,
how could he think of going to ask her?" "I cannot take surprize to
myself on that head. You bid me be surprized on your friend's account, and
therefore I am; but as for my brother, his conduct in the business, I must own,
has been no more than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your
friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood
by yourself." "You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very
firm in general." "It is as much as should be said of any one. To be
always firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial
of judgment; and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe
has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour." The friends
were not able to get together for any confidential discourse till all the
dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella
thus explained herself:-- "I do not wonder at your surprize; and I am
really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!-- Amusing enough, if my mind had
been disengaged; but I would have given the world to sit still."
"Then why did not you?" "Oh! my dear! it would have looked so
particular; and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I
possibly could, but he would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed
me. I begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner -- but no, not he;
after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to
think of; and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with
me. Oh! such nonsense!-- I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail
upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and
compliments;-- and so ---- and so then I found there would be no peace if I did
not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it
ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable
if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are
quite jaded with listening to his nonsense: and then,-- being such a smart
young fellow, I saw every eye was upon us." "He is very handsome
indeed." "Handsome!-- Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would
admire him in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a
florid complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly
conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times you know in my way."
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject to
discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received, and the kind
intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of whichMr. Morland was
himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly value, was to
be resigned to his son as soon as he should be old enough to take it; no trifling
deduction from the family income, no niggardly assignment to one of ten
children. An estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured as his
future inheritance. James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming
gratitude; and the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they
could marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was born
by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as unfixed as
her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was now entirely led by
her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily congratulated Isabella
on having every thing so pleasantly settled. "It is very charming
indeed," said Isabella, with a grave face. "Mr. Morland has behaved
vastly handsome indeed," said the gentle Mrs. Thorpe, looking anxiously at
her daughter. "I only wish I could do as much. One could not expect more
from him you know. If he finds he can do more by and bye, I dare say he will,
for I am sure he must be an excellent good hearted man. Four hundred is but a
small income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dearIsabella, are so
moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want, my dear." "It
is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be the means of injuring
my dearMorland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in
the common necessaries of life. For myself, it is nothing; I never think of
myself." "I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your
reward in the affection it makes every body feel for you. There never was a
young woman so beloved as you are by every body that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child -- but do not let us distress our
dearCatherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very
handsome you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you know, my
dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he
would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded
man." "Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure.
But every body has their failing you know, and every body has a right to do
what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these
insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father has
promised to do as much as he can afford." Isabella recollected herself.
"As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me
well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the
want of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I
hate money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a
year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me
out. There's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to
pass before your brother can hold the living." "Yes, yes, my darling
Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You
have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and every body
must love you the better for such a noble honest affection." Catherine's
uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the
delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella's regret; and when she
saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to
forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his
letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness.
The Allens had now
entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the
last, was for some time a question, to whichCatherine listened with a beating
heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon, was an evil which
nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the
affair was in suspense, and every thing secured when it was determined that the
lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight
was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney,
made but a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since
James's engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so far as to
indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being
with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in
another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest
of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course
of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and
poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner
had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay, than Miss Tilney
told her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end
of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been
ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine's countenance fell, and
in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney's concluding words,
"By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be
prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been
disappointed of some friends' arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he
is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for
it," said Catherine dejectedly, "if I had known this before
----" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner,
"you would be so good -- it would make me very happy if --" The entrance
of her father put a stop to the civility, whichCatherine was beginning to hope
might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his
usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may
I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair
friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came
in." "Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in
it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his daughter
time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she
has perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells me
that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing
the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old
friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our
selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in
short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your
friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to
make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to
every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as your's -- but not for the
world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a
visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you
nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by
amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and
unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger
Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey!-- These were thrilling
words, and wound up Catherine's feelings to the highest point of extasy. Her
grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the
language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have
her company so warmly solicited! Every thing honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
acceptance, with only the saving clause of papa and mamma's approbation, was
eagerly given.-- "I will write home directly," said she, "and if
they do not object, as I dare say they will not"-- General Tilney was not
less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in
Pulteney-street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they
can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy
from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her
secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled,
as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the
morning had led Catherine's feelings through the varieties of suspense,
security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss;
and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger
Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland,
relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted
their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had
been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their ready
consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than
Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond
every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance.
Every thing seemed to co-operate for her advantage. By the kindness of her
first friends the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes, where pleasures
of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences had each known the
happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to
create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The
Tilneys, they, by whom above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,
outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their intimacy
was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she was to be for
weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she mostly prized --
and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey!--
Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry
Tilney -- and castles and abbies made usually the charm of those reveries which
his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the
one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish,
though to be more than the visitor of an hour, had seemed too nearly impossible
for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of
house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,
and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells and
ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she could not entirely
subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured
and ill-fated nun. It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little
elated by the possession of such a home; that the consciousness of it should be
so meekly born. The power of early habit only could account for it. A
distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority of
abode was no more to them than their superiority of person. Many were the
inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so active were her
thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she was hardly more assured
than before, of Northanger Abbey having been a richly-endowed convent at the
time of the Reformation, of its having fallen into the hands of an ancestor of
the Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large portion of the ancient building
still making a part of the present dwelling although the rest was decayed, or
of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising
woods of oak.
With a mind thus full
of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two or three days had passed
away, without her seeing Isabella for more than a few minutes together. She
began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh for her conversation, as she
walked along the Pump-room one morning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without any thing
to say or hear; and scarcely had she felt a five minutes' longing of
friendship, before the object of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret
conference, led the way to a seat. "This is my favourite place," said
she, as they sat down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable
view of every body entering at either, "it is so out of the way."
Catherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually bent towards one
door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how often she had
been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine opportunity for
being really so; and therefore gaily said, "Do not be uneasy, Isabella.
James will soon be here." "Psha! my dear creature," she replied,
"do not think me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him
to my elbow. It would be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest
of the place. And so you are going to Northanger!-- I am amazingly glad of it.
It is one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend
upon a most particular description of it." "You shall certainly have
the best in my power to give. But who are you looking for? Are your sisters
coming?" "I am not looking for any body. One's eyes must be
somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts
are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent
creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a
certain stamp." "But I thought, Isabella, you had something in
particular to tell me?" "Oh! yes, and so I have. But here is a proof
of what I was saying. My poor head! I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is
this, I have just had a letter from John;-- you can guess the contents."
"No, indeed, I cannot." "My sweet love, do not be so abominably
affected. What can he write about, but yourself? You know he is over head and
ears in love with you." "With me, dearIsabella!" "Nay, my
sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and all that, is very
well in its way but really a little common honesty is sometimes quite as
becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained! It is fishing for
compliments. His attentions were such as a child must have noticed. And it was
but half an hour before he left Bath, that you gave him the most positive encouragement.
He says so in this letter, says that he as good as made you an offer, and that
you received his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his
suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain to affect
ignorance." Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her
astonishment at such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr.
Thorpe's being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of her having
ever intended to encourage him. "As to any attentions on his side, I do
declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment -- except
just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming. And as to making me an
offer, or any thing like it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could
not have misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know!-- and, as I ever wish to
be believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such a nature ever passed
between us. The last half hour before he went away!-- It must be all and
completely a mistake -- for I did not see him once that whole morning."
"But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar's
Buildings -- it was the day your father's consent came -- and I am pretty sure
that you and John were alone in the parlour, some time before you left the
house." "Are you?-- Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say -- but
for the life of me, I cannot recollect it.-- I do remember now being with you,
and seeing him as well as the rest -- but that we were ever alone for five
minutes -- However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass on
his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it, that I
never thought, nor expected, nor wished for any thing of the kind from him. I
am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for me -- but indeed it
has been quite unintentional on my side, I never had the smallest idea of it.
Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg his pardon -- that is
-- I do not know what I ought to say -- but make him understand what I mean, in
the properest way. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of your's,
Isabella, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could think of one man
more than another -- he is not the person." Isabella was silent. "My
dear friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares
so very much about me. And, you know, we shall be sisters." "Yes,
yes," (with a blush) "there are more ways than one of our being
sisters.-- But where am I wandering to?-- Well, my dearCatherine, the case
seems to be, that you are determined against poor John -- is not it so?"
"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant to
encourage it." "Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease
you any further. John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore
I have. But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very
foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of either; for
what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you
something to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family
now-a-days; and after all that romancers may say, there is no doing without
money. I only wonder John could think of it; he could not have received my
last." "You do acquit me then of any thing wrong?-- You are convinced
that I never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
till this moment?" "Oh! as to that," answered Isabella
laughingly, "I do not pretend to determine what your thoughts and designs
in time past may have been. All that is best known to yourself. A little
harmless flirtation or so will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more
encouragement than one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the
last person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should be
allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one
may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter." "But my
opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same. You are
describing what never happened." "My dearest Catherine,"
continued the other without at all listening to her, "I would not for all
the world be the means of hurrying you into an engagement before you knew what
you were about. I do not think any thing would justify me in wishing you to
sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my
brother, and who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without
you, for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially, they
are so amazingly changeable, and inconstant. What I say is, why should a
brother's happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my
notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dearCatherine, do
not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry,
you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says, there is nothing people are
so often deceived in, as the state of their own affections, and I believe he is
very right. Ah! here he comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure."
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella, earnestly fixing
her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached immediately,
and took the seat to which her movements invited him. His first address made
Catherine start. Though spoken low she could distinguish, "What! always to
be watched, in person or by proxy!" "Psha, nonsense!" was
Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. "Why do you put such things
into my head? If I could believe it -- my spirit, you know, is pretty
independent." "I wish your heart were independent. That would be
enough for me." "My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with
hearts? You men have none of you any hearts." "If we have not hearts,
we have eyes; and they give us torment enough." "Do they? I am sorry
for it; I am sorry they find any thing so disagreeable in me. I will look
another way. I hope this pleases you, (turning her back on him,) I hope your
eyes are not tormented now." "Never more so; for the edge of a
blooming cheek is still in view -- at once too much and too little."
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance could listen no longer.
Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her brother, she rose up,
and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed their walking. But for this
Isabella shewed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it was so
odious to parade about the Pump-room; and if she moved from her seat she should
miss her sisters, she was expecting her sisters every moment; so that her
dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But
Catherine could be stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose
their returning home, she joined her and walked out of the Pump-room, leaving
Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did she thus
leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling in love with
Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him; unconsciously it must be,
for Isabella's attachment to James was as certain and well acknowledged as her
engagement. To doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible; and yet,
during the whole of their conversation her manner had been odd. She wished
Isabella had talked more like her usual self, and not so much about money; and
had not looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that
she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint of
it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively
behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her brother. The compliment
of John Thorpe's affection did not make amends for this thoughtlessness in his
sister. She was almost as far from believing as from wishing it to be sincere;
for she had not forgotten that he could mistake, and his assertion of the offer
and of her encouragement convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be
very egregious. In vanity therefore she gained but little, her chief profit was
in wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love
with her, was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his
attentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said many
things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never be said again;
and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort.
A few days passed away,
and Catherine, though not allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not
help watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable.
Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her indeed surrounded only by
their immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney-street, her change of
manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed
unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of
mind whichCatherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across
her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace
and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting
Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him
almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became
too positive to be past over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct,
what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not
be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful
thoughtlessness whichCatherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer.
She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the
woman might be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object. For
poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not
please her, his name was a passport to her good will, and she thought with
sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she
had believed herself to overhear in the Pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible
with a knowledge of Isabella's engagement, that she could not, upon reflection,
imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if
more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She
wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make
her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity
or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella
could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the
Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire
was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney's removal would at
least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at
present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger,
he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was
directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his
brother's evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known
her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry's answer.
"Does he?-- then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was
beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do
not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for
him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for every body's sake, to
leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can
have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled
and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that."
"Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at
command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have
myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and
must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is
about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my
brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very
uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother's doing?"
"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe,
or Miss Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it
the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference.
No man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the
woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend,
and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment,
for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever
since they first met, and while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted
herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."
"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick."
"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor
flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a
little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with "Then you do not
believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no
opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he
knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a
very close questioner." "Am I?-- I only ask what I want to be
told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?"
"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart." "My
brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can
only guess at." "Well?" "Well!-- Nay, if it is to be
guess-work, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand
conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively, and
perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week's
acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long
as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some
moments' consideration, "you may be able to guess at your brother's
intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father
uncomfortable about it?-- Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away?-- Sure,
if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dearMiss
Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother's
comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too
far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe's, for
supposing that her affection, or at least her good-behaviour, is only to be
secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude?--
or, is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by any one else?-- He
cannot think this -- and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I
will not say, ""Do not be uneasy,"" because I know that you
are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt
of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it
therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that
no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to
each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required
and what can be borne; and you may be certain, that one will never tease the
other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look
doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with
us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days
behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his
regiment.-- And what will then be their acquaintance?-- The mess-room will
drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother
over poor Tilney's passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer
against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a
speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed
herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously
on the subject again. Her resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in
their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine's stay
in Pulteney-street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her
uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent
spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend
seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such a moment was
allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she drew back
her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry's instructions, and placed it all to
judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones
may be fancied.
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were
sorry to lose their young friend, whose good-humour and cheerfulness had made
her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had
been gently increased. Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however,
prevented their wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more
week in Bath themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr.
Allen attended her to Milsom-street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was her
agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was she of
not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve their good
opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, she could almost
have wished to return with him to Pulteney-street. Miss Tilney's manners and
Henry's smile soon did away some of her unpleasant feelings; but still she was
far from being at ease; nor could the incessant attentions of the General
himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether
she might not have felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for
her comfort -- his continual solicitations that she would eat, and his
often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste -- though never in her
life before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table -- made it
impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She felt
utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it. Her
tranquillity was not improved by the General's impatience for the appearance of
his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at his laziness when
Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by the severity of his
father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was
her concern increased, when she found herself the principal cause of the
lecture; and that his tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful
to her. This was placing her in a very uncomfortable situation, and she felt
great compassion for Captain Tilney, without being able to hope for his
good-will. He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,
which confirmed her in fearing, that the inquietude of his mind, on Isabella's
account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been the real cause of his
rising late.-- It was the first time of her being decidedly in his company, and
she had hoped to be now able to form her opinion of him; but she scarcely heard
his voice while his father remained in the room; and even afterwards, so much
were his spirits affected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a
whisper to Eleanor, "How glad I shall be when you are all off." The
bustle of going was not pleasant.-- The clock struck ten while the trunks were
carrying down, and the General had fixed to be out of Milsom-street by that
hour. His great coat, instead of being brought for him to put on directly, was
spread out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his son. The middle
seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were three people to go in
it, and his daughter's maid had so crowded it with parcels, that Miss Morland
would not have room to sit; and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension
when he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new
writing-desk from being thrown out into the street.-- At last, however, the
door was closed upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in
which the handsome, highly-fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a
journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger from Bath, to be
now divided into two equal stages. Catherine's spirits revived as they drove
from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the
interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle
behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and met with every
mile-stone before she expected it. The tediousness of a two hours' bait at
Petty-France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being
hungry, and loiter about without any thing to see, next followed -- and her
admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable
chaise-and-four -- postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their
stirrups, and numerous out-riders properly mounted, sunk a little under this
consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay
would have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed
always a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely any thing was said but
by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn
afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every
moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four.--
At last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine then
surprized by the General's proposal of her taking his place in his son's
curricle for the rest of the journey:-- "the day was fine, and he was
anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible." The
remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young men's open carriages, made
her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline
it; but her second was of greater deference for General Tilney's judgment; he
could not propose any thing improper for her; and, in the course of a few
minutes, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever
existed. A very short trial convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest
equipage in the world; the chaise-and-four wheeled off with some grandeur, to
be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily
forget its having stopped two hours at Petty-France. Half the time would have
been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to
move, that, had not the General chosen to have his own carriage lead the way,
they could have passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the
curricle did not all belong to the horses;-- Henry drove so well,-- so quietly
-- without making any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at
them; so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to
compare him with!-- And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of
his great coat looked so becomingly important!-- To be driven by him, next to
being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In
addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own
praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account, for her kindness in
thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and
described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably
circumstanced -- she had no female companion -- and, in the frequent absence of
her father, was sometimes without any companion at all. "But how can that
be?" said Catherine, "are not you with her?" "Northanger is
not more than half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in
Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's, and some of my time is
necessarily spent there." "How sorry you must be for that!"
