"CHAPTER 1\n\n\nNo one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have\nsupposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character\nof her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were\nall equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being\nneglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name\nwas Richard--and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable\nindependence besides two good livings--and he was not in the least\naddicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful\nplain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a\ngood constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and\ninstead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might\nexpect, she still lived on--lived to have six children more--to see them\ngrowing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family\nof ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are\nheads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had\nlittle other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and\nCatherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin\nawkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong\nfeatures--so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism\nseemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred\ncricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of\ninfancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a\nrose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered\nflowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at least\nso it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was\nforbidden to take. Such were her propensities--her abilities were quite\nas extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything\nbefore she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often\ninattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in\nteaching her only to repeat the \"Beggar's Petition\"; and after all, her\nnext sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine\nwas always stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of \"The Hare and\nMany Friends\" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her\nto learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was\nvery fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight\nyears old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs.\nMorland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in\nspite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which\ndismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.\nHer taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain\nthe outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd\npiece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses\nand trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing\nand accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her\nproficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in\nboth whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--for\nwith all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither\na bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever\nquarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions\nof tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and\ncleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the\ngreen slope at the back of the house.\n\nSuch was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending;\nshe began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,\nher features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more\nanimation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to\nan inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had\nnow the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark\non her personal improvement. \"Catherine grows quite a good-looking\ngirl--she is almost pretty today,\" were words which caught her ears now\nand then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an\nacquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the\nfirst fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever\nreceive.\n\nMrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children\neverything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in\nlying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were\ninevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful\nthat Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should\nprefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about\nthe country at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of\ninformation--for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be\ngained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she\nhad never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen\nshe was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines\nmust read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so\nserviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.\n\nFrom Pope, she learnt to censure those who\n\n   \"bear about the mockery of woe.\"\n\n\nFrom Gray, that\n\n   \"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n   \"And waste its fragrance on the desert air.\"\n\n\nFrom Thompson, that--\n\n   \"It is a delightful task\n   \"To teach the young idea how to shoot.\"\n\n\nAnd from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--amongst\nthe rest, that--\n\n   \"Trifles light as air,\n   \"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,\n   \"As proofs of Holy Writ.\"\n\n\nThat\n\n   \"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,\n   \"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great\n   \"As when a giant dies.\"\n\n\nAnd that a young woman in love always looks--\n\n   \"like Patience on a monument\n   \"Smiling at Grief.\"\n\n\nSo far her improvement was sufficient--and in many other points she came\non exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought\nherself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing\na whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own\ncomposition, she could listen to other people's performance with very\nlittle fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--she had no\nnotion of drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's\nprofile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell\nmiserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know\nher own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the\nage of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call\nforth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and\nwithout having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate\nand very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things may be\ngenerally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was\nnot one lord in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet. There was not\none family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy\naccidentally found at their door--not one young man whose origin\nwas unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no\nchildren.\n\nBut when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty\nsurrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen\nto throw a hero in her way.\n\nMr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the\nvillage in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath\nfor the benefit of a gouty constitution--and his lady, a good-humoured\nwoman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will\nnot befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,\ninvited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,\nand Catherine all happiness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nIn addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's\npersonal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the\ndifficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be\nstated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following\npages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is\nmeant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful\nand open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just\nremoved from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing,\nand, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and\nuninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.\n\nWhen the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.\nMorland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand\nalarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this\nterrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her\nin tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of\nthe most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her\nwise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against\nthe violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young\nladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve\nthe fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew\nso little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their\ngeneral mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her\ndaughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the\nfollowing points. \"I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up\nvery warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and\nI wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will\ngive you this little book on purpose.\"\n\nSally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will\nreach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),\nmust from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante\nof her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted\non Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of\ntransmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail\nof every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything\nindeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the\nMorlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed\nrather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the\nrefined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation\nof a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead\nof giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an\nhundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and\npromised her more when she wanted it.\n\nUnder these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the\njourney began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful\nsafety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky\noverturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred\nthan a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind\nher at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.\n\nThey arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were\nhere, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking\nenvirons, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted\nthem to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.\n\nThey were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.\n\nIt is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the\nreader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter\ntend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,\nprobably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate\nwretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her\nimprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,\nruining her character, or turning her out of doors.\n\nMrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can\nraise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world\nwho could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,\ngenius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great\ndeal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind\nwere all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,\nintelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted\nto introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere\nand seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was\nher passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our\nheroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four\ndays had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone\nwas provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made\nsome purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the\nimportant evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her\nhair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care,\nand both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should\ndo. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured\nthrough the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it\ncame, but she did not depend on it.\n\nMrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom\ntill late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies\nsqueezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired\ndirectly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.\nWith more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of\nher protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by\nthe door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,\nhowever, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within\nher friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling\nassembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the\nroom was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it\nseemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that\nwhen once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be\nable to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from\nbeing the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the\ntop of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing\nof the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they\nmoved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion\nof strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage\nbehind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than\nbelow; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the\ncompany beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through\nthem. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that\nevening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had\nnot an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do\nin such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, \"I wish you\ncould dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner.\" For some time\nher young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were\nrepeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine\ngrew tired at last, and would thank her no more.\n\nThey were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence\nthey had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for\ntea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel\nsomething of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed\nagainst by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to\ninterest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she\ncould not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a\nsyllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in\nthe tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to\njoin, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw\nnothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more\neligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at\nwhich a large party were already placed, without having anything to do\nthere, or anybody to speak to, except each other.\n\nMrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having\npreserved her gown from injury. \"It would have been very shocking to\nhave it torn,\" said she, \"would not it? It is such a delicate muslin.\nFor my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I\nassure you.\"\n\n\"How uncomfortable it is,\" whispered Catherine, \"not to have a single\nacquaintance here!\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, \"it is very\nuncomfortable indeed.\"\n\n\"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if\nthey wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their\nparty.\"\n\n\"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large\nacquaintance here.\"\n\n\"I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.\nThe Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now.\"\n\n\"Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you\nsee.\"\n\n\"No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had\nbetter sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my\nhead, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure\nthere is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you\nmust know somebody.\"\n\n\"I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance\nhere with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be\nso glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an\nodd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.\"\n\nAfter some time they received an offer of tea from one of their\nneighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light\nconversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time\nthat anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered\nand joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.\n\n\"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, directly, \"I hope you have had an\nagreeable ball.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable indeed,\" she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a\ngreat yawn.\n\n\"I wish she had been able to dance,\" said his wife; \"I wish we could\nhave got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if\nthe Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had\ncome, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I\nam so sorry she has not had a partner!\"\n\n\"We shall do better another evening I hope,\" was Mr. Allen's\nconsolation.\n\nThe company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave\nspace for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the\ntime for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part\nin the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five\nminutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her\ncharms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her\nbefore. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding\nher, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once\ncalled a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and\nhad the company only seen her three years before, they would now have\nthought her exceedingly handsome.\n\nShe was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own\nhearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words\nhad their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter\nthan she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she\nfelt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a\ntrue-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration\nof her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and\nperfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nEvery morning now brought its regular duties--shops were to be visited;\nsome new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be\nattended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at\neverybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance\nin Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after\nevery fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at\nall.\n\nThey made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more\nfavourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to\nher a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.\nHe seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a\npleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not\nquite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine\nfelt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking\nwhile they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as\nagreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with\nfluency and spirit--and there was an archness and pleasantry in his\nmanner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After\nchatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects\naround them, he suddenly addressed her with--\"I have hitherto been very\nremiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not\nyet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here\nbefore; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and\nthe concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been\nvery negligent--but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these\nparticulars? If you are I will begin directly.\"\n\n\"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.\"\n\n\"No trouble, I assure you, madam.\" Then forming his features into a set\nsmile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering\nair, \"Have you been long in Bath, madam?\"\n\n\"About a week, sir,\" replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.\n\n\"Really!\" with affected astonishment.\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed!\" said he, in his natural tone. \"But some emotion must\nappear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,\nand not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never\nhere before, madam?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.\"\n\n\"Have you been to the theatre?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"To the concert?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"And are you altogether pleased with Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes--I like it very well.\"\n\n\"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.\"\nCatherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to\nlaugh. \"I see what you think of me,\" said he gravely--\"I shall make but\na poor figure in your journal tomorrow.\"\n\n\"My journal!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower\nRooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings--plain black\nshoes--appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a\nqueer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed\nme by his nonsense.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall say no such thing.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?\"\n\n\"If you please.\"\n\n\"I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had\na great deal of conversation with him--seems a most extraordinary\ngenius--hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to\nsay.\"\n\n\"But, perhaps, I keep no journal.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by\nyou. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a\njournal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your\nlife in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of\nevery day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every\nevening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,\nand the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be\ndescribed in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to\na journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as\nyou wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which\nlargely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies\nare so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing\nagreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something,\nbut I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping\na journal.\"\n\n\"I have sometimes thought,\" said Catherine, doubtingly, \"whether ladies\ndo write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is--I should not\nthink the superiority was always on our side.\"\n\n\"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the\nusual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three\nparticulars.\"\n\n\"And what are they?\"\n\n\"A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a\nvery frequent ignorance of grammar.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the\ncompliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.\"\n\n\"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better\nletters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better\nlandscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence\nis pretty fairly divided between the sexes.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: \"My dear Catherine,\" said she, \"do\ntake this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;\nI shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though\nit cost but nine shillings a yard.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,\" said Mr. Tilney,\nlooking at the muslin.\n\n\"Do you understand muslins, sir?\"\n\n\"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an\nexcellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a\ngown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a\nprodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a\nyard for it, and a true Indian muslin.\"\n\nMrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. \"Men commonly take so little\nnotice of those things,\" said she; \"I can never get Mr. Allen to know\none of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your\nsister, sir.\"\n\n\"I hope I am, madam.\"\n\n\"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?\"\n\n\"It is very pretty, madam,\" said he, gravely examining it; \"but I do not\nthink it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.\"\n\n\"How can you,\" said Catherine, laughing, \"be so--\" She had almost said\n\"strange.\"\n\n\"I am quite of your opinion, sir,\" replied Mrs. Allen; \"and so I told\nMiss Morland when she bought it.\"\n\n\"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other;\nMiss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or\na cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister\nsay so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than\nshe wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.\"\n\n\"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We\nare sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in\nSalisbury, but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen\nsays it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than\neight; and it is such a fag--I come back tired to death. Now, here one\ncan step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and\nshe kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.\nCatherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged\nhimself a little too much with the foibles of others. \"What are you\nthinking of so earnestly?\" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom;\n\"not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your\nmeditations are not satisfactory.\"\n\nCatherine coloured, and said, \"I was not thinking of anything.\"\n\n\"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once\nthat you will not tell me.\"\n\n\"Well then, I will not.\"\n\n\"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to\ntease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world\nadvances intimacy so much.\"\n\nThey danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the\nlady's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the\nacquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her\nwarm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him\nwhen there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in\na slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a\ncelebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified\nin falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must be\nvery improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the\ngentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney\nmight be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's\nhead, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for\nhis young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the\nevening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured\nof Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in\nGloucestershire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nWith more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the\nnext day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the\nmorning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile\nwas demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath,\nexcept himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the\nfashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and\nout, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody\nwanted to see; and he only was absent. \"What a delightful place Bath\nis,\" said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after\nparading the room till they were tired; \"and how pleasant it would be if\nwe had any acquaintance here.\"\n\nThis sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no\nparticular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;\nbut we are told to \"despair of nothing we would attain,\" as \"unwearied\ndiligence our point would gain\"; and the unwearied diligence with which\nshe had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its\njust reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of\nabout her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her\nattentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance\nin these words: \"I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time\nsince I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?\"\nThis question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers\nto be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of\na former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since\ntheir respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this\nmeeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented\nto know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments\non good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away\nsince they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in\nBath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to\nmake inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and\ncousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive\ninformation, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.\nThorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen,\nin a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her\nsons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different\nsituations and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant\nTaylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved and respected\nin their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.\nAllen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press\non the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to\nsit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling\nherself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that\nthe lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on\nher own.\n\n\"Here come my dear girls,\" cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three\nsmart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. \"My\ndear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted\nto see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young\nwoman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is\nthe handsomest.\"\n\nThe Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a\nshort time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike\nthem all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest\nyoung lady observed aloud to the rest, \"How excessively like her brother\nMiss Morland is!\"\n\n\"The very picture of him indeed!\" cried the mother--and \"I should have\nknown her anywhere for his sister!\" was repeated by them all, two or\nthree times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe\nand her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance\nwith Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother\nhad lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of\nthe name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas\nvacation with his family, near London.\n\nThe whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss\nThorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being\nconsidered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,\netc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the\npretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity,\nshe was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and\ntake a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this\nextension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while\nshe talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for\nthe pangs of disappointed love.\n\nTheir conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free\ndiscussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy\nbetween two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and\nquizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland,\nand at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in\ndiscussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those\nof Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify\nthe opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;\ncould discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only\nsmiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a\ncrowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they\nwere entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might\nhave been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss\nThorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this\nacquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left\nnothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be\nsatisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when\nthey all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss\nMorland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should\nthere part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after\nlearning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across\nthe theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next\nmorning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe's\nprogress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the\ngraceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and\ndress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had\nprocured her such a friend.\n\nMrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a\ngood-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her\neldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by\npretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and\ndressing in the same style, did very well.\n\nThis brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity\nof a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past\nadventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy\nthe three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of\nlords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had\npassed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nCatherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in\nreturning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly\nclaimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye\nfor Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in\nvain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped\nto be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather\nwere answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of\nit; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,\nand all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell\ntheir acquaintance what a charming day it is.\n\nAs soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly\njoined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to\ndiscover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not\na genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday\nthroughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe\nthe fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm\nin arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved\nconversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again\nwas Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was\nnowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,\nin morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower\nRooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the\nwalkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name\nwas not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must\nbe gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so\nshort! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a\nhero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his person\nand manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him. From the\nThorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath\nbefore they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject, however, in which\nshe often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every\npossible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression\non her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very\nsure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he\nmust have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore\nshortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, \"for she\nmust confess herself very partial to the profession\"; and something like\na sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not\ndemanding the cause of that gentle emotion--but she was not experienced\nenough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when\ndelicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should\nbe forced.\n\nMrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied with Bath. She had found\nsome acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family\nof a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, had\nfound these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her\ndaily expressions were no longer, \"I wish we had some acquaintance in\nBath!\" They were changed into, \"How glad I am we have met with Mrs.\nThorpe!\" and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two\nfamilies, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never\nsatisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of\nMrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was\nscarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of\nsubject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen\nof her gowns.\n\nThe progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick\nas its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every\ngradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof\nof it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other\nby their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned\nup each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the\nset; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they\nwere still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut\nthemselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not\nadopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers,\nof degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the\nnumber of which they are themselves adding--joining with their greatest\nenemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely\never permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she\naccidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages\nwith disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the\nheroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I\ncannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such\neffusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in\nthreadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us\nnot desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions\nhave afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any\nother literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has\nbeen so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes\nare almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the\nnine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who\ncollects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and\nPrior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne,\nare eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of\ndecrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and\nof slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to\nrecommend them. \"I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do not\nimagine that I often read novels--It is really very well for a novel.\"\nSuch is the common cant. \"And what are you reading, Miss--?\" \"Oh! It is\nonly a novel!\" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book\nwith affected indifference, or momentary shame. \"It is only Cecilia, or\nCamilla, or Belinda\"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest\npowers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge\nof human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the\nliveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the\nbest-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a\nvolume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she\nhave produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be\nagainst her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication,\nof which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of\ntaste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement\nof improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of\nconversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language,\ntoo, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age\nthat could endure it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nThe following conversation, which took place between the two friends in\nthe pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine\ndays, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the\ndelicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which\nmarked the reasonableness of that attachment.\n\nThey met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five\nminutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, \"My dearest\ncreature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at\nleast this age!\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in\nvery good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?\"\n\n\"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.\nBut now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy\nourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place,\nI was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off;\nit looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do\nyou know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in\nMilsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons\ninstead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what\nhave you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on\nwith Udolpho?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the\nblack veil.\"\n\n\"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is\nbehind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be\ntold upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is\nLaurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like\nto spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been\nto meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.\"\n\n\"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished\nUdolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list\nof ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?\"\n\n\"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.\nCastle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the\nBlack Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.\nThose will last us some time.\"\n\n\"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all\nhorrid?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a\nsweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every\none of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with\nher. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think\nher as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not\nadmiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.\"\n\n\"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?\"\n\n\"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are\nreally my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is\nnot my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told\nCaptain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to\ntease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow\nMiss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable\nof real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the\ndifference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I\nshould fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are\njust the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" cried Catherine, colouring. \"How can you say so?\"\n\n\"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly\nwhat Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly\ninsipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted\nyesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am sure he\nis in love with you.\" Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella\nlaughed. \"It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are\nindifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman,\nwho shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you\"--speaking more\nseriously--\"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is\nreally attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the\nattention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting,\nthat does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend\nyour feelings.\"\n\n\"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.\nTilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.\"\n\n\"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure\nyou would be miserable if you thought so!