(panne éclairage public): Northanger Abbey 📚✨|GothicNovel|panne éclairage public,Northanger Abbey 📚✨|GothicNovel

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La vidéo dure 07:19:50 secondes, porte le titre Northanger Abbey 📚✨« Rejoignez-nous pour explorer l’abbaye de Northanger de Jane Austen, une histoire charmante qui mêle la romance, l’humour et un regard satirique sur le genre gothique du roman! 📖💖 ** FAITES DES FAITES: ** – Suivez le voyage de Catherine Morland, une jeune femme dont l’imagination est alimentée par son amour pour les romans. – Découvrez le monde enchanteur de Bath, où Catherine rencontre des personnages intrigants et navigue dans les complexités de la société. – Découvrez comment ses fantasmes se heurtent à la réalité, conduisant à des rebondissements inattendus et à la découverte de soi. ** Pourquoi vous allez adorer cette histoire: ** – ** Humour plein d’esprit: ** Les observations aiguës d’Austen vous feront sourire et réfléchir aux normes sociétales. – ** Personnages engageants: ** Des charmants prétendants à des amis mystérieux, le casting est délicieux et mémorable. – ** Adventures romantiques: ** Suivez la croissance de Catherine en apprenant l’amour, l’amitié et l’importance de comprendre le monde qui l’entoure. ** Préparez-vous à être captivé! ** Plongez dans ce classique intemporel qui résonne avec les lecteurs de tous âges. N’oubliez pas de ** vous abonner ** pour des histoires plus captivantes comme celle-ci! 👉 👉 [Subscribe here!](https://bit.ly/storytimehavenofficial) -Le Bureau d’assassinat, Ltd. 💼🔫 | Jack London & Robert L. Fish&;s Gripping Thriller! [https://youtu.be/R-sjwMPS7ZQ]

** Rejoignez la conversation: ** Quel est votre moment préféré de Northanger Abbey? Partagez les commentaires ci-dessous! ** Hashtags: ** #NorthAangerAbbey #JaneAusten #classicLitrature #GothicNovel #RomanticFiction #BookRecomMendation #LiterAtraLovers #LIFUSONSONS #BookDiscussion #CatheRinemorland #BATH #SocialSatire #imagination #Literaryanalysis #Humor #timelessTales ** Naviguez par chapitres ou titres: ** 00:08:43 Chapitre 2. 00:21:06 Chapitre 3. 00:30 Chapitre 4. 00:37:52 Chapitre 5. 00:45:10 Chapitre 6. 00:37:52 Chapitre 5. 00:45:10 Chapitre 6. 00:37:52 Chapitre 5. 00:45:10 Chapitre 6. 00:37:52 Chapitre 5. 00:45:10 CHAPITRE 6. 00:37:52 CHAPIT 00:54:29 Chapitre 7. 01:10:23 Chapitre 8. 01:25:26 Chapitre 9. 01:43:51 Chapitre 10. 02:05:18 Chapitre 11. 02:21:54 Chapitre 12. 02:33:12 Chapitre 13. 02:50:41 Chapitre 14. 03:09:49 CHAPITRE 15. 03:28:12 CHAPIT 17. 03:51:55 Chapitre 18. 04:03:20 Chapitre 19. 04:11:58 Chapitre 20. 04:30:21 Chapitre 21. 04:47:45 Chapitre 22. 05:06:54 Chapitre 23. 05:21:57 Chapitre 24.05:38:05 Chapitre 25. 05:54:51 Chapitre 26. 06:09:19 CHAPIT 28. 06:36:23 Chapitre 29. 06:55:33 Chapitre 30. 07:12:10 Chapitre 31. ».

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L’éclairage public en panne : un danger sous-estimé ?

Les nuisances causées par un éclairage public défaillant

Les pannes d’éclairage public ont de nombreuses répercussions, telles qu’une augmentation des risques pour les piétons et les automobilistes, en particulier dans les zones fortement fréquentées ou proches des passages piétons. Elles nuisent aussi au cadre de vie en réduisant la sécurité perçue et en diminuant l’attractivité des espaces publics. Par ailleurs, elles génèrent des coûts supplémentaires pour les finances publiques, car les réparations tardives coûtent généralement plus cher que les interventions préventives. Enfin, ces pannes entraînent un gaspillage d’énergie, souvent en raison de l’obsolescence ou du mauvais entretien des équipements.

Révolutionner l’éclairage public avec des solutions durables

Nous avons évolué depuis l’époque des lanternes à gaz avec leur lumière bleue. Aujourd’hui, l’éclairage public repose sur l’électricité. Tandis que certaines grandes villes, comme Paris, choisissent un éclairage constant la nuit, la majorité des communes utilisent des systèmes à minuterie et des lampes à éclairage décroissant afin de faire des économies d’énergie. De plus, les installations d’éclairage public doivent respecter les normes de sécurité imposées par le code du travail. L’éclairage public doit évoluer pour répondre aux enjeux de durabilité et d’intelligence. En optant pour l’éclairage LED, les villes font un premier pas vers un système plus économique et durable. L’ajout de capteurs intelligents permet de moduler la luminosité selon l’utilisation des espaces publics, et les systèmes de gestion à distance assurent un suivi en temps réel de l’état du réseau d’éclairage. Ces évolutions permettent de mieux gérer les pannes et d’optimiser les coûts énergétiques, tout en réduisant l’impact environnemental. Grâce à AppliJeSignale, cette modernisation devient plus accessible pour toutes les collectivités.

Pourquoi un bon éclairage public est crucial en ville

La sécurité, la fluidité des déplacements nocturnes et le confort des citoyens dépendent en grande partie de l’éclairage public. Ce dernier joue un rôle clé pour diminuer les accidents et prévenir la criminalité. Néanmoins, les défaillances de l’éclairage urbain sont fréquentes et impactent la qualité de vie des habitants.

AppliJeSignale : la solution pour une gestion efficace des pannes

Afin de résoudre ce problème, il est indispensable d’avoir un système de signalement adapté. AppliJeSignale répond à ce besoin, en permettant aux citoyens de signaler rapidement une panne d’éclairage public, sans inscription ni téléchargement. Un bon éclairage urbain est indispensable pour assurer confort et sécurité. Si vous constatez une panne, signalez-la directement sur cette plateforme pour qu’elle soit prise en charge rapidement.

Un outil qui simplifie la vie des collectivités et des citoyens

L’utilisation d’un outil comme AppliJeSignale présente plusieurs bénéfices. D’abord, une meilleure réactivité permet aux collectivités d’intervenir rapidement, réduisant ainsi les risques liés aux pannes d’éclairage. De plus, grâce à un diagnostic rapide, les coûts peuvent être optimisés, en évitant des réparations imprévues et coûteuses. Enfin, il permet d’impliquer les citoyens, les invitant à signaler directement les pannes pour améliorer la qualité de leur environnement.

Fonctionnement d’AppliJeSignale : guide rapide

AppliJeSignale est une plateforme simple et rapide pour signaler une panne d’éclairage. Il vous suffit de vous rendre sur le site depuis votre smartphone ou ordinateur, d’indiquer la nature et l’emplacement du problème, puis les informations sont envoyées aux autorités locales. Un suivi vous permet de vérifier l’état d’avancement des réparations.

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#Northanger #Abbey #GothicNovel

Retranscription des paroles de la vidéo: Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen’s delightful satire of Gothic novels, introduces us to the imaginative and naive Catherine Morland. A young woman with a passion for reading, Catherine’s journey begins when she is invited to the picturesque Bath. Here, she navigates the complexities of society, friendships, and her own burgeoning romantic feelings. As she encounters charming suitors and intriguing mysteries, Catherine’s whimsical fantasies clash with the realities of life, leading to a story filled with humor, irony, and a touch of adventure. Chapter 1. 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 anybody 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 anything 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 everything 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, baseball, 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 Thomson, that— “It is a delightful task “To teach the young idea how to shoot.” And from Shakespeare 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 portray. 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 befall 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. Chapter 2. 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 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. Everything 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 Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were here, there, everywhere, 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 everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine’s entree 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 ballroom 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 protégée, 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. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine 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 anything to do there, or anybody 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 anything 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 anybody 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? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.” “No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. 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 anybody 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 anybody. 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 everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. Chapter 3. 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 everybody 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 gentleman-like 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 surprised, sir?” “Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise 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 tenor 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 journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody 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 ballroom; “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 anything.” “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,[1] 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. Chapter 4. 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 hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow 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 station 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 eyes 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 dear Mrs. 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 anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; 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, etc., which Catherine 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 upstairs, 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 attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated. Chapter 5. 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 everybody 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 reseeing her partner. He was nowhere 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 dear Catherine, 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 something 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, had 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 anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it. Chapter 6. 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 pocketbook. 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 Captain 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 show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody 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 what Miss 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 everybody’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 anybody else. Everything 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; but yet I think it is very entertaining.” “Do you indeed! you surprise 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 by, 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—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 anything 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 church-yard.” “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 show 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 show 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. Chapter 7. Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody 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 development 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 meantime 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 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. Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in _them_.” “Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” 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 somewhere 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 anything 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 dear Catherine; 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 dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged for the evening. Chapter 8. In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, 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 ballroom, 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 dear Catherine 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 whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, 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 everybody 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 anyhow 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 stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her manners showed 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 ecstatic 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 anything 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 dear Isabella, 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 so, Mr. 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 anything 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 anything at all of the matter.” “And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?” “Well, I declare I never knew anything 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 something not very agreeable.” In this commonplace 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 impatient 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 dear Catherine, 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 anything. 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 show 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.” Chapter 9. The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody 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 anyone 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 upstairs, 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. “Something 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 anybody 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 reappeared, 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 downstairs. “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 dote 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. Everything 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 anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; 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 showing 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 everybody 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 drunk 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 anything 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 drunk 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 rickety 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.” “So Mrs. 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 anybody 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 anything 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 schoolfellows; 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. Chapter 10. 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 everybody? 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 anywhere.” “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 goodwill, 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 surprised 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 surprised 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 anywhere, 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 biased 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 centred 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 someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she fidgeted 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 dear Catherine,” 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. “Heyday, 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 anybody. 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 backed. 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 borne 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 stayed 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 choose 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 anyone 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 anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody.” “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 everybody 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 anybody 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 everyday 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 everything 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 anything 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, which Catherine 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 anything 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. Chapter 11. The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything 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!” “Anybody 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 greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; 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 surprise; 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 surprised 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 ecstasies 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 anything 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 chestnuts?” “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 ankle-deep everywhere.” 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 dryer, and call by and by?” “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 anything. 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 marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated 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 so, Mr. 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 anything 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 something 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, which Catherine 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 upstairs. 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 everybody 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 anybody 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 anything, 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. Chapter 12. “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 everything.” “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, whom Catherine 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 hers 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 everything 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 show 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 everything 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 surprise 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 surprise 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 forever 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 by; 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. Chapter 13. 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 apprised 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 proposed 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 having 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 anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody’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 everything 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 everything 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 everybody 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; sometimes 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 everything 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 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 upstairs. 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 surprised 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 forever, 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 surprised 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 everything gallant as they went downstairs, 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 anything 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 choose 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? Chapter 14. 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 anything 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 surprised. “Oh! no, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily 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 forever 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 anything 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 everything. 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 anything 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 synonymous.” “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 synonymous 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. 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 anything, 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 anything 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 anything 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 everything 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 foregrounds, 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 enclosure 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 anything 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 everything 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 dear Eleanor, 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 Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain 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 surprise, 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 overtook 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. Chapter 15. 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 anybody 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 ankles. 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 dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh, that arch eye of yours! it sees through everything.” 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 dear Catherine, 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 dear Isabella, 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 anything 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 connection, 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 dear Morland’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 doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me; the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland 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 anybody 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 too, Miss 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 anybody!” 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 ecstasy. 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 everything, 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 forborne 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 everything 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 control, 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 “dear John” and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria” 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 everything 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, fidgeted 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 anybody living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody 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 anything 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 surprising 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. Chapter 16. 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 that, Isabella; 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 dear Catherine; 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 anybody 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 greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-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 everything 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 forever, 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 surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised 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 anyone. 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 surprise; 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 which Mr. 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 borne 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 everything 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 by, 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 dear Isabella, 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 dear Morland, 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 everybody feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our dear Catherine 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 everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody 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 a 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 everybody 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. Chapter 17. 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 which Catherine 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 everything 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, which Catherine 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 yours—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 ecstasy. 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! everything 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. Everything seemed to cooperate 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 abbeys 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 borne. 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. Chapter 18. 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 anything to say or to 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 everybody 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 anybody. 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_, dear Isabella!” “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 anything 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 anything 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 yours, 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 still 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 dear Catherine, 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 nowadays; 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 anything 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 anything 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 dear Catherine, 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 anything 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 showed 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. Chapter 19. 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 which Catherine 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 passed 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 which Catherine 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 goodwill, 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 everybody’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 guesswork, 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 dear Miss 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 anyone 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. Chapter 20. 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 goodwill. 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 greatcoat, 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 milestone before she expected it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without anything 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 outriders 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 anything 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 surprised 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 anything 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 greatcoat 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 panels 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 fireplace 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 curtsies 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 anything 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 anything 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 surprised, 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 anything 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 awful 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 shown 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 anything within her observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, 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 everything, being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc. ; 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 surprise 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. Chapter 21. A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment was very unlike the one which Henry 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 anything, 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 fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything 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 daylight. 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 cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything 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 anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not originally theirs, 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 surprise 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 downstairs 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 upstairs, 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 log! 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 stepped 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 anything, but it was so very odd, after what Henry 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 immovable. She paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything 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 anything 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 anything 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 anything 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 what Henry 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 immovable 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. Chapter 22. 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 enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut 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 Sêve. 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 a 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 shown 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 stopped 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 show 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 enclosure. The General was flattered by her looks of surprise, 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, which Mrs. 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 choose 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 showed 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 show 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 which Mr. 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. Chapter 23. 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 antechamber, 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 that Catherine 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 storehouse 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 connection, 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 greatcoats. From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be seen at five o’clock, the General could not forgo 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 curtsy, 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 staircase 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 shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything 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 staircase, 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 something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed the General at some distance downstairs, 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: something 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 staircase 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 staircase 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. Chapter 24. The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was required by the General in exercise abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine’s curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven o’clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears. That the General, having erected such a monument, should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed—what could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on. The succeeding morning promised something better. The General’s early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were not in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart, the very image, if not of Henry’s, of Eleanor’s—the only portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left it unwillingly. Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor’s countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the General himself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! the name of “Eleanor” at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry General to attend him in his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was named to them by the General as the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his character, taking an early occasion of saying to her, “My father only wanted me to answer a note,” she began to hope that she had either been unseen by the General, or that from some consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it. In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The General’s utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in _her_ presence, search for those proofs of the General’s cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry’s return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high; at four o’clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual. It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room was before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid’s care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation! this apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end of what the General’s father had built. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the General’s crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the General (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse! she listened—the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave Henry to her view. “Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. “Good God!” she continued, not attending to his address. “How came you here? How came you up that staircase?” “How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?” Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. “And may I not, in my turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask how _you_ came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.” “I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s room.” “My mother’s room! is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?” “No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till 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 showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were coming here to these rooms—but only,” dropping her voice, “your father was with us.” “And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?” “No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.” “It is only a quarter past four,” showing his watch; “and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough.” She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. “Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?” “No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.” “Promised so faithfully! a faithful promise! that puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of promising! it is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?” “No.” “It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. After a short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, “As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?” “Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I thought—perhaps had not been very fond of her.” “And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), “you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence—some”—(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of something still less pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. “My mother’s illness,” he continued, “the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.” “But your father,” said Catherine, “was _he_ afflicted?” “For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.” “I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very shocking!” “If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?” They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. Chapter 25. The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk—but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears—could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had—she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now—in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry’s entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged. Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable. Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she did not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even _she_ could allow that an occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use. The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! this made it so particularly strange! For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter, held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose: “Dear Catherine, “Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! i am undeceived in time! but it is a heavy blow! after my father’s consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; _your_ love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me had we never met! i can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart. “Believe me,” &c. Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The General, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort to her. After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly hint at it—but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her—and then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it, looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, “No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are none of them ill?” “No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford.” Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through her tears, she added, “I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!” “I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; “if I had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings.” “It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! poor James is so unhappy! you will soon know why.” “To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry warmly, “must be a comfort to him under any distress.” “I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go away.” “Our brother! frederick!” “Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney.” Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips. “How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella—no wonder _now_ I have not heard from her—Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! could you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?” “I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.” “It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay—There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line. “Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern my brother?” “No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that she had blushed before); “James only means to give me good advice.” He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close attention, returned it saying, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son.” Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe’s connections and fortune. “Her mother is a very good sort of woman,” was Catherine’s answer. “What was her father?” “A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.” “Are they a wealthy family?” “No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked at each other. “But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! a girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly! who found no woman good enough to be loved!” “That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! he is a deceased man—defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.” “Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a smile. “But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant.” “Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals.” “You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s character in my life before.” “Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.” “My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.” “Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?” “No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have thought.” “You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves. Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had produced it. Chapter 26. From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young friends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella’s want of consequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the General would, upon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might be raised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point of interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she was given to understand by his words as well as his actions, she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the General; and by a recollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood by his children. They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not have the courage to apply in person for his father’s consent, and so repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to come to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But as it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his application, would give his father any just idea of Isabella’s conduct, it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the General by that means to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had expected. “No,” said he, “my father’s hands need not be strengthened, and Frederick’s confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must tell his own story.” “But he will tell only half of it.” “A quarter would be enough. ” A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to them as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected engagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it. The General, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick’s remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and had no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland’s time at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on this head, feared the sameness of every day’s society and employments would disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the country, talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing people in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme. “And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be obliged to stay two or three days.” “Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for us.” A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she and Eleanor were sitting, and said, “I am come, young ladies, in a very moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour. Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I must go away directly, two days before I intended it.” “Go away!” said Catherine, with a very long face. “And why?” “Why! how can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.” “Oh! not seriously!” “Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.” “But how can you think of such a thing, after what the General said? When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble, because _anything_ would do.” Henry only smiled. “I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister’s account and mine. You must know it to be so; and the General made such a point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not said half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify.” “I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As 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 semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of them. Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the General for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded to say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him. “We are not calling it a good house,” said he. “We are not comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say otherwise; and anything in reason—a bow thrown out, perhaps—though, between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow.” Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was introduced by his servant, the General was shortly restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits. The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment, belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the General. It was a prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she felt it. “Oh! why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! it is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!” “I trust,” said the General, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!” “Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! what a sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! it is the prettiest cottage!” “You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.” Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the General for her choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on which Henry’s genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench in the corner. A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had any day passed so quickly! She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem to create the smallest astonishment in the General; nay, that he was even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His son and daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never before known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter’s being oiled. At six o’clock, the General having taken his coffee, the carriage again received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it. Chapter 27. The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella: _Bath, April_ My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place to-morrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother! pray send me some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the Rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the Concert, but made wretched work of it—it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her behalf! no, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.” On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she cried, “and for all our intimacy! she must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.” “It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry. “There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?” “I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause.” “Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?” “I am persuaded that he never did.” “And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?” Henry bowed his assent. “Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?” “But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment.” “It is very right that you should stand by your brother.” “And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.” Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more of it. Chapter 28. Soon after this, the General found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the General’s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the General came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time—had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised—and could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.” Catherine explained: “Oh! as to _that_, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.” “Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?” “Oh! because she had been there so long.” “Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it long—” “Oh! no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long again.” And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She did—almost always—believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations. Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been while the General was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven! what can be the matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him. Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up. At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching the very doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however, were tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account, could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender water, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you must not—you must not indeed—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such an errand!” “Errand! to me!” “How shall I tell you! oh! how shall I tell you!” A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!” “You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.” Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon went on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted—and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt either.” “My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord’s, come to Fullerton?” “It will not be in my power, Catherine.” “Come when you can, then.” Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to something more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday—so soon as Monday; and you _all_ go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The General will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way—and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.” “Ah, Catherine! were it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received but half what you ought. But—how can I tell you?—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 anything in extenuation! good God! what will your father and mother say! after courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.” “Have I offended the General?” said Catherine in a faltering voice. “Alas! for my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation, which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?” It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for Eleanor’s sake that she attempted it. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very little consequence.” “I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none; but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!” “Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Eleanor saw that she wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should avoid any further conversation, now left her with, “I shall see you in the morning.” Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way! without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! it was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it. Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully superior in reality and substance! her anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or terror. Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the General occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different! with what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going to Woodston for a day! happy, happy breakfast! for Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech. “You _must_ write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you _must_ let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour’s comfort. For _one_ letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.” “No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe.” Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly said, “Oh, Eleanor, I _will_ write to you indeed.” There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle, though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either during the time of their remaining together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.” But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door. Chapter 29. Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive. The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the General had made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard—had he even confused her by his too significant reference! and now—what had she done, or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a change? The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power. Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the General, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her? In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion; for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s account, it would cut her to the heart. With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton. A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall be her descent from it. But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine! happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! but whether such happiness were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood. Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! in the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her. Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,” said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding.” “I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?” “I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.” Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough! As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment—a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart. “This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! poor James! well, we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better worth keeping.” Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better worth keeping than Eleanor.” “If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!” Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet—! her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs. Allen. The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice.” This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she return! She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! and it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself.” Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers, with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not patience with the General”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really have not patience with the General,” was uttered twice after Mr. Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.” “Yes, but _that_ did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence there. “Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that evening?” “Do I! oh! perfectly.” “It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite gown on.” Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs. Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the General! such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! i do not suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know.” As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that _now_ Henry must have arrived at Northanger; _now_ he must have heard of her departure; and _now_, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford. Chapter 30. Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for ten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had been before. For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness, improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for needlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, “My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not know when poor Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend but you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for everything—a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have had a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.” Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that “her head did not run upon Bath—much.” “Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never fret about trifles. ” After a short silence—“I hope, my Catherine, you are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home, because there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at Northanger.” “I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what I eat.” “There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by great acquaintance—The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some day or other, because I am sure it will do you good.” Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair, from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing, in her daughter’s absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question, anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some time before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as “Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine—said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from home—and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother’s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. “You may see the house from this window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father’s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father’s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry 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 ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; 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 overrated, 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 everything 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 forever, 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 connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe 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 everybody 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 cause, 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. Chapter 31. Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s surprise 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. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation. “Catherine would make 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 forbade the connection, 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 surprised 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 fulness 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 everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth 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. In the end, Northanger Abbey is not just a tale of romance but a clever exploration of the themes of perception versus reality, and the growth of a young woman in her quest for love and self-discovery. Through her experiences, Catherine learns that life, unlike the novels she adores, is far more complex and unpredictable. Austen’s wit and keen observations make this story timeless, inviting readers to reflect on their own notions of heroism and the power of imagination. .