"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor." "Yes; but besides your
affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey!-- After being used to such
a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very
disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very
favourable idea of the abbey." "To be sure I have. Is not it a fine
old place, just like what one reads about?" "And are you prepared to
encounter all the horrors that a building such as ""what one reads
about"" may produce?-- Have you a stout heart?-- Nerves fit for
sliding pannels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes -- I do not think I should be
easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house -- and
besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then
the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally
happens." "No, certainly.-- We shall not have to explore our way into
a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire -- nor be obliged to
spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.
But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced
into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the
family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally
conducted by Dorothy the ancient housekeeper up a different staircase, and
along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or
kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as
this? Will not your mind misgive you, when you find yourself in this gloomy
chamber -- too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a
single lamp to take in its size -- its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting
figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet,
presenting even a funereal appearance. Will not your heart sink within
you?" "Oh! but this will not happen to me, I am sure." "How
fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment!-- And what will you
discern?-- Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side
perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no
efforts can open, and over the fire-place the portrait of some handsome
warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not
be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy meanwhile, no less struck by
your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few
unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to
suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and
informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this
parting cordial she curtseys off -- you listen to the sound of her receding
footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you -- and when, with fainting
spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that
it has no lock." "Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful!-- This is just like
a book!-- But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not
really Dorothy.-- Well, what then?" "Nothing further to alarm perhaps
may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the
bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the
second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably
have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice
to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains -- and during the
frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern
(for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated
than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a
moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your
dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short
search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as
to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately
appear -- which door being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will,
after a few efforts, succeed in opening,-- and, with your lamp in your hand,
will pass through it into a small vaulted room." "No, indeed; I
should be too much frightened to do any such thing." "What! not when
Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous
communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely
two miles off -- Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will
proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others,
without perceiving any thing very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there
may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of
some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the
common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your
own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes
will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold,
which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed
unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance
to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer; -- but for some
time without discovering any thing of importance -- perhaps nothing but a
considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring,
an inner compartment will open -- a roll of paper appears:-- you seize it -- it
contains many sheets of manuscript -- you hasten with the precious treasure
into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher
""Oh! thou -- whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these
memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall"" -- when your lamp suddenly
expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness." "Oh! no, no
-- do not say so. Well, go on." But Henry was too much amused by the
interest he had raised, to be able to carry it farther; he could no longer
command solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to
use her own fancy in the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself,
grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her
attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting
with what he related. "Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into
such a chamber as he had described!-- She was not at all afraid." As they
drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight of the abbey --
for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects very different --
returned in full force, and every bend in the road was expected with solemn awe
to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone, rising amidst a grove of
ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in beautiful splendour on
its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building stand, that she found
herself passing through the great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of
Northanger, without having discerned even an antique chimney. She knew not that
she had any right to be surprized, but there was a something in this mode of
approach which she certainly had not expected. To pass between lodges of a
modern appearance, to find herself with such ease in the very precincts of the
abbey, and driven so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without
obstacle, alarm or solemnity of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent.
She was not long at leisure however for such considerations. A sudden scud of
rain driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe any thing
further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet:--
and she was actually under the Abbey walls, was springing, with Henry's
assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the old porch, and
had even passed on to the hall, where her friend and the General were waiting
to welcome her, without feeling one aweful foreboding of future misery to
herself, or one moment's suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted
within the solemn edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the
murdered to her; it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and
having given a good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shewn into the
common drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was. An abbey!-- yes,
it was delightful to be really in an abbey!-- but she doubted, as she looked
round the room, whether any thing within her observation, would have given her
the consciousness. The furniture was in all the profusion and elegance of
modern taste. The fire-place, where she had expected the ample width and
ponderous carving of former times, was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of
plain though handsome marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English
china. The windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence, from having
heard the General talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with
reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the
pointed arch was preserved -- the form of them was Gothic -- they might be even
casements -- but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination
which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for
painted glass, dirt and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing. The
General, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the smallness of
the room and simplicity of the furniture, where every thing being for daily
use, pretended only to comfort, &c., flattering himself however that there
were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthy her notice -- and was proceeding
to mention the costly gilding of one in particular, when taking out his watch,
he stopped short to pronounce it with surprize within twenty minutes of five!
This seemed the word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by
Miss Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality to
the family hours would be expected at Northanger. Returning through the large
and lofty hall, they ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after
many flights and many landing-places, brought them upon a long wide gallery. On
one side it had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows
which Catherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Miss
Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would find
it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she would make as little
alteration as possible in her dress.
A moment's glance was
enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment was very unlike the one
whichHenry had endeavoured to alarm her by the description of.-- It was by no
means unreasonably large, and contained neither tapestry nor velvet.-- The
walls were papered, the floor was carpeted; the windows were neither less
perfect, nor more dim than those of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though
not of the latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the
room altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on this
point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of any thing, as
she greatly dreaded disobliging the General by any delay. Her habit therefore
was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was preparing to unpin the
linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate
accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back
in a deep recess on one side of the fire-place. The sight of it made her start;
and, forgetting every thing else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder,
while these thoughts crossed her:-- "This is strange indeed! I did not
expect such a sight as this!-- An immense heavy chest!-- What can it hold?--
Why should it be placed here?-- Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of
sight!-- I will look into it -- cost me what it may, I will look into it -- and
directly too -- by day-light.-- If I stay till evening my candle may go
out." She advanced and examined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously
inlaid with some darker wood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a
carved stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at
each end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps
prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was a
mysterious cypher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but
without being able to distinguish any thing with certainty. She could not, in
whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be a T; and yet that
it should be any thing else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common
degree of astonishment. If not originally their's, by what strange events could
it have fallen into the Tilney family? Her fearful curiosity was every moment
growing greater; and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she
resolved at all hazards to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With
difficulty, for something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a
few inches; but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made
her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This
ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of use to
Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it recalled her
to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her
anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing without
further delay. Her progress was not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were
still bent on the object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though
she dared not waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many
paces from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown,
her toilette seemed so nearly finished, that the impatience of her curiosity
might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate
should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by supernatural
means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this spirit she sprang
forward, and her confidence did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw back
the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton
counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed
possession! She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprize, when Miss
Tilney, anxious for her friend's being ready, entered the room, and to the
rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation, was
then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. "That is a
curious old chest, is not it?" said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily
closed it and turned away to the glass. "It is impossible to say how many
generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this room I know
not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might sometimes be of
use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it
difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the
way." Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying
her gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they ran down
stairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General Tilney was
pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having, on the very instant
of their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered "Dinner to be on
table directly!" Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke,
and sat pale and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children,
and detesting old chests; and the General recovering his politeness as he
looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter, for so
foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from
haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world: but
Catherine could not at all get over the double distress of having involved her
friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton herself, till they were happily
seated at the dinner-table, when the General's complacent smiles, and a good
appetite of her own, restored her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble
room, suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in
common use, and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost
lost on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud
her admiration; and the General, with a very gracious countenance, acknowledged
that it was by no means an ill-sized room; and further confessed, that, though
as careless on such subjects as most people, he did look upon a tolerably large
eating-room as one of the necessaries of life; he supposed, however, "that
she must have been used to much better sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?" "No,
indeed," was Catherine's honest assurance; "Mr. Allen's
dining-parlour was not more than half as large:" and she had never seen so
large a room as this in her life. The General's good-humour increased.-- Why,
as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not to make use of them;
but, upon his honour, he believed there might be more comfort in rooms of only
half their size. Mr. Allen's house, he was sure, must be exactly of the true
size for rational happiness. The evening passed without any further
disturbance, and, in the occasional absence of General Tilney, with much
positive cheerfulness. It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the
smallest fatigue from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could think of
her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them. The night was stormy;
the wind had been rising at intervals the whole afternoon; and by the time the
party broke up, it blew and rained violently. Catherine, as she crossed the
hall, listened to the tempest with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it
rage round a corner of the ancient building and close with sudden fury a
distant door, felt for the first time that she was really in an Abbey.-- Yes,
these were characteristic sounds;-- they brought to her recollection a
countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such
buildings had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she
rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls so
solemn!-- She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken gallants.
Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told her that morning. In
a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have nothing to explore or to
suffer; and might go to her bedroom as securely as if it had been her own
chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying her mind, as she proceeded up
stairs, she was enabled, especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only
two doors from her, to enter her room with a tolerably stout heart; and her
spirits were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire.
"How much better is this," said she, as she walked to the fender--
"how much better to find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering
in the cold till all the family are in bed, as so many poor girls have been
obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening one by
coming in with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had
been like some other places, I do not know that, in such a night as this, I
could have answered for my courage:-- but now, to be sure, there is nothing to
alarm one." She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in
motion. It could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through
the divisions of the shutters; and she stept boldly forward, carelessly humming
a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously behind each
curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her, and on placing a
hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction of the wind's force. A
glance at the old chest, as she turned away from this examination, was not
without its use; she scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began
with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for bed. "She should
take her time; she should not hurry herself; she did not care if she were the
last person up in the house. But she would not make up her fire; that would
seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she were in
bed." The fire therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the best
part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into
bed, when on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the appearance
of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a situation
conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before. Henry's words, his
description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation at first,
immediately rushed across her; and though there could be nothing really in it,
there was something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence!
She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely
ebony and gold; but it was Japan, black and yellow Japan of the handsomest
kind; and as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold.
The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not
however with the smallest expectation of finding any thing, but it was so very
odd, after whatHenry had said. In short, she could not sleep till she had
examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, she seized
the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her
utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way; a bolt
flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely mysterious!-- the
door was still immoveable. She paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind
roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and
every thing seemed to speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed,
however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be
impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her
immediate vicinity. Again therefore she applied herself to the key, and after
moving it in every possible way for some instants with the determined celerity
of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand: her heart leaped
with exultation at such a victory, and having thrown open each folding door,
the second being secured only by bolts of less wonderful construction than the
lock, though in that her eye could not discern any thing unusual, a double
range of small drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and
below them; and in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key,
secured in all probability a cavity of importance. Catherine's heart beat
quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an
eye straining with curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and
drew it forth. It was entirely empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she
seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left
unsearched, and in not one was any thing found. Well read in the art of
concealing a treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not
escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place
in the middle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had "never
from the first had the smallest idea of finding any thing in any part of the
cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus far, it
would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was about it." It
was some time however before she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty
occurring in the management of this inner lock as of the outer; but at length
it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly
fell on a roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity,
apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable.
Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized,
with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to
ascertain written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations
this striking exemplification of whatHenry had foretold, resolved instantly to
peruse every line before she attempted to rest. The dimness of the light her
candle emitted made her turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger of its
sudden extinction, it had yet some hours to burn; and that she might not have
any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date
might occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! it was snuffed and extinguished
in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a
few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a remnant
of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath. Darkness
impenetrable and immoveable filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising
with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine trembled from
head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and
the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted ear. Human nature could
support no more. A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from
her hand, and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought
some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her
eyes in sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With a
curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose
must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful!-- She had not
been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with
awful intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully
accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it to be accounted for?-- What
could it contain?-- to whom could it relate?-- by what means could it have been
so long concealed?-- and how singularly strange that it should fall to her lot
to discover it! Till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however,
she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun's first rays she
was determined to peruse it. But many were the tedious hours which must yet
intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet
sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even
than the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very curtains
of her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another the lock of her door
was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed
to creep along the gallery, and more than once her blood was chilled by the
sound of distant moans. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine
had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house, before the tempest
subsided, or she unknowingly fell fast asleep.
The housemaid's folding
back her window-shutters at eight o'clock the next day, was the sound which
first roused Catherine; and she opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever
have been closed, on objects of cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and
a bright morning had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously with
the consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;
and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away, she
eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its
falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on
her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal
length with the generality of what she had shuddered over in books, for the
roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether
but of trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import. Could it
be possible, or did not her senses play her false?-- An inventory of linen, in
coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her! If the evidence of
sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand. She seized another
sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation; a third, a fourth, and
a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats and waistcoats faced
her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure
scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string and
breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had inclosed the rest, seemed by its
first cramp line, "To poultice chesnut mare,"-- a farrier's bill!
Such was the collection of papers, (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by
the negligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken them,) which had
filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her night's rest!
She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught
her wisdom? A corner of it catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in
judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her
recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could
have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable!--
or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet,
the key of which was open to all! How could she have so imposed on herself?--
Heaven forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a
great measure his own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to
agree with his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get
rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then
scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as
possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within the
cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever bring
them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself. Why the locks should
have been so difficult to open however, was still something remarkable, for she
could now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely something
mysterious, and she indulged in the flattering suggestion for half a minute,
till the possibility of the door's having been at first unlocked, and of being
herself its fastener, darted into her head, and cost her another blush. She got
away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct produced such
unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed to the
breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the evening
before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope of her having been
undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference to the character of the
building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the world would she not
have her weakness suspected; and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was
constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little. "But
we have a charming morning after it," she added, desiring to get rid of
the subject; "and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over.
What beautiful hyacinths!-- I have just learnt to love a hyacinth."
"And how might you learn?-- By accident or argument?" "Your
sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains, year after
year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in
Milsom-street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers." "But now
you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of
enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible.
Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your sex, as a means of
getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more frequent exercise than you
would otherwise take. And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic,
who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but you may in time come to love a
rose?" "But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors.
The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine
weather I am out more than half my time.-- Mamma says, I am never within."