\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very\nmuch pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if\nnobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear\nIsabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it.\"\n\n\"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but\nI suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.\"\n\n\"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;\nbut new books do not fall in our way.\"\n\n\"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I\nremember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.\"\n\n\"It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very\nentertaining.\"\n\n\"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.\nBut, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head\ntonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.\nThe men take notice of that sometimes, you know.\"\n\n\"But it does not signify if they do,\" said Catherine, very innocently.\n\n\"Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.\nThey are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with\nspirit, and make them keep their distance.\"\n\n\"Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to\nme.\"\n\n\"Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited\ncreatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!\nBy the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always\nforgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you\nlike them best dark or fair?\"\n\n\"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I\nthink. Brown--not fair, and--and not very dark.\"\n\n\"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your\ndescription of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather\ndark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to\ncomplexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must\nnot betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance\nanswering that description.\"\n\n\"Betray you! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop\nthe subject.\"\n\nCatherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few\nmoments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her\nat that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's\nskeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, \"For heaven's sake!\nLet us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two\nodious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really\nput me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.\nThey will hardly follow us there.\"\n\nAway they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it\nwas Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming\nyoung men.\n\n\"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so\nimpertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am\ndetermined I will not look up.\"\n\nIn a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her\nthat she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the\npump-room.\n\n\"And which way are they gone?\" said Isabella, turning hastily round.\n\"One was a very good-looking young man.\"\n\n\"They went towards the church-yard.\"\n\n\"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you\nto going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You\nsaid you should like to see it.\"\n\nCatherine readily agreed. \"Only,\" she added, \"perhaps we may overtake\nthe two young men.\"\n\n\"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,\nand I am dying to show you my hat.\"\n\n\"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our\nseeing them at all.\"\n\n\"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no\nnotion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil\nthem.\"\n\nCatherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,\nto show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling\nthe sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit\nof the two young men.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nHalf a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,\nopposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted\nwith Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at\nthis point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so\nunfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the\nprincipal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of\nladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry,\nmillinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not\ndetained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This\nevil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella\nsince her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it\nonce more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage,\nand within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the\ncrowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they\nwere prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad\npavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that\ncould most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his\nhorse.\n\n\"Oh, these odious gigs!\" said Isabella, looking up. \"How I detest them.\"\nBut this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she\nlooked again and exclaimed, \"Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!\"\n\n\"Good heaven! 'Tis James!\" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;\nand, on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checked\nwith a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant\nhaving now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was\ndelivered to his care.\n\nCatherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her\nbrother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable\ndisposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his\nside of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the\nbright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;\nand to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and\nembarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more\nexpert in the development of other people's feelings, and less simply\nengrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as\npretty as she could do herself.\n\nJohn Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the\nhorses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends\nwhich were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the\nhand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short\nbow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face\nand ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore\nthe dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy\nwhere he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be\neasy. He took out his watch: \"How long do you think we have been running\nit from Tetbury, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"I do not know the distance.\" Her brother told her that it was\ntwenty-three miles.\n\n\"Three and twenty!\" cried Thorpe. \"Five and twenty if it is an inch.\"\nMorland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,\nand milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test\nof distance. \"I know it must be five and twenty,\" said he, \"by the time\nwe have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the\ninn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man\nin England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;\nthat makes it exactly twenty-five.\"\n\n\"You have lost an hour,\" said Morland; \"it was only ten o'clock when we\ncame from Tetbury.\"\n\n\"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This\nbrother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do\nbut look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in\nyour life?\" (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving\noff.) \"Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only\nthree and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible\nif you can.\"\n\n\"He does look very hot, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look\nat his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse\ncannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.\nWhat do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?\nWell hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a\nChristchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran\nit a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.\nI happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind,\nthough I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced to\nmeet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:\n'Ah! Thorpe,' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing as\nthis? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.'\n'Oh! D--,' said I; 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you\nthink he did, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"I am sure I cannot guess at all.\"\n\n\"Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,\nlamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good\nas new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,\nthrew down the money, and the carriage was mine.\"\n\n\"And I am sure,\" said Catherine, \"I know so little of such things that I\ncannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.\"\n\n\"Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but\nI hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.\"\n\n\"That was very good-natured of you,\" said Catherine, quite pleased.\n\n\"Oh! D---- it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,\nI hate to be pitiful.\"\n\nAn inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young\nladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that\nthe gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their\nrespects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so\nwell satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she\nendeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double\nrecommendation of being her brother's friend, and her friend's brother,\nso pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook\nand passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far\nfrom seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only\nthree times.\n\nJohn Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes'\nsilence, renewed the conversation about his gig. \"You will find,\nhowever, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some\npeople, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;\nJackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Morland, who overheard this; \"but you forget that your horse\nwas included.\"\n\n\"My horse! Oh, d---- it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are\nyou fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?\"\n\n\"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am\nparticularly fond of it.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the\npropriety of accepting such an offer.\n\n\"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?\"\n\n\"Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;\nnothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.\nNo, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day\nwhile I am here.\"\n\n\"Shall you indeed!\" said Catherine very seriously. \"That will be forty\nmiles a day.\"\n\n\"Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown\ntomorrow; mind, I am engaged.\"\n\n\"How delightful that will be!\" cried Isabella, turning round. \"My\ndearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will\nnot have room for a third.\"\n\n\"A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters\nabout; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you.\"\n\nThis brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but\nCatherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's\ndiscourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than\na short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every\nwoman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as\nshe could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female\nmind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that\nof a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is\nconcerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which\nhad been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, \"Have you ever read\nUdolpho, Mr. Thorpe?\"\n\n\"Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to\ndo.\"\n\nCatherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question,\nbut he prevented her by saying, \"Novels are all so full of nonsense\nand stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since\nTom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all the\nothers, they are the stupidest things in creation.\"\n\n\"I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very\ninteresting.\"\n\n\"Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe's; her\nnovels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature\nin them.\"\n\n\"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,\" said Catherine, with some\nhesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.\n\n\"No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that\nother stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,\nshe who married the French emigrant.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean Camilla?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at\nsee-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon\nfound it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be\nbefore I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was\nsure I should never be able to get through it.\"\n\n\"I have never read it.\"\n\n\"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can\nimagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at\nsee-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.\"\n\nThis critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor\nCatherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the\nfeelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way\nto the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.\nThorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. \"Ah, Mother!\nHow do you do?\" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. \"Where\ndid you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.\nHere is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look\nout for a couple of good beds somewhere near.\" And this address seemed\nto satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she\nreceived him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his\ntwo younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal\ntenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that\nthey both looked very ugly.\n\nThese manners did not please Catherine; but he was James's friend\nand Isabella's brother; and her judgment was further bought off by\nIsabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that\nJohn thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's\nengaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she\nbeen older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where\nyouth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of\nreason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl\nin the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the\nconsequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with\nthe Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as\nthe door was closed on them, said, \"Well, Catherine, how do you like my\nfriend Thorpe?\" instead of answering, as she probably would have done,\nhad there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, \"I do not like\nhim at all,\" she directly replied, \"I like him very much; he seems very\nagreeable.\"\n\n\"He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but\nthat will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the\nrest of the family?\"\n\n\"Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman\nI could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is\nso thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;\nand she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your\npraise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss\nThorpe even you, Catherine,\" taking her hand with affection, \"may be\nproud of.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am,\" she replied; \"I love her exceedingly, and am delighted\nto find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when\nyou wrote to me after your visit there.\"\n\n\"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a\ngreat deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;\nsuch a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she\nis evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in\nsuch a place as this--is not she?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl\nin Bath.\"\n\n\"I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of\nbeauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my\ndear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it\nwould be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure,\nare very kind to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it\nwill be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far\non purpose to see me.\"\n\nJames accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience\nfor accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, \"Indeed,\nCatherine, I love you dearly.\"\n\nInquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the\nsituation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now\npassed between them, and continued, with only one small digression\non James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney\nStreet, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen,\ninvited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter\nto guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet.\nA pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the\ninvitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he\nhad satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties\nuniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then\nleft to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination\nover the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns of dressing\nand dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen's fears on the delay of an\nexpected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow even\non the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged for the\nevening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nIn spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from Pulteney\nStreet reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes and James\nMorland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella having\ngone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the most\nsmiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and\nenvying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperones, arm in\narm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought\noccurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand\nor a smile of affection.\n\nThe dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and\nJames, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very\nimportunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the\ncard-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce\nher to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. \"I\nassure you,\" said she, \"I would not stand up without your dear sister\nfor all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated the\nwhole evening.\" Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude, and\nthey continued as they were for three minutes longer, when Isabella, who\nhad been talking to James on the other side of her, turned again to his\nsister and whispered, \"My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you,\nyour brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not\nmind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment,\nand then you may easily find me out.\" Catherine, though a little\ndisappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the\nothers rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and\nsay, \"Good-bye, my dear love,\" before they hurried off. The younger\nMiss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs.\nThorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help\nbeing vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed\nto be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her\nsituation could not be known, she was sharing with the scores of other\nyoung ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner.\nTo be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of\ninfamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the\nmisconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is one of those\ncircumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's life, and her\nfortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine\nhad fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.\n\nFrom this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten\nminutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr.\nTilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be\nmoving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the\nblush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away\nwithout sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as\nlively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and\npleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine\nimmediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away\na fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being\nmarried already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it\nhad never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not\nbehaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been\nused; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.\nFrom these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's\nnow being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike\npaleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat\nerect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little\nredder than usual.\n\nMr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to approach,\nwere immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and\nthis lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her, stopped\nlikewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye, instantly received\nfrom him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with\npleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs.\nAllen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. \"I am very happy to see\nyou again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.\" He thanked her\nfor her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very\nmorning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.\n\n\"Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it\nis just the place for young people--and indeed for everybody else too.\nI tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he\nshould not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is\nmuch better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell\nhim he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health.\"\n\n\"And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,\nfrom finding it of service to him.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours,\nDr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite\nstout.\"\n\n\"That circumstance must give great encouragement.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I\ntell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,\nthat she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney\nwith seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly\ndone, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a\nfew minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This\ncompliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the\nlady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion\nso very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe, who joined her\njust afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought her\nsufferings rather too acute. The very easy manner in which he then told\nher that he had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her more\nto her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into while they\nwere standing up, of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just\nleft, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them, interest her\nso much as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of the\nroom where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she\nparticularly longed to point out that gentleman, she could see nothing.\nThey were in different sets. She was separated from all her party, and\naway from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another,\nand from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously\nengaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or\nenjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she\nwas suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,\nperceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and\na gentleman. \"I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,\" said she, \"for this\nliberty--but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said\nshe was sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this\nyoung lady by you.\" Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature\nin the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies\nwere introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of\nsuch goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind\nmaking light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having\nso respectably settled her young charge, returned to her party.\n\nMiss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable\ncountenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,\nthe resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance. Her\nmanners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor\naffectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and\nat a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her,\nand without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable\nvexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at\nonce by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous\nof being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she\ncould think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying\nit. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by\nthe frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their\ndoing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance, by\ninforming themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she admired\nits buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or played, or\nsang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.\n\nThe two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm\ngently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,\n\"At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for\nyou this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you\nknew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.\"\n\n\"My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not\neven see where you were.\"\n\n\"So I told your brother all the time--but he would not believe me. Do go\nand see for her, Mr. Morland, said I--but all in vain--he would not stir\nan inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately\nlazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you\nwould be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such\npeople.\"\n\n\"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,\" whispered\nCatherine, detaching her friend from James. \"It is Mr. Tilney's sister.\"\n\n\"Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a\ndelightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is\nher all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this\ninstant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen.\nWe are not talking about you.\"\n\n\"But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?\"\n\n\"There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless\ncuriosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be\nsatisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.\"\n\n\"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?\"\n\n\"Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to\nyou, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore\nI would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something\nnot very agreeable.\"\n\nIn this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original\nsubject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well\npleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little\nsuspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire to\nsee Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would\nhave led his fair partner away, but she resisted. \"I tell you, Mr.\nMorland,\" she cried, \"I would not do such a thing for all the world.\nHow can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your\nbrother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though\nI tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the\nrules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change\npartners.\"\n\n\"Upon my honour,\" said James, \"in these public assemblies, it is as\noften done as not.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,\nyou never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade\nyour brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock\nyou to see me do such a thing; now would not it?\"\n\n\"No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.\"\n\n\"There,\" cried Isabella, \"you hear what your sister says, and yet you\nwill not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all\nthe old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine,\nfor heaven's sake, and stand by me.\" And off they went, to regain\ntheir former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and\nCatherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating\nthe agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her\nway to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope\nof finding him still with them--a hope which, when it proved to be\nfruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. \"Well, my dear,\"\nsaid Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, \"I hope you have had\nan agreeable partner.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable, madam.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?\"\n\n\"Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?\" said Mrs. Allen.\n\n\"No, where is he?\"\n\n\"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,\nthat he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask\nyou, if he met with you.\"\n\n\"Where can he be?\" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked\nround long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.\n\n\"Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you,\" said Mrs. Allen;\nand after a short silence, she added, \"he is a very agreeable young\nman.\"\n\n\"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,\" said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; \"I\nmust say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable\nyoung man in the world.\"\n\nThis inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension\nof many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment's\nconsideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, \"I dare say she\nthought I was speaking of her son.\"\n\nCatherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so\nlittle the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not\nincline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her\nsoon afterwards and said, \"Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are\nto stand up and jig it together again.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,\nbesides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.\"\n\n\"Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with\nme, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two\nyounger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this\nhalf hour.\"\n\nAgain Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his\nsisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.\nTilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his\npartner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and\nJames and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the\nlatter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one\nsqueeze, and one \"dearest Catherine.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nThe progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening\nwas as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with\neverybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily\nbrought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This,\non arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary\nhunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to\nbe in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there\nshe immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and\nfrom which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh\nhopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her\nacquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek\nher for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one\nso newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had\nalready found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence,\nand the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret\ndiscourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably\nencouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan\nfor the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after\nbreakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment\ntill the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by\nthe remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and\nincapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great\ndeal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she\nsat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she\nheard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must\nobserve it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or\nnot. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste\nto the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there\nbeing two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant,\nher brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came\nrunning upstairs, calling out, \"Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have\nyou been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a\ncoachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,\nand now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out\nof the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was\nnot it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded\nhurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said Catherine. \"Where are you all going to?\"\n\n\"Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree\ntogether to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are\ngoing up Claverton Down.\"\n\n\"Something was said about it, I remember,\" said Catherine, looking at\nMrs. Allen for her opinion; \"but really I did not expect you.\"\n\n\"Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have made,\nif I had not come.\"\n\nCatherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown\naway, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any\nexpression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended\nby anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again\ncould at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who\nthought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as\nIsabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to\nspeak plainer. \"Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for\nan hour or two? Shall I go?\"\n\n\"Do just as you please, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with the most\nplacid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get\nready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed\nthe two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her\npraise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig;\nand then receiving her friend's parting good wishes, they both hurried\ndownstairs. \"My dearest creature,\" cried Isabella, to whom the duty\nof friendship immediately called her before she could get into the\ncarriage, \"you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was\nafraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a\nthousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to\nbe off.\"\n\nCatherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear\nher friend exclaim aloud to James, \"What a sweet girl she is! I quite\ndote on her.\"\n\n\"You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,\" said Thorpe, as he handed\nher in, \"if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.\nHe will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest\nfor a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,\nplayful as can be, but there is no vice in him.\"\n\nCatherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too\nlate to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so,\nresigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted\nknowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down\nby her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the\nhorse's head was bid in an important voice \"to let him go,\" and off they\nwent in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or\nanything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke\nher pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately\nmade the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely\nowing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the\nreins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had\ndirected his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that\nwith such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to\nalarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely\non being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that\nthe animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without\nshowing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and\n(considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means\nalarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and\nexercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February,\nwith the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded\ntheir first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe's saying very\nabruptly, \"Old Allen is as rich as a Jew--is not he?\" Catherine did not\nunderstand him--and he repeated his question, adding in explanation,\n\"Old Allen, the man you are with.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.\"\n\n\"And no children at all?\"\n\n\"No--not any.\"\n\n\"A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?\"\n\n\"My godfather! No.\"\n\n\"But you are always very much with them.\"\n\n\"Yes, very much.\"\n\n\"Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,\nand has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for\nnothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?\"\n\n\"His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a\nvery temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?\"\n\n\"Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in liquor.\nWhy, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of\nthis--that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not\nbe half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous\ngood thing for us all.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it.\"\n\n\"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the\nhundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to\nbe. Our foggy climate wants help.\"\n\n\"And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in\nOxford.\"\n\n\"Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks\nthere. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints\nat the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at\nthe last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five\npints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.\nMine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with\nanything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it. But this will\njust give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there.\"\n\n\"Yes, it does give a notion,\" said Catherine warmly, \"and that is, that\nyou all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I\nam sure James does not drink so much.\"\n\nThis declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which\nno part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting\nalmost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it\nended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal\nof wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's\ncomparative sobriety.\n\nThorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and\nshe was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse\nmoved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of\nthe springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all\nhis admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was\nimpossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity\nof expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power;\nshe could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed\nwhatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them\nwithout any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most\ncomplete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the\nbest goer, and himself the best coachman. \"You do not really think,\nMr. Thorpe,\" said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the\nmatter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the\nsubject, \"that James's gig will break down?\"\n\n\"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in\nyour life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have\nbeen fairly worn out these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon\nmy soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the\nmost devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we\nhave got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Catherine, quite frightened. \"Then pray let us\nturn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let\nus turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how\nvery unsafe it is.\"\n\n\"Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if\nit does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent\nfalling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how\nto drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty\nyears after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for\nfive pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail.\"\n\nCatherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two\nsuch very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been\nbrought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to\nhow many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity\nwill lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom\naimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented\nwith a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit\ntherefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting\nat one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the\naffair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the\npoint of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real\nopinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to\nher that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making\nthose things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to\nthis, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and\nhis friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve\nthem, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact\nperfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him\nthe whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his\nconversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own\nconcerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and\nsold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had\ninfallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had\nkilled more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his\ncompanions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with\nthe fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs\nhad repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which\nthe boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life\nfor a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties,\nwhich he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.\n\nLittle as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed\nas were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not\nentirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his\nendless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a\nbold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been assured by\nJames that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite\nof this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her\nbefore they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to\nincrease till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in\nsome small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his\npowers of giving universal pleasure.\n\nWhen they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella was\nhardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for\nthem to attend her friend into the house: \"Past three o'clock!