Déroulement de la vidéo:

0.0 Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen’s delightful satire of Gothic novels, introduces us to the imaginative and naive Catherine Morland. A young
9.72 woman with a passion for reading, Catherine’s journey begins when she is invited to the picturesque Bath. Here, she navigates the
18.16 complexities of society, friendships, and her own burgeoning romantic feelings. As she encounters charming suitors and intriguing mysteries,
27.76 Catherine’s whimsical fantasies clash with the realities of life, leading to a story filled with humor, irony, and a touch of adventure.
36.295 Chapter 1. No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
41.615 supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition,
49.535 were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was
58.495 Richard—and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable independence besides two good livings—and he was not in the least
66.095 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
74.335 good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody
82.015 might expect, she still lived on—lived to have six children more—to see
87.495 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
96.335 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,
104.135 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
112.935 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
122.255 preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or
130.655 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
139.135 least so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were
146.775 quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often
155.095 inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her
163.095 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
170.575 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,
177.895 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
186.655 it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave
195.937 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
204.657 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
211.617 way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
216.817 one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French
221.937 by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,
230.417 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
239.177 stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,
248.657 hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.
256.697 Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
266.257 improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of
274.977 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
283.137 and mother remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught
291.137 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
299.217 been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.
305.377 Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
312.617 lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
321.297 that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
329.777 country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
337.977 gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she had never any objection to books at all.
345.021 But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
350.941 must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful
359.421 lives. From Pope, she learnt to censure those who “bear about the mockery of woe.”
365.061 From Gray, that “Many a flower is born to blush unseen, “And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
371.381 From Thomson, that— “It is a delightful task “To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
377.061 And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst the rest, that— “Trifles light as air,
382.701 “Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong, “As proofs of Holy Writ.”
388.021 That “The poor beetle, which we tread upon, “In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
393.781 “As when a giant dies.” And that a young woman in love always looks— “like Patience on a monument
400.101 “Smiling at Grief.” So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came
405.461 on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
412.381 throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance
420.781 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
429.701 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
439.301 know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could
448.021 call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,
453.141 and without having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! but strange
462.581 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
470.021 baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one
477.701 young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no children.
484.021 But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
492.781 to throw a hero in her way. Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
499.527 village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured
507.447 woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,
515.367 invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
520.527 and Catherine all happiness. Chapter 2. In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
528.567 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
536.447 stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
544.087 meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just
553.527 removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as
561.167 ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is. When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
569.807 Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
578.287 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
586.647 the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
595.247 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
603.727 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
612.327 their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
620.207 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
628.127 I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose.”
634.287 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?),
643.287 must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
651.43 Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of
659.75 every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
667.51 Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with
674.83 the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her
683.59 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
692.03 guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it. Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
699.55 journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
708.67 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
717.79 her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless. They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
726.47 here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
735.03 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.
743.55 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
751.11 tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
759.67 wretchedness of which a last volume is capable—whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters,
768.47 ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
776.23 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
783.95 beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a
789.79 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,
797.95 intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted
803.017 to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
810.777 Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after
818.137 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.
825.297 Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into
832.937 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
842.697 looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it
851.617 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 ballroom
859.657 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
868.657 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
876.217 her protégée, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
883.937 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
892.217 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
899.777 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
908.337 seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence
916.377 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
923.537 the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view; and
928.577 by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
936.337 something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the
943.737 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:
952.994 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,
961.194 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
969.434 these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no
978.834 more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for
987.274 tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed
995.994 against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
1004.194 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
1012.274 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
1020.754 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
1028.394 which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.
1035.874 Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very
1043.474 shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in
1051.914 the whole room, I assure you.” “How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single
1057.394 acquaintance here!” “Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very
1063.714 uncomfortable indeed.” “What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if
1069.514 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
1079.514 acquaintance here.” “I wish we had _any;_—it would be somebody to go to.” “Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
1087.314 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
1096.154 see.” “No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! but I think we had
1101.325 better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! how is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
1109.565 “No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure
1114.885 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
1124.605 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
1132.645 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
1140.845 neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
1148.965 that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.
1155.605 “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an agreeable ball.” “Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a
1164.725 great yawn. “I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could
1169.925 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
1177.325 had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!”
1184.325 “We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s consolation.
1189.645 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
1197.365 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
1205.205 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
1213.885 before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once
1223.285 called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have
1231.485 thought her exceedingly handsome. She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
1238.045 hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
1246.287 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
1254.247 true quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and
1263.167 perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. Chapter 3.
1269.207 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
1277.287 attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance
1285.127 in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody
1293.887 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
1302.367 to her a very gentleman-like young man as a partner; his name was Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall,
1311.527 had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and
1319.567 Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found
1328.447 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
1336.247 in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the
1344.487 objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I
1352.967 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
1360.327 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
1369.087 particulars? If you are I will begin directly.” “You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”
1375.127 “No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering
1382.647 air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?” “About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
1388.727 “Really!” with affected astonishment. “Why should you be surprised, sir?” “Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone.
1397.203 “But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,
1402.883 and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before, madam?”
1408.363 “Never, sir.” “Indeed! have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?” “Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
1414.603 “Have you been to the theatre?” “Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.” “To the concert?” “Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
1421.123 “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.”
1429.083 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
1437.323 but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow.” “My journal!” “Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
1445.003 Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a
1453.443 queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.”
1459.243 “Indeed I shall say no such thing.” “Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
1464.363 “If you please.” “I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
1470.843 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
1479.163 to say.” “But, perhaps, I keep no journal.” “Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you.
1486.003 These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal! how are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your
1493.723 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
1501.443 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
1509.123 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
1518.283 as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which
1526.603 ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done
1536.523 something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal.”
1541.683 “I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen! that is—I should not
1550.723 think the superiority was always on our side. “As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
1557.879 usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three particulars.”
1563.439 “And what are they?” “A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
1569.119 very frequent ignorance of grammar.” “Upon my word! i need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
1575.039 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
1582.439 letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation,
1591.479 excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.” They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
1599.199 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
1607.359 it cost but nine shillings a yard.” “That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr.
1612.679 Tilney, looking at the muslin. “Do you understand muslins, sir?” “Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
1620.559 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
1628.919 a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
1636.399 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
1645.159 one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir.” “I hope I am, madam.”
1650.759 “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
1659.479 not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.” “How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
1666.719 “strange.” “I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told
1672.079 Miss Morland when she bought it.” “But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
1677.679 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
1686.199 sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
1693.439 “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
1701.679 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
1710.845 eight; and it is such a fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one
1715.885 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
1722.605 she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
1730.325 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
1737.525 ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.”
1743.965 Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.” “That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
1752.525 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
1760.245 tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much.”
1766.005 They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the
1774.685 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
1783.125 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
1792.285 celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must
1800.805 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.
1809.085 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
1816.565 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
1825.285 had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.
1830.845 Chapter 4. With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before
1840.365 the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear.
1847.885 Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
1853.085 fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
1862.085 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
1870.805 parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.”
1876.165 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;
1884.965 but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
1892.685 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
1900.725 of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great
1908.125 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
1916.405 name Allen?” This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the
1925.485 features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their
1933.565 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
1939.885 years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how
1945.005 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
1952.205 old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far
1960.405 more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great
1968.405 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
1976.845 daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and
1987.245 all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.
1992.62 Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving
1998.82 ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the
2006.3 discovery, which her keen eyes soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
2013.14 “Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her.
2021.26 “My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a
2029.9 fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest.”
2036.46 The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to
2043.74 strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her
2052.02 brother Miss Morland is!” “The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
2057.1 known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
2065.06 and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother
2072.54 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
2079.62 Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
2087.22 Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their
2093.62 brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof
2102.54 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
2110.06 delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is
2116.9 certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
2124.86 discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and
2133.5 quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided
2141.379 advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;
2149.739 could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and
2158.059 lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from
2165.899 Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not
2174.579 the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling
2182.779 of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the
2190.459 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
2197.979 house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that
2205.459 they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran
2212.699 directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk,
2221.219 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.
2228.979 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
2237.619 eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and
2245.259 dressing in the same style, did very well. This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
2251.939 of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
2260.619 the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had
2268.579 passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated. Chapter 5.
2273.619 Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
2278.699 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
2286.499 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
2295.424 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
2303.144 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
2311.584 about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is. As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
2319.704 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
2326.544 genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
2334.304 the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved
2341.904 conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was
2347.024 Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
2354.904 in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor
2363.864 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
2371.744 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
2381.184 becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s imagination around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more
2389.184 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
2396.424 subject, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to
2404.144 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
2411.904 young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him
2420.584 the better for being a clergyman, “for she must confess herself very partial to the profession”; and something like a sigh escaped her as
2427.904 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
2435.71 of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced.
2443.83 Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had found some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family
2452.51 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.
2461.35 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.
2469.95 Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
2477.91 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
2485.83 scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen
2494.83 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
2504.23 every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They
2511.67 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
2519.47 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
2527.67 dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for
2533.15 I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very
2540.95 performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such
2549.23 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
2558.03 its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be
2563.59 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
2572.07 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
2580.15 the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured
2585.19 body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the
2592.48 world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride,
2597.76 ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And
2603.32 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
2610.08 dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand
2618.4 pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the
2626.56 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_
2636.44 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
2644.96 novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or
2652.84 Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough
2661.68 knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in
2670.2 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
2679.28 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
2686.68 publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting
2694.88 in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their
2704.2 language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea
2709.28 of the age that could endure it. Chapter 6. The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
2717.44 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
2724.88 delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
2730.2 marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
2736.258 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
2744.538 at least this age!” “Have you, indeed! i am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was
2750.178 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
2759.458 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
2768.018 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
2775.458 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
2784.058 coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this
2791.418 morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?” “Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the
2797.978 black veil.” “Are you, indeed? How delightful! oh! i would not tell you what is
2804.778 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
2814.178 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
2824.018 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.”
2832.498 “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
2840.338 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?”
2847.258 “I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
2856.618 Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time.”
2862.978 “Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?”
2868.298 “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
2877.378 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
2886.298 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.
2893.928 “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
2902.048 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
2911.368 Captain 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
2919.328 Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
2927.648 difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_
2936.608 are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.” “Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
2943.848 “I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something
2951.128 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
2960.488 sure he is in love with you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again.
2965.608 Isabella laughed. “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one
2973.848 gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking more seriously—“your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is
2982.088 really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so
2989.648 uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! i can perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
2995.528 “But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
3001.968 “Not see him again! my dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure
3007.008 you would be miserable if you thought so!” “No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
3012.448 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
3022.088 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;
3031.048 but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.” “No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
3039.328 but new books do not fall in our way.” “Sir Charles Grandison! that is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
3046.728 remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume. “It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very
3053.386 entertaining.” “Do you indeed! you surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
3058.946 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.
3067.786 The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know.” “But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently.
3074.546 “Signify! oh, heavens! i make it a rule never to mind what they say.
3080.186 They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance.”
3086.026 “Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well
3091.186 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
3101.026 the by, 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
3108.866 like them best dark or fair?” “I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both,
3115.026 I think. Brown—not fair, and—and not very dark.” “Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
3123.346 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
3132.186 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
3140.306 answering that description.” “Betray you! what do you mean?” “Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop
3148.466 the subject.” Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
3154.106 moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s
3162.186 skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake!
3167.906 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
3175.426 really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”
3182.386 Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
3190.266 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
3199.466 determined I will not look up.” In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that
3205.306 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.
3213.894 “One was a very good-looking young man.” “They went towards the church-yard.” “Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! and now, what say
3223.374 you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it.”
3228.534 Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake
3234.214 the two young men.” “Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them
3239.694 presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.” “But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our
3246.014 seeing them at all.” “I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
3251.334 notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil them.” Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,
3259.574 to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in
3267.934 pursuit of the two young men. Chapter 7. Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
3274.614 opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap
3281.814 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
3290.934 the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of
3298.454 pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are
3303.614 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
3314.294 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
3322.654 Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting
3329.934 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
3337.454 vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.
3343.494 “Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest them.” But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for
3353.614 she looked again and exclaimed, “Delightful! mr. Morland and my brother!” “Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;
3363.56 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
3370.76 servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was delivered to his care.
3377.24 Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
3385.68 disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while
3394.2 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
3403.2 embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more expert in the development of other people’s feelings, and less simply
3410.64 engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she could do herself.
3415.88 John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
3424.2 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
3432.52 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
3441.24 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
3450.08 allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: “How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”
3456.52 “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.”
3465.72 Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers, and milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer
3474.44 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
3483.68 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
3491.56 harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.” “You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we
3498.76 came from Tetbury.” “Ten o’clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! i counted every stroke.
3505.693 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
3513.613 your life?” (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving off.) “Such true blood! three hours and and a half indeed coming only
3522.933 three and twenty miles! look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can.”
3528.333 “He _does_ look very hot, to be sure.” “Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
3534.933 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
3543.453 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
3552.013 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
3560.813 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
3568.933 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
3578.053 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
3587.493 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,
3596.373 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,
3606.733 threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.” “And I am sure,” said Catherine, “I know so little of such things that
3614.053 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
3621.013 I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.” “That was very good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased.
3628.053 “Oh! d—— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
3634.053 I hate to be pitiful.” An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
3639.253 ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their
3647.293 respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she
3656.031 endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double recommendation of being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s brother,
3663.391 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
3672.551 from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only three times.
3677.671 John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes’ silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. “You will find,
3685.911 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;
3692.951 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
3701.391 horse was included.” “My horse! oh, d—— it! i would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are you
3707.751 fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?” “Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
3714.551 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
3723.111 propriety of accepting such an offer. “I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.” “Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”
3730.951 “Rest! he has only come three and twenty miles to-day; all nonsense;
3736.311 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
3744.271 while I am here.” “Shall you indeed!” said Catherine very seriously. “That will be forty
3749.951 miles a day.” “Forty! aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown
3756.471 to-morrow; mind, I am engaged.” “How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella, turning round. “My
3762.391 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
3772.871 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
3781.151 Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more
3789.616 than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as
3798.136 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
3806.496 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