"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a
hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a teachableness
of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing.-- Has my sister a pleasant
mode of instruction?" Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting
an answer, by the entrance of the General, whose smiling compliments announced
a happy state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did
not advance her composure. The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on
Catherine's notice when they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been
the General's choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste,
confessed it to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the
manufacture of his country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea
was as well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden
or Se--ve. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago. The
manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some beautiful
specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly without vanity of
that kind, might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted, however,
that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting one -- though not for
himself. Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not
understand him. Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where
business required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in
the hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the
breakfast room, Catherine walked to the window in the hope of catching another
glimpse of his figure. "This is a somewhat heavy call upon your brother's
fortitude," observed the General to Eleanor. "Woodston will make but
a sombre appearance to-day." "Is it a pretty place?" asked
Catherine. "What say you, Eleanor?-- speak your opinion, for ladies can
best tell the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it
would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations.
The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent
kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I built and
stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It is a family
living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being chiefly my own, you
may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry's income
depend solely on this living, he would not be ill provided for. Perhaps it may
seem odd, that with only two younger children, I should think any profession
necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all wish him
disengaged from every tie of business. But though I may not exactly make
converts of you young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree
with me in thinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The
money is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the thing. Even
Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as considerable a
landed property as any private man in the county, has his profession." The
imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The silence of
the lady proved it to be unanswerable. Something had been said the evening
before of her being shewn over the house, and he now offered himself as her
conductor; and though Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his
daughter, it was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any
circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen
hours in the Abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just
leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to
attend him in a moment. "And when they had gone over the house, he
promised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies
and garden." She curtsied her acquiescence. "But perhaps it might be
more agreeable to her to make those her first object. The weather was at
present favourable, and at this time of year the uncertainty was very great of
its continuing so.-- Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service.--
Which did his daughter think would most accord with her fair friend's wishes?--
But he thought he could discern.-- Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's
eyes a judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather.-- But
when did she judge amiss?-- The Abbey would be always safe and dry.-- He
yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment."
He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to
speak of her unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against
his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopt
by Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion, "I believe it will be
wisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my
father's account, he always walks out at this time of day." Catherine did
not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was Miss Tilney
embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the General's side to shew her
over the Abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that he should
always take his walk so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was
certainly very provoking. She was all impatience to see the house, and had
scarcely any curiosity about the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed!--
but now she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her
thoughts, but she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient
discontent. She was struck however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of
the Abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole building
enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic
ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was shut off by knolls
of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep woody hills rising behind
to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of March.
Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it; and her feelings of delight were
so strong, that without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst
forth in wonder and praise. The General listened with assenting gratitude; and
it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that
hour. The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
across a small portion of the park. The number of acres contained in this garden
was such as Catherine could not listen to without dismay, being more than
double the extent of all Mr. Allen's, as well as her father's, including
church-yard and orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in
length; a village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish
to be at work within the inclosure. The General was flattered by her looks of
surprize, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him
in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before;--
and he then modestly owned that, "without any ambition of that sort
himself -- without any solicitude about it,-- he did believe them to be
unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that. He loved a
garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit
-- or if he did not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations
however attending such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure
the most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last
year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as
himself." "No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden,
and never went into it." With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the
General wished he could do the same, for he never entered his, without being
vexed in some way or other, by its falling short of his plan. "How were
Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?" describing the nature of his own as
they entered them. "Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, whichMrs.
Allen had the use of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now
and then." "He is a happy man!" said the General, with a look of
very happy contempt. Having taken her into every division, and led her under
every wall, till she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered
the girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing
his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the tea-house,
proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not
tired. "But where are you going, Eleanor?-- Why do you chuse that cold,
damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best way is across the
park." "This is so favourite a walk of mine," said Miss Tilney,
"that I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be
damp." It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch
firs; and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, could
not, even by the General's disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward. He
perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea of health in vain,
was too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself however from
attending them:-- "The rays of the sun were not too cheerful for him, and
he would meet them by another course." He turned away; and Catherine was
shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock
however being less real than the relief, offered it no injury; and she began to
talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.
"I am particularly fond of this spot," said her companion, with a
sigh. "It was my mother's favourite walk." Catherine had never heard
Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before, and the interest excited by this
tender remembrance, shewed itself directly in her altered countenance, and in
the attentive pause with which she waited for something more. "I used to
walk here so often with her!" added Eleanor; "though I never loved it
then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder at her
choice. But her memory endears it now." "And ought it not,"
reflected Catherine, "to endear it to her husband? Yet the General would
not enter it." Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured to say,
"Her death must have been a great affliction!" "A great and
increasing one," replied the other, in a low voice. "I was only
thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one
so young could feel it, I did not, I could not then know what a loss it
was." She stopped for a moment, and then added, with great firmness,
"I have no sister, you know -- and though Henry -- though my brothers are
very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful
for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary." "To be sure
you must miss him very much." "A mother would have been always
present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence would have
been beyond all other." "Was she a very charming woman? Was she
handsome? Was there any picture of her in the Abbey? And why had she been so
partial to that grove? Was it from dejection of spirits?" -- were
questions now eagerly poured forth;-- the first three received a ready
affirmative, the two others were passed by; and Catherine's interest in the
deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with every question, whether answered or not. Of
her unhappiness in marriage, she felt persuaded. The General certainly had been
an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: -- could he therefore have loved
her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his
features which spoke his not having behaved well to her. "Her picture, I
suppose," blushing at the consummate art of her own question, "hangs
in your father's room?" "No;-- it was intended for the drawing-room;
but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no
place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my
bed-chamber -- where I shall be happy to shew it you;-- it is very like."
-- Here was another proof. A portrait -- very like -- of a departed wife, not
valued by the husband!-- He must have been dreadfully cruel to her! Catherine
attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the feelings which, in
spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited; and what had been
terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion. Yes, aversion! His
cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious to her. She had often read of
such characters; characters, whichMr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and
overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the contrary. She had just settled
this point, when the end of the path brought them directly upon the General;
and in spite of all her virtuous indignation, she found herself again obliged
to walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled. Being no
longer able however to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon
began to walk with lassitude; the General perceived it, and with a concern for
her health, which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most
urgent for returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in a
quarter of an hour. Again they parted -- but Eleanor was called back in half a
minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round the Abbey
till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much
wished for, struck Catherine as very remarkable.
An hour passed away
before the General came in, spent, on the part of his young guest, in no very
favourable consideration of his character.-- "This lengthened absence,
these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or a conscience void of
reproach."-- At length he appeared; and, whatever might have been the
gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them. Miss Tilney,
understanding in part her friend's curiosity to see the house, soon revived the
subject; and her father being, contrary to Catherine's expectations, unprovided
with any pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to
order refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready to
escort them. They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step,
which caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read
Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room and
one useless anti-chamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture --
the real drawing-room, used only with company of consequence.-- It was very
noble -- very grand -- very charming!-- was all thatCatherine had to say, for
her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned the colour of the satin; and all
minuteness of praise, all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the General:
the costliness or elegance of any room's fitting-up could be nothing to her;
she cared for no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century.