\" It was\ninconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her\nown watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no\nassurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his\nwatch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then\nwould have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and\nshe could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a\nhalf had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to\nconfirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella;\nbut the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice,\nby not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed\nher; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go\ndirectly home. It was ages since she had had a moment's conversation\nwith her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things\nto say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again;\nso, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter\ndespondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.\n\nCatherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of\nthe morning, and was immediately greeted with, \"Well, my dear, here\nyou are,\" a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to\ndispute; \"and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.\"\n\n\"So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.\"\n\n\"You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met\nher, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly\nany veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce.\"\n\n\"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.\nHughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem\nvery agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted\nmuslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very\nhandsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.\"\n\n\"And what did she tell you of them?\"\n\n\"Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.\"\n\n\"Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?\"\n\n\"Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind\nof people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she\nand Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large\nfortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand\npounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the\nclothes after they came from the warehouse.\"\n\n\"And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,\nhowever, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;\nyes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there\nwas a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter\non her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put\nby for her when her mother died.\"\n\n\"And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?\"\n\n\"I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is;\nbut, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely\nto do very well.\"\n\nCatherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that\nMrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most\nparticularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with\nboth brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,\nnothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as\nit was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had\nlost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very\npleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nThe Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the\ntheatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an\nopportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand\nthings which had been collecting within her for communication in the\nimmeasurable length of time which had divided them. \"Oh, heavens!\nMy beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?\" was her address on\nCatherine's entering the box and sitting by her. \"Now, Mr. Morland,\" for\nhe was close to her on the other side, \"I shall not speak another word\nto you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. My\nsweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask\nyou, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a\nmore heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to\nattract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you\nalready; and as for Mr. Tilney--but that is a settled thing--even your\nmodesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes\nit too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite\nwild with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man\nin the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him\nto me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven's sake! I assure\nyou, I can hardly exist till I see him.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Catherine, \"he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my\ngown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own\nthought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother\nand I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be\nhere for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found\nout that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to\nevery other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was\nquite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I\nwould not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am\nsure you would have made some droll remark or other about it.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I should not.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You\nwould have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense\nof that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my\ncheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by\nfor the world.\"\n\n\"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark\nupon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my\nhead.\"\n\nIsabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to\nJames.\n\nCatherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again\ncontinued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of\ngoing to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second\nprevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to\ndelay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,\nwhere the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.\nAllen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to\ntalk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their\nnewspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new\nface, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the\nThorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in\nless than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her\nusual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant\nattendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves\nfrom the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some\ntime, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,\nconfining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very\nlittle share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in\nsome sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was\nconveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with\nso much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting opinion was not\nunfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give\nany, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however\nshe was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed\nnecessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just\nentering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with\na firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage\nto command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day\nbefore. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances\nwith equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as\nboth parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not\nan observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not\nbeen made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in\nevery Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity\nand truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.\n\n\"How well your brother dances!\" was an artless exclamation of\nCatherine's towards the close of their conversation, which at once\nsurprised and amused her companion.\n\n\"Henry!\" she replied with a smile. \"Yes, he does dance very well.\"\n\n\"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other\nevening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged\nthe whole day to Mr. Thorpe.\" Miss Tilney could only bow. \"You cannot\nthink,\" added Catherine after a moment's silence, \"how surprised I was\nto see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.\"\n\n\"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but\nfor a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.\"\n\n\"That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I\nthought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday\na Miss Smith?\"\n\n\"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.\"\n\n\"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?\"\n\n\"Not very.\"\n\n\"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.\"\n\nMrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to\ngo. \"I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,\" said\nCatherine. \"Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?\"\n\n\"Perhaps we--Yes, I think we certainly shall.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.\" This civility was duly\nreturned; and they parted--on Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge\nof her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without the\nsmallest consciousness of having explained them.\n\nShe went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and\nthe evening of the following day was now the object of expectation,\nthe future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the\noccasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress\nis at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about\nit often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her\ngreat aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas\nbefore; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating\nbetween her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the\nshortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.\nThis would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,\nfrom which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather\nthan a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of\nthe insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to\nthe feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little\nthe heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire;\nhow little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how\nunsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,\nthe mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone.\nNo man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for\nit. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of\nshabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not\none of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.\n\nShe entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different\nfrom what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been\nexulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to\navoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could\nnot, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to\ndance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every\nyoung lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every\nyoung lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have\nbeen, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the\npursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious\nfor the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as\nthey were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began; she fidgeted\nabout if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible\nfrom his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The\ncotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing\nof the Tilneys.\n\n\"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,\" whispered Isabella, \"but I am\nreally going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it\nis quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you\nand John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and\ncome to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.\"\n\nCatherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked\naway, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.\nThat she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept\nher eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her\nfolly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with\nthe Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,\nwhen she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,\nby Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she\ngranted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went\nwith him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as\nshe believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so\nimmediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought\nher on purpose!--it did not appear to her that life could supply any\ngreater felicity.\n\nScarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a\nplace, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood\nbehind her. \"Heyday, Miss Morland!\" said he. \"What is the meaning of\nthis? I thought you and I were to dance together.\"\n\n\"I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.\"\n\n\"That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the\nroom, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,\nyou were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake\nof dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever\nsince Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the\nlobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance\nthat I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and\nwhen they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me\nfamously.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.\"\n\n\"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for\nblockheads. What chap have you there?\" Catherine satisfied his\ncuriosity. \"Tilney,\" he repeated. \"Hum--I do not know him. A good figure\nof a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend\nof mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A\nfamous clever animal for the road--only forty guineas. I had fifty minds\nto buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse\nwhen I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not\ndo for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I\nhave three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take\neight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in\nLeicestershire, against the next season. It is so d--uncomfortable,\nliving at an inn.\"\n\nThis was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's\nattention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of\na long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,\n\"That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with\nyou half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention\nof my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual\nagreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness\nbelongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves\non the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other.\nI consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and\ncomplaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not\nchoose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners\nor wives of their neighbours.\"\n\n\"But they are such very different things!\"\n\n\"--That you think they cannot be compared together.\"\n\n\"To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep\nhouse together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a\nlong room for half an hour.\"\n\n\"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that\nlight certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could\nplace them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the\nadvantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both,\nit is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of\neach; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each\nother till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each\nto endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had\nbestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own\nimaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours,\nor fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You\nwill allow all this?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still\nthey are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same\nlight, nor think the same duties belong to them.\"\n\n\"In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man\nis supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make\nthe home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.\nBut in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the\ncompliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the\nlavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which\nstruck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I never thought of that.\"\n\n\"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This\ndisposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any\nsimilarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your\nnotions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your\npartner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who\nspoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to\naddress you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with\nhim as long as you chose?\"\n\n\"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he\ntalks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young\nmen in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.\"\n\n\"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,\nit is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to\ntalk to anybody.\"\n\n\"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed\nwith courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of\nmaking the inquiry before?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite--more so, indeed.\"\n\n\"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper\ntime. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.\"\n\n\"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.\"\n\n\"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds\nout every year. 'For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but\nbeyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be\ntold so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter,\nlengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because\nthey can afford to stay no longer.\"\n\n\"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to\nLondon may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired\nvillage in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place\nas this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a\nvariety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know\nnothing of there.\"\n\n\"You are not fond of the country.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But\ncertainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath\nlife. One day in the country is exactly like another.\"\n\n\"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.\"\n\n\"Do I?\"\n\n\"Do you not?\"\n\n\"I do not believe there is much difference.\"\n\n\"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.\"\n\n\"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it. I walk about\nhere, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every\nstreet, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was very much amused.\n\n\"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!\" he repeated. \"What a picture of\nintellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you\nwill have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that\nyou did here.\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.\nAllen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of\nBath, when I am at home again--I do like it so very much. If I could but\nhave Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be\ntoo happy! James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful--and\nespecially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so\nintimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be\ntired of Bath?\"\n\n\"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.\nBut papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal\ngone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath--and the honest relish of\nballs and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.\" Here\ntheir conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too\nimportunate for a divided attention.\n\nSoon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived\nherself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the\nlookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,\nof a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of\nlife; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently\naddress Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and\nblushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in\nher appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the\ngentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, \"I see that\nyou guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name,\nand you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father.\"\n\nCatherine's answer was only \"Oh!\"--but it was an \"Oh!\" expressing\neverything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on\ntheir truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now\nfollow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and \"How handsome a\nfamily they are!\" was her secret remark.\n\nIn chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source\nof felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since\nher arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented\nenvirons were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all\neagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might\nfind nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister\nthat they should join in a walk, some morning or other. \"I shall like\nit,\" she cried, \"beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put\nit off--let us go tomorrow.\" This was readily agreed to, with only a\nproviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure\nit would not. At twelve o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney\nStreet; and \"Remember--twelve o'clock,\" was her parting speech to\nher new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend,\nIsabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's\nexperience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though\nlonging to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully\nsubmitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away,\nand her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the\nway home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nThe morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only\na few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most\nfavourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year,\nshe allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold\nimprovement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for\nconfirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and\nbarometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.\nShe applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive.\n\"She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the\nclouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.\"\n\nAt about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the\nwindows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and \"Oh! dear, I do believe it\nwill be wet,\" broke from her in a most desponding tone.\n\n\"I thought how it would be,\" said Mrs. Allen.\n\n\"No walk for me today,\" sighed Catherine; \"but perhaps it may come to\nnothing, or it may hold up before twelve.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.\"\n\n\"Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied her friend very placidly, \"I know you never mind dirt.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, \"It comes on faster and faster!\" said Catherine, as\nshe stood watching at a window.\n\n\"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.\"\n\n\"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an\numbrella!\"\n\n\"They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair\nat any time.\"\n\n\"It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be\ndry!\"\n\n\"Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in\nthe pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put\non his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had\nrather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder\nhe should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.\"\n\nThe rain continued--fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five\nminutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still\nkept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as\nhopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. \"You will not be\nable to go, my dear.\"\n\n\"I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after\ntwelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think\nit looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and\nnow I shall give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here\nas they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of\nFrance!--the night that poor St. Aubin died!--such beautiful weather!\"\n\nAt half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather\nwas over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the\nsky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by\nsurprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly\nreturned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.\nTen minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,\nand justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had \"always thought it\nwould clear up.\" But whether Catherine might still expect her friends,\nwhether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture,\nmust yet be a question.\n\nIt was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the\npump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely\nwatched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach\nof the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that\nhad surprised her so much a few mornings back.\n\n\"Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for\nme perhaps--but I shall not go--I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss\nTilney may still call.\" Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon\nwith them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he\nwas calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. \"Make haste! Make haste!\"\nas he threw open the door. \"Put on your hat this moment--there is no\ntime to be lost--we are going to Bristol. How d'ye do, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with\nyou today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.\"\nThis was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs.\nAllen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give\ntheir assistance. \"My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We\nshall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me\nfor the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily\nbelieve at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago\nif it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify,\nthe nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such\necstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much\nbetter than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton\nand dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it,\ngo on to Kingsweston.\"\n\n\"I doubt our being able to do so much,\" said Morland.\n\n\"You croaking fellow!\" cried Thorpe. \"We shall be able to do ten times\nmore. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can\nhear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.\"\n\n\"Blaize Castle!\" cried Catherine. \"What is that?\"\n\n\"The finest place in England--worth going fifty miles at any time to\nsee.\"\n\n\"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?\"\n\n\"The oldest in the kingdom.\"\n\n\"But is it like what one reads of?\"\n\n\"Exactly--the very same.\"\n\n\"But now really--are there towers and long galleries?\"\n\n\"By dozens.\"\n\n\"Then I should like to see it; but I cannot--I cannot go.\"\n\n\"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"I cannot go, because\"--looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella's\nsmile--\"I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a\ncountry walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,\nas it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.\"\n\n\"Not they indeed,\" cried Thorpe; \"for, as we turned into Broad Street, I\nsaw them--does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?\"\n\n\"I do not know indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced\nwith last night, are not you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a\nsmart-looking girl.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed?\"\n\n\"Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got\nsome very pretty cattle too.\"\n\n\"It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a\nwalk.\"\n\n\"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!\nYou could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the\nwhole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.\"\n\nIsabella corroborated it: \"My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea\nof the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.\"\n\n\"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go\nup every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, every hole and corner.\"\n\n\"But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer,\nand call by and by?\"\n\n\"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney\nhallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were\ngoing as far as Wick Rocks.\"\n\n\"Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"Just as you please, my dear.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,\" was the general cry. Mrs.\nAllen was not inattentive to it: \"Well, my dear,\" said she, \"suppose you\ngo.\" And in two minutes they were off.\n\nCatherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very\nunsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great\npleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in\ndegree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had\nacted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,\nwithout sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later\nthan the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of\nwhat she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course\nof that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that\nthey might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel herself\nslighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of\nexploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize\nCastle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for\nalmost anything.\n\nThey passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,\nwithout the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she\nmeditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons\nand false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle\nBuildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,\n\"Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?\"\n\n\"Who? Where?\"\n\n\"On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost out of sight now.\"\nCatherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother's arm,\nwalking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.\n\"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,\" she impatiently cried; \"it is Miss Tilney; it\nis indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will\nget out this moment and go to them.\" But to what purpose did she speak?\nThorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had\nsoon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the\ncorner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked\ninto the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another\nstreet, she entreated him to stop. \"Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I\ncannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney.\" But Mr.\nThorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd\nnoises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having\nno power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.\nHer reproaches, however, were not spared. \"How could you deceive me so,\nMr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown\nRoad? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think\nit so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word!\nYou do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor\nin anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now,\nand walk back to them. How could you say you saw them driving out in a\nphaeton?\" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never\nseen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the\npoint of its having been Tilney himself.\n\nTheir drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very\nagreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer what it had been in\ntheir former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were\nshort. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still\nlooked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of\nthe promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the\nTilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its\nwalls could supply--the happiness of a progress through a long suite of\nlofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though\nnow for many years deserted--the happiness of being stopped in their way\nalong narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having\ntheir lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and\nof being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on\ntheir journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town\nof Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his\nfriend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close\nenough for conversation, and Morland said, \"We had better go back,\nThorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as\nI. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little\nmore than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to\ngo. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much\nbetter put it off till another day, and turn round.\"\n\n\"It is all one to me,\" replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly\nturning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.\n\n\"If your brother had not got such a d--beast to drive,\" said he soon\nafterwards, \"we might have done it very well. My horse would have\ntrotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have\nalmost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded\njade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his\nown.\"\n\n\"No, he is not,\" said Catherine warmly, \"for I am sure he could not\nafford it.\"\n\n\"And why cannot he afford it?\"\n\n\"Because he has not money enough.\"\n\n\"And whose fault is that?\"\n\n\"Nobody's, that I know of.\" Thorpe then said something in the loud,\nincoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a\nd--thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not\nafford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even\nendeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the\nconsolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed\neither to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they\nreturned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.\n\nAs she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady\nhad called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off;\nthat, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had\nasked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no,\nhad felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away.\nPondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly\nupstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing\nthe reason of their speedy return, said, \"I am glad your brother had so\nmuch sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.\"\n\nThey all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed\nand out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in\nthe fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a\nvery good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton.\nHer satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more\nthan once. \"How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad\nI am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball\nor not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for\nall the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then\nto oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the\nMitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But I\ndare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you\ndo. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say\nwe could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such\nconsequence.\"\n\nCatherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in\ntenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they\nappear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she\noffered. \"Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,\" she whispered. \"You\nwill quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but\nthe Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual?\nIt was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I\nshould not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a\nfriend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;\nhe has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand you\nhave got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would fifty\ntimes rather you should have them than myself.\"\n\nAnd now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the\ntrue heroine's portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with\ntears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's\nrest in the course of the next three months.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\n\"Mrs. Allen,\" said Catherine the next morning, \"will there be any harm\nin my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have\nexplained everything.\"\n\n\"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always\nwears white.\"\n\nCatherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more\nimpatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform\nherself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were\nin Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's\nwavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she\nwas directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened\naway with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her\nconduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and\nresolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to\nsee her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to\nbelieve, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any\nimpediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for\nMiss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not\nquite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her\ncard. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did\nnot quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss\nTilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left\nthe house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and\ntoo much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,\ncould not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in\nexpectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the\nbottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a\nwindow, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was\nfollowed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,\nand they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in deep\nmortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself\nat such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she\nremembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers\nmight be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree\nof unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of\nrudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.\n\nDejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the\nothers to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they\nwere not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first\nplace, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the\nsecond, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre\naccordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;\nshe feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness\nfor plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were\nhabituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she\nknew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything else of the kind\n\"quite horrid.\" She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;\nthe comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during\nthe first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about\nher. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.\nHenry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,\nrecalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite\ngenuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look\nupon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the\nspace of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without\nbeing once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of\nindifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage\nduring two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,\nand he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended\nit; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.\nCatherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to\nthe box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings\nrather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her\nown dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly\nresolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him\nwho could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble\nof seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by\navoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself\nall the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only\neager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.\n\nThe play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be\nseen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he\nmight be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes\nhe appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke\nwith like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such\ncalmness was he answered by the latter: \"Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been\nquite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought\nme so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen?\nDid not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a\nphaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times\nrather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"My dear, you tumble my gown,\" was Mrs. Allen's reply.\n\nHer assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it\nbrought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and\nhe replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:\n\"We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk\nafter our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back\non purpose.\"\n\n\"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such\na thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to\nhim as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! You were\nnot there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,\nI would have jumped out and run after you.\"\n\nIs there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a\ndeclaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he\nsaid everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and\ndependence on Catherine's honour. \"Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not\nangry,\" cried Catherine, \"because I know she was; for she would not see\nme this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next\nminute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps\nyou did not know I had been there.\"\n\n\"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she\nhas been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such\nincivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than\nthat my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being\nhurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her\nbeing denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,\nand meant to make her apology as soon as possible.