3814.456 which had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?”
3820.016 “Udolpho! oh, Lord! not I; I never read novels; I have something else
3825.856 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
3834.176 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
3843.136 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
3850.856 interesting.” “Not I, faith! no, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her
3857.056 novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature
3862.456 in _them_.” “Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
3869.296 “No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that
3875.856 other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who married the French emigrant.”
3881.696 “I suppose you mean Camilla?” “Yes, that’s the book; such unnatural stuff! an old man playing at
3887.856 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
3896.216 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.”
3902.736 “I have never read it.” “You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
3908.856 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.”
3916.936 This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
3925.296 feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
3933.736 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.
3943.526 “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
3951.966 look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near.” And this address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she
3959.526 received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal
3967.006 tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.
3973.326 These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
3981.606 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
3989.966 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
3999.006 youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
4007.766 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
4016.566 the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the
4021.686 door was closed on them, said, “Well, Catherine, how do you like my friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
4029.686 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
4038.086 very agreeable.” “He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle;
4043.246 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.”
4050.606 “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
4059.686 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
4067.566 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
4075.366 proud of.” “Indeed I am,” she replied; “I love her exceedingly, and am delighted
4081.566 to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when you wrote to me after your visit there.”
4086.926 “Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a great deal together while you are in Bath.
4094.205 She is a most amiable girl; such a superior understanding! how fond all the family are of her; she
4101.205 is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in such a place as this—is not she?”
4107.405 “Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl in Bath.”
4112.925 “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,
4121.125 my dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am
4128.885 sure, are very kind to you?” “Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
4136.685 will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far on purpose to see _me_.”
4142.605 James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, “Indeed,
4151.645 Catherine, I love you dearly.” Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
4158.005 situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression on
4167.205 James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs.
4175.965 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
4184.045 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
4192.885 he had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was
4200.925 then left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns
4208.645 of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on the delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
4217.605 bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged for the evening.
4223.125 Chapter 8. In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from
4230.085 Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
4237.766 having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown,
4245.886 and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperons, arm in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought
4254.966 occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection.
4261.846 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
4269.086 importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should
4276.606 induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. “I assure you,” said she, “I would not stand up without your dear
4284.686 sister for all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the whole evening.” Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
4292.766 and they continued as they were for three minutes longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of her,
4299.246 turned again to his sister and whispered, “My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to
4307.166 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,
4316.366 though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella had only time to press
4324.046 her friend’s hand and say, “Good-bye, my dear love,” before they hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was
4332.526 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.
4340.446 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
4349.686 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
4357.646 world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true
4365.806 source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it
4373.606 what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.
4381.25 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.
4389.89 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
4398.41 the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and
4406.37 as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine
4415.05 immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being
4423.09 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
4431.33 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.
4440.45 From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister’s now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike
4448.81 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
4458.25 redder than usual. Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to
4463.33 approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to
4472.45 her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye, instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She
4482.01 returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged.
4490.53 “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
4498.25 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
4507.21 is just the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he
4515.65 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
4524.37 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,
4531.13 from finding it of service to him.” “Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr.
4538.824 Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite stout.” “That circumstance must give great encouragement.”
4547.144 “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.”
4555.904 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
4563.864 with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and
4572.224 after a few minutes’ consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe
4580.304 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
4588.544 Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The very easy
4597.104 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
4605.104 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
4612.504 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.
4621.264 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
4629.824 separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this
4638.344 useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady.
4646.944 From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes
4655.344 directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. “I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,” said she, “for this liberty—but I cannot
4663.824 anyhow 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.”
4671.144 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
4678.344 each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of
4686.504 the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party.
4694.849 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,
4703.849 the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor
4712.049 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,
4720.649 and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at
4730.129 once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she
4738.209 could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by
4745.729 the frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance,
4753.569 by informing themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or
4761.289 played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback. The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm
4769.449 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
4778.609 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.”
4785.409 “My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you were.”
4790.849 “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
4799.889 an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! i have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear
4808.569 Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people.”
4813.929 “Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,” whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr.
4822.369 Tilney’s sister.” “Oh! heavens! you don’t say so! let me look at her this moment. What a
4828.369 delightful girl! i never saw anything half so beautiful! but where is
4833.489 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
4843.449 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.
4851.325 You men have such restless curiosity! talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! ’Tis nothing. But be
4858.085 satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.” “And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”
4864.525 “Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you;
4872.565 therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not very agreeable.”
4878.365 In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
4886.405 pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to
4893.925 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.
4903.205 Morland,” she cried, “I would not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your
4911.325 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
4918.605 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
4928.525 often done as not.” “Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,
4934.685 you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would
4942.325 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
4949.445 change.” “There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you
4954.765 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
4963.245 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
4970.965 away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once,
4980.005 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
4988.365 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
4996.805 an agreeable partner.” “Very agreeable, madam.” “I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”
5003.405 “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,
5012.362 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
5021.242 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;
5029.882 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
5040.002 must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world.”
5045.242 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
5053.282 consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, “I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son.”
5059.122 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
5067.682 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
5075.362 to stand up and jig it together again.” “Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
5081.562 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
5090.122 me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this
5097.562 half hour.” Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
5103.242 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
5110.642 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
5119.122 latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one “dearest Catherine.”
5126.562 Chapter 9. The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening
5131.842 was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
5140.122 brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of
5148.476 extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her
5157.196 distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in
5166.676 excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and
5174.916 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
5184.036 be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female
5192.036 intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another
5201.316 friend from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain
5209.716 in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks and
5217.516 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
5226.076 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
5234.356 street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about
5242.876 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
5250.356 two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came
5258.596 running upstairs, calling out, “Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a
5267.436 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
5275.996 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
5284.716 confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.” “What do you mean?” said Catherine. “Where are you all going to?”
5291.996 “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
5300.876 going up Claverton Down. “Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at
5306.502 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,
5315.102 if I had not come.” Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
5321.542 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
5330.062 by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and
5338.902 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
5346.742 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?”
5352.782 “Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get
5360.902 ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
5368.462 praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig; and then receiving her friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried
5377.102 downstairs. “My dearest creature,” cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could get into the
5384.622 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
5393.262 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
5402.382 her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! i quite dote on her.”
5407.902 “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.
5416.342 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,
5424.702 playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.” Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was
5431.702 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
5440.462 knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down
5445.622 by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse’s head was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off
5454.031 they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an
5461.791 escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her
5470.671 that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity
5479.231 with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should
5486.711 think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent
5494.591 a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any
5503.111 unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the
5511.951 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
5521.631 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
5530.391 he?” Catherine did not understand him—and he repeated his question,
5535.871 adding in explanation, “Old Allen, the man you are with.” “Oh! mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”
5544.791 “And no children at all?” “No—not any.” “A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?”
5552.431 “My godfather! no.” “But you are always very much with them.” “Yes, very much.”
5558.551 “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
5566.551 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
5573.431 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.
5581.071 Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_—that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would
5589.471 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.”
5595.911 “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
5603.551 be. Our foggy climate wants help. “And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in
5609.617 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
5618.057 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
5626.737 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
5636.057 often meet with anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking
5642.937 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
5651.697 am sure James does not drink so much.” This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no
5658.657 part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
5666.977 ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother’s
5674.937 comparative sobriety. Thorpe’s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
5681.257 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
5689.657 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
5697.617 impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of
5705.977 her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled
5714.377 between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his
5722.377 horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. “You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine, venturing after some time to
5730.817 consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break down?”
5738.337 “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
5747.657 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.
5755.56 It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! thank God! we have
5761.08 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
5770.2 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
5778.76 him how very unsafe it is.” “Unsafe! oh, lord! what is there in that? They will only get a roll if
5786.68 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
5795.8 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
5803.48 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
5812.72 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
5820.52 how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom
5829.0 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
5837.56 therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the
5845.48 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
5854.08 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
5862.24 those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and
5870.24 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
5877.48 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
5886.08 his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his
5891.32 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
5899.58 had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all
5907.98 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
5916.62 dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his
5924.94 own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.
5932.42 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
5940.62 not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a
5950.1 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
5958.14 spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly
5966.54 to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his
5976.18 powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella
5982.82 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
5991.38 was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! and she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would
6000.22 believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment
6009.14 longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no
6017.46 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
6025.78 please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend’s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings
6034.66 entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home.
6041.101 It was ages since she had had a moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had
6046.781 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,
6054.741 and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.
6059.821 Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, “Well, my dear, here you
6068.941 are,” a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; “and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?”
6075.501 “Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.” “So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”
6083.181 “You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?” “Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
6088.861 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
6095.501 scarce.” “Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?” “Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
6102.981 Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.” “Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”
6109.061 “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,
6118.381 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.”
6125.781 “And what did she tell you of them?” “Oh! a vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.”
6131.061 “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
6139.661 of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large
6147.381 fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all
6157.061 the clothes after they came from the warehouse.” “And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”
6162.301 “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;
6171.301 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
6179.541 on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died.”
6185.221 “And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?” “I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he
6192.801 is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very well.”
6198.161 Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most
6205.681 particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
6214.681 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
6223.321 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.
6231.281 Chapter 10. The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the
6236.481 theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand
6244.601 things which had been collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time which had divided them. “Oh, heavens! my
6253.161 beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?” was her address on Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by her. “Now, Mr. Morland,”
6262.281 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
6269.001 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
6277.281 in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love
6285.561 with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney—but _that_ is a settled thing—even _your_ modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming
6293.401 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
6303.041 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
6311.321 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 anywhere.”
6320.241 “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
6328.801 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
6336.881 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
6344.803 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
6352.803 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
6361.643 it.” “No, indeed I should not.” “Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself.
6368.443 You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond
6374.763 conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by for the world.”
6380.603 “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
6388.883 head.” Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to James.
6394.363 Catherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of
6401.563 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
6409.563 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.
6417.443 Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their
6424.963 newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the
6434.003 Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her
6441.843 usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves
6450.683 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,
6458.723 confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
6466.323 sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so
6475.123 much laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give
6482.683 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
6491.044 necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
6500.044 a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the
6507.564 day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as
6515.884 long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by
6523.764 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
6531.644 spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.
6537.244 “How well your brother dances!” was an artless exclamation of Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation, which at once
6545.124 surprised and amused her companion. “Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”
6551.724 “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
6558.244 engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.” Miss Tilney could only bow. “You cannot think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised
6566.604 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
6574.524 for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.” “_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
6582.924 thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?” “Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.”
6590.724 “I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?” “Not very.”
6596.044 “He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?” “Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”
6603.484 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
6611.644 Catherine. “Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?” “Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”
6617.004 “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
6625.724 her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them.
6632.524 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
6641.271 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
6650.351 is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
6659.591 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
6667.231 between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.
6674.711 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
6682.551 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
6691.511 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
6699.431 attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
6708.871 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
6718.391 better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the
6725.951 latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.
6731.431 She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
6738.791 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
6747.151 not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every
6755.991 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
6764.551 been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been
6772.591 anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she
6780.471 fidgeted 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
6788.271 him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.
6793.872 “Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively
6801.872 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,
6810.272 and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.”
6815.392 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.
6825.512 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
6834.152 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,
6842.472 when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
6851.032 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
6859.552 believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
6868.312 sought her on purpose!—it did not appear to her that life could supply any greater felicity.
6874.032 Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who
6881.032 stood behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning
6886.072 of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.” “I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”
6891.472 “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,
6899.072 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
6907.192 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
6915.232 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
6922.272 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
6931.032 blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his curiosity. “Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure
6940.672 of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of
6945.755 mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A famous clever animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds
6955.635 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
6964.435 do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight
6972.395 hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d—— uncomfortable,
6980.395 living at an inn.” This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of
6988.955 a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, “That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with
6996.995 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
7004.715 agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten
7012.395 themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity
7020.915 and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the
7029.275 partners or wives of their neighbours.” “But they are such very different things!” “—That you think they cannot be compared together.”
7035.995 “To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
7041.115 house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour.”
7046.595 “And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could
7055.075 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
7063.795 is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each
7072.035 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
7080.395 bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their
7087.235 neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?”
7092.788 “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
7101.068 light, nor think the same duties belong to them.” “In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man
7108.948 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.
7117.388 But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and
7126.708 the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.”
7135.068 “No, indeed, I never thought of that.” “Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
7142.308 disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your
7151.188 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
7159.188 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
7167.148 with him as long as you chose?” “Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if
7172.628 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.”
7180.308 “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 anybody,
7188.508 it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody.” “Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
7196.788 with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?”
7202.228 “Yes, quite—more so, indeed.” “More so! take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper
7209.068 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.”
7215.508 “Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. ‘For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but
7224.748 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
7233.108 winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer.”
7240.188 “Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath.
7246.933 But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place
7253.213 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
7262.013 nothing of there.” “You are not fond of the country.” “Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
7269.693 certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another.”
7277.093 “But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.” “Do I?” “Do you not?”
7282.373 “I do not believe there is much difference.” “Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”
7288.133 “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
7297.133 street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.” Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
7302.853 “Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!” he repeated. “What a picture of
7308.533 intellectual poverty! however, when you sink into this abyss again, you
7313.693 will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here.”
7318.973 “Oh! yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking
7328.253 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
7337.333 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
7346.773 just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! who can
7351.813 ever be tired of Bath?” “Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.
7357.733 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
7366.333 of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.” Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now
7374.733 too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
7380.813 herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
7389.333 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
7397.733 presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something
7406.253 wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, “I
7415.098 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
7423.618 father.” Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing
7428.698 everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now
7436.698 follow the General, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a family they are!” was her secret remark.
7443.658 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
7452.098 arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
7459.498 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
7467.738 that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. “I shall like it,” she cried, “beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it
7476.218 off—let us go to-morrow.” This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney’s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was
7484.498 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
7492.498 to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a
7500.578 fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she
7509.138 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
7517.618 chair all the way home. Chapter 11. The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a
7524.298 few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she
7532.338 allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for
7540.938 confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.
7550.218 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
7557.818 clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out. ” At about eleven o’clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
7564.519 windows caught Catherine’s watchful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it
7570.359 will be wet,” broke from her in a most desponding tone. “I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen.
7576.479 “No walk for me to-day,” sighed Catherine; “but perhaps it may come to
7581.879 nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.” “Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”
7588.479 “Oh! that will not signify; I never mind dirt.” “No,” replied her friend very placidly, “I know you never mind dirt.”
7597.759 After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window.