When the General had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of
every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in
its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on which an
humble man might have looked with pride.-- Catherine heard, admired, and
wondered with more genuine feeling than before -- gathered all that she could
from this store-house of knowledge, by running over the titles of half a shelf,
and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments did not spring up with her
wishes.-- Large as was the building, she had already visited the greatest part;
though, on being told that, with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven
rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely
believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It
was some relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common use,
by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which,
with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different
sides;-- and she was further soothed in her progress, by being told, that she
was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out,
and observing several doors, that were neither opened nor explained to her;--
by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the General's
private apartment, without comprehending their connexion, or being able to turn
aright when she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room,
owning Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns, and great
coats. From the dining-room of which, though already seen, and always to be
seen at five o'clock, the General could not forego the pleasure of pacing out
the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as to what she
neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to the
kitchen -- the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls and
smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The
General's improving hand had not loitered here: every modern invention to
facilitate the labour of the cooks, had been adopted within this, their
spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had often
produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any
time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent. With the walls
of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the Abbey; the fourth side of the
quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state, been removed by the
General's father, and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable
ceased here. The new building was not only new, but declared itself to be so;
intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity
of architecture had been thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the
hand which had swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest,
for the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared
the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the General allowed
it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices; and as he
was convinced, that, to a mind like Miss Morland's, a view of the
accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her inferiors were
softened, must always be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading her
on. They took a slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her
expectation, by their multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for
which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed
sufficient at Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions,
commodious and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not
strike her less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some
pattened girl stopped to curtsey or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet
this was an Abbey!-- How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements
from such as she had read about -- from abbeys and castles, in which, though
certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be
done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it
all, had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary
here, she began to be amazed herself. They returned to the hall, that the chief
stair-case might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich
carving might be pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite
direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the
same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shewn successively
into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and
handsomely fitted up; every thing that money and taste could do, to give
comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being
furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would be
generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine.
As they were surveying the last, the General, after slightly naming a few of
the distinguished characters, by whom they had at times been honoured, turned
with a smiling countenance to Catherine and ventured to hope, that henceforward
some of their earliest tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton."
She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of
thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full of
civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which
Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the
point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of
gallery, when the General, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as
Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whither she were going?-- And
what was there more to be seen?-- Had not Miss Morland already seen all that
could be worth her notice?-- And did she not suppose her friend might be glad
of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and
the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in
a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and
symptoms of a winding stair-case, believed herself at last within the reach of
something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the
gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house,
than see all the finery of all the rest.-- The General's evident desire of
preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was
certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or
twice, could not mislead her here; and what that some thing was, a short
sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they followed the General at some distance down
stairs, seemed to point out:-- "I was going to take you into what was my
mother's room -- the room in which she died ----" were all her words; but
few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no
wonder that the General should shrink from the sight of such objects as that
room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the
dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to
the stings of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to
express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that
side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they
should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her:-- the General must be
watched from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it
was, I suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling. "Yes,
entirely." "And how long ago may it be that your mother died?"
"She has been dead these nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew
was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of
an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. "You were with her, I
suppose, to the last?" "No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I
was unfortunately from home.-- Her illness was sudden and short; and before I
arrived it was all over." Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid
suggestions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible?--
Could Henry's father?-- And yet how many were the examples to justify even the
blackest suspicions! -- And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked
with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent
thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from
all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni What
could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every
sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy
man!-- And the anxiousness of her spirits, directed her eyes towards his figure
so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney's notice. "My father," she
whispered, "often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing
unusual." "So much the worse!" thought Catherine; such ill-timed
exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks,
and boded nothing good. After an evening, the little variety and seeming length
of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was
heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the General not
designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the
butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was forbidden. The
latter was not going to retire. "I have many pamphlets to finish," said
he to Catherine, "before I can close my eyes; and perhaps may be poring
over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can either of us
be more meetly employed? My eyes will be blinding for the good of others; and
yours preparing by rest for future mischief." But neither the business
alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking,
that some very different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper
repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid
pamphlets, was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause: some thing was
to be done which could be done only while the household slept; and the
probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and
receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse
food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea,
it was at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural
course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed
illness; the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children, at
the time -- all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.-- Its origin --
jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty -- was yet to be unravelled. In revolving
these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her as not unlikely,
that she might that morning have passed near the very spot of this unfortunate
woman's confinement -- might have been within a few paces of the cell in which
she languished out her days; for what part of the Abbey could be more fitted
for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic division? In
the high-arched passage, paved with stone, which already she had trodden with
peculiar awe, she well remembered the doors of which the General had given no
account. To what might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of
this conjecture, it further occurred to her, that the forbidden gallery, in
which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as certainly
as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and
the stair-case by the side of those apartments of which she had caught a
transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those cells, might
well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband. Down that
stair-case she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared
insensibility! Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises,
and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible. The side of
the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to be acting, being,
according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck her that, if judiciously
watched, some rays of light from the General's lamp might glimmer through the
lower windows, as he passed to the prison of his wife; and, twice before she
stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room to the corresponding window in
the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be
too early. The various ascending noises convinced her that the servants must
still be up. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but
then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not
quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock struck
twelve -- and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.
The next day afforded
no opportunity for the proposed examination of the mysterious apartments. It
was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was
required by the General in exercise abroad or eating cold meat at home; and
great as was Catherine's curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of
exploring them after dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between six
and seven o'clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a
treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by any thing to interest her
imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs.
Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantly
caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly-strained epitaph, in
which every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who must
have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears. That
the General, having erected such a monument, should be able to face it, was not
perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its
view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he
should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not however that
many instances of beings equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She
could remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from
crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of
humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed
their black career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the
smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were she
even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber,
were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed -- what
could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly
aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a
supposititious funeral carried on. The succeeding morning promised something
better. The General's early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was
favourable here; and when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly
proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to
oblige her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their
first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It presented
a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, justifying, so far,
the expectations of its new observer; but they were not in every respect
answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, air,
complexion that should be the very counterpart, the very image, if not of
Henry's, of Eleanor's;-- the only portraits of which she had been in the habit
of thinking, bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face
once taken was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look and
consider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of
this drawback, with much emotion; and, but for a yet stronger interest, would
have left it unwillingly. Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was
too much for any endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion.
Eleanor's countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her
enured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed
through the folding-doors, again her hand was upon the important lock, and
Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful
caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the General himself at the
further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of "Eleanor"
at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving
to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror
upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement
on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and
when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined
and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking
herself in, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She
remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply
commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself
from the angry General to attend him in his own apartment. No summons however
arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the Abbey, she was
emboldened to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. The
breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was named to them by the General,
as the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well
concealed his resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least of life for
the present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to her
concern for his character, taking an early occasion of saying to her, "My
father only wanted me to answer a note," she began to hope that she had
either been unseen by the General, or that from some consideration of policy
she should be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to
remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing occurred to
disturb it. In the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a
resolution of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be
much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To
involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment
which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The General's
utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a daughter; and,
besides, she thought the examination itself would be more satisfactory if made
without any companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the
suspicions, from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily
exempt; nor could she therefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of
the General's cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she
felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented
journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was now
perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry's return, who
was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright,
her courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon,
and it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual. It
was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks
had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried on, slipped with
the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to
look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her
hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On
tip-toe she entered; the room was before her; but it was some minutes before
she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and
agitated every feature.-- She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an
handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright
Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes and neatly-painted chairs, on which the warm
beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had
expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and
doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added
some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room; but
how grossly mistaken in every thing else!-- in Miss Tilney's meaning, in her
own calculation! This apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a position
so awful, proved to be one end of what the General's father had built. There
were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets;
but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in whichMrs. Tilney
had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what
nothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the General's
crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection. She was
sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own
heart only privy to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly
as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where,
made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be
unpleasant; but by the General, (and he seemed always at hand when least
wanted,) much worse!-- She listened -- the sound had ceased; and resolving not
to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a
door underneath was hastily opened; some one seemed with swift steps to ascend
the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the
gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable,
she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave Henry to her
view. "Mr. Tilney!" she exclaimed in a voice of more than common
astonishment. He looked astonished too. "Good God!" she continued,
not attending to his address, "how came you here?-- how came you up that staircase?"
"How came I up that staircase!" he replied, greatly surprized.
"Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and
why should I not come up it?" Catherine recollected herself, blushed
deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for
that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the
gallery. "And may I not, in my turn," said he, as he pushed back the
folding doors, "ask how you came here?-- This passage is at least as
extraordinary a road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that
staircase can be from the stables to mine." "I have been," said
Catherine, looking down, "to see your mother's room." "My
mother's room!-- Is there any thing extraordinary to be seen there?"
"No, nothing at all.-- I thought you did not mean to come back till
to-morrow." "I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I
went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain
me.-- You look pale.-- I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those
stairs. Perhaps you did not know -- you were not aware of their leading from
the offices in common use?" "No, I was not.-- You have had a very
fine day for your ride." "Very;-- and does Eleanor leave you to find
your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?" "Oh! no; she
shewed me over the greatest part on Saturday -- and we were coming here to
these rooms -- but only -- (dropping her voice) -- your father was with
us." "And that prevented you;" said Henry, earnestly regarding
her.-- "Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?"
"No, I only wanted to see ---- Is not it very late? I must go and
dress." "It is only a quarter past four, (shewing his watch) and you
are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at
Northanger must be enough." She could not contradict it, and therefore
suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made
her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly
up the gallery. "Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?"
"No, and I am very much surprized. Isabella promised so faithfully to
write directly." "Promised so faithfully!-- A faithful promise!--
That puzzles me.-- I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful
promise -- the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing
however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother's room is very
commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing closets so
well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the
house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She
sent you to look at it, I suppose?" "No." "It has been your
own doing entirely?"-- Catherine said nothing -- After a short silence,
during which he had closely observed her, he added, "As there is nothing
in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a
sentiment of respect for my mother's character, as described by Eleanor, which does
honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is
not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic,
unpretending merits of a person never known, do not often create that kind of
fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor,
I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?" "Yes, a great deal. That
is -- no, not much, but what she did say, was very interesting. Her dying so
suddenly," (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken,) "and you --
none of you being at home -- and your father, I thought -- perhaps had not been
very fond of her." "And from these circumstances," he replied,
(his quick eye fixed on her's,) "you infer perhaps the probability of some
negligence -- some -- (involuntarily she shook her head)-- or it may be -- of
something still less pardonable." She raised her eyes towards him more
fully than she had ever done before. "My mother's illness," he
continued, "the seizure which ended in her death was sudden. The malady itself,
one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever -- its cause therefore
constitutional. On the third day, in short as soon as she could be prevailed
on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had
always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were
called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for
four-and-twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her
disorder, Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from
our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible
attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which
her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a
distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin." "But
your father," said Catherine, "was he afflicted?" "For a
time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved
her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to -- We have not all,
you know, the same tenderness of disposition -- and I will not pretend to say
that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his
temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and,
if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very
glad of it," said Catherine, "it would have been very shocking!"
---- "If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror
as I have hardly words to ---- DearMiss Morland, consider the dreadful nature
of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?
Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are
English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense
of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you -- Does our
education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could
they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social
and literary intercourse is on such a footing; where every man is surrounded by
a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay every
thing open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"
They had reached the end of the gallery; and with tears of shame she ran off to
her own room.
The visions of romance
were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry's address, short as it had
been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late
fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was
she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she
was sunk -- but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all
exposed to him, and he must despise her for ever. The liberty which her
imagination had dared to take with the character of his father, could he ever
forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears, could they ever be
forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had -- she thought
he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shewn something like affection
for her.-- But now -- in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for
about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart,
and could scarcely given an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry, if she
was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
difference in his behaviour to her, was that he paid her rather more attention
than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was
aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing
politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She
did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that
it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's entire
regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such
causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer, than that it
had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance
receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and every thing
forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered the Abbey,
had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had
prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been
created, the mischief settled long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as
if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she
had there indulged. Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming
even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that
human nature, at least in the midland counties of England, was to be looked
for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they
might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the South of
France, might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented.
Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard
pressed, would have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the
central part of England there was surely some security for the existence even
of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age.
Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor
sleeping potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the
Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were
not as spotless as an angel, might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in
England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and
habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this
conviction, she would not be surprized if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney,
some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she
need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their
father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she
must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious
consideration, to be not perfectly amiable. Her mind made up on these several
points, and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with
the greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be
happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible
gradations in the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and
nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had
passed, was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits became
absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by
any thing he said. There were still some subjects indeed, under which she
believed they must always tremble;-- the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for
instance -- and she did not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she
could allow, that an occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might
not be without use. The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the
alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.
She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the Rooms
were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella's
having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had left her intent; and
of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only dependence for
information of any kind was on Isabella. James had protested against writing to
her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a
letter till she had got back to Fullerton.-- But Isabella had promised and
promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in
performing it! this made it so particularly strange! For nine successive
mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of a disappointment, which
each morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she entered the
breakfast-room, her first object was a letter, held out by Henry's willing
hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had written it himself. "'Tis
only from James, however," as she looked at the direction. She opened it;
it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:-- ""DearCatherine, Though,
God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you,
that every thing is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me.-- I left her and Bath
yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars, they
would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to
know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of every thing
but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am
undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow!-- After my father's consent had
been so kindly given -- but no more of this. She has made me miserable for
ever! Let me soon hear from you, dearCatherine; you are my only friend; your
love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before
Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
circumstanced.-- Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest
heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity
hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she
declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am
ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe
himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be
at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of
Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent -- happy for me had we never met! I
can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you
give your heart. Believe me,"" &c. Catherine had not read three
lines before her sudden change of countenance, and short exclamations of
sorrowing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry,
earnestly watching her through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no
better than it began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprize
by his father's entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could
hardly eat any thing. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as
she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in
her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The General,
between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her;
but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon as she dared
leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the house-maids were busy
in it, and she was obliged to come down again. She turned into the drawing-room
for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at
that moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg their
pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the others
withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or
comfort to her. After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection,
Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her
distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly
questioned, she might just give an idea -- just distantly hint at it -- but not
more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her -- and then
their own brother so closely concerned in it!-- She believed she must wave the
subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselves in the breakfast-room;
and each, as she entered it, looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place
at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from
Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland -- your brothers and sisters -- I hope
they are none of them ill?" "No, I thank you," (sighing as she
spoke,) "they are all very well. My letter was from my brother at
Oxford." Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking
through her tears, she added, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a
letter again!" "I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had
just opened; "if I had suspected the letter of containing any thing
unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings." "It
contained something worse than any body could suppose!-- Poor James is so
unhappy!-- You will soon know why." "To have so kind-hearted, so
affectionate a sister," replied Henry, warmly, "must be a comfort to
him under any distress." "I have one favour to beg," said
Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, "that, if your
brother should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go
away." "Our brother!-- Frederick!" "Yes; I am sure I should
be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make
it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney."
Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing astonishment; but
Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in whichMiss Thorpe's name was
included, passed his lips. "How quick you are!" cried Catherine:
"you have guessed it, I declare!-- And yet, when we talked about it in
Bath, you little thought of its ending soIsabella -- no wonder now I have not
heard from her -- Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry your's!
Could you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and
every thing that is bad in the world?" "I hope, so far as concerns my
brother, you are misinformed. I hope he has not had any material share in
bringing on Mr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not
probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland
-- sorry that any one you love should be unhappy; but my surprize would be
greater at Frederick's marrying her, than at any other part of the story."
"It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.-- Stay
---- there is one part ----" recollecting with a blush the last line.