\"\n\nCatherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something\nof solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,\nthoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the\ngentleman: \"But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your\nsister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could\nsuppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take\noffence?\"\n\n\"Me! I take offence!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were\nangry.\"\n\n\"I angry! I could have no right.\"\n\n\"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.\" He\nreplied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.\n\nHe remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for\nCatherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,\nhowever, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon\nas possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,\nshe was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the\nworld.\n\nWhile talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that\nJohn Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes\ntogether, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt\nsomething more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself\nthe object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say\nof her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found\nit was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather\nthan postpone his own walk a few minutes. \"How came Mr. Thorpe to know\nyour father?\" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her\ncompanion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military\nman, had a very large acquaintance.\n\nWhen the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting\nout. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while\nthey waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had\ntravelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in\na consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General\nTilney: \"He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks\nas young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a\ngentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.\"\n\n\"But how came you to know him?\"\n\n\"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I\nhave met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the\nmoment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,\nby the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost\nafraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if\nI had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in\nthis world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you understand\nit without a table; however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich\nas a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous\ndinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by\nheavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath.\"\n\n\"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?\"\n\n\"And what do you think I said?\"--lowering his voice--\"well done,\ngeneral, said I; I am quite of your mind.\"\n\nHere Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by\nGeneral Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,\nhowever, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued\nthe same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to\nhave done.\n\nThat General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very\ndelightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the\nfamily whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much\nmore, for her than could have been expected.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nMonday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now\npassed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes\nand fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,\nand the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the\nweek. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on\nthe afternoon's Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a\nprivate consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom had\nparticularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously\nplaced his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather\nwere fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and\nthey were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.\nThe affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine\nonly remained to be apprised of it. She had left them for a few minutes\nto speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as\nsoon as she came again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the\ngay acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very\nsorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept her\nfrom joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to\naccompany them now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take\ntheir proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would\nnot, upon any account, retract. But that she must and should retract\nwas instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton\ntomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off\na mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.\nCatherine was distressed, but not subdued. \"Do not urge me, Isabella. I\nam engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.\" This availed nothing. The same\narguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would\nnot hear of a refusal. \"It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you\nhad just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put\noff the walk till Tuesday.\"\n\n\"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior\nengagement.\" But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling\non her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most\nendearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not\nseriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so\ndearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so\nsweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all\nin vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained\nby such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to\ninfluence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her\nwith having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so\nlittle a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown\ncold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. \"I cannot help being\njealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who\nlove you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not\nin the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are\nstronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace;\nand to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me\nto the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else.\"\n\nCatherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the\npart of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?\nIsabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of\neverything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her\nmind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied\nher handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,\ncould not help saying, \"Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any\nlonger now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I\nshall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.\"\n\nThis was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her, and\nanxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they\nwould only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily\ndo, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and\neverybody might then be satisfied. But \"No, no, no!\" was the immediate\nanswer; \"that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not\ngo to town on Tuesday.\" Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and\na short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of\ncold resentment said, \"Very well, then there is an end of the party.\nIf Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would\nnot, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.\"\n\n\"Catherine, you must go,\" said James.\n\n\"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say\neither of them would like to go.\"\n\n\"Thank ye,\" cried Thorpe, \"but I did not come to Bath to drive my\nsisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d---- me if I\ndo. I only go for the sake of driving you.\"\n\n\"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.\" But her words were\nlost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.\n\nThe three others still continued together, walking in a most\nuncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,\nsometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and\nher arm was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were\nat war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always\ndistressed, but always steady.\n\n\"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,\" said James;\n\"you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest,\nbest-tempered of my sisters.\"\n\n\"I hope I am not less so now,\" she replied, very feelingly; \"but indeed\nI cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.\"\n\n\"I suspect,\" said Isabella, in a low voice, \"there is no great\nstruggle.\"\n\nCatherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no\nopposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined\nby Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, \"Well, I\nhave settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe\nconscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.\"\n\n\"You have not!\" cried Catherine.\n\n\"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to\nsay that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton\nwith us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her\ntill Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her;\nso there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of\nmine--hey?\"\n\nIsabella's countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and\nJames too looked happy again.\n\n\"A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our\ndistresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a\nmost delightful party.\"\n\n\"This will not do,\" said Catherine; \"I cannot submit to this. I must run\nafter Miss Tilney directly and set her right.\"\n\nIsabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and\nremonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When\neverything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would\nsuit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any\nfurther objection.\n\n\"I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.\nIf I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss\nTilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know\nthat Mr. Thorpe has--He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into\none act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;\nIsabella, do not hold me.\"\n\nThorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were\nturning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and\nwere at home by this time.\n\n\"Then I will go after them,\" said Catherine; \"wherever they are I will\ngo after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded\ninto doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.\"\nAnd with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have\ndarted after her, but Morland withheld him. \"Let her go, let her go, if\nshe will go.\"\n\n\"She is as obstinate as--\"\n\nThorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper\none.\n\nAway walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would\npermit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As\nshe walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to\ndisappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;\nbut she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination\napart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to\nhave retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,\nand on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been\nwithstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted\nmerely her own gratification; that might have been ensured in some\ndegree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had\nattended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their\nopinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to\nrestore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not\nbe at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,\nshe almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of\nMilsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the\nTilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into\ntheir lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still\nremaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying\nthat she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him\nproceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which\nhappened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the\ndrawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her\nexplanation, defective only in being--from her irritation of nerves and\nshortness of breath--no explanation at all, was instantly given. \"I am\ncome in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I\ntold them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great hurry\nto explain it.--I did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay\nfor the servant.\"\n\nThe business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,\nsoon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given\nthe message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly\nsurprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in\nresentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as\nmuch to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.\nWhatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations\nimmediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could\ndesire.\n\nThe affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney\nto her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous\npoliteness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her\nthink with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such\nanxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of\nher extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry\nwith the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the\napartment herself. \"What did William mean by it? He should make a point\nof inquiring into the matter.\" And if Catherine had not most warmly\nasserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the\nfavour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.\n\nAfter sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,\nand was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney's asking her if\nshe would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest\nof the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was\ngreatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen\nwould expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say no\nmore; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on\nsome other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would\nnot refuse to spare her to her friend. \"Oh, no; Catherine was sure they\nwould not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure\nin coming.\" The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying\neverything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of\nher walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and\nmaking her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they\nparted.\n\nCatherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney\nStreet, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she\nhad never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything\nmore of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant\nthroughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began\n(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been\nperfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way\nto their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of\na friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness\nto both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and\nascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct\nhad really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the\nhalf-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following\nday. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. \"Well,\" said he, \"and do you think\nof going too?\"\n\n\"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told\nme of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes\nare not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country\nin open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and\npublic places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should\nallow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland\nwould not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do\nnot you think these kind of projects objectionable?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean\ngown is not five minutes' wear in them. You are splashed getting in\nand getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every\ndirection. I hate an open carriage myself.\"\n\n\"I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an\nodd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by\nyoung men, to whom they are not even related?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.\"\n\n\"Dear madam,\" cried Catherine, \"then why did not you tell me so before?\nI am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with\nMr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought\nI was doing wrong.\"\n\n\"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.\nMorland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But\none must not be over particular. Young people will be young people,\nas your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first\ncame, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do\nnot like to be always thwarted.\"\n\n\"But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you\nwould have found me hard to persuade.\"\n\n\"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,\" said Mr. Allen;\n\"and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any\nmore.\"\n\n\"That is just what I was going to say,\" added his wife.\n\nCatherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a\nmoment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper\nand kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of\nwhich she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that\nIsabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in\nspite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing\nany such thing. \"You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old\nenough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise\nher. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had\nbetter not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be\nonly getting ill will.\"\n\nCatherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be\ndoing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen's approbation of her\nown conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the\ndanger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one\nof the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the\nTilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in\norder to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one\nbreach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nThe next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack\nfrom the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no\ndread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where\nvictory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at\nneither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for\nher at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden\nrecollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to\ndisconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to\nfulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.\nThey determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose\nbeautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object\nfrom almost every opening in Bath.\n\n\"I never look at it,\" said Catherine, as they walked along the side of\nthe river, \"without thinking of the south of France.\"\n\n\"You have been abroad then?\" said Henry, a little surprised.\n\n\"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind\nof the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The\nMysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better\nbooks.\"\n\n\"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good\nnovel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's\nworks, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,\nwhen I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember\nfinishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added Miss Tilney, \"and I remember that you undertook to read it\naloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to\nanswer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the\nHermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,\nthe injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on,\nrefusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise\nI had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most\ninteresting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to\nobserve, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on\nit, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of\nliking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised\nnovels amazingly.\"\n\n\"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they\nread nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.\nDo not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and\nLouisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing\ninquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon\nleave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate\nsimile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when\nshe went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had\nthe start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were\na good little girl working your sampler at home!\"\n\n\"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho\nthe nicest book in the world?\"\n\n\"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend\nupon the binding.\"\n\n\"Henry,\" said Miss Tilney, \"you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he\nis treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding\nfault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking\nthe same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not\nsuit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall\nbe overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" cried Catherine, \"I did not mean to say anything wrong; but\nit is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said Henry, \"and this is a very nice day, and we are taking\na very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a\nvery nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it\nwas applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or\nrefinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or\ntheir choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised\nin that one word.\"\n\n\"While, in fact,\" cried his sister, \"it ought only to be applied to you,\nwithout any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come,\nMiss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost\npropriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we\nlike best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of\nreading?\"\n\n\"To say the truth, I do not much like any other.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and\ndo not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be\ninterested in. Can you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am fond of history.\"\n\n\"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me\nnothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and\nkings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for\nnothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I\noften think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it\nmust be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths,\ntheir thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and\ninvention is what delights me in other books.\"\n\n\"Historians, you think,\" said Miss Tilney, \"are not happy in their\nflights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I\nam fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with\nthe true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence\nin former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,\nI conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own\nobservation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are\nembellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up,\nI read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with\nmuch greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if\nthe genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.\"\n\n\"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have\ntwo brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small\ncircle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the\nwriters of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it\nis all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes,\nwhich, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be\nlabouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck\nme as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,\nI have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on\npurpose to do it.\"\n\n\"That little boys and girls should be tormented,\" said Henry, \"is what\nno one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can\ndeny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe\nthat they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher\naim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well\nqualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature\ntime of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own\nmethod, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as\nsynonymous.\"\n\n\"You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been\nas much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their\nletters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they\ncan be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is\nat the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my\nlife at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might\nsometimes be used as synonymous words.\"\n\n\"Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty\nof learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem\nparticularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may\nperhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to\nbe tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of\nbeing able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been\ntaught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not\nhave written at all.\"\n\nCatherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's\nmerits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on\nwhich she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the\neyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of\nbeing formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here\nCatherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste:\nand she listened to them with an attention which brought her little\nprofit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea\nto her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to\ncontradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter\nbefore. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the\ntop of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof\nof a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced\nshame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.\nTo come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of\nadministering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would\nalways wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of\nknowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.\n\nThe advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already\nset forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment\nof the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the\nlarger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a\ngreat enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them\ntoo reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything\nmore in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own\nadvantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate\nheart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young\nman, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present\ninstance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared\nthat she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and\na lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his\ninstructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in\neverything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he\nbecame perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.\nHe talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens\nand perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a\nscholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily\nrejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.\nDelighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much\nwisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy\ntransition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which\nhe had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the\nenclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly\nfound himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an\neasy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short\ndisquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine,\nwho, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, \"I have\nheard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London.\"\n\nMiss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and\nhastily replied, \"Indeed! And of what nature?\"\n\n\"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is\nto be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.\"\n\n\"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?\"\n\n\"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from\nLondon yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder\nand everything of the kind.\"\n\n\"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts\nhave been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper\nmeasures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming\nto effect.\"\n\n\"Government,\" said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, \"neither desires\nnor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and\ngovernment cares not how much.\"\n\nThe ladies stared. He laughed, and added, \"Come, shall I make you\nunderstand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as\nyou can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the\ngenerosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience\nwith such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the\ncomprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound\nnor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,\ndiscernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to\nsatisfy me as to this dreadful riot.\"\n\n\"Riot! What riot?\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion\nthere is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more\ndreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three\nduodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with\na frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you\nunderstand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all\nyour clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and\ninstead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have\ndone, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she\nimmediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling\nin St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the\nstreets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light\nDragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell\nthe insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the\nmoment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a\nbrickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the\nsister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a\nsimpleton in general.\"\n\nCatherine looked grave. \"And now, Henry,\" said Miss Tilney, \"that you\nhave made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland\nunderstand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably\nrude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in\ngeneral. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.\"\n\n\"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.\"\n\n\"No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.\"\n\n\"What am I to do?\"\n\n\"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before\nher. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women\nin the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I\nhappen to be in company.\"\n\n\"That is not enough. Be more serious.\"\n\n\"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of\nwomen than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they\nnever find it necessary to use more than half.\"\n\n\"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is\nnot in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely\nmisunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman\nat all, or an unkind one of me.\"\n\nIt was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never\nbe wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must\nalways be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready\nto admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it\nended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended\nher into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing\nherself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine,\npetitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after\nthe next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only\ndifficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure.\n\nThe morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her\nfriendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James\nhad crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she\nbecame amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little\neffect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her\nanxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the\nmorning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard\nof ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into\nthe town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was\nloitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in\nthe world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she\nsoon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. \"They set off at\neight this morning,\" said Miss Anne, \"and I am sure I do not envy\nthem their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the\nscrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a\nsoul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and\nJohn drove Maria.\"\n\nCatherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the\narrangement.\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" rejoined the other, \"Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.\nShe thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her\ntaste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if\nthey pressed me ever so much.\"\n\nCatherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, \"I wish\nyou could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I\nwould not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia\nwhen you overtook us.\"\n\nCatherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the\nfriendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu\nwithout much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had\nnot been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing\nthat it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to\nresent her resistance any longer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nEarly the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness\nin every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on\na matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest\nstate of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. The two\nyoungest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne's\nquitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking\nthe other for some particulars of their yesterday's party. Maria desired\nno greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately\nlearnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the\nworld, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that\nit had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the\ninformation of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in\ndetail--that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup,\nand bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the\nwater, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned\nto eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed\ntheir dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a\ndelightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little,\nand Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.\n\nCatherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize\nCastle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was\nnothing to regret for half an instant. Maria's intelligence concluded\nwith a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented\nas insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.\n\n\"She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help\nit? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because\nshe had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour\nagain this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a\nlittle matter that puts me out of temper.\"\n\nIsabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such\nhappy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. Maria was without\nceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: \"Yes,\nmy dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived\nyou. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.\"\n\nCatherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.\n\n\"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,\" continued the other, \"compose\nyourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and\ntalk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note?\nSly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can\njudge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of\nmen. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent\nfather and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so\nagitated!\"\n\nCatherine's understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly\ndarted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,\nshe cried out, \"Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can\nyou--can you really be in love with James?\"\n\nThis bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the\nfact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually\nwatched in Isabella's every look and action, had, in the course of their\nyesterday's party, received the delightful confession of an equal love.\nHer heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine\nlistened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother\nand her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of\nit appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those\ngrand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a\nreturn. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature\nof them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a\nsister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces\nand tears of joy.\n\nDelighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the\nconnection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her\nin tender anticipations. \"You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my\nCatherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much\nmore attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own.\"\n\nThis was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.\n\n\"You are so like your dear brother,\" continued Isabella, \"that I quite\ndoted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;\nthe first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland\ncame to us last Christmas--the very first moment I beheld him--my heart\nwas irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair\ndone up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John\nintroduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.\"\n\nHere Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though\nexceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she\nhad never in her life thought him handsome.\n\n\"I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore\nher puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought\nyour brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep\na wink all right for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless\nnights I have had on your brother's account! I would not have you suffer\nhalf what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will\nnot pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I\nfeel that I have betrayed myself perpetually--so unguarded in speaking\nof my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would\nbe safe with you.\"\n\nCatherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an\nignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point,\nnor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate\nsympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found,\nwas preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his\nsituation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation\nto the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she\nwas herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose\ntheir son's wishes. \"It is impossible,\" said she, \"for parents to be\nmore kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no\ndoubt of their consenting immediately.\"\n\n\"Morland says exactly the same,\" replied Isabella; \"and yet I dare not\nexpect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.\nYour brother, who might marry anybody!\"\n\nHere Catherine again discerned the force of love.\n\n\"Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be\nnothing to signify.\"\n\n\"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify\nnothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for\nmyself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the\ncommand of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother\nwould be my only choice.\"\n\nThis charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,\ngave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her\nacquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than\nin uttering the grand idea. \"I am sure they will consent,\" was her\nfrequent declaration; \"I am sure they will be delighted with you.\"\n\n\"For my own part,\" said Isabella, \"my wishes are so moderate that the\nsmallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are\nreally attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would\nnot settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village\nwould be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about Richmond.\"\n\n\"Richmond!\" cried Catherine. \"You must settle near Fullerton. You must\nbe near us.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you,\nI shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself\nto think of such things, till we have your father's answer. Morland\nsays that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow.\nTomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know\nit will be the death of me.\"\n\nA reverie succeeded this conviction--and when Isabella spoke again, it\nwas to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.\n\nTheir conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,\nwho came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.\nCatherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her\neloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of\nspeech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with\nease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his\nadieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not\nbeen frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that\nhe would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness\nto have him gone. \"Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how\nfar you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven's\nsake, waste no more time. There, go, go--I insist on it.\"\n\nThe two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable\nfor the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along.\nMrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and\nwho seemed only to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's\nengagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their\nfamily, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of\nsignificant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure\nof curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters. To\nCatherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither\nkindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would\nhardly have forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their\nfriend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the sagacity of\ntheir \"I know what\"; and the evening was spent in a sort of war of wit,\na display of family ingenuity, on one side in the mystery of an affected\nsecret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.\n\nCatherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to\nsupport her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before\nthe delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time\nof reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more\ndesponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a\nstate of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress\nbe found? \"I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind\nparents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to\nforward my happiness,\" were the first three lines, and in one moment\nall was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over\nIsabella's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits\nbecame almost too high for control, and she called herself without\nscruple the happiest of mortals.\n\nMrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her\nvisitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with\nsatisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was \"dear\nJohn\" and \"dear Catherine\" at every word; \"dear Anne and dear Maria\"\nmust immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two \"dears\" at\nonce before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child\nhad now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only\nbestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the finest\nfellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.\n\nThe letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing\nlittle more than this assurance of success; and every particular was\ndeferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella\ncould well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's\npromise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what\nmeans their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to\nbe resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her\ndisinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of\nan honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a rapid\nflight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end of\na few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at\nFullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a\ncarriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant\nexhibition of hoop rings on her finger.\n\nWhen the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had\nonly waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set\noff. \"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, on finding her alone in the parlour,\n\"I am come to bid you good-bye.\" Catherine wished him a good journey.\nWithout appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about,\nhummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.\n\n\"Shall not you be late at Devizes?\" said Catherine. He made no answer;\nbut after a minute's silence burst out with, \"A famous good thing this\nmarrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's.\nWhat do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.\"\n\n\"I am sure I think it a very good one.\"\n\n\"Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to\nmatrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song 'Going to One Wedding\nBrings on Another?' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope.\"\n\n\"Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.\"\n\n\"And then you know\"--twisting himself about and forcing a foolish\nlaugh--\"I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old\nsong.\"\n\n\"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with\nMiss Tilney today, and must now be going home.\"\n\n\"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may\nbe together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a\nfortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.\"\n\n\"Then why do you stay away so long?\" replied Catherine--finding that he\nwaited for an answer.\n\n\"That is kind of you, however--kind and good-natured. I shall not forget\nit in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody\nliving, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only\ngood nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you\nhave such--upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a\ngreat deal better. Good morning to you.\"\n\n\"But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton\nbefore it is long, if not disagreeable.\"\n\n\"Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.\"\n\n\"And I hope--I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.\nCompany is always cheerful.\"\n\n\"That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company,\nlet me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where\nI like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And\nI am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss\nMorland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most\nmatters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind\nabout.\"\n\n\"By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what\ndoes not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only\nhave the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and\nwhat care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good\nincome of my own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.\"\n\n\"Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one\nside, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which\nhas it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune\nlooking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest\nthing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at\nFullerton, whenever it is convenient.\" And away she went. It was not in\nthe power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to\ncommunicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not\nto be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,\nleaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and\nher explicit encouragement.\n\nThe agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her\nbrother's engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion\nin Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How\ngreat was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of\npreparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since\nher brother's arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was\ncomprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark,\non the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the\nlady's, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising\ninsensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James's\ngoing to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen.\nShe could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but repeatedly\nregretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could have known\nhis intention, wished she could have seen him before he went, as she\nshould certainly have troubled him with her best regards to his father\nand mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nCatherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street\nwere so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,\nthough she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly\nwelcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of\nthe party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours in\nthe examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment\npreparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding\nherself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse\nof the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead\nof seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a\nfamily party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable;\nand, in spite of their father's great civilities to her--in spite of his\nthanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been a release to get\naway from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not\nbe General Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and\ngood-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a\ndoubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father. He could not\nbe accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for her want of\nenjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have\nbeen accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own\nstupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave\na different explanation: \"It was all pride, pride, insufferable\nhaughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very\nhigh, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss\nTilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of\nher house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest with such\nsuperciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!\"\n\n\"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;\nshe was very civil.\"\n\n\"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared\nso attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are\nincomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?\"\n\n\"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.\"\n\n\"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my\naversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear\nCatherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.\"\n\n\"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!\nOh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has\nthe most constant heart.\"\n\n\"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for\nanybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed\nto be his only care to entertain and make me happy.\"\n\n\"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he\nis a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's\njudgment--\"\n\n\"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet\nthem at the rooms.\"\n\n\"And must I go?\"\n\n\"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.\"\n\n\"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But\ndo not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will\nbe some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg;\nthat is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to\ndeath, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he\nguesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall\ninsist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.\"\n\nIsabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was\nsure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or\nsister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.\nThe evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same\nkindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss\nTilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.\n\nHaving heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,\nCaptain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for\nthe name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had\nnever seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She\nlooked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that\nsome people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her\neyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.\nHis taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for,\nwithin her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of\ndancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it\npossible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever\nmight be our heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not\nof a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between the\nbrothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of\nthe three villains in horsemen's greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter\nbe forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with\nincredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of\nsuch an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short\nset to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney,\nlistening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him\nirresistible, becoming so herself.\n\nAt the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,\nand, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They\nretired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did\nnot take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney\nmust have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now\nhastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them\nforever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without\nvery uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes' duration;\nand she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when\nthey both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's requesting\nto know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection\nto dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to\nher. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss\nThorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to\nthe other, and he immediately walked away.\n\n\"Your brother will not mind it, I know,\" said she, \"because I heard him\nsay before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him\nto think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she\nmight wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not\ndance upon any account in the world.\"\n\nHenry smiled, and said, \"How very little trouble it can give you to\nunderstand the motive of other people's actions.\"\n\n\"Why? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What\nis the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings, age,\nsituation, and probable habits of life considered--but, How should I be\ninfluenced, What would be my inducement in acting so and so?\"\n\n\"I do not understand you.\"\n\n\"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly\nwell.\"\n\n\"Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.\"\n\n\"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.\"\n\n\"But pray tell me what you mean.\"\n\n\"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the\nconsequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and\ncertainly bring on a disagreement between us.\"\n\n\"No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of\ndancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being\nsuperior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.\"\n\nCatherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions were\nverified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her\nfor the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much\nthat she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and\nalmost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,\nshe looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them\nhands across.\n\nIsabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this\nextraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it\nwas not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her\nastonishment in very plain terms to her partner.\n\n\"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to\ndance.\"\n\n\"And did Isabella never change her mind before?\"\n\n\"Oh! But, because--And your brother! After what you told him from me,\nhow could he think of going to ask her?\"\n\n\"I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised\non your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his\nconduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed\nhim perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open\nattraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by\nyourself.\"\n\n\"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.\"\n\n\"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be\nto be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;\nand, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by\nno means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.\"\n\nThe friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse\ntill all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room\narm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: \"I do not wonder at your\nsurprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!\nAmusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given\nthe world to sit still.\"\n\n\"Then why did not you?\"\n\n\"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I\nabhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he\nwould take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him\nto excuse me, and get some other partner--but no, not he; after aspiring\nto my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of;\nand it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with\nme. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to\nprevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches\nand compliments; and so--and so then I found there would be no peace if\nI did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,\nmight take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he\nwould have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am\nso glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his\nnonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was\nupon us.\"\n\n\"He is very handsome indeed.\"\n\n\"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him\nin general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid\ncomplexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly\nconceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my\nway.\"\n\nWhen the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject\nto discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received, and the\nkind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr.\nMorland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds\nyearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be\nold enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income, no\nniggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least equal\nvalue, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.\n\nJames expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and\nthe necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could\nmarry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne\nby him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as\nunfixed as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was now\nentirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily\ncongratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.\n\n\"It is very charming indeed,\" said Isabella, with a grave face. \"Mr.\nMorland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,\" said the gentle Mrs.\nThorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. \"I only wish I could do as\nmuch. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he\ncan do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an\nexcellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin\non indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do\nnot consider how little you ever want, my dear.\"\n\n\"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to\nbe the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an\nincome hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For\nmyself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.\"\n\n\"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in\nthe affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young\nwoman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say\nwhen Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child--but do not let us distress\nour dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so\nvery handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man;\nand you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a\nsuitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am\nsure he must be a most liberal-minded man.\"\n\n\"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But\neverybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to\ndo what they like with their own money.\" Catherine was hurt by these\ninsinuations. \"I am very sure,\" said she, \"that my father has promised\nto do as much as he can afford.\"\n\nIsabella recollected herself. \"As to that, my sweet Catherine, there\ncannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much\nsmaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that\nmakes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if\nour union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should\nnot have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.\nThere's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are\nto pass before your brother can hold the living.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,\" said Mrs. Thorpe, \"we perfectly see\ninto your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the\npresent vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a\nnoble honest affection.\"\n\nCatherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to\nbelieve that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella's\nregret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and\namiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought\notherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the\nmost gratifying kindness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nThe Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and\nwhether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which\nCatherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with\nthe Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.\nHer whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,\nand everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should\nbe taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to\nproduce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made\nbut a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since\nJames's engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so\nfar as to indulge in a secret \"perhaps,\" but in general the felicity of\nbeing with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now\ncomprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for\nthat period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite\nbut little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this\nbusiness arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her\njoyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she\nexpressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay than Miss Tilney\ntold her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath\nby the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of\nthe morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.\nCatherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she\nechoed Miss Tilney's concluding words, \"By the end of another week!\"\n\n\"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I\nthink a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival\nwhom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a\nhurry to get home.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry for it,\" said Catherine dejectedly; \"if I had known\nthis before--\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, \"you would be so\ngood--it would make me very happy if--\"\n\nThe entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine\nwas beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.\nAfter addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his\ndaughter and said, \"Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being\nsuccessful in your application to your fair friend?\"\n\n\"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.\"\n\n\"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My\ndaughter, Miss Morland,\" he continued, without leaving his daughter time\nto speak, \"has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has\nperhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells\nme that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope\nof seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of\nmy very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And\ncould we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a\nsingle regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene\nof public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in\nGloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its\npresumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath\nthan yourself. Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain\nit by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit,\nyou will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you\nnothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither\nby amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain\nand unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make\nNorthanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.\"\n\nNorthanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine's\nfeelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified\nheart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of\ntolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her\ncompany so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every\npresent enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her\nacceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation,\nwas eagerly given. \"I will write home directly,\" said she, \"and if they\ndo not object, as I dare say they will not--\"\n\nGeneral Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her\nexcellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of\nhis wishes. \"Since they can consent to part with you,\" said he, \"we may\nexpect philosophy from all the world.\"\n\nMiss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and\nthe affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary\nreference to Fullerton would allow.\n\nThe circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through\nthe varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were\nnow safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,\nwith Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she\nhurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on\nthe discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their\ndaughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had\nbeen formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their\nready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though\nnot more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being\nfavoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,\ncircumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her\nadvantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had\nbeen introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her.\nHer feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.\nWherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The\naffection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,\nthey, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,\noutstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their\nintimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she\nwas to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society\nshe mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to\nbe the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in\ndegree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made\nusually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see\nand explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters\nof the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more\nthan the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.\nAnd yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,\nhall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,\nand she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow\ncells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she\ncould not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some\nawful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.\n\nIt was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the\npossession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so\nmeekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A\ndistinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority\nof abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.\n\nMany were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so\nactive were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she\nwas hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been\na richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having\nfallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,\nof a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the\npresent dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low\nin a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nWith a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two\nor three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than\na few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and\nto sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one\nmorning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without anything to say or to hear; and\nscarcely had she felt a five minutes' longing of friendship, before the\nobject of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the\nway to a seat. \"This is my favourite place,\" said she as they sat\ndown on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of\neverybody entering at either; \"it is so out of the way.\"\n\nCatherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually bent towards\none door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how\noften she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a\nfine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, \"Do not\nbe uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.\"\n\n\"Psha! My dear creature,\" she replied, \"do not think me such a simpleton\nas to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous\nto be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you\nare going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the\nfinest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most\nparticular description of it.\"\n\n\"You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you\nlooking for? Are your sisters coming?\"\n\n\"I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you\nknow what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an\nhundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent\ncreature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a\ncertain stamp.\"\n\n\"But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My\npoor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just\nhad a letter from John; you can guess the contents.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I cannot.\"\n\n\"My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write\nabout, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with\nyou.\"\n\n\"With me, dear Isabella!\"\n\n\"Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and\nall that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is\nsometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained!\nIt is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such as a child must\nhave noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you\ngave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter,\nsays that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his\nadvances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his suit,\nand say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain to affect\nignorance.\"\n\nCatherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment\nat such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr.\nThorpe's being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of\nher having ever intended to encourage him. \"As to any attentions on his\nside, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a\nmoment--except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming.\nAnd as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some\nunaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that\nkind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest\nthat no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. The last half\nhour before he went away! It must be all and completely a mistake--for I\ndid not see him once that whole morning.\"\n\n\"But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar's\nBuildings--it was the day your father's consent came--and I am pretty\nsure that you and John were alone in the parlour some time before you\nleft the house.\"\n\n\"Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say--but for the life\nof me, I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and\nseeing him as well as the rest--but that we were ever alone for five\nminutes--However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass\non his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it,\nthat I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind\nfrom him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for\nme--but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had\nthe smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell\nhim I beg his pardon--that is--I do not know what I ought to say--but\nmake him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak\ndisrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but you know\nvery well that if I could think of one man more than another--he is not\nthe person.\" Isabella was silent. \"My dear friend, you must not be angry\nwith me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And,\nyou know, we shall still be sisters.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes\" (with a blush), \"there are more ways than one of our being\nsisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case\nseems to be that you are determined against poor John--is not it so?\"\n\n\"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant\nto encourage it.\"\n\n\"Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.\nJohn desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.\nBut I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very\nfoolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of\neither; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You\nhave both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will\nsupport a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say, there\nis no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he\ncould not have received my last.\"\n\n\"You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?--You are convinced that I\nnever meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me\ntill this moment?\"\n\n\"Oh! As to that,\" answered Isabella laughingly, \"I do not pretend to\ndetermine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All\nthat is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will\noccur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one\nwishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in\nthe world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for\nin youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not\nmean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.\"\n\n\"But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same.\nYou are describing what never happened.\"\n\n\"My dearest Catherine,\" continued the other without at all listening to\nher, \"I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an\nengagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything\nwould justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely\nto oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after\nall, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom\nknow what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly\nchangeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's\nhappiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions\nof friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do\nnot be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great\na hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is\nnothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own\naffections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he comes; never\nmind, he will not see us, I am sure.\"\n\nCatherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,\nearnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He\napproached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited\nhim. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she\ncould distinguish, \"What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!\"\n\n\"Psha, nonsense!\" was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. \"Why\ndo you put such things into my head? If I could believe it--my spirit,\nyou know, is pretty independent.\"\n\n\"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.\"\n\n\"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have\nnone of you any hearts.\"\n\n\"If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.\"\n\n\"Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so\ndisagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you\"\n(turning her back on him); \"I hope your eyes are not tormented now.\"\n\n\"Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view--at\nonce too much and too little.\"\n\nCatherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen\nno longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her\nbrother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed\ntheir walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so\namazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;\nand if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was\nexpecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must\nexcuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be\nstubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their\nreturning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving\nIsabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did\nshe thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling\nin love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;\nunconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as\ncertain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth\nor good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their\nconversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked\nmore like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not\nlooked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that\nshe should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a\nhint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which\nher too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her\nbrother.\n\nThe compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make amends for this\nthoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as\nfrom wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he\ncould mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement\nconvinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.\nIn vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in\nwonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love\nwith her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his\nattentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said\nmany things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never\nbe said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present\nease and comfort.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nA few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to\nsuspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of\nher observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.\nWhen she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends\nin Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so\ntrifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed.\nA something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of\nmind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come\nacross her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread\na new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her\nin public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were\noffered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice\nand smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What\ncould be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at,\nwas beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain\nshe was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which\nCatherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him\ngrave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman\nmight be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object.\nFor poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks\ndid not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she\nthought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for,\nin spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room,\nhis behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's\nengagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it.\nHe might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed\nimplied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by\na gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make\nher aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either\nopportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest\na hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the\nintended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation;\ntheir journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days,\nand Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart\nbut his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing;\nhe was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath.\nWhen Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to\nHenry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's evident partiality\nfor Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.\n\n\"My brother does know it,\" was Henry's answer.\n\n\"Does he? Then why does he stay here?\"\n\nHe made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she\neagerly continued, \"Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer\nhe stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his\nown sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will\nin time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it\nis only staying to be miserable.\"\n\nHenry smiled and said, \"I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.\"\n\n\"Then you will persuade him to go away?\"\n\n\"Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour\nto persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He\nknows what he is about, and must be his own master.\"\n\n\"No, he does not know what he is about,\" cried Catherine; \"he does not\nknow the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me\nso, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?\"\n\n\"Yes, very sure.\"\n\n\"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's\nadmission of them, that gives the pain?\"\n\n\"Is not it the same thing?\"\n\n\"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended\nby another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only\nwho can make it a torment.\"\n\nCatherine blushed for her friend, and said, \"Isabella is wrong. But I\nam sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my\nbrother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and\nwhile my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into\na fever. You know she must be attached to him.\"\n\n\"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with\nanother.\"\n\n\"It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so\nwell, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a\nlittle.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Catherine resumed with, \"Then you do not believe\nIsabella so very much attached to my brother?\"\n\n\"I can have no opinion on that subject.\"\n\n\"But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he\nmean by his behaviour?\"\n\n\"You are a very close questioner.\"\n\n\"Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.\"\n\n\"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart.\"\n\n\"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure\nyou I can only guess at.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To\nbe guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before\nyou. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young\nman; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has\nknown her engagement almost as long as he has known her.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Catherine, after some moments' consideration, \"you may be\nable to guess at your brother's intentions from all this; but I am sure\nI cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he\nwant Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to\nhim, he would go.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Morland,\" said Henry, \"in this amiable solicitude for your\nbrother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried\na little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or\nMiss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good\nbehaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain\nTilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him\nonly when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may\nbe sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not\nbe uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as\nlittle uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment\nof your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that\nreal jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no\ndisagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open\nto each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what\nis required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will\nnever tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.