7604.039 “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
7612.519 umbrella!” “They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time.”
7618.159 “It was such a nice-looking morning! i felt so convinced it would be dry!” “Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in
7626.759 the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
7636.199 rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.”
7643.239 The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept
7652.239 on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not
7660.439 be able to go, my dear.” “I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter
7666.799 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
7675.679 twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! that we had such
7680.879 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
7688.759 weather!” At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather
7694.039 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
7702.599 by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy
7710.559 appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always
7718.999 thought it would clear up. ” But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney
7726.263 to venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the
7732.383 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
7740.743 of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had surprised her so much a few mornings back.
7747.143 “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
7757.063 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
7766.223 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
7773.903 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
7782.863 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;
7791.863 Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. “My sweetest Catherine, is not this
7799.823 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
7807.463 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
7815.063 rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! i am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
7824.463 country air and quiet! so much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We
7830.023 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.”
7837.623 “I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland. “You croaking fellow!” cried Thorpe. “We shall be able to do ten times
7845.903 more. Kingsweston! aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
7851.063 hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.” “Blaize Castle!” cried Catherine. “What is that?”
7857.343 “The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to see.” “What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”
7864.143 “The oldest in the kingdom.” “But is it like what one reads of?” “Exactly—the very same.”
7869.543 “But now really—are there towers and long galleries?” “By dozens.” “Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.
7878.169 “Not go! my beloved creature, what do you mean?” “I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
7885.769 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,
7895.169 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,
7902.249 I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?” “I do not know indeed.”
7907.329 “Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?”
7913.089 “Yes.” “Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
7918.449 smart-looking girl.” “Did you indeed?” “Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
7925.849 some very pretty cattle too.” “It is very odd! but I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
7931.209 walk.” “And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!
7936.329 You could no more walk than you could fly! it has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”
7942.969 Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”
7951.609 “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?”
7958.369 “Yes, yes, every hole and corner.” “But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?”
7965.129 “Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
7970.409 hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks.”
7975.609 “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.
7984.569 Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose you go.” And in two minutes they were off.
7991.729 Catherine’s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
7999.089 pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had
8008.009 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
8017.049 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
8024.289 course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience.
8031.748 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
8041.668 Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for almost anything.
8047.628 They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place, without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
8055.908 meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
8061.548 false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
8069.868 “Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?” “Who? Where?”
8075.468 “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
8082.748 arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss
8091.708 Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop,
8097.108 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,
8105.708 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
8113.988 whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr.
8122.588 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
8132.308 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
8141.708 point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them
8148.948 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,
8157.268 too, without saying a word! you do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten
8165.948 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
8174.588 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
8181.988 himself. Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
8187.588 agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in their former airing.
8192.937 She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she
8200.417 still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be
8207.377 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
8215.217 through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the happiness
8224.017 of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
8232.577 extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any
8241.097 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
8249.137 what was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is
8256.377 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
8264.577 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
8273.778 off till another day, and turn round.” “It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
8280.537 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
8288.898 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
8296.657 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
8304.577 own.” “No, he is not,” said Catherine warmly, “for I am sure he could not afford it.” “And why cannot he afford it?”
8311.257 “Because he has not money enough.” “And whose fault is that?” “Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud,
8318.898 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
8326.898 afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
8335.057 consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so;
8344.537 and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and
8353.49 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
8362.29 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
8370.13 away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on
8379.49 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
8387.611 strange, wild scheme.” They all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was
8394.29 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
8402.09 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
8410.25 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
8418.01 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
8426.53 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 everybody that
8434.81 is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am
8440.57 sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men think
8448.61 yourselves of such consequence.” Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
8454.57 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
8463.05 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
8471.81 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
8480.53 should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;
8488.09 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
8497.57 fifty times rather you should have them than myself. ” And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
8503.919 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
8512.239 rest in the course of the next three months. Chapter 12. “Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm
8520.039 in my calling on Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not be easy till I have explained everything.” “Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
8529.039 always wears white.” Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
8534.479 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
8541.599 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
8550.279 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
8558.879 conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see
8567.639 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
8576.319 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
8584.399 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
8593.399 not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
8601.839 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,
8610.519 could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
8618.839 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
8626.919 was followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they turned up towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep
8634.759 mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she
8643.559 remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of
8651.558 unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.
8659.358 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
8666.718 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
8676.318 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;
8684.838 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
8692.758 habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered everything else of the kind
8700.878 “quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing
8710.078 her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the
8716.598 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
8725.798 longer excite genuine merriment—no longer keep her whole attention.
8731.078 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
8740.198 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
8748.398 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
8758.198 observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost
8766.038 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
8773.558 of considering her own dignity injured by this ready condemnation—instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to
8780.758 show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
8788.358 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
8797.078 least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.
8802.41 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
8811.09 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
8819.61 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
8828.29 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.
8836.53 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
8844.73 thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?” “My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply.
8853.13 Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and
8862.45 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
8869.85 after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose.”
8874.93 “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
8883.33 him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not—Oh! you were
8889.13 not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you.”
8896.05 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,
8904.17 he said everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret, and dependence on Catherine’s honour. “Oh, do not say Miss Tilney was
8911.97 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
8919.61 next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had been there.”
8926.21 “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
8934.37 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
8942.73 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,
8952.37 and meant to make her apology as soon as possible. Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
8959.421 of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
8966.901 gentleman: “But, Mr. Tilney, why were _you_ less generous than your sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
8975.301 suppose it to be only a mistake, why should _you_ be so ready to take offence?” “Me! i take offence!”
8981.781 “Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were angry.” “I angry! i could have no right.”
8988.821 “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.
8997.901 He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,
9005.501 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,
9013.821 she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the world. While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
9022.541 John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and
9030.501 she felt something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself the object of their attention and discourse. What
9037.621 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
9045.101 admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes. “How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father?” was her anxious
9053.301 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
9061.701 acquaintance. When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
9066.821 out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which
9075.381 had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking
9083.101 with General Tilney: “He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! stout,
9088.621 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.”
9097.581 “But how came you to know him?” “Know him! there are few people much about town that I do not know. I
9105.021 have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again to-day the moment he came into the billiard-room.
9110.866 One of the best players we have, by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was
9116.986 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
9124.666 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
9133.946 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?
9143.586 You. Yes, by heavens! and the General thinks you the finest girl in
9149.226 Bath.” “Oh! nonsense! how can you say so?” “And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done, General,
9157.586 said I; I am quite of your mind.” Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
9163.666 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,
9172.186 continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done.
9177.306 That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the
9185.186 family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much more, for her than could have been expected.
9192.106 Chapter 13. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
9198.386 passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
9207.866 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
9216.186 the afternoon’s Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom
9224.426 had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided
9232.226 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
9239.146 good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it. She had left
9247.186 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
9255.746 demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The
9265.346 engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany them now.
9271.995 She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk to-morrow; it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any account,
9279.955 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
9289.155 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
9296.795 distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to
9302.035 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
9310.555 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
9318.395 the walk till Tuesday.” “No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
9325.435 engagement.” But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on
9330.635 her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
9338.555 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
9347.235 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
9356.395 by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
9364.235 with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
9371.995 cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. “I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
9381.035 love you so excessively! when once my affections are placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
9389.555 stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers
9397.555 does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else.”
9402.795 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?
9411.635 Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
9418.955 mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
9427.355 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
9436.18 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
9443.58 anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
9451.74 do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But “No, no, no!” was the immediate
9460.3 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
9469.1 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
9477.7 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.”
9485.62 “Catherine, you must go,” said James. “But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
9492.26 either of them would like to go.” “Thank ye,” cried Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my
9498.18 sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I
9503.66 do. I only go for the sake of driving you.” “That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were
9510.02 lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most
9516.86 uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and
9525.1 her arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
9533.66 distressed, but always steady. “I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,” said James;
9539.7 “you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.”
9545.22 “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.”
9554.82 “I suspect,” said Isabella, in a low voice, “there is no great struggle.”
9560.18 Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
9565.66 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
9574.82 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.”
9581.74 “You have not!” cried Catherine. “I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment.
9588.353 Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to
9593.633 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
9601.433 convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine—hey?”
9608.313 Isabella’s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again.
9614.193 “A most heavenly thought indeed! now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a
9622.953 most delightful party.” “This will not do,” said Catherine; “I cannot submit to this. I must
9629.273 run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.” Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
9637.753 remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday
9645.993 would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection.
9651.433 “I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.
9656.593 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
9664.393 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;
9672.953 Isabella, do not hold me.” Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
9678.553 turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time.
9683.633 “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
9692.753 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
9700.233 darted after her, but Morland withheld him. “Let her go, let her go, if she will go.” “She is as obstinate as—”
9707.673 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
9715.953 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
9725.193 disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
9733.073 apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
9741.713 and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
9750.061 merely her own gratification; _that_ might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
9759.741 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
9768.101 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,
9776.821 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
9784.061 Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
9791.341 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
9799.221 proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the
9806.981 drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in being—from her irritation of nerves and
9815.461 shortness of breath—no explanation at all, was instantly given. “I am
9820.501 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
9829.621 explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would not stay for the servant.”
9834.981 The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
9840.021 soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe _had_ given the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself
9848.461 greatly surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as
9856.901 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
9864.501 declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could desire.
9869.701 The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
9877.981 politeness as recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
9886.581 anxious attention was the General’s civility carried, that not aware of her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
9894.781 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
9902.233 of inquiring into the matter.” And if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
9909.193 favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.
9914.353 After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave, and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if
9922.153 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
9930.633 greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
9935.833 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;
9944.993 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
9952.913 was sure they would not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure in coming.” The General attended her himself to the
9959.793 street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded exactly with
9968.193 the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.
9975.033 Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity,
9984.473 though she had never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything more of the offended party; and now that she had been
9991.473 triumphant throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt
10000.713 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
10008.793 the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps through her means.
10018.033 To ease her mind, and ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct had really been, she took occasion to
10026.753 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,”
10035.553 said he, “and do you think of going too?” “No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they
10042.033 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
10051.473 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
10059.884 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.
10068.484 Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects objectionable?”
10075.804 “Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
10081.044 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
10088.484 direction. I hate an open carriage myself.” “I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has
10094.964 an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by young men, to whom they are not even related?”
10100.844 “Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
10107.124 “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
10115.604 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.
10125.324 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,
10134.444 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
10143.124 not like to be always thwarted.” “But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
10149.204 would have found me hard to persuade.” “As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,” said Mr.
10155.484 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.
10163.964 Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
10169.244 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
10177.684 which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in
10185.884 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
10195.244 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,
10202.644 you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be only getting ill will.
10208.872 Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her
10216.792 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
10225.872 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
10233.312 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?
10241.152 Chapter 14. The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
10246.792 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
10255.152 victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her
10263.952 at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
10272.152 disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They
10280.312 determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
10289.392 from almost every opening in Bath. “I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
10295.392 the river, “without thinking of the south of France.” “You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
10302.032 “Oh! no, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
10307.072 of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
10314.192 “Why not?” “Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better books.”
10319.472 “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
10328.672 works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
10334.072 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.”
10342.312 “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
10350.552 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.”
10358.392 “Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
10363.552 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
10371.89 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
10380.49 are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I
10385.53 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
10393.77 liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly.”
10399.53 “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.
10408.01 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
10415.37 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
10423.33 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
10432.17 the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!”
10438.37 “Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?”
10444.57 “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
10454.13 is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking
10462.05 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
10470.37 be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.” “I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong;
10477.97 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
10485.57 taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! it is a very nice word indeed! it does for everything. Originally perhaps
10495.01 it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or
10504.05 their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.”
10509.73 “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.
10518.112 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
10527.552 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.”
10536.552 “Indeed!” “That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do
10542.232 not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?”
10548.752 “Yes, I am fond of history.” “I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
10556.032 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
10566.432 nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I
10571.552 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,
10580.232 their thoughts and designs—the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books.”
10587.392 “Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
10595.792 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
10604.352 former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one’s own
10612.152 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
10622.352 up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made—and probably
10627.392 with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.”
10636.352 “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
10645.632 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,
10654.072 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
10662.112 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
10670.672 and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s courage that could sit down on purpose to do it.
10676.524 “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
10684.004 deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no
10692.004 higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
10700.564 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
10709.844 synonymous.” “You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had
10715.364 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
10723.324 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
10730.724 day of my life at home, you would allow that to _torment_ and to _instruct_ might sometimes be used as synonymous words.”
10737.964 “Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
10746.764 particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to
10755.764 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
10764.044 taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain—or perhaps might not have written at all.”
10769.284 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
10778.044 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
10786.084 being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing—nothing of taste:
10795.124 and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to
10802.124 her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter
10808.644 before. 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
10817.004 a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.
10825.916 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
10834.116 always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
10842.276 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
10851.116 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
10859.796 great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more
10868.396 in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages—did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
10875.716 heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the
10884.356 present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw;
10892.436 and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
10899.676 everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.
10908.036 He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens
10913.156 and perspectives—lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
10921.916 rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her
10930.276 with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline,
10935.476 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,
10943.196 to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from
10952.476 politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which
10957.796 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
10965.676 these words, “I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London.”
10971.236 Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied, “Indeed! and of what nature?”
10978.116 “That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.
10985.717 “Good heaven! where could you hear of such a thing?” “A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from
10992.517 London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind.”
10998.357 “You speak with astonishing composure! but I hope your friend’s accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known
11006.237 beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect.”
11012.277 “Government,” said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
11020.877 government cares not how much.” The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, “Come, shall I make you
11027.077 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
11036.077 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
11044.677 comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want
11053.517 observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.” “Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
11062.237 satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.” “Riot! what riot?” “My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
11070.997 there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
11078.397 duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you
11087.437 understand? And you, Miss Morland—my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London—and
11097.357 instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
11106.037 immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George’s Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
11114.757 streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
11123.157 the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
11130.557 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
11139.717 a simpleton in general.” Catherine looked grave. “And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you
11146.566 have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
11154.246 rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”
11161.126 “I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.” “No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”
11167.606 “What am I to do?” “You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
11172.886 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
11180.886 women in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I happen to be in company.”
11186.726 “That is not enough. Be more serious.” “Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
11193.566 women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
11198.646 never find it necessary to use more than half.” “We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
11205.366 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
11213.126 woman at all, or an unkind one of me.” It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never
11220.206 be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as
11228.806 ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her
11237.966 friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen
11245.246 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,
11253.326 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
11261.966 friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she
11270.166 became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her
11278.766 anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable
11287.829 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
11297.309 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
11304.029 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
11312.709 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,
11320.589 for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria.”
11326.869 Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement.
11332.229 “Oh! yes,” rejoined the other, “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to
11337.789 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,
11346.949 if they pressed me ever so much.” Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, “I wish
11353.629 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
11363.069 would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us.” Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
11371.909 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
11379.869 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