"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern my
brother?" "No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second
thoughts were clearer. "I do not know what I was thinking of," (blushing
again that she had blushed before,) -- "James only means to give me good
advice." He gladly received the letter; and, having read it through, with
close attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so, I can only
say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen
a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation,
either as a lover or a son." Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now
read the letter likewise; and, having expressed also her concern and surprize,
began to inquire into Miss Thorpe's connexions and fortune. "Her mother is
a very good sort of woman," was Catherine's answer. "What was her
father?" "A lawyer, I believe.-- They live at Putney." "Are
they a wealthy family?" "No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has
any fortune at all: but that will not signify in your family.-- Your father is
so very liberal! He told me the other day, that he only valued money as it
allowed him to promote the happiness of his children." The brother and
sister looked at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short
pause, "would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such
a girl?-- She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your
brother so.-- And how strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who,
before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with
another man! Is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his
heart so proudly! who found no woman good enough to be loved!" "That
is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption against him.
When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.-- Moreover, I have too
good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence, to suppose that she would part with
one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick
indeed! He is a deceased man -- defunct in understanding. Prepare for your
sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in!--
Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no
pretensions, and knowing no disguise." "Such a sister-in-law, Henry,
I should delight in," said Eleanor, with a smile. "But perhaps,"
observed Catherine, "though she has behaved so ill by our family, she may
behave better by your's. 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 any one'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 your's. 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.
From this time, the
subject was frequently canvassed by the three young people; and Catherine
found, with some surprize, 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 connexion, 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 surprize 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 staid 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 great coated 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 in 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 any
thing 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 to-morrow 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 semi-circular 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 any thing 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 shewn, 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
any where 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.
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 to-morrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure
in it -- the dust is beyond any thing; and every body 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 any body 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 every thing 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's, 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 surprized 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, &c. 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 your's, 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.
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 staid 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 surprize 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 some one 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 any one'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
dearCatherine, 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 any thing 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 dearCatherine, 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 dearEleanor," 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?-- To-morrow 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 any thing 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,
dearCatherine, 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 every thing 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 past 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 how 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 up stairs, Catherine in busy
agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more good-will than experience
intent upon filling the trunk. When every thing 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 every thing 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 every thing 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 whichMiss 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.
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 any thing 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 her's-- 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 every-day 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 any
thing that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even
happy! In the joyfulness of family love every thing 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, whichMrs. 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 any thing 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 dearCatherine, you always were a sad little
shatter-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 any thing 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
whichEleanor 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
inclosed 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 for ever;
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 surprize, 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 surprize 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 her's, 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 shew 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.
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 needle-work, she could
no longer refrain from the gentle reproof, "My dearCatherine, 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 every thing -- 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 up stairs 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 down stairs 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 apologise 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
intreating 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 any
thing 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 shew 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. Allen, in
whichHenry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt
in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her
lips, dismissed them to the extasies of another te--te-a`-te--te; and before it
was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by
parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two
days before, he had been met near the Abbey by his impatient father, hastily
informed in angry terms of Miss Morland's departure, and ordered to think of
her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his
hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she
listened to this account could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which
Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by
engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give
the particulars, and explain the motives of his father's conduct, her feelings
soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The General had had nothing to
accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary,
unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a
better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less
rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her
possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her
company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter in law. On discovering
his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings
an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her
family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The General, perceiving his son one
night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had
accidentally inquired of Thorpe, if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe,
most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney's importance,
had been joyfully and proudly communicative;-- and being at that time not only
in daily expectation of Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well
resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent
the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe
them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own
consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy
with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations
of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first over-rated, had ever since his
introduction to Isabella, been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice
as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the
amount of Mr. Morland's preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a
rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole
family to the General in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the
peculiar object of the General's curiosity, and his own speculations, he had
yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her
father could give her, would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen's estate. Her intimacy
there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied
hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future
heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the General had
proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe's
interest in the family, by his sister's approaching connection with one of its
members, and his own views on another, (circumstances of which he boasted with
almost equal openness,) seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these
were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of
Miss Morland's being under their care, and -- as soon as his acquaintance
allowed him to judge -- of their treating her with parental kindness. His
resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss
Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe's
communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening
his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not
be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and
Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father's
particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance and
extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had
accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing every thing in his
power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father's believing it to be an
advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger
that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him
on. That they were false, the General had learnt from the very person who had
suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town,
and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by
Catherine's refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to
accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they
were separated for ever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer
serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the
advantage of the Morlands;-- confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in
his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of
his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the
transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after
coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the
families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the
point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself
incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact,
a necessitous family; numerous too almost beyond example; by no means respected
in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of
discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant;
seeking to better themselves by wealthy connexions; a forward, bragging,
scheming race. The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen with an
inquiring look; and here tooThorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he
believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the
Fullerton estate must devolve. The General needed no more. Enraged with almost
every body in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the Abbey,
where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader's sagacity to
determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this
time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what
points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain
to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must
divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel, that in
suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had
scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in
having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their
first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was
obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the
most unfriendly kind. Henry's indignation on hearing how Catherine had been
treated, on comprehending his father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in
them, had been open and bold. The General, accustomed on every ordinary
occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of
feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could
ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the
dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a case, his anger, though it
must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a
conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in
affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had
been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing
decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the
resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into
Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment, to promote the
dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her
his hand. The General was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were
required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston; and, on the
afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton.
Mr. and Mrs. Morland's
surprize on being applied to by Mr. Tilney, for their consent to his marrying
their daughter, was, for a few minutes, considerable; it having never entered
their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all,
could be more natural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to
consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as
they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing
manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never
heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told.
Good-will supplying the place of experience, his character needed no
attestation. "Catherine would made a sad heedless young housekeeper to be
sure," was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation
of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to
be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to
sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were
steady, and while his parent so expressly forbad the connexion, they could not
allow themselves to encourage it. That the General should come forward to
solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they
were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent
appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained -- and their own
hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied -- their willing
approbation was instantly to follow. His consent was all that they wished for.
They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his money. Of a very
considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure;
his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every
pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their daughter. The young
people could not be surprized at a decision like this. They felt and they
deplored -- but they could not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope
that such a change in the General, as each believed almost impossible, might
speedily take place, to unite them again in the fullness of privileged
affection. Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his
young plantations, and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in
them he looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry.
Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence,
let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did -- they had been too kind to
exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time,
happened pretty often, they always looked another way. The anxiety, which in
this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and
of all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to
the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages
before them, that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means
by which their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt; what probable
circumstance could work upon a temper like the General's? The circumstance
which chiefly availed, was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune
and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer -- an accession
of dignity that threw him into a fit of good-humour, from which he did not
recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his
permission for him "to be a fool if he liked it!" The marriage of Eleanor
Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been
made by Henry's banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her
choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction among all her
acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more
entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to
receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent
origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from
addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all
his difficulties; and never had the General loved his daughter so well in all
her hours of companionship, utility, and patient endurance, as when he first
hailed her, "Your Ladyship!" Her husband was really deserving of her;
independent of his peerage, his wealth and his attachment, being to a precision
the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits
must be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question therefore I
have only to add -- (aware that the rules of composition forbid the
introduction of a character not connected with my fable)-- that this was the
very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of
washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my heroine
was involved in one of her most alarming adventures. The influence of the Viscount
and Viscountess in their brother's behalf was assisted by that right
understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances which, as soon as the General
would allow himself to be informed, they were qualified to give. It taught him
that he had been scarcely more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family
wealth, than by his subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of
the word were they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three
thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations,
that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no means
without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at some pains to
procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal of its present
proprietor, was consequently open to every greedy speculation. On the strength
of this, the General, soon after Eleanor's marriage, permitted his son to
return to Northanger, and thence made him the bearer of his consent, very
courteously worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. Morland. The
event which it authorized soon followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the
bells rang and every body smiled; and, as this took place within a twelve-month
from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful
delays occasioned by the General's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by
it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and
eighteen, is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced, that
the General's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their
felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of
each other, and adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled
by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether
to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.