\"\n\nPerceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, \"Though\nFrederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a\nvery short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence\nwill soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then\nbe their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for\na fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's\npassion for a month.\"\n\nCatherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its\napproaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her\ncaptive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent\nof her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject\nagain.\n\nHer resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in their parting\ninterview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine's stay in\nPulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite\nher uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in\nexcellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness\nfor her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that\nat such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat\ncontradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered\nHenry's instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The\nembraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good\nhumour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the\npromotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her\nhappiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing\nit otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath\nthemselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen\nattended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her\nseated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was\nher agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful\nwas she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to\npreserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first\nfive minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to\nPulteney Street.\n\nMiss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did away some of her\nunpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could\nthe incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her.\nNay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt\nless, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort--his\ncontinual solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed\nfears of her seeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life\nbefore had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--made it\nimpossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She\nfelt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it.\nHer tranquillity was not improved by the general's impatience for the\nappearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at his\nlaziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by\nthe severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to\nthe offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself\nthe principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly\nresented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a\nvery uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain\nTilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.\n\nHe listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,\nwhich confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on\nIsabella's account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been\nthe real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being\ndecidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form\nher opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father\nremained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits\naffected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper to\nEleanor, \"How glad I shall be when you are all off.\"\n\nThe bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the\ntrunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom\nStreet by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him\nto put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to\naccompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,\nthough there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had\nso crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit;\nand, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed her\nin, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from\nbeing thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was closed\nupon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in which\nthe handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a\njourney of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger from Bath,\nto be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine's spirits revived as\nthey drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint;\nand, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey\nbefore, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without\nany regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it. The\ntediousness of a two hours' wait at Petty France, in which there was\nnothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about\nwithout anything to see, next followed--and her admiration of the style\nin which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four--postilions\nhandsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and\nnumerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent\ninconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would\nhave been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed\nalways a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely anything was\nsaid but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at\nwhatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made\nCatherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen\nthe two hours into four. At last, however, the order of release was\ngiven; and much was Catherine then surprised by the general's proposal\nof her taking his place in his son's curricle for the rest of the\njourney: \"the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of\nthe country as possible.\"\n\nThe remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young men's open\ncarriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first\nthought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for\nGeneral Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything improper for\nher; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry\nin the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial\nconvinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;\nthe chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it\nwas a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget\nits having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would\nhave been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses\ndisposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own\ncarriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a\nminute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;\nHenry drove so well--so quietly--without making any disturbance,\nwithout parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only\ngentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And\nthen his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat\nlooked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being\ndancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In\naddition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her\nown praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account, for\nher kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real\nfriendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he\nsaid, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female companion--and,\nin the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any\ncompanion at all.\n\n\"But how can that be?\" said Catherine. \"Are not you with her?\"\n\n\"Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at\nmy own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's,\nand some of my time is necessarily spent there.\"\n\n\"How sorry you must be for that!\"\n\n\"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.\"\n\n\"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of\nthe abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary\nparsonage-house must be very disagreeable.\"\n\nHe smiled, and said, \"You have formed a very favourable idea of the\nabbey.\"\n\n\"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one\nreads about?\"\n\n\"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such\nas 'what one reads about' may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves\nfit for sliding panels and tapestry?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there\nwould be so many people in the house--and besides, it has never been\nuninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back\nto it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.\"\n\n\"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly\nlighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread\nour beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.\nBut you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means)\nintroduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from\nthe rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the\nhouse, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up\na different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment\nnever used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years\nbefore. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind\nmisgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--too lofty and\nextensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take\nin its size--its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as\nlife, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even\na funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?\"\n\n\"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.\"\n\n\"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And\nwhat will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,\nbut on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a\nponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace\nthe portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so\nincomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your\neyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,\ngazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.\nTo raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that\nthe part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs\nyou that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this\nparting cordial she curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her\nreceding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you--and when,\nwith fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,\nwith increased alarm, that it has no lock.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot\nreally happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.\nWell, what then?\"\n\n\"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After\nsurmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to\nrest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at\nfarthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a\nviolent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice\nto its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains--and during\nthe frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think\nyou discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging\nmore violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your\ncuriosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly\narise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine\nthis mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in\nthe tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection,\nand on opening it, a door will immediately appear--which door, being\nonly secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts,\nsucceed in opening--and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through\nit into a small vaulted room.\"\n\n\"No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.\"\n\n\"What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a\nsecret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel\nof St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple\nan adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,\nand through this into several others, without perceiving anything very\nremarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another\na few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of\ntorture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way,\nand your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own\napartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your\neyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony\nand gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you\nhad passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will\neagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into\nevery drawer--but for some time without discovering anything of\nimportance--perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At\nlast, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will\nopen--a roll of paper appears--you seize it--it contains many sheets of\nmanuscript--you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber,\nbut scarcely have you been able to decipher 'Oh! Thou--whomsoever thou\nmayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may\nfall'--when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in\ntotal darkness.\"\n\n\"Oh! No, no--do not say so. Well, go on.\"\n\nBut Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able\nto carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of\nsubject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy\nin the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew\nashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her\nattention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really\nmeeting with what he related. \"Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never\nput her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all\nafraid.\"\n\nAs they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight\nof the abbey--for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects\nvery different--returned in full force, and every bend in the road was\nexpected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey\nstone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the\nsun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so\nlow did the building stand, that she found herself passing through the\ngreat gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without\nhaving discerned even an antique chimney.\n\nShe knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a\nsomething in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.\nTo pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such\nease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a\nsmooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity\nof any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long\nat leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain,\ndriving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything\nfurther, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw\nbonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was springing, with\nHenry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the\nold porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her friend and\nthe general were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one awful\nforeboding of future misery to herself, or one moment's suspicion of any\npast scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze\nhad not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted\nnothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake\nto her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room,\nand capable of considering where she was.\n\nAn abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she\ndoubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her\nobservation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in\nall the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she\nhad expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was\ncontracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and\nornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which\nshe looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk\nof his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were\nyet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch\nwas preserved--the form of them was Gothic--they might be even\ncasements--but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an\nimagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest\nstone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was\nvery distressing.\n\nThe general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the\nsmallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,\nbeing for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering\nhimself, however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not\nunworthy her notice--and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding\nof one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to\npronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed\nthe word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss\nTilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality\nto the family hours would be expected at Northanger.\n\nReturning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad\nstaircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many\nlanding-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it\nhad a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which\nCatherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before\nMiss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she\nwould find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she\nwould make as little alteration as possible in her dress.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nA moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment\nwas very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the\ndescription of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained\nneither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was\ncarpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those\nof the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest\nfashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room\naltogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on\nthis point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of\nanything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.\nHer habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was\npreparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed\nfor her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large\nhigh chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.\nThe sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she\nstood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed\nher:\n\n\"This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An\nimmense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here?\nPushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into\nit--cost me what it may, I will look into it--and directly too--by\ndaylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out.\" She advanced and\nexamined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker\nwood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the\nsame. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end\nwere the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps\nprematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was\na mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently,\nbut without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She could\nnot, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be\na T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was\na circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not\noriginally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the\nTilney family?\n\nHer fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,\nwith trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards\nto satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for\nsomething seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;\nbut at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her,\nstarting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This\nill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of\nuse to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it\nrecalled her to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and forced her,\nin spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in\nher dressing without further delay. Her progress was not quick, for her\nthoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object so well calculated\nto interest and alarm; and though she dared not waste a moment upon\na second attempt, she could not remain many paces from the chest. At\nlength, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her toilette\nseemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might\nsafely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate\nshould be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by\nsupernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With\nthis spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.\nHer resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes\nthe view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one\nend of the chest in undisputed possession!\n\nShe was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,\nanxious for her friend's being ready, entered the room, and to the\nrising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation,\nwas then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. \"That is\na curious old chest, is not it?\" said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily\nclosed it and turned away to the glass. \"It is impossible to say how\nmany generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this\nroom I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might\nsometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that\nits weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at\nleast out of the way.\"\n\nCatherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her\ngown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss\nTilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they\nran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General\nTilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,\non the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,\nordered \"Dinner to be on table directly!\"\n\nCatherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale\nand breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and\ndetesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he\nlooked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for\nso foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath\nfrom haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the\nworld: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress\nof having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton\nherself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the\ngeneral's complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored\nher to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its\ndimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use, and\nfitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on the\nunpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness\nand the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud\nher admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,\nacknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further\nconfessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he\ndid look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries\nof life; he supposed, however, \"that she must have been used to much\nbetter-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" was Catherine's honest assurance; \"Mr. Allen's\ndining-parlour was not more than half as large,\" and she had never\nseen so large a room as this in her life. The general's good humour\nincreased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not\nto make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be\nmore comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen's house, he was\nsure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.\n\nThe evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the\noccasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.\nIt was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue\nfrom her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or\nrestraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could\nthink of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.\n\nThe night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole\nafternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained\nviolently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest\nwith sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of\nthe ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt\nfor the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were\ncharacteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless\nvariety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings\nhad witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she\nrejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls\nso solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken\ngallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told her\nthat morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have\nnothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as securely\nas if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying\nher mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially on\nperceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter\nher room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately\nassisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. \"How much better is\nthis,\" said she, as she walked to the fender--\"how much better to find a\nfire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all the\nfamily are in bed, as so many poor girls have been obliged to do, and\nthen to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a\nfaggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had been like\nsome other places, I do not know that, in such a night as this, I could\nhave answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is nothing to\nalarm one.\"\n\nShe looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It\ncould be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the\ndivisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly\nhumming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously\nbehind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,\nand on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction\nof the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from\nthis examination, was not without its use; she scorned the causeless\nfears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to\nprepare herself for bed. \"She should take her time; she should not hurry\nherself; she did not care if she were the last person up in the house.\nBut she would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if\nshe wished for the protection of light after she were in bed.\" The fire\ntherefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the best part of an\nhour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed,\nwhen, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the\nappearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in\na situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.\nHenry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape\nher observation at first, immediately rushed across her; and though\nthere could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical, it\nwas certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her candle and\nlooked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but\nit was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she\nheld her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key\nwas in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not,\nhowever, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was\nso very odd, after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep\ntill she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on\na chair, she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn\nit; but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged,\nshe tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself\nsuccessful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable.\nShe paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the\nchimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything\nseemed to speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed,\nhowever, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be\nimpossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed\nin her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the\nkey, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants with\nthe determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded\nto her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and\nhaving thrown open each folding door, the second being secured only by\nbolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her\neye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers\nappeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in\nthe centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in\nall probability a cavity of importance.\n\nCatherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a\ncheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers\ngrasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.\nWith less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a\nfourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not\none was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure,\nthe possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and\nshe felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the\nmiddle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had \"never from\nthe first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the\ncabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus\nfar, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was\nabout it.\" It was some time however before she could unfasten the door,\nthe same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of\nthe outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her\nsearch; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back\ninto the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and\nher feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her\nknees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady\nhand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain\nwritten characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations\nthis striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved\ninstantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.\n\nThe dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with\nalarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some\nhours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in\ndistinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion,\nshe hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A\nlamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a\nfew moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a\nremnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.\nDarkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust\nof wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.\nCatherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a\nsound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck\non her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat\nstood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping\nher way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of\nagony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in\nsleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With\na curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated,\nrepose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful!\nShe had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast\nseemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully\nfound, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it\nto be accounted for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate?\nBy what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly\nstrange that it should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she had made\nherself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose\nnor comfort; and with the sun's first rays she was determined to peruse\nit. But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. She\nshuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The\nstorm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even\nthan the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very\ncurtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another\nthe lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to\nenter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than\nonce her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after\nhour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed\nby all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she\nunknowingly fell fast asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\nThe housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight o'clock the\nnext day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her\neyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of\ncheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning\nhad succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the\nconsciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;\nand springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away,\nshe eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the\nroll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury\nof their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not\nexpect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what she had\nshuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of\nsmall disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much\nless than she had supposed it to be at first.\n\nHer greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.\nCould it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory\nof linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before\nher! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill\nin her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with\nlittle variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing\nnew. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two\nothers, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more\ninteresting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball.\nAnd the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first\ncramp line, \"To poultice chestnut mare\"--a farrier's bill! Such was the\ncollection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the\nnegligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken them) which\nhad filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her\nnight's rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of\nthe chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as\nshe lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now\nbe clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a\nmanuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in\na room such as that, so modern, so habitable!--Or that she should be the\nfirst to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was\nopen to all!\n\nHow could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry\nTilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his\nown doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his\ndescription of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest\ncuriosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient\nto get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable\npapers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them\nup as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned them\nto the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no\nuntoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace her\neven with herself.\n\nWhy the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still\nsomething remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.\nIn this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the\nflattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the\ndoor's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener,\ndarted into her head, and cost her another blush.\n\nShe got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct\nproduced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed\nto the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss\nTilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope\nof her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference\nto the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.\nFor the world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet,\nunequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that\nthe wind had kept her awake a little. \"But we have a charming morning\nafter it,\" she added, desiring to get rid of the subject; \"and storms\nand sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful\nhyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.\"\n\n\"And how might you learn? By accident or argument?\"\n\n\"Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take\npains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till\nI saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent\nabout flowers.\"\n\n\"But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new\nsource of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness\nas possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your\nsex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more\nfrequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love\nof a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once\nraised, but you may in time come to love a rose?\"\n\n\"But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure\nof walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather\nI am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within.\"\n\n\"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love\na hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a\nteachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my\nsister a pleasant mode of instruction?\"\n\nCatherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the\nentrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy\nstate of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not\nadvance her composure.\n\nThe elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's notice\nwhen they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the general's\nchoice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it\nto be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of\nhis country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as\nwell flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden\nor Save. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago.\nThe manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some\nbeautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly\nwithout vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new\nset. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of\nselecting one--though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only\none of the party who did not understand him.\n\nShortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business\nrequired and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in\nthe hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the\nbreakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching\nanother glimpse of his figure. \"This is a somewhat heavy call upon your\nbrother's fortitude,\" observed the general to Eleanor. \"Woodston will\nmake but a sombre appearance today.\"\n\n\"Is it a pretty place?\" asked Catherine.\n\n\"What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the\ntaste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be\nacknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The\nhouse stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent\nkitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I built\nand stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It\nis a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being\nchiefly my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad\none. Did Henry's income depend solely on this living, he would not be\nill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger\nchildren, I should think any profession necessary for him; and certainly\nthere are moments when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie\nof business. But though I may not exactly make converts of you young\nladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in\nthinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The\nmoney is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the thing.\nEven Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as\nconsiderable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his\nprofession.\"\n\nThe imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The\nsilence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.\n\nSomething had been said the evening before of her being shown over the\nhouse, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though Catherine\nhad hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a\nproposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not\nto be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the\nabbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just\nleisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready\nto attend him in a moment. \"And when they had gone over the house, he\npromised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into the\nshrubberies and garden.\" She curtsied her acquiescence. \"But perhaps\nit might be more agreeable to her to make those her first object.\nThe weather was at present favourable, and at this time of year the\nuncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which would she prefer?\nHe was equally at her service. Which did his daughter think would most\naccord with her fair friend's wishes? But he thought he could discern.\nYes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire of\nmaking use of the present smiling weather. But when did she judge amiss?\nThe abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded implicitly, and\nwould fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.\" He left the room,\nand Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of her\nunwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own\ninclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped\nby Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion, \"I believe it will be\nwisest to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on\nmy father's account; he always walks out at this time of day.\"\n\nCatherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why\nwas Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the\ngeneral's side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And\nwas not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her\nfather nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was\nall impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about\nthe grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not\nknow what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her thoughts, but\nshe kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.\n\nShe was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of\nthe abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole\nbuilding enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich\nin Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was\nshut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep\nwoody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in\nthe leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with\nit; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting for\nany better authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The\ngeneral listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own\nestimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour.\n\nThe kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it\nacross a small portion of the park.\n\nThe number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine could\nnot listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all\nMr. Allen's, as well as her father's, including church-yard and orchard.\nThe walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of\nhot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at\nwork within the enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks of\nsurprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to\ntell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to\nthem before; and he then modestly owned that, \"without any ambition of\nthat sort himself--without any solicitude about it--he did believe them\nto be unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that.