11387.549 to resent her resistance any longer. Chapter 15. Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness
11395.869 in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
11404.269 state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings. The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne’s
11412.589 quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday’s party. Maria
11420.749 desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful
11427.229 scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive.
11435.399 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,
11444.759 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
11453.319 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
11462.399 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
11470.479 could hardly get it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
11476.079 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
11483.999 with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.
11492.639 “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
11500.439 she had such thick ankles. 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
11508.759 little matter that puts me out of temper.” Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such
11515.599 happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began:
11524.959 “Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not
11530.079 deceived you. Oh, that arch eye of yours! it sees through everything.” Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
11538.999 “Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, “compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and
11548.719 talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! oh! my dear Catherine, you alone, who know my
11558.599 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
11567.519 your excellent father and mother say? Oh! heavens! when I think of them I am so agitated!”
11573.839 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,
11582.599 she cried out, “Good heaven! my dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can
11587.719 you—can you really be in love with James?” This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
11595.079 fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the
11602.648 course of their yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James.
11611.528 Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! new to such circumstances,
11620.088 the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life
11628.648 can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The
11637.488 happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
11645.528 Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the prospect of the connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
11653.928 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
11662.448 more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.” This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
11668.648 “You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
11677.648 the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart
11686.728 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
11695.168 introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.” Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
11703.928 exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had never in her life thought him handsome.
11710.288 “I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
11715.328 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
11722.328 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
11730.688 suffer half what I have done! i am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I
11736.848 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
11746.328 of my partiality for the church! but my secret I was always sure would be safe with _you_.
11751.837 Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor
11759.957 refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was
11768.117 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
11776.317 to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
11783.997 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
11792.997 doubt of their consenting immediately.” “Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
11799.357 expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!”
11806.917 Here Catherine again discerned the force of love. “Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
11814.597 nothing to signify.” “Oh! my sweet Catherine, in _your_ generous heart I know it would
11821.197 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
11831.037 I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.”
11836.637 This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
11845.157 acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than in uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her
11853.637 frequent declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.” “For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
11861.917 smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would
11871.557 not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about
11879.437 Richmond.” “Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
11884.637 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
11893.997 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
11901.317 to-morrow. To-morrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know it will be the death of me.
11908.11 ” A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.
11916.15 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.
11924.55 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
11933.79 speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
11942.79 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
11950.31 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
11959.03 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.”
11968.03 The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours
11976.07 flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to
11983.51 consider Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and
11990.95 add their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger
11998.71 sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
12007.79 unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her
12016.07 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
12025.11 one side in the mystery of an affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.
12031.75 Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
12039.15 delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more
12047.39 desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a state of real distress.
12053.17 But when it did come, where could distress be found? “I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind
12059.89 parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to forward my happiness,” were the first three lines, and in one moment
12068.13 all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits
12077.17 became almost too high for control, and she called herself without scruple the happiest of mortals.
12083.21 Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
12092.17 satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was “dear John” and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria”
12101.29 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
12110.21 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
12117.97 finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise. The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
12126.77 little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella
12134.85 could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what
12143.17 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
12151.09 disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a
12159.89 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
12168.01 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
12176.05 exhibition of hoop rings on her finger. When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
12182.45 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
12190.65 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,
12198.57 fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied. “Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said Catherine.
12205.946 He made no answer; but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this
12211.786 marrying scheme, upon my soul! a clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s.
12217.506 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.”
12223.346 “Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! i am glad you are no enemy to
12228.706 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
12236.906 hope.” “Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.” “And then you know”—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
12245.186 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
12255.186 Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be going home.” “Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be
12263.226 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.”
12270.266 “Then why do you stay away so long?” replied Catherine—finding that he waited for an answer.
12275.306 “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 anybody
12284.346 living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you
12293.866 have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.” “Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a
12302.346 great deal better. Good morning to you.” “But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton
12308.866 before it is long, if not disagreeable.” “Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
12316.146 “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.
12325.066 Company is always cheerful.” “That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful
12330.666 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
12339.906 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
12348.026 matters.” “Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to _most
12353.466 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
12362.466 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
12371.242 what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good
12376.602 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
12386.402 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
12396.002 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
12403.602 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
12411.882 communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,
12420.642 leaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and her explicit encouragement.
12427.162 The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her brother’s engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion
12435.322 in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How great was her disappointment! the important affair, which many words of
12443.682 preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since her brother’s arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was
12451.202 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
12460.002 lady’s, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising insensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James’s
12469.322 going to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but
12476.722 repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could have known his intention, wished she could have seen him before he
12484.082 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.
12492.122 Chapter 16. Catherine’s expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street
12497.962 were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, though she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly
12506.882 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
12515.322 examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment preparing for happiness which it had not afforded.
12521.896 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
12531.136 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
12538.656 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
12547.616 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
12555.816 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
12564.416 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
12572.776 accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a
12580.576 different explanation: “It was all pride, pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride! she had long suspected the family to be very
12589.016 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
12597.496 her house with common good breeding! to behave to her guest with such superciliousness! hardly even to speak to her!”
12605.016 “But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness; she was very civil.”
12611.816 “Oh, don’t defend her! and then the brother, he, who had appeared so
12616.976 attached to you! good heavens! well, some people’s feelings are
12622.056 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.”
12629.736 “How contemptible! of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
12637.616 Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.” “Unworthy! i do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”
12643.896 “That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!
12649.016 Oh! how different to your brother and to mine! i really believe John has the most constant heart.”
12655.016 “But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed
12663.856 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
12672.816 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
12681.496 them at the rooms. “And must I go?” “Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.”
12686.933 “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,
12695.453 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
12703.853 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
12712.613 shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.” Isabella’s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
12721.093 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.
12728.853 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
12736.733 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,
12743.853 Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for
12748.893 the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party.
12757.133 She looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in
12764.653 her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly
12772.693 inferior; for, within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for
12780.933 finding it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine’s opinion of him, his admiration of
12789.173 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
12797.933 instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will
12806.333 drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of
12815.413 having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and,
12824.733 in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
12833.173 and, much to Catherine’s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did
12841.27 not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now
12850.67 hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without
12858.11 very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes’ duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an
12866.35 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
12875.59 any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was
12884.31 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.
12891.31 “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
12899.15 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
12907.99 dance upon any account in the world.” Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to
12914.55 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
12924.55 is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person’s feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, How should
12932.39 _I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?” “I do not understand you.”
12938.27 “Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well.” “Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”
12946.07 “Bravo! an excellent satire on modern language.” “But pray tell me what you mean.”
12951.87 “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
12960.59 certainly bring on a disagreement between us.” “No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”
12966.11 “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
12973.59 being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.” Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were
12982.15 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
12991.01 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,
12999.89 she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across.
13005.05 Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it
13012.93 was not quite enough for Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.
13019.53 “I cannot think how it could happen! isabella was so determined not to dance.” “And did Isabella never change her mind before?”
13026.49 “Oh! but, because—And your brother! after what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?”
13033.21 “I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised on your friend’s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother,
13042.05 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
13049.81 open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself.”
13055.13 “You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.” “It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be
13063.65 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
13072.13 no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.” The friends were not able to get together for any confidential
13078.21 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
13087.25 at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would
13096.05 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
13104.09 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
13112.61 to excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he; after aspiring
13118.41 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
13126.37 me. Oh! such nonsense! i told him he had taken a very unlikely way to
13132.703 prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches
13137.863 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,
13147.143 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
13155.543 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
13163.303 was upon us.” “He is very handsome indeed.” “Handsome! yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him in
13171.103 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
13180.503 conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my way.”
13186.063 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
13194.703 kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds
13203.383 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
13213.023 niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.
13221.703 James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
13229.223 marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was
13234.463 borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as unfixed as her ideas of her father’s income, and whose judgment was
13243.263 now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly
13251.663 settled. “It is very charming indeed,” said Isabella, with a grave face. “Mr.
13257.063 Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,” said the gentle Mrs. Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. “I only wish I could do as
13264.343 much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he _can_ do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be
13273.063 an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate,
13281.783 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
13288.491 the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For
13296.411 myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.” “I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in
13304.651 the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
13312.411 when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so
13320.771 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
13328.331 suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man.”
13335.331 “Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do
13344.011 what they like with their own money.” Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she,
13350.531 “that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.” Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet Catherine, there
13358.171 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
13365.691 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
13373.731 not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.
13379.731 There’s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and a half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living.”
13386.251 “Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see
13391.411 into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a
13398.931 noble honest affection.” Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
13404.931 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
13411.851 cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was
13420.331 received with the most gratifying kindness. Chapter 17.
13425.651 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 which
13434.171 Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.
13442.632 Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should
13450.152 be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
13457.792 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
13466.072 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
13474.512 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
13482.592 distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured
13490.912 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
13499.952 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
13508.952 suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine’s countenance fell, and in a voice of most
13517.592 sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end of another week!”
13523.192 “Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
13528.432 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
13536.392 hurry to get home.” “I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known
13542.112 this before—” “Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so
13547.512 good—it would make me very happy if—” The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine
13554.712 was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his
13562.232 daughter and said, “Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?”
13569.432 “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
13578.552 daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as
13586.872 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
13593.857 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
13602.097 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
13610.417 prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost
13618.177 ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as
13626.137 yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can
13631.177 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
13638.577 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
13647.737 endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.”
13653.217 Northanger Abbey! these were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s
13658.377 feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
13666.257 tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! to have her company so warmly solicited! everything honourable and soothing, every
13675.777 present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s
13683.857 approbation, was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she, “and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not—”
13691.737 General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of
13699.617 his wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may expect philosophy from all the world.”
13706.257 Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this
13713.777 necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
13719.817 the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
13729.537 with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs.
13738.39 Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their
13743.51 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
13751.99 ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of
13760.27 being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for
13768.31 her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she
13773.71 had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a
13781.35 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
13790.11 Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
13798.55 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
13806.39 society she mostly prized—and, in addition to all the rest, this roof
13811.63 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 abbeys
13820.19 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
13828.11 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
13836.27 for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned
13845.99 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,
13855.71 and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.
13863.95 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
13870.91 meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their
13878.71 superiority of abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.
13883.809 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
13891.529 was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having
13899.689 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
13907.169 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.
13915.729 Chapter 18. With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
13922.049 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,
13929.889 and to sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one morning, by Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear; and
13938.729 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
13946.889 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
13954.929 everybody entering at either; “it is so out of the way.” Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards
13962.929 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
13971.689 fine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, “Do not be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.”
13978.889 “Psha! my dear creature,” she replied, “do not think me such a
13984.129 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.
13991.809 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
14001.089 upon a most particular description of it.” “You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
14007.329 looking for? Are your sisters coming?” “I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you
14014.009 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
14022.209 absent creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp.”
14028.049 “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
14037.249 poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just
14042.328 had a letter from John; you can guess the contents.” “No, indeed, I cannot.”
14047.448 “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
14056.128 you.” “With _me_, dear Isabella!” “Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! modesty, and
14062.768 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
14070.368 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
14079.088 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
14087.168 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
14095.448 to affect ignorance.” Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her
14100.768 astonishment at such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr. Thorpe’s being in love with her, and the consequent
14107.968 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
14116.928 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 anything like
14125.088 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
14133.288 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
14142.848 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
14151.088 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
14158.968 before you left the house.” “Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say—but for the life
14166.568 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
14175.288 minutes— However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass
14180.368 on his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it, that I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind
14189.328 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
14198.168 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
14206.831 make him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but
14215.431 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,
14223.271 you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters.”
14230.311 “Yes, yes” (with a blush), “there are more ways than one of our being sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
14238.991 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
14246.231 to encourage it.” “Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.
14252.551 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
14260.911 foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together?
14269.031 You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say,
14277.511 there is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he could not have received my last.”
14284.271 “You _do_ acquit me, then, of anything wrong?—You are convinced that I never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
14292.111 till this moment?” “Oh! as to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
14298.151 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
14306.551 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
14313.831 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
14322.071 know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.” “But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the
14330.471 same. You are describing what never happened.” “My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
14336.991 her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an engagement before you knew what you were about.
14343.409 I do not think anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and
14352.489 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,
14359.729 they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why
14364.929 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
14373.209 dear Catherine, 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
14382.049 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
14390.489 comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.” Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,
14397.569 earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements
14405.129 invited him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she could distinguish, “What! always to be watched, in person or by
14414.209 proxy!” “Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
14420.089 do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit, you know, is pretty independent.”
14426.089 “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
14435.449 none of you any hearts.” “If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
14442.169 “Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you”
14451.129 (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
14458.769 once too much and too little.” Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no
14464.529 longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her brother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed
14473.289 their walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
14482.609 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
14490.089 excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be stubborn too; and Mrs.
14496.814 Allen just then coming up to propose their returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving
14503.854 Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling
14512.334 in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him; unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to James was as
14520.934 certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
14529.054 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
14537.934 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
14545.974 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
14553.734 brother. The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
14558.854 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
14566.054 mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In
14574.894 vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in
14582.374 love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had
14590.654 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
14598.494 present ease and comfort. Chapter 19. A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
14606.334 suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered
14614.294 creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners
14622.414 was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted
14630.654 absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_
14638.294 might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions
14647.146 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
14655.546 to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could
14663.866 not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was
14672.506 the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his
14677.706 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
14686.146 greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of
14694.386 his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible
14702.866 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
14710.226 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
14718.466 Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension
14727.906 was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney
14736.506 family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s removal would
14744.746 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
14753.786 to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the
14762.946 subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.
14770.666 “My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer. “Does he? Then why does he stay here?”
14777.746 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
14786.506 he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence
14795.626 will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable.
14802.113 ” Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.” “Then you will persuade him to go away?”
14809.393 “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
14817.353 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
14826.273 know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
14832.193 “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
14839.433 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
14847.153 by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment.”
14853.073 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
14861.553 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
14869.553 into a fever. You know she must be attached to him.” “I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
14877.233 “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,
14886.753 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
14894.633 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
14903.633 he mean by his behaviour?” “You are a very close questioner.” “Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”
14910.113 “But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?” “Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”
14916.553 “My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at.”
14922.033 “Well?” “Well! nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves.
14929.553 To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are
14934.673 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
14943.073 he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.” “Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “_you_ may
14951.193 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
14959.061 he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go.”
14965.261 “My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry, “in this amiable solicitude for
14970.341 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
14978.661 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
14986.341 Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him
14991.461 only when unsolicited by anyone 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
15000.141 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
15008.261 your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no
15016.021 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
15023.501 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.”
15029.741 Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, “Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a