\nHe loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he\nloved good fruit--or if he did not, his friends and children did. There\nwere great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The\nutmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery\nhad yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed,\nmust feel these inconveniences as well as himself.\"\n\n\"No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went\ninto it.\"\n\nWith a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he\ncould do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some\nway or other, by its falling short of his plan.\n\n\"How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?\" describing the nature\nof his own as they entered them.\n\n\"Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use of\nfor her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.\"\n\n\"He is a happy man!\" said the general, with a look of very happy\ncontempt.\n\nHaving taken her into every division, and led her under every wall, till\nshe was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls\nat last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing\nhis wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the\ntea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss\nMorland were not tired. \"But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you\nchoose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best\nway is across the park.\"\n\n\"This is so favourite a walk of mine,\" said Miss Tilney, \"that I always\nthink it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.\"\n\nIt was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;\nand Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,\ncould not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping\nforward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea\nof health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused\nhimself, however, from attending them: \"The rays of the sun were not too\ncheerful for him, and he would meet them by another course.\" He turned\naway; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were\nrelieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less real than the\nrelief, offered it no injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of\nthe delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.\n\n\"I am particularly fond of this spot,\" said her companion, with a sigh.\n\"It was my mother's favourite walk.\"\n\nCatherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,\nand the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself\ndirectly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with\nwhich she waited for something more.\n\n\"I used to walk here so often with her!\" added Eleanor; \"though I never\nloved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to\nwonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.\"\n\n\"And ought it not,\" reflected Catherine, \"to endear it to her husband?\nYet the general would not enter it.\" Miss Tilney continuing silent, she\nventured to say, \"Her death must have been a great affliction!\"\n\n\"A great and increasing one,\" replied the other, in a low voice. \"I was\nonly thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as\nstrongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then\nknow what a loss it was.\" She stopped for a moment, and then added, with\ngreat firmness, \"I have no sister, you know--and though Henry--though my\nbrothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I\nam most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.\"\n\n\"To be sure you must miss him very much.\"\n\n\"A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a\nconstant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.\"\n\n\"Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture\nof her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was\nit from dejection of spirits?\"--were questions now eagerly poured forth;\nthe first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed\nby; and Catherine's interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with\nevery question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in marriage,\nshe felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He\ndid not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides,\nhandsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features\nwhich spoke his not having behaved well to her.\n\n\"Her picture, I suppose,\" blushing at the consummate art of her own\nquestion, \"hangs in your father's room?\"\n\n\"No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was\ndissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place.\nSoon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my\nbed-chamber--where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.\"\nHere was another proof. A portrait--very like--of a departed wife, not\nvalued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!\n\nCatherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the\nfeelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously\nexcited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute\naversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him\nodious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which\nMr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was\nproof positive of the contrary.\n\nShe had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them\ndirectly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation,\nshe found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and\neven to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive\npleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with\nlassitude; the general perceived it, and with a concern for her health,\nwhich seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent\nfor returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in\na quarter of an hour. Again they parted--but Eleanor was called back in\nhalf a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round\nthe abbey till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay\nwhat she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\nAn hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of\nhis young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character.\n\"This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind\nat ease, or a conscience void of reproach.\" At length he appeared; and,\nwhatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still\nsmile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend's\ncuriosity to see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father\nbeing, contrary to Catherine's expectations, unprovided with any\npretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to\norder refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready\nto escort them.\n\nThey set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step,\nwhich caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read\nCatherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common\ndrawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both\nin size and furniture--the real drawing-room, used only with company of\nconsequence. It was very noble--very grand--very charming!--was all that\nCatherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned\nthe colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise\nthat had much meaning, was supplied by the general: the costliness or\nelegance of any room's fitting-up could be nothing to her; she cared for\nno furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When the\ngeneral had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every\nwell-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in\nits way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books, on\nwhich an humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard,\nadmired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than before--gathered\nall that she could from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over\nthe titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of\napartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the building,\nshe had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told that,\nwith the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now\nseen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it,\nor overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was\nsome relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common\nuse, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the\ncourt, which, with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate,\nconnected the different sides; and she was further soothed in her\nprogress by being told that she was treading what had once been a\ncloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several\ndoors that were neither opened nor explained to her--by finding herself\nsuccessively in a billiard-room, and in the general's private apartment,\nwithout comprehending their connection, or being able to turn aright\nwhen she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room,\nowning Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns,\nand greatcoats.\n\nFrom the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be\nseen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing\nout the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as\nto what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick\ncommunication to the kitchen--the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich\nin the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot\nclosets of the present. The general's improving hand had not loitered\nhere: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had\nbeen adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the genius\nof others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted.\nHis endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high\namong the benefactors of the convent.\n\nWith the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the\nfourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state,\nbeen removed by the general's father, and the present erected in its\nplace. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not\nonly new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and\nenclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been\nthought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had\nswept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the\npurposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared\nthe mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general\nallowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his\noffices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss Morland's,\na view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her\ninferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make\nno apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all; and\nCatherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity\nand their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries\nand a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were\nhere carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The\nnumber of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than\nthe number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl\nstopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this\nwas an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements\nfrom such as she had read about--from abbeys and castles, in which,\nthough certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house\nwas to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could\nget through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw\nwhat was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.\n\nThey returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,\nand the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be\npointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction\nfrom the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on\nthe same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown\nsuccessively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms,\nmost completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and\ntaste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been\nbestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they\nwere perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all\nthat could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last,\nthe general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters\nby whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling\ncountenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of\ntheir earliest tenants might be \"our friends from Fullerton.\" She felt\nthe unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of\nthinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full\nof civility to all her family.\n\nThe gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,\nadvancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point\nof doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach\nof gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,\nas Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were\ngoing?--And what was there more to be seen?--Had not Miss Morland\nalready seen all that could be worth her notice?--And did she not\nsuppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much\nexercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were\nclosed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary\nglance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and\nsymptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the\nreach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced\nback the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end\nof the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general's\nevident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional\nstimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though\nit had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here;\nand what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they\nfollowed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:\n\"I was going to take you into what was my mother's room--the room\nin which she died--\" were all her words; but few as they were, they\nconveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the\ngeneral should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room\nmust contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the\ndreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left\nhim to the stings of conscience.\n\nShe ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being\npermitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house;\nand Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a\nconvenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched\nfrom home, before that room could be entered. \"It remains as it was, I\nsuppose?\" said she, in a tone of feeling.\n\n\"Yes, entirely.\"\n\n\"And how long ago may it be that your mother died?\"\n\n\"She has been dead these nine years.\" And nine years, Catherine knew,\nwas a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the\ndeath of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.\n\n\"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Miss Tilney, sighing; \"I was unfortunately from home. Her\nillness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.\"\n\nCatherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally\nsprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father--?\nAnd yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest\nsuspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked\nwith her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in\nsilent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt\nsecure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude\nof a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a\nmind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review\nof past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits\ndirected her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss\nTilney's notice. \"My father,\" she whispered, \"often walks about the room\nin this way; it is nothing unusual.\"\n\n\"So much the worse!\" thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a\npiece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded\nnothing good.\n\nAfter an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made\nher peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was\nheartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not\ndesigned for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.\nWhen the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was\nforbidden. The latter was not going to retire. \"I have many pamphlets to\nfinish,\" said he to Catherine, \"before I can close my eyes, and perhaps\nmay be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are\nasleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will be\nblinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for future\nmischief.\"\n\nBut neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment,\ncould win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must\noccasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,\nafter the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely.\nThere must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could\nbe done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs.\nTilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the\npitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the\nconclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it\nwas at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural\ncourse of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her\nreputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other\nchildren, at the time--all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment.\nIts origin--jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty--was yet to be\nunravelled.\n\nIn revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her\nas not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very\nspot of this unfortunate woman's confinement--might have been within\na few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what\npart of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which\nyet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage,\npaved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she\nwell remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To\nwhat might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this\nconjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in\nwhich lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as\ncertainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this suspected\nrange of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of\nwhich she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some\nsecret means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous\nproceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been\nconveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!\n\nCatherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and\nsometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were\nsupported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.\n\nThe side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to be\nacting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck\nher that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the general's\nlamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison\nof his wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently\nfrom her room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it\nappeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The\nvarious ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be\nup. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then,\nwhen the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not\nquite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock\nstruck twelve--and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\nThe next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the\nmysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning\nand afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or\neating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity, her\ncourage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either\nby the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by the\nyet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp.\nThe day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination\nbeyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs.\nTilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye\nwas instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly\nstrained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the\ninconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her\ndestroyer, affected her even to tears.\n\nThat the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face\nit, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly\ncollected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so\nfearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed\nwonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings\nequally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember\ndozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to\ncrime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity\nor remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their\nblack career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the\nsmallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were\nshe even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed\nto slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to\nbe enclosed--what could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read too\nmuch not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure\nmight be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.\n\nThe succeeding morning promised something better. The general's early\nwalk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and\nwhen she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss\nTilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige\nher; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their\nfirst visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It\nrepresented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,\njustifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were\nnot in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting\nwith features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,\nthe very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the only portraits of\nwhich she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal\nresemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for\ngenerations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study\nfor a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,\nwith much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left\nit unwillingly.\n\nHer agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any\nendeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor's\ncountenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured\nto all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed\nthrough the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock,\nand Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former\nwith fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general\nhimself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of\n\"Eleanor\" at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the\nbuilding, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence,\nand to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been\nher first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could\nscarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an\napologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappeared\nwith him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself\nin, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She\nremained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply\ncommiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons\nherself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment. No\nsummons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up\nto the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the\nprotection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and\nshe was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in\na complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to\nmake her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor,\nwith a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his\ncharacter, taking an early occasion of saying to her, \"My father only\nwanted me to answer a note,\" she began to hope that she had either been\nunseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy she\nshould be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still\nto remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing\noccurred to disturb it.\n\nIn the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a resolution\nof making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much\nbetter in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.\nTo involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into\nan apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a\nfriend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might\nbe to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself\nwould be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be\nimpossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other\nhad, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she\ntherefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the general's\ncruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt\nconfident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented\njournal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was\nnow perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry's\nreturn, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost.\nThe day was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now\ntwo hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress\nhalf an hour earlier than usual.\n\nIt was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the\nclocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried\non, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors,\nand without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in\nquestion. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen\nsound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room\nwas before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance another\nstep. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature.\nShe saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed,\narranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove,\nmahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams\nof a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine had\nexpected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment\nand doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common\nsense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken\nas to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!--in Miss\nTilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, to which she\nhad given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end\nof what the general's father had built. There were two other doors in\nthe chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had no\ninclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last\nwalked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what\nnothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the\ngeneral's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for\ndetection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her\nown room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was on\nthe point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of\nfootsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble.\nTo be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the\ngeneral (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse!\nShe listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a\nmoment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door\nunderneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend\nthe stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could\ngain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror\nnot very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few\nmoments it gave Henry to her view. \"Mr. Tilney!\" she exclaimed in a\nvoice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. \"Good\nGod!\" she continued, not attending to his address. \"How came you here?\nHow came you up that staircase?\"\n\n\"How came I up that staircase!\" he replied, greatly surprised. \"Because\nit is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why\nshould I not come up it?\"\n\nCatherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He\nseemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her\nlips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. \"And may I not,\nin my turn,\" said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, \"ask how you\ncame here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the\nbreakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the\nstables to mine.\"\n\n\"I have been,\" said Catherine, looking down, \"to see your mother's\nroom.\"\n\n\"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till\ntomorrow.\"\n\n\"I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but\nthree hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You\nlook pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.\nPerhaps you did not know--you were not aware of their leading from the\noffices in common use?\"\n\n\"No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.\"\n\n\"Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in\nthe house by yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday--and we were\ncoming here to these rooms--but only\"--dropping her voice--\"your father\nwas with us.\"\n\n\"And that prevented you,\" said Henry, earnestly regarding her. \"Have you\nlooked into all the rooms in that passage?\"\n\n\"No, I only wanted to see--Is not it very late? I must go and dress.\"\n\n\"It is only a quarter past four\" showing his watch--\"and you are not now\nin Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger\nmust be enough.\"\n\nShe could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be\ndetained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first\ntime in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the\ngallery. \"Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?\"\n\n\"No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to\nwrite directly.\"\n\n\"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have\nheard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise--the fidelity\nof promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can\ndeceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not?\nLarge and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed!\nIt always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and\nI rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent\nyou to look at it, I suppose?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"It has been your own doing entirely?\" Catherine said nothing. After a\nshort silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, \"As\nthere is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must\nhave proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character,\nas described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I\nbelieve, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can\nboast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a\nperson never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating\ntenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose,\nhas talked of her a great deal?\"\n\n\"Yes, a great deal. That is--no, not much, but what she did say was very\ninteresting. Her dying so suddenly\" (slowly, and with hesitation it\nwas spoken), \"and you--none of you being at home--and your father, I\nthought--perhaps had not been very fond of her.\"\n\n\"And from these circumstances,\" he replied (his quick eye\nfixed on hers), \"you infer perhaps the probability of some\nnegligence--some\"--(involuntarily she shook her head)--\"or it may be--of\nsomething still less pardonable.\" She raised her eyes towards him\nmore fully than she had ever done before. \"My mother's illness,\" he\ncontinued, \"the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady\nitself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever--its\ncause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as\nshe could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable\nman, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his\nopinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and\nremained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the\nfifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I\n(we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation\ncan bear witness to her having received every possible attention\nwhich could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her\nsituation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a\ndistance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.\"\n\n\"But your father,\" said Catherine, \"was he afflicted?\"\n\n\"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached\nto her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him\nto--we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition--and\nI will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have\nhad much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never\ndid. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly\nafflicted by her death.\"\n\n\"I am very glad of it,\" said Catherine; \"it would have been very\nshocking!\"\n\n\"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as\nI have hardly words to--Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature\nof the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?\nRemember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are\nEnglish, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your\nown sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing\naround you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our\nlaws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in\na country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a\nfooting, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary\nspies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss\nMorland, what ideas have you been admitting?\"\n\nThey had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran\noff to her own room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\nThe visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.\nHenry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her\neyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several\ndisappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly\ndid she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with\nHenry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to\nhim, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination\nhad dared to take with the character of his father--could he ever\nforgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they\never be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He\nhad--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown\nsomething like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself as\nmiserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the\nclock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an\nintelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidable\nHenry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his\nbehaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.\nCatherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was\naware of it.\n\nThe evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and\nher spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not\nlearn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that\nit would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's\nentire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had\nwith such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be\nclearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,\neach trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination\nresolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by\na mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be\nfrightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a\nknowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,\nthe mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if\nthe whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which\nshe had there indulged.\n\nCharming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were\nthe works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human\nnature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked\nfor. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,\nthey might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and\nthe south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there\nrepresented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even\nof that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western\nextremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some\nsecurity for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of\nthe land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants\nwere not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,\nlike rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps,\nthere were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as\nan angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was\nnot so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,\nthere was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this\nconviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor\nTilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this\nconviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in\nthe character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly\ninjurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she\ndid believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.\n\nHer mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of\nalways judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she\nhad nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and\nthe lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in\nthe course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness\nof conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,\nwas of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have\nsupposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits\nbecame absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual\nimprovement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,\nunder which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a\nchest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of\njapan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento\nof past folly, however painful, might not be without use.\n\nThe anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of\nromance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.\nShe was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the\nrooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of\nIsabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had\nleft her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her\nonly dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had\nprotested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs.\nAllen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to\nFullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she\npromised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it\nso particularly strange!\n\nFor nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition\nof a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on\nthe tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a\nletter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily\nas if he had written it himself. \"'Tis only from James, however,\" as she\nlooked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this\npurpose:\n\n\n\"Dear Catherine,\n\n\"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my\nduty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and\nme. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall\nnot enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon\nhear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I\nhope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily\nthinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time!\nBut it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly\ngiven--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me\nsoon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love\nI do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before\nCaptain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably\ncircumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his\nhonest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father.\nHer duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned\nwith her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and\nlaughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;\nbut if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I\ncannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no\nneed of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted\nat last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never\nexpect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you\ngive your heart.\n\n\"Believe me,\" &c.\n\n\nCatherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of\ncountenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to\nbe receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through\nthe whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He\nwas prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father's\nentrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly\neat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she\nsat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in\nher pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general,\nbetween his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing\nher; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon\nas she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the\nhousemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.\nShe turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had\nlikewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation\nabout her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with\ngentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after\nEleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort\nto her.\n\nAfter half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine\nfelt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make\nher distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if\nparticularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantly\nhint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella\nhad been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!\nShe believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor\nwere by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,\nlooked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,\nafter a short silence, Eleanor said, \"No bad news from Fullerton, I\nhope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they are\nnone of them ill?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you\" (sighing as she spoke); \"they are all very well. My\nletter was from my brother at Oxford.\"\n\nNothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through\nher tears, she added, \"I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter\nagain!\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; \"if I\nhad suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have\ngiven it with very different feelings.\"\n\n\"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is\nso unhappy! You will soon know why.\"\n\n\"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,\" replied Henry\nwarmly, \"must be a comfort to him under any distress.\"\n\n\"I have one favour to beg,\" said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an\nagitated manner, \"that, if your brother should be coming here, you will\ngive me notice of it, that I may go away.\"\n\n\"Our brother! Frederick!\"\n\n\"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but\nsomething has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in\nthe same house with Captain Tilney.\"\n\nEleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing\nastonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in\nwhich Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.\n\n\"How quick you are!\" cried Catherine: \"you have guessed it, I declare!\nAnd yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its\nending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella\nhas deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed\nthere had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is\nbad in the world?\"\n\n\"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope\nhe has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's\ndisappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you\nmust be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that\nanyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at\nFrederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story.