15037.701 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
15047.141 will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor
15054.541 Tilney’s passion for a month.” Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its
15061.141 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
15070.421 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
15079.221 interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her
15087.181 uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid.
15095.485 Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that
15100.525 at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine
15108.325 remembered Henry’s instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones
15116.645 may be fancied. Chapter 20. Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
15124.485 humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
15133.045 happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
15140.965 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
15149.685 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
15158.285 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
15165.525 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
15174.085 unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor
15179.165 could the incessant attentions of the General himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have
15188.205 felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort—his continual solicitations that she would eat, and his
15196.885 often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste—though never in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a
15204.405 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
15213.085 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
15221.325 displeasure he expressed at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by the severity of his father’s
15229.085 reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself the principal cause of the
15237.565 lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a very uncomfortable
15245.565 situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.
15251.935 He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence, which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on
15259.375 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
15267.855 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
15276.215 remained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper
15283.775 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
15291.615 trunks were carrying down, and the General had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for
15299.615 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,
15307.255 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
15314.415 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
15323.495 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
15332.175 which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger
15340.455 from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine’s spirits
15346.095 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
15354.655 abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected
15363.255 it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and
15371.335 loiter about without anything to see, next followed—and her admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and
15379.855 four—postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under
15389.095 this consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but General Tilney,
15396.733 though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children’s spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the observation
15405.693 of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more
15414.573 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
15422.933 then surprised 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
15430.853 was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.” The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
15438.373 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
15446.613 General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry
15455.493 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;
15464.133 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
15472.013 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
15479.893 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
15488.133 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
15497.733 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
15506.333 then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! to be driven by him, next to being
15515.493 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
15523.613 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
15533.053 friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced—she had no female companion—and,
15542.653 in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all. “But how can that be?” said Catherine.
15549.892 “Are not you with her?” “Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
15556.292 my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father’s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”
15563.132 “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
15571.572 abbey! after being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”
15578.532 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
15587.732 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
15597.292 fit for sliding panels and tapestry?” “Oh! yes—I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there
15603.412 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
15611.812 to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.” “No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly
15620.892 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.
15629.732 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
15637.452 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
15645.012 housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages,
15650.732 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
15660.492 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
15668.692 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,
15677.932 presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?”
15682.972 “Oh! but this will not happen to me, I am sure. “How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! and
15691.004 what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,
15696.124 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 fireplace the
15704.644 portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your
15713.244 eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.
15723.324 To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs
15731.924 you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her
15739.404 receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,
15748.364 with increased alarm, that it has no lock.” “Oh! mr. Tilney, how frightful! this is just like a book! but it cannot
15756.524 really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?”
15761.724 “Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your _unconquerable_ horror of the bed, you will retire to
15769.284 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
15777.404 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
15786.844 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
15795.084 more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will
15802.924 instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a
15811.564 division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately
15820.124 appear—which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you
15825.204 will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening—and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.”
15833.804 “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
15842.004 secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off.
15848.704 Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted
15855.904 room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in
15863.784 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
15871.304 common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted
15879.384 room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly
15887.264 examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock
15896.304 its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a
15904.024 considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of paper appears—you
15913.104 seize it—it contains many sheets of manuscript—you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been
15920.944 able to decipher ‘Oh thou, whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands
15926.224 these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’—when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”
15934.024 “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
15941.624 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
15949.744 in the perusal of Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her
15958.784 attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never
15966.424 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
15974.704 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
15983.224 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
15991.944 the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building stand, that she found herself passing through
16000.544 the great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without having discerned even an antique chimney.
16007.019 She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not
16013.939 expected. To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven
16022.259 so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent.
16032.459 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
16040.979 observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was
16049.019 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
16056.739 friend and the General were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one moment’s suspicion
16065.299 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
16073.499 wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common
16081.139 drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was. An abbey! yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! but she
16089.259 doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was
16096.099 in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times,
16104.859 was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The
16113.339 windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the General talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with
16121.059 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
16129.699 might be even casements—but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! to an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions,
16138.739 and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.
16146.099 The General, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where
16154.419 everything, being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc. ; flattering himself, however, that there were some apartments in the
16162.68 Abbey not unworthy her notice—and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped
16171.72 short to pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! this seemed the word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away
16180.68 by Miss Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.
16189.04 Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many
16196.72 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
16205.52 Catherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope
16214.12 she would find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she would make as little alteration as possible in her dress.
16221.4 Chapter 21. A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
16227.24 was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
16235.44 neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those
16244.8 of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
16252.04 altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on this point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of
16260.76 anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the General by any delay. Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was
16269.96 preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on
16277.68 a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything
16286.16 else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed her:
16291.56 “This is strange indeed! i did not expect such a sight as this! an
16297.96 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
16307.16 it—cost me what it may, I will look into it—and directly too—by
16312.2 daylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out. ” She advanced
16317.414 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
16326.254 stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at
16331.334 each end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the
16341.214 lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it
16346.734 intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe
16354.694 the last letter to be a _T;_ and yet that it should be anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of
16361.774 astonishment. If not originally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?
16368.574 Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards
16377.574 to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few
16385.453 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
16393.574 violence. This ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by her
16398.693 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
16406.055 doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing without further delay. Her progress
16415.453 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
16424.654 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
16432.693 her gown, her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be
16440.734 spared; and, so desperate should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be
16449.494 thrown back. With this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.
16455.469 Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly
16462.508 folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
16471.828 anxious for her friend’s being ready, entered the room, and to the rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd
16479.107 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
16487.469 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
16496.588 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
16504.707 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.”
16512.309 Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
16521.309 Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General
16530.309 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,
16538.908 ordered “Dinner to be on table _directly!_” Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale
16545.668 and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and detesting old chests; and the General, recovering his politeness as he
16554.629 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
16563.389 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
16570.828 having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the
16578.268 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
16587.867 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
16596.188 the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness and the number of their attendants.
16601.721 Of the former, she spoke aloud her admiration; and the General, with a very gracious
16606.881 countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most
16615.6 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
16623.119 used to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen’s?” “No, indeed,” was Catherine’s honest assurance; “Mr. Allen’s
16630.801 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
16638.721 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
16646.279 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.
16655.84 The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.
16664.32 It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
16672.6 restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.
16681.881 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
16689.881 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
16699.16 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
16709.08 characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
16717.119 had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within
16725.119 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
16734.439 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
16742.359 as securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled,
16751.748 especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter her room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits
16759.668 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
16767.428 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
16775.188 obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a log! how glad I am that Northanger is what it
16782.948 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
16791.588 sure, there is nothing to alarm one.” She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
16797.948 could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
16805.228 humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare
16814.468 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
16822.268 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
16831.348 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
16839.028 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
16846.588 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
16854.108 stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she
16859.308 was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her
16867.628 notice before. Henry’s words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation at first, immediately rushed across
16876.228 her; and though there could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence!
16883.628 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
16891.148 the handsomest kind; and as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold.
16897.31 The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not, however, with the smallest expectation of
16903.67 finding anything, but it was so very odd, after what Henry had said. In
16908.75 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
16917.51 tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way; a
16926.47 bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely mysterious! the door was still immovable. She paused a moment in
16934.67 breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the
16942.39 awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the
16951.55 consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the key, and after
16959.99 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:
16968.71 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
16977.11 wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her eye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers appeared in
16985.03 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
16994.11 probability a cavity of importance. Catherine’s heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a
17001.95 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
17010.59 empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched,
17019.79 and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not
17028.79 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
17037.35 “never from the first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill
17045.43 success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was about it.
17051.118 ” It was some time however before she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of
17057.358 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
17066.716 roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were
17073.636 indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript,
17084.198 for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of
17092.118 what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.
17098.518 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
17106.396 some hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might
17113.636 occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! it was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect.
17122.396 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
17130.396 rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room.
17136.396 A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to
17141.758 the moment. Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant
17150.876 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,
17160.198 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
17169.156 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
17178.038 way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too
17183.598 abroad so dreadful! she had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence.
17191.904 The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning’s prediction, how was it to be accounted for? What could it contain? To
17202.424 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
17210.504 discover it! till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s
17218.784 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,
17227.824 and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were
17232.984 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
17241.704 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
17249.944 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
17258.504 had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she unknowingly fell fast asleep.
17265.584 Chapter 22. The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the
17271.584 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
17280.064 cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the
17288.224 consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript; and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s
17295.264 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
17303.664 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
17311.704 what she had shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling
17320.784 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.
17329.384 Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that
17337.984 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
17346.464 articles with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new.
17352.172 Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure
17360.252 scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest,
17368.292 seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s bill! such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could
17377.172 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
17384.532 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
17392.492 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
17399.972 recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so
17409.252 habitable!—Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!
17416.332 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
17424.092 own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the
17431.172 smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those
17439.812 detestable papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before,
17448.452 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
17457.612 disgrace her even with herself. Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still
17463.732 something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
17471.932 flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the door’s having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its
17479.212 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
17486.492 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
17493.852 Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch
17501.578 reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the world would she not have her weakness suspected,
17509.258 and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little. “But we have a
17516.818 charming morning after it,” she added, desiring to get rid of the subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over.
17524.738 What beautiful hyacinths! i have just learnt to love a hyacinth.” “And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”
17531.578 “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
17540.658 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
17549.818 source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable
17557.858 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
17565.618 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?”
17572.738 “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
17580.818 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
17589.738 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
17598.818 my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?” Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
17604.098 entrance of the General, whose smiling compliments announced a happy state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did
17612.338 not advance her composure. The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice
17618.138 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
17626.738 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
17635.658 well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden or Sêve. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago.
17644.234 The manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly
17652.154 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
17660.474 selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him.
17667.956 Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the
17675.676 hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
17683.394 another glimpse of his figure. “This is a somewhat heavy call upon your brother’s fortitude,” observed the General to Eleanor. “Woodston will
17691.196 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
17698.914 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
17705.436 recommendations. The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the
17714.074 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
17722.676 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
17731.714 this living, he would not be ill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd,
17736.914 that with only two younger children, I should think any profession necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all
17743.794 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
17752.116 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,
17760.314 but employment is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any
17768.756 private man in the county, has his profession.” The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The
17776.516 silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable. Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the
17782.89 house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it
17790.57 was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already
17798.172 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,
17807.372 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
17814.292 accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden.” She curtsied her acquiescence. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to make
17822.372 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.
17831.13 Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his
17836.21 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
17845.172 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
17853.692 yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.” He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious
17861.532 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
17869.81 pleasing her; but she was stopped by Miss Tilney’s saying, with a little confusion, “I believe it will be wisest to take the morning
17877.252 while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s account; he always walks out at this time of day.”
17883.772 Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the
17891.012 General’s side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And was not it odd that he should _always_ take his walk so early?
17898.532 Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely
17907.292 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
17915.692 were her thoughts, but she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.
17921.932 She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn.
17929.786 The whole building enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich
17935.266 in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the
17944.106 steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to
17952.706 compare with it; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in
17960.224 wonder and praise. The General listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed
17968.426 till that hour. The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
17973.506 across a small portion of the park. The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine
17979.186 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
17988.026 orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a
17993.426 village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work within the enclosure. The General was flattered by her looks
18001.304 of surprise, 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
18009.946 them before; and he then modestly owned that, “without any ambition of that sort himself—without any solicitude about it—he did believe them
18018.544 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
18026.904 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
18036.186 his. The utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits.
18041.304 The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself.”
18050.346 “No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went into it.”
18056.664 With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the General wished he could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in
18064.706 some way or other, by its falling short of his plan. “How were Mr. Allen’s succession-houses worked?” describing the nature
18072.664 of his own as they entered them. “Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use
18079.304 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
18087.586 contempt. Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall,
18092.686 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
18100.326 expressing his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their
18108.166 walk, if Miss Morland were not tired. “But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland
18116.806 will get wet. Our best way is across the park.” “This is so favourite a walk of mine,” said Miss Tilney, “that I always
18125.086 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;
18133.886 and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, could not, even by the General’s disapprobation, be kept from stepping
18142.206 forward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea of health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He
18151.166 excused himself, however, from attending them: “The rays of the sun were not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another
18158.326 course.” He turned away; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less
18167.326 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.
18175.566 “I am particularly fond of this spot,” said her companion, with a sigh. “It was my mother’s favourite walk.”
18181.806 Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before, and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself
18190.006 directly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with
18195.766 which she waited for something more. “I used to walk here so often with her!” added Eleanor; “though I never
18201.806 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.”
18209.446 “And ought it not,” reflected Catherine, “to endear it to her husband?
18214.766 Yet the General would not enter it.” Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured to say, “Her death must have been a great affliction!”
18222.246 “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
18229.806 strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know what a loss it was.
18235.92 ” She stopped for a moment, and then added, with great firmness, “I have no sister, you know—and though
18242.04 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
18249.96 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
18257.72 constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.” “Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture
18265.44 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;
18274.52 the first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed by; and Catherine’s interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney
18282.0 augmented with every question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in marriage, she felt persuaded. The General certainly had
18290.88 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
18300.28 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
18308.12 question, “hangs in your father’s room?” “No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was
18314.68 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
18323.2 bed-chamber—where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.”
18328.32 Here was another proof. A portrait—very like—of a departed wife, not
18333.48 valued by the husband! he must have been dreadfully cruel to her! Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
18341.0 feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute
18349.6 aversion. Yes, aversion! his cruelty to such a charming woman made him
18355.04 odious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was
18363.92 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
18372.36 indignation, she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled.
18379.3 Being no longer able, however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon
18384.42 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
18392.14 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
18400.66 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
18409.14 instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.
18414.78 Chapter 23. An hour passed away before the General came in, spent, on the part of
18420.9 his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character. “This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind
18429.62 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
18438.06 smile with _them_. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father
18446.5 being, contrary to Catherine’s expectations, unprovided with any pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to
18454.58 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
18464.3 caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common
18471.58 drawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture—the real drawing-room, used only with company of
18481.5 consequence. It was very noble—very grand—very charming!—was all that
18486.78 Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned the colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise that
18495.9 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
18504.3 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
18512.74 every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection
18521.18 of books, on which an humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than
18528.86 before—gathered all that she could from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed.
18537.31 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
18546.47 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
18554.23 scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was some relief, however, that they were to
18562.432 return to the rooms in common use, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which, with occasional passages,
18571.272 not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides; and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that she was treading
18579.39 what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to
18587.272 her—by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the General’s private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or
18594.83 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
18604.352 his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats. From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be
18611.512 seen at five o’clock, the General could not forgo the pleasure of pacing out the length, for the more certain information of Miss
18618.792 Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to the kitchen—the ancient kitchen of the
18626.47 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
18635.192 not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and,
18644.272 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
18652.55 have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent. With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the
18660.592 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
18668.83 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
18678.07 enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary.
18683.942 Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for
18690.382 the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the
18698.382 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
18706.502 Morland’s, a view of the accommodations and comforts by which the labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he
18714.702 should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their
18722.702 multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at
18730.382 Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike
18739.222 her less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked
18747.542 off. Yet this was an abbey! how inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from such as she had read about—from abbeys and
18755.542 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
18764.342 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
18773.062 amazed herself. They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,
18778.182 and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite
18785.502 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
18794.142 shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything
18801.582 that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the
18810.142 last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As
18818.702 they were surveying the last, the General, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been
18825.702 honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be “our
18833.902 friends from Fullerton. ” She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly
18841.782 disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
18850.742 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
18859.182 of gallery, when the General, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,
18864.702 as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whither she were going?—And what was there more to be seen?—Had not Miss Morland already
18873.542 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
18881.742 Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond
18889.502 them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of
18898.742 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
18906.702 house than see all the finery of all the rest. The General’s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant.
18916.422 Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what
18924.862 that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed the General at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out: “I was
18933.662 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
18942.302 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
18950.102 in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings
18957.662 of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of
18962.862 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
18970.422 have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the General must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. “It remains as it
18978.822 was, I suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling. “Yes, entirely.” “And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”
18986.222 “She has been dead these nine years. ” And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the
18994.96 death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. “You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”
19000.4 “No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was unfortunately from home. Her
19005.68 illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.” Catherine’s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally
19014.44 sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry’s father—? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest
19022.56 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
19031.0 silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt
19036.48 secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! what could more plainly speak the gloomy
19044.24 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
19054.12 anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice. “My father,” she
19062.52 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
19071.12 a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good.
19076.36 After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry’s importance among them, she was
19084.44 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.
19091.88 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
19099.28 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
19107.4 you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? _My_ eyes
19112.68 will be blinding for the good of others, and _yours_ preparing by rest for future mischief.”
19118.12 But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must
19125.8 occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,
19130.84 after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could
19139.32 be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the
19148.006 pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was
19157.446 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
19166.046 reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children, at the time—all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.
19175.446 Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty—was yet to be
19180.846 unravelled. In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her
19186.646 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
19193.926 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
19201.126 yet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she
19210.806 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
19219.286 conjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as
19228.046 certainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of
19236.766 which she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous
19244.726 proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!
19251.886 Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
19260.246 supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible. The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to
19268.206 be acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the
19276.926 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
19285.486 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
19293.886 early. The various ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be up.
19299.67 Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet,
19307.228 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
19315.708 asleep. Chapter 24. The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of
19322.95 the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was required by the General in exercise
19331.03 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
19339.51 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
19348.388 treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to
19356.43 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
19365.35 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
19373.51 her destroyer, affected her even to tears. That the General, having erected such a monument, should be able to
19380.228 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
19390.27 fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings
19399.59 equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime
19408.51 to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement
19417.548 closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s actual
19426.03 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
19433.59 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
19441.708 waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.
19446.748 The succeeding morning promised something better. The General’s early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and
19455.79 when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise.
19462.098 Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their
19467.618 first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,
19476.058 justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were
19481.218 not in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,
19489.818 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
19498.058 resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study
19507.498 for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest,
19516.618 would have left it unwillingly. Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
19522.218 endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor’s countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her
19530.818 inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the
19538.418 important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded
19546.658 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
19554.618 tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An
19562.978 attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye;
19570.738 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
19579.338 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
19587.618 greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry General to attend him in
19595.618 his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing
19600.938 a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors.
19607.23 The breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was named to them by the General as the friend of
19612.432 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
19621.032 present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his character, taking an early occasion of saying to
19628.592 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
19636.752 consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the
19645.23 company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it. In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution
19653.032 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
19660.23 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
19669.352 office of a friend. The General’s utmost anger could not be to herself
19674.39 what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any
19682.272 companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions,
19687.352 from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in _her_ presence, search for those
19695.71 proofs of the General’s cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in
19704.112 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
19712.512 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
19720.71 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.
19729.63 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
19737.592 hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the
19744.91 one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the
19754.39 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
19762.39 feature. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid’s care, a bright
19771.808 Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows!
19782.248 Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortly
19790.808 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
19799.17 everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation! this apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so
19807.85 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
19815.53 dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she
19823.93 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
19832.85 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
19841.53 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,
19849.648 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
19858.128 least wanted), much worse! she listened—the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.
19867.208 At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet
19874.93 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
19883.45 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
19892.09 looked astonished too. “Good God!” she continued, not attending to his address. “How came you here? How came you up that staircase?”
19900.37 “How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why
19908.69 should I not come up it?” Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more.
19914.29 He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery.
19921.468 “And may I not, in my turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask
19926.788 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
19934.388 from the stables to mine.” “I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s
19939.668 room.” “My mother’s room! is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?” “No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till
19946.988 to-morrow.” “I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but
19952.868 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
19960.548 stairs. Perhaps you did not know—you were not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?”
19965.828 “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
19973.788 in the house by yourself?” “Oh no! she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were
19979.828 coming here to these rooms—but only,” dropping her voice, “your father was with us.”
19985.028 “And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”
19991.588 “No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.” “It is only a quarter past four,” showing his watch; “and you are not now
20000.548 in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough.”
20007.468 She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first
20014.948 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?”
20022.388 “No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.”
20027.628 “Promised so faithfully! a faithful promise! that puzzles me. I have
20032.708 heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of promising! it is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can
20041.388 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!
20050.388 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
20057.468 sent you to look at it, I suppose?” “No.” “It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing.
20063.878 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
20072.838 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
20081.638 believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can
20086.798 boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating
20095.718 tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”
20101.358 “Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very
20107.238 interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I
20115.798 thought—perhaps had not been very fond of her.” “And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on
20122.678 hers), “you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence—some”—(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of
20130.558 something still less pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. “My mother’s illness,” he
20138.198 continued, “the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious
20146.318 fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short,
20151.598 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
20159.318 confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and
20167.478 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;
20177.118 and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those
20184.718 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
20193.678 in her coffin.” “But your father,” said Catherine, “was _he_ afflicted?” “For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached
20202.398 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
20210.798 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
20218.318 her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.”
20225.746 “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
20235.026 as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been
20242.786 judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own
20251.866 understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such
20259.666 atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary
20268.106 intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay
20275.866 everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?”
20281.026 They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. Chapter 25.
20287.466 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
20295.866 eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most
20304.026 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
20312.586 exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—could he
20320.866 ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears—could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.
20330.266 He had—she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now—in short, she made
20338.866 herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an
20347.626 intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
20355.506 difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he
20362.906 looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;
20368.626 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
20376.344 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
20384.624 she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created
20392.302 delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one
20400.944 purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared
20408.344 for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it
20416.184 seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged.
20421.704 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
20430.742 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,
20439.624 they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there
20447.944 represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western
20455.704 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
20464.062 the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be
20472.222 procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were
20481.062 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
20489.864 hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in
20498.982 Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some
20508.142 actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have
20516.104 entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
20522.594 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
20530.754 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
20539.552 the course of another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
20548.514 was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
20555.274 became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
20560.594 improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention
20568.072 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
20576.034 memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use. The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
20584.954 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
20593.312 rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
20600.912 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
20610.514 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
20617.912 Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! this made it
20626.832 so particularly strange! For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of
20633.954 a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
20642.312 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
20650.992 she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:
20656.072 “Dear Catherine, “Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it
20661.674 my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either
20668.434 again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where
20675.954 lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank
20683.474 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
20692.434 has made me miserable forever! let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; _your_ love I do build upon. I
20700.634 wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
20707.114 circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;
20712.314 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,
20721.274 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
20729.034 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,
20737.234 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
20745.114 had we never met! i can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
20752.034 “Believe me,” &c. Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
20757.354 countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her
20765.914 through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his
20774.154 father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her
20783.394 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
20792.354 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
20801.154 visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to
20809.674 come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that
20817.114 moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the
20826.182 others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort to her.
20832.622 After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her
20841.14 distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly
20850.38 hint at it—but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella
20856.102 had been to her—and then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
20864.66 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,
20872.622 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
20881.22 none of them ill?” “No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My
20886.862 letter was from my brother at Oxford.” Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
20892.542 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
20902.3 had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings.”
20908.102 “It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! poor James is so unhappy! you will soon know why.”
20915.82 “To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry warmly, “must be a comfort to him under any distress.”
20923.782 “I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will
20931.782 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
20940.102 something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney.”
20945.38 Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
20952.66 which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips. “How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare!
20960.862 And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella—no wonder _now_ I have not heard from her—Isabella
20969.938 has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! could you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is
20978.418 bad in the world?” “I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he
20985.418 has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
20992.338 must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that
20997.736 anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.”
21004.778 “It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay—There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line.
21013.938 “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
21021.698 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.”
21029.816 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
21038.296 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
21047.098 his situation, either as a lover or a son.” Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise,
21055.778 and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe’s connections and fortune.
21062.496 “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.”
21070.458 “Are they a wealthy family?” “No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but
21076.458 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
21084.656 promote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked at each other. “But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be
21092.296 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
21100.178 how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! a girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another
21109.098 man! is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his
21114.576 heart so proudly! who found no woman good enough to be loved!” “That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
21123.056 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
21131.15 suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! he is a deceased
21138.83 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,
21149.19 guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.”
21155.31 “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
21164.07 our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant.”
21169.99 “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
21178.11 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
21186.39 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
21193.87 disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s character in my life before.”
21199.55 “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
21207.19 James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.” “Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we
21214.19 must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you
21223.11 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
21230.95 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
21240.07 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
21247.87 difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?” “No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought
21255.63 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
21264.39 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
21273.11 nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves.
21278.244 Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
21286.204 on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had produced it.
21291.564 Chapter 26. From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
21297.244 people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young friends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella’s want of
21305.124 consequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the General
21313.044 would, upon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might be raised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her
21321.444 feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir
21329.524 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
21337.084 rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that particular
21344.964 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
21354.244 in the General; and by a recollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments on the subject of money, which she had more
21361.684 than once heard him utter, and which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood by his children.
21369.164 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
21376.484 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
21384.204 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
21391.924 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
21400.524 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
21410.044 objections on a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so
21418.324 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
21426.124 forestalled. He must tell his own story.” “But he will tell only half of it.” “A quarter would be enough.
21432.794 ” 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
21441.474 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
21449.756 General, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick’s remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and
21458.116 had no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland’s time at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on
21465.956 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
21473.994 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
21481.474 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
21490.756 country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise
21498.836 there some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with
21506.276 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,
21514.276 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
21521.956 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
21529.836 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
21538.356 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
21546.554 in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the
21553.994 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
21562.154 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
21571.036 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
21580.914 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
21589.33 be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for us.”
21595.41 A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with
21602.89 Woodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she
21611.33 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
21619.73 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
21627.292 future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.
21632.692 Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I
21640.65 must go away directly, two days before I intended it.” “Go away!” said Catherine, with a very long face. “And why?”
21649.33 “Why! how can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in
21654.932 frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.”
21660.852 “Oh! not seriously!” “Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.”
21666.65 “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,
21675.81 because _anything_ would do.” Henry only smiled. “I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your
21681.65 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
21690.33 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
21698.65 not signify.” “I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As
21705.172 to-morrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.” He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to
21712.452 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
21721.21 his going. But the inexplicability of the General’s conduct dwelt much on her thoughts.
21726.858 That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own unassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should
21733.818 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
21743.818 Henry could have been aware of what his father was at? From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.
21751.378 This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney’s letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very
21759.018 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
21769.378 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
21776.658 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
21785.338 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
21793.018 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
21802.218 well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday
21811.978 should ever come! It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
21817.298 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
21826.618 drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed
21834.938 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
21842.738 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
21850.658 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
21858.258 from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove
21867.338 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
21875.698 make much of them. Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either
21881.268 to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the General
21886.388 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
21894.668 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.
21902.428 “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
21909.828 parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other
21920.188 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
21929.748 otherwise; and anything in reason—a bow thrown out, perhaps—though, between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,
21938.428 it is a patched-on bow.” Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
21944.428 by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments
21952.548 was introduced by his servant, the General was shortly restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.
21961.348 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
21969.068 walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,
21974.188 belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the
21981.828 drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the General. It was a
21990.268 prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed
21997.908 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
22007.188 pity not to have it fitted up! it is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!”
22013.388 “I trust,” said the General, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will
22018.668 very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!” “Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! what a
22028.548 sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! it is the prettiest cottage!”
22034.108 “You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”
22043.186 Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the General for her
22052.026 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
22059.506 fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental
22068.786 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
22078.186 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
22084.786 than the green bench in the corner. A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a
22090.826 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
22098.746 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
22107.626 had any day passed so quickly! She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem
22113.746 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
22123.186 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
22130.986 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
22139.946 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
22147.906 of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little
22156.146 anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it. Chapter 27.
22162.386 The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella: _Bath, April_
22168.626 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
22177.106 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
22186.026 begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other.
22193.038 Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave
22198.158 this vile place to-morrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares
22206.638 for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am
22214.358 quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding.
22222.198 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
22229.798 fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you
22238.198 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
22245.318 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
22254.118 to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must
22261.718 mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards
22269.878 he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I knew the
22277.958 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
22286.558 coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste,
22295.678 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
22304.038 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
22311.038 contrast between him and your brother! pray send me some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable
22319.238 when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his
22327.998 direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in
22333.358 my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or,
22338.398 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.
22346.494 I have not been to the Rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they
22354.456 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
22361.616 Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but
22370.536 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.
22378.414 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
22385.336 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
22393.336 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
22401.294 favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me,
22407.414 Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
22413.696 Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever
22422.734 loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her
22431.616 behalf! no, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”
22437.096 On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and
22444.974 reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she
22452.376 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
22460.176 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