\"\n\n\"It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.\nStay--There is one part--\" recollecting with a blush the last line.\n\n\"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern\nmy brother?\"\n\n\"No, read it yourself,\" cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were\nclearer. \"I do not know what I was thinking of\" (blushing again that she\nhad blushed before); \"James only means to give me good advice.\"\n\nHe gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close\nattention, returned it saying, \"Well, if it is to be so, I can only\nsay that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has\nchosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy\nhis situation, either as a lover or a son.\"\n\nMiss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter likewise,\nand, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire\ninto Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune.\n\n\"Her mother is a very good sort of woman,\" was Catherine's answer.\n\n\"What was her father?\"\n\n\"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.\"\n\n\"Are they a wealthy family?\"\n\n\"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but\nthat will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!\nHe told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to\npromote the happiness of his children.\" The brother and sister looked\nat each other. \"But,\" said Eleanor, after a short pause, \"would it be to\npromote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be\nan unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how\nstrange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,\nis violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is\nnot it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so\nproudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!\"\n\n\"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption\nagainst him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.\nMoreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to\nsuppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other\nwas secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased\nman--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,\nand such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,\nguileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,\nand knowing no disguise.\"\n\n\"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,\" said Eleanor with a\nsmile.\n\n\"But perhaps,\" observed Catherine, \"though she has behaved so ill by our\nfamily, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man\nshe likes, she may be constant.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am afraid she will,\" replied Henry; \"I am afraid she will\nbe very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is\nFrederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the\narrivals.\"\n\n\"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are\nsome things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first\nknew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed\nthat it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in\nmy life before.\"\n\n\"Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.\"\n\n\"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor\nJames, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.\"\n\n\"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we\nmust not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,\nI suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a\nvoid in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming\nirksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at\nBath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,\nfor instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no\nlonger any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard\nyou can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could\nrely on. You feel all this?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, \"I do not--ought\nI? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still\nlove her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her\nagain, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have\nthought.\"\n\n\"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.\nSuch feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves.\"\n\nCatherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much\nrelieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led\non, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had\nproduced it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\nFrom this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young\npeople; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young\nfriends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella's want of\nconsequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way\nof her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the general would,\nupon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might be\nraised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her feelings\nmoreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant,\nand perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney\nproperty had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point\nof interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very\npainful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by\na dependence on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she\nwas given to understand by his words as well as his actions, she had\nfrom the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general; and by a\nrecollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments on the\nsubject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and\nwhich tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood\nby his children.\n\nThey were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not\nhave the courage to apply in person for his father's consent, and so\nrepeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to\ncome to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind\nto be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But\nas it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his\napplication, would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,\nit occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole\nbusiness before him as it really was, enabling the general by that means\nto form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on\na fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him\naccordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had\nexpected. \"No,\" said he, \"my father's hands need not be strengthened,\nand Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must\ntell his own story.\"\n\n\"But he will tell only half of it.\"\n\n\"A quarter would be enough.\"\n\nA day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His\nbrother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to\nthem as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected\nengagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.\nThe general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick's\nremissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and had\nno more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time at\nNorthanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on this\nhead, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments would\ndisgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the\ncountry, talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner,\nand once or twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing\npeople in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time of year,\nno wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country.\nAnd it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning that when he\nnext went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there some day\nor other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and\nvery happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme. \"And when\ndo you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at\nWoodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be\nobliged to stay two or three days.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is\nno need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way.\nWhatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I\ncan answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor's table.\nLet me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on\nMonday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor\nfrom Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in\ndecency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance\nif I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would\nbe taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland,\nnever to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of\ntime and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men.\nThey have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them\nwhenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question.\nBut on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be\nwith you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and\nthree quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the\ncarriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may\nlook for us.\"\n\nA ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than\nthis little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with\nWoodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an\nhour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she\nand Eleanor were sitting, and said, \"I am come, young ladies, in a\nvery moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world\nare always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great\ndisadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the\nfuture, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.\nBecause I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on\nWednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I\nmust go away directly, two days before I intended it.\"\n\n\"Go away!\" said Catherine, with a very long face. \"And why?\"\n\n\"Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in\nfrightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and\nprepare a dinner for you, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Oh! Not seriously!\"\n\n\"Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay.\"\n\n\"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?\nWhen he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,\nbecause anything would do.\"\n\nHenry only smiled. \"I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's\naccount and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such\na point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not\nsaid half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner\nat home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not\nsignify.\"\n\n\"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As\ntomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.\"\n\nHe went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine\nto doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon obliged to\ngive him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his going.\nBut the inexplicability of the general's conduct dwelt much on her\nthoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own\nunassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should say\none thing so positively, and mean another all the while, was most\nunaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but\nHenry could have been aware of what his father was at?\n\nFrom Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.\nThis was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney's letter\nwould certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very sure\nwould be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.\nHer brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor's\nspirits always affected by Henry's absence! What was there to interest\nor amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies--always so\nsmooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than\nany other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped\nto nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a\nconsideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who\nhad so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming\nto her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected\nparsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its\nfaults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!\n\nIt did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It\ncame--it was fine--and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise\nand four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive\nof almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous\nvillage, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say\nhow pretty she thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology\nnecessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village;\nbut in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever been at,\nand looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of\na cottage, and at all the little chandler's shops which they passed. At\nthe further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest\nof it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with\nits semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the\ndoor, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland\npuppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of\nthem.\n\nCatherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either\nto observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general\nfor her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she\nwas sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that\nit was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded\nto say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.\n\n\"We are not calling it a good house,\" said he. \"We are not comparing\nit with Fullerton and Northanger--we are considering it as a mere\nparsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and\nhabitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other\nwords, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so\ngood. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say\notherwise; and anything in reason--a bow thrown out, perhaps--though,\nbetween ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,\nit is a patched-on bow.\"\n\nCatherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained\nby it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported\nby Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was\nintroduced by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his\ncomplacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.\n\nThe room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and\nhandsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to\nwalk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,\nbelonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy\non the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room,\nwith the appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was\ndelighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily shaped\nroom, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them\npleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her\nadmiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she\nfelt it. \"Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity\nnot to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the\nprettiest room in the world!\"\n\n\"I trust,\" said the general, with a most satisfied smile, \"that it will\nvery speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!\"\n\n\"Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a\nsweet little cottage there is among the trees--apple trees, too! It is\nthe prettiest cottage!\"\n\n\"You like it--you approve it as an object--it is enough. Henry, remember\nthat Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.\"\n\nSuch a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced\nher directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her\nchoice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like\nan opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of\nfresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating\nthese embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part\nof the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on\nwhich Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was\nsufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she\nhad ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than\nthe green bench in the corner.\n\nA saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a\nvisit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game\nof play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them\nto four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At\nfour they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had\nany day passed so quickly!\n\nShe could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem\nto create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was\neven looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His\nson and daughter's observations were of a different kind. They had\nseldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never\nbefore known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter's being\noiled.\n\nAt six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again\nreceived them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct\nthroughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject\nof his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the\nwishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little\nanxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\nThe next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from\nIsabella:\n\n\nBath, April\n\nMy dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest\ndelight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them\nsooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid\nplace one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to\nbegin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have\nalways been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me\nsoon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place\ntomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the dust\nis beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I\ncould see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than\nanybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not\nhaving heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some\nmisunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only\nman I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it.\nThe spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you\ncan imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you\nnever think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are\nwith, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you\nesteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men\nnever know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the\nyoung man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You\nwill know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as\nyou may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before\nyou went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many\ngirls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I\nknew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago,\nand I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest\ncoxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was\nalways by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no\nnotice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned\ndirectly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even\nlook at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have\nfollowed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your\nbrother! Pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy about\nhim; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or\nsomething that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but\nhave mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he\ntook something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his\nsatisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself\nto me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.\nI have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in\nlast night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased\nme into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up\nbecause Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they\npretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at\none time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship;\nbut I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a\npretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a\nturban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made\nwretched work of it--it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at\nleast Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but\nhe is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple\nnow: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your dear\nbrother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest\nCatherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.\n\n\nSuch a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.\nIts inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the\nvery first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever\nloved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her\nexcuses were empty, and her demands impudent. \"Write to James on her\nbehalf! No, James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her\nagain.\"\n\nOn Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor\ntheir brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and\nreading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong\nindignation. When she had finished it--\"So much for Isabella,\" she\ncried, \"and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she\ncould not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her\ncharacter better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has\nbeen about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I\ndo not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I\nwish I had never known her.\"\n\n\"It will soon be as if you never had,\" said Henry.\n\n\"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has\nhad designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not\nunderstand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should\nhe pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and\nthen fly off himself?\"\n\n\"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe\nthem to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the\nchief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet\ninjured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him\nwith you, we had better not seek after the cause.\"\n\n\"Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?\"\n\n\"I am persuaded that he never did.\"\n\n\"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?\"\n\nHenry bowed his assent.\n\n\"Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has\nturned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,\nthere is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any\nheart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?\"\n\n\"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to\nlose--consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that\ncase, she would have met with very different treatment.\"\n\n\"It is very right that you should stand by your brother.\"\n\n\"And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by\nthe disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate\nprinciple of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool\nreasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.\"\n\nCatherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could\nnot be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She\nresolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more\nof it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\nSoon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for\na week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity\nshould rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously\nrecommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children\nas their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the\nfirst experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The\nhappiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,\nevery laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour,\nwalking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,\nand fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the\nrestraint which the general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully\nfeel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her\nlove the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not\nbeen for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and\nan apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at\neach moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in\nthe fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth\nweek would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she\nstayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it\noccurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very\nsoon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,\nand be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might\nbe taken.\n\nAware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to\nbring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of\nbeing suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the\nmiddle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her\nobligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself\nmuch concerned. She had \"hoped for the pleasure of her company for a\nmuch longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose\nthat a much longer visit had been promised--and could not but think that\nif Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have\nher there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.\" Catherine\nexplained: \"Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As\nlong as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.\"\n\n\"Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?\"\n\n\"Oh! Because she had been there so long.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you\nthink it long--\"\n\n\"Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as\nlong again.\" And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving\nthem was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness\nso pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The\nkindness, the earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay,\nand Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay was determined,\nwere such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only\njust so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably\nwithout. She did--almost always--believe that Henry loved her, and quite\nalways that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong\nto them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely\nsportive irritations.\n\nHenry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining wholly\nat Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London,\nthe engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on\nSaturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been\nwhile the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not\nruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and\nimproving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time\nto themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather a late hour at\nthe abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry's\ndeparture. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,\nas far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a\ncarriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the\nidea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation\nof surprise had passed away, in a \"Good heaven! What can be the matter?\"\nit was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose\narrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and\naccordingly she hurried down to welcome him.\n\nCatherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she\ncould, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting\nherself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and\nthe persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of\nher, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as\nwould make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never\nspeak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of\nthe part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as\nall mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave\nto him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was\ncertainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and\nhave so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival,\nand Eleanor did not come up.\n\nAt that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and\nlistened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,\nhad she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving\nclose to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching\nthe very doorway--and in another moment a slight motion of the lock\nproved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea\nof anyone's approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again\novercome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised\nimagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,\nand only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits, however, were\ntranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and\nher manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it\nseemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when\nthere. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account,\ncould only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be\nseated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with\naffectionate solicitude. \"My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not\nindeed--\" were Eleanor's first connected words. \"I am quite well.\nThis kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come to you on such an\nerrand!\"\n\n\"Errand! To me!\"\n\n\"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!\"\n\nA new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale as her\nfriend, she exclaimed, \"'Tis a messenger from Woodston!\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, indeed,\" returned Eleanor, looking at her most\ncompassionately; \"it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.\"\nHer voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she\nmentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make\nCatherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed\nthere were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,\nendeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes\nstill cast down, soon went on. \"You are too good, I am sure, to think\nthe worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most\nunwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been\nsettled between us--how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!--as to your\ncontinuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell\nyou that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that the happiness\nyour company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by--But I must not\ntrust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father\nhas recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on\nMonday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.\nExplanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt\neither.\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor,\" cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as\nshe could, \"do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give\nway to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so\nsuddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my\nvisit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can\nyou, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?\"\n\n\"It will not be in my power, Catherine.\"\n\n\"Come when you can, then.\"\n\nEleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something\nmore directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, \"Monday--so soon\nas Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of--I shall be able to\ntake leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do\nnot be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father\nand mother's having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The\ngeneral will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way--and then\nI shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.\"\n\n\"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less\nintolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received\nbut half what you ought. But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow morning is\nfixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;\nthe very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock, and no\nservant will be offered you.\"\n\nCatherine sat down, breathless and speechless. \"I could hardly believe\nmy senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that\nyou can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I\nmyself--but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest\nanything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say!\nAfter courting you from the protection of real friends to this--almost\ndouble distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,\nwithout the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear\nCatherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself\nof all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have\nbeen long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress\nof it, that my real power is nothing.\"\n\n\"Have I offended the general?\" said Catherine in a faltering voice.\n\n\"Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I\nanswer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He\ncertainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him\nmore so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to\nruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,\nwhich just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly\nsuppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?\"\n\nIt was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for\nEleanor's sake that she attempted it. \"I am sure,\" said she, \"I am very\nsorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly\nhave done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must\nbe kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might\nhave written home. But it is of very little consequence.\"\n\n\"I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none;\nbut to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort,\nappearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends,\nthe Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease;\na few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be\ntaken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!\"\n\n\"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to\npart, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I\ncan be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.\" Eleanor saw that she\nwished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should\navoid any further conversation, now left her with, \"I shall see you in\nthe morning.\"\n\nCatherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence\nfriendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was\nshe gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and\nin such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that\ncould atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of\nit. Henry at a distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope,\nevery expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how\nlong? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such\na man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore\nso particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was\nmortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would\nend, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in\nwhich it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any\nreference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance\nof choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the\nearliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved\nto have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he\nmight not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but\nan intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the\nmisfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so\npainful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any\ninjury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person\nnot connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.\n\nHeavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name\nof sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed\nimagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene\nof agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the\nsource of her inquietude from what it had been then--how mournfully\nsuperior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in\nfact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the\ncontemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,\nthe darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt\nand considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was\nhigh, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house,\nshe heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or\nterror.\n\nSoon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give\nassistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.\nCatherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing\nalmost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the\ngeneral occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as\nthat anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only\nwanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly\nbe received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;\nit was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the\ntrial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on\nmeeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial\nwere the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in\nbusy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than\nexperience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they\nleft the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend\nto throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and\nwent down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She\ntried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as\nto make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not\nswallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast\nin that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for\neverything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they\nhad met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different!\nWith what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she\nthen looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little\nin future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy\nbreakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped\nher. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address\nfrom her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the\nappearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall\nthem to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of it;\nand the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant\non her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only\nof resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.\n\n\"You must write to me, Catherine,\" she cried; \"you must let me hear from\nyou as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall\nnot have an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I\nmust entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe\nat Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask\nfor your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct\nto me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.\"\n\n\"No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am\nsure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home\nsafe.\"\n\nEleanor only replied, \"I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not\nimportune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at\na distance from you.\" But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying\nit, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment, and she instantly\nsaid, \"Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.\"\n\nThere was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,\nthough somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that\nafter so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with\nmoney enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it\nto her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be\nexactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that\nmoment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for\nthis kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house\nwithout even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she\nmust have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely\nanother word was said by either during the time of their remaining\ntogether. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced\nto be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate\nembrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and,\nas they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention\nof one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a\nmoment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left\n\"her kind remembrance for her absent friend.\" But with this approach to\nhis name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding\nher face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across\nthe hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the\ndoor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\nCatherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no\nterrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or\nfeeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in\na violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls\nof the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground\nwithin the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable\nof turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now\ntravelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed\nalong in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every\nbitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on\nwhich she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,\nas it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when\nwithin the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and\nthought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation\nwere excessive.\n\nThe day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest\nof her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made\nuse of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so\nspoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his\nactually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he\nelated her by his pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too\nsignificant reference! And now--what had she done, or what had she\nomitted to do, to merit such a change?\n\nThe only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been\nsuch as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own\nheart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly\nentertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.\nDesignedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by\nany strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of\nwhat she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies\nand injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his\nindignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could\nnot wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification\nso full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.\n\nAnxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,\nthe one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more\nprevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,\nand look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of\nher being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every\nother, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it\nsometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others\nwas answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To\nthe general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what\nmight he not say to Eleanor about her?\n\nIn this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article\nof which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours\npassed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.\nThe