22468.696 do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.”
22474.134 “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
22481.456 had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time.
22489.138 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
22498.1 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
22506.498 injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause.”
22513.498 “Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?” “I am persuaded that he never did.”
22518.94 “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
22528.058 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
22536.298 heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?”
22541.498 “But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
22549.218 case, she would have met with very different treatment.” “It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”
22555.34 “And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate
22563.298 principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”
22571.26 Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
22581.218 resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more of it. Chapter 28.
22588.54 Soon after this, the General found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
22596.738 should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his
22604.78 children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be
22612.34 sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease
22622.058 and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her
22629.78 thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the General’s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it.
22637.002 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
22644.8 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
22652.762 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
22660.602 perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of
22668.362 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
22677.202 the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult
22683.56 to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s
22691.16 being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and
22698.602 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)
22706.48 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
22714.762 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
22723.48 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?”
22731.522 “Oh! because she had been there so long.” “Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you
22738.442 think it long—” “Oh! no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
22744.32 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
22752.64 uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing
22760.762 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
22768.72 her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She did—almost always—believe that Henry loved
22776.96 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
22786.002 were merely sportive irritations. Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly
22791.97 at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave
22800.372 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
22808.89 did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the
22817.172 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
22825.292 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
22832.372 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
22840.852 of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven! what can be the matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother,
22848.65 whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.
22855.852 Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting
22863.97 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
22872.05 her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never
22879.932 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
22888.012 all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it
22897.05 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
22905.452 arrival, and Eleanor did not come up. At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
22913.13 listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something
22921.532 moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching the very doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the
22929.532 lock proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be
22937.918 again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,
22947.958 and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however, were tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and
22955.796 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
22964.796 there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account, could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged
22973.556 her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender water, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you must not—you
22983.396 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
22993.236 an errand!” “Errand! to me!” “How shall I tell you! oh! how shall I tell you!”
22999.396 A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”
23006.598 “You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.”
23017.396 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
23025.118 make Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
23034.396 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
23043.118 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
23051.598 been settled between us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to
23057.236 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
23064.758 happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My
23074.796 father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a
23082.758 fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot
23087.838 attempt either.” “My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way
23097.156 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
23106.766 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?”
23113.244 “It will not be in my power, Catherine.” “Come when you can, then.” Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to something
23121.324 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
23130.564 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
23139.804 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
23147.686 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
23156.484 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
23165.404 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
23172.606 o’clock, and no servant will be offered you.” Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe
23180.044 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
23188.244 myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! that I could suggest
23193.846 anything in extenuation! good God! what will your father and mother say! after courting you from the protection of real friends to
23201.766 this—almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! dear,
23210.124 dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must
23219.644 have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.”
23225.926 “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
23233.964 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
23242.526 more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,
23251.898 which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?”
23259.818 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
23268.178 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,
23276.338 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.”
23284.218 “I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;
23290.178 but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,
23299.338 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
23307.618 taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!” “Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to
23315.858 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
23325.138 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
23332.858 the morning.” Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence
23338.218 friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house,
23346.858 and in such a way! without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence
23356.498 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
23365.818 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
23375.938 so particularly fond of her! it was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would
23384.538 end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in
23389.568 which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance
23398.288 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
23407.648 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
23414.968 intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so
23422.888 painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person
23431.888 not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it. Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of
23440.528 sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene
23448.528 of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully
23456.728 superior in reality and substance! her anxiety had foundation in fact,
23462.128 her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her
23469.608 situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the
23478.008 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
23487.608 curiosity or terror. Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or
23493.528 give assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her
23501.648 packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message
23507.248 from the General occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And
23516.328 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
23523.808 useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between
23532.448 them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,
23540.728 Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk.
23548.974 When everything was done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known,
23557.014 cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from
23565.174 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
23573.014 this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four
23581.054 and twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different! with what cheerful ease, what happy,
23590.094 though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going
23598.614 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
23607.654 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
23616.414 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
23624.654 treated, striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
23633.654 impelled into resolution and speech. “You _must_ write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you _must_ let me hear
23640.214 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
23648.654 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,
23657.294 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
23666.054 cover to Alice.” “No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
23671.494 sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe.”
23676.574 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
23685.614 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
23693.614 said, “Oh, Eleanor, I _will_ write to you indeed.” There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
23701.014 though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided
23708.79 with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to
23716.75 be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for
23725.51 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
23732.79 must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
23740.31 together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
23749.55 affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
23757.39 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
23765.07 intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.” But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of
23772.39 restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the
23780.63 chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door. Chapter 29. Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
23790.67 terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage,
23799.23 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
23807.27 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
23815.51 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,
23825.27 every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every
23833.67 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
23842.55 it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and
23848.83 agitation were excessive. The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
23854.39 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
23863.454 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
23871.854 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
23880.334 omitted to do, to merit such a change? The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
23886.374 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
23894.574 entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by
23903.894 any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and
23912.054 injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
23919.614 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.
23929.054 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
23937.214 prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her
23945.214 being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
23954.254 sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.
23962.414 To the General, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
23969.974 In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose,
23979.054 the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from
23987.654 noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and
23995.654 though no object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found no stage of it tedious.
24001.5 From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion;
24008.18 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
24015.54 such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own
24024.46 grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill
24032.58 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
24041.06 them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s account, it would cut her to the heart.
24047.5 With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles
24054.54 of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger;
24059.62 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
24067.7 had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay
24077.38 procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about
24085.26 eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.
24093.06 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
24101.62 countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
24110.02 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
24118.34 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
24126.82 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
24136.62 attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups,
24145.26 and speedy shall be her descent from it. But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus
24152.104 advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
24160.784 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
24168.902 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
24175.822 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
24184.742 years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine! happy the voice that
24193.264 proclaimed the discovery! but whether such happiness were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.
24201.462 Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken
24210.944 the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond
24218.902 anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! in the joyfulness of family love everything for a
24227.462 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
24236.024 tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before
24244.462 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
24253.424 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
24263.184 all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any
24271.024 quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,
24276.382 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
24285.062 romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs.
24291.178 Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what
24297.138 they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor
24304.818 feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
24310.218 what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual
24318.458 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;
24326.938 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
24335.658 their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with
24344.338 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
24352.298 at all worth understanding.” “I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
24357.818 engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?” “I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must
24365.538 have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
24373.658 Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I
24378.858 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
24385.658 people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but
24393.978 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
24401.938 have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.” Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
24408.698 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
24417.858 next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified
24426.858 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
24435.458 though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
24443.818 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
24452.07 excursion from home, was odd enough! As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to
24458.55 Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
24467.23 reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough
24474.672 commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;
24483.31 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
24490.952 her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment—a
24500.512 letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see,
24509.352 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
24518.672 she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than
24526.272 grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart. “This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the
24534.672 letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens
24539.71 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,
24549.71 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
24558.512 worth keeping than Eleanor.” “If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do
24564.39 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!”
24571.71 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
24578.31 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
24586.158 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
24594.398 pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as
24602.038 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
24611.038 walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but
24619.598 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
24626.678 the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of
24635.358 her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life,
24643.998 for the foolishness of his first choice.” This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
24649.638 listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
24657.998 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
24665.558 three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run
24670.638 backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay,
24675.918 and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it.
24684.438 Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she return!
24690.798 She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally
24697.598 call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it
24706.278 was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She
24714.918 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
24723.398 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
24730.946 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
24739.666 very well for herself.” Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
24744.706 resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
24753.706 wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers, with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not
24761.666 patience with the General”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really have not patience with the General,” was uttered twice after Mr.
24770.986 Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended
24780.266 the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent
24789.466 in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath
24798.826 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
24807.146 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
24815.826 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
24824.346 nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I
24829.466 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
24836.586 evening?” “Do I! oh! perfectly.” “It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
24844.666 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
24851.786 favourite gown on.” Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
24857.066 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
24865.746 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
24874.466 wonder; Milsom Street, you know.” As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her
24880.266 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
24888.58 unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
24895.502 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
24903.862 very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very
24912.342 slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
24920.502 justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that _now_ Henry must have arrived at Northanger; _now_ he must have
24928.98 heard of her departure; and _now_, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford. Chapter 30.
24934.502 Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her
24943.342 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
24951.622 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
24960.182 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
24968.422 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
24975.9 that she had been before. For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but
24981.942 when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness, improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination
24989.98 for needlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, “My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do
24998.98 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
25007.262 everything—a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have had a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.”
25014.782 Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that
25020.14 “her head did not run upon Bath—much.” “Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of
25026.782 you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never fret about trifles.
25032.364 ” After a short silence—“I hope, my Catherine, you are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as
25039.764 Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at
25047.482 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
25055.204 bread at Northanger.” “I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what
25061.042 I eat.” “There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
25066.284 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
25074.642 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
25082.844 her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
25093.082 from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
25101.524 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
25109.004 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
25118.004 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
25125.242 she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created
25133.524 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
25143.082 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
25151.124 daughter as “Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging
25158.684 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
25165.802 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
25174.924 from comprehending him or his sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly,
25183.656 pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her
25191.616 daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past.
25199.496 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
25208.656 moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
25216.456 civilly answering all Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
25225.456 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
25233.296 her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour.
25240.936 Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
25249.416 father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
25257.336 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
25265.856 silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother’s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.
25275.296 Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
25284.256 would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would
25292.256 have the goodness to show him the way. “You may see the house from this window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a
25299.936 bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary
25307.416 consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father’s behaviour, which
25314.776 it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their
25322.256 walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it.
25327.284 Some explanation on his father’s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
25334.884 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;
25343.484 and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now
25351.324 sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must
25358.724 confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had
25366.444 been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an
25374.844 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.
25382.604 A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt in the contemplation
25390.764 of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was
25399.204 suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from
25407.804 Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland’s
25415.924 departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The
25423.004 affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution
25431.004 with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and
25439.644 as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant
25447.524 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
25456.044 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
25464.804 than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,
25472.084 solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house
25480.32 seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.
25488.24 John Thorpe had first misled him. The General, perceiving his son one
25493.362 night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her
25500.48 than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney’s importance, had been joyfully and proudly
25508.64 communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland’s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon
25517.122 marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him
25525.4 believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as
25534.24 his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the
25541.88 first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the
25549.682 grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland’s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a
25558.762 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,
25567.522 however, the peculiar object of the General’s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or
25576.842 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
25584.202 seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of
25592.202 Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the General had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority.
25600.56 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
25608.362 which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of
25616.08 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
25625.4 their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the
25633.346 countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe’s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted
25642.384 interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be
25647.464 more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their
25656.106 father’s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from
25664.744 some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of
25673.026 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
25681.346 of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the General had learnt from the very person who had suggested
25688.544 them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by
25697.464 Catherine’s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella,
25706.384 convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that
25714.224 he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands—confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and
25722.664 character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the
25731.544 two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the
25738.346 families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to
25746.346 acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too,
25754.824 almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of
25761.744 discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a
25769.384 forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified General pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
25775.544 look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on
25783.528 whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The General needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the
25791.808 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
25798.888 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
25806.848 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
25814.728 must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his
25822.248 wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.
25827.768 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
25836.168 narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind.
25844.488 Henry’s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father’s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in
25852.208 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
25860.088 of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the
25867.968 sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate
25876.928 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
25885.608 Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no
25894.208 reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.
25901.568 He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
25908.848 Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The General was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
25916.968 disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,
25925.568 and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. Chapter 31.
25932.848 Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
25942.46 considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more
25949.862 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
25958.262 alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having
25966.862 never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character
25975.22 needed no attestation. “Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure,” was her mother’s foreboding remark; but quick
25983.06 was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that
25990.14 one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady,
25998.182 and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the General should come
26004.98 forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading
26012.502 stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained—and their own hearts made them trust that it could
26020.622 not be very long denied—their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more
26028.942 inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his
26037.74 present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their
26045.66 daughter. The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They felt and they deplored—but they could not resent it; and they parted,
26055.262 endeavouring to hope that such a change in the General, as each believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them
26062.66 again in the fulness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend
26071.22 his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether
26079.3 the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs.
26087.782 Morland never did—they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter,
26094.862 as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way. The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the
26103.502 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
26112.182 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
26119.98 their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the General’s? The
26127.102 circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course
26134.66 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
26142.022 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
26150.342 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
26158.782 give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
26168.342 merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;
26177.22 and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had
26185.262 removed all his difficulties; and never had the General loved his daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and
26193.542 patient endurance as when he first hailed her “Your Ladyship!” Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his
26202.14 wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be
26211.06 unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question,
26219.022 therefore, I have only to add—aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable—that
26227.342 this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at
26235.182 Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.
26240.658 The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their brother’s behalf was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances
26249.258 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
26257.538 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
26265.258 they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that
26273.858 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
26281.418 some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
26289.818 greedy speculation. On the strength of this, the General, soon after Eleanor’s marriage,
26295.018 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
26303.618 professions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and
26311.418 everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful
26320.058 delays occasioned by the General’s cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of
26327.898 twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the General’s unjust interference, so far from
26337.258 being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength
26346.058 to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend
26354.578 parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience. In the end, Northanger Abbey is not just a tale of romance but a
26362.572 clever exploration of the themes of perception versus reality, and the growth of a young woman in her quest for love and self-discovery.
26370.892 Through her experiences, Catherine learns that life, unlike the novels she adores, is far more complex and unpredictable. Austen’s wit and
26380.732 keen observations make this story timeless, inviting readers to reflect on their own notions of heroism and the power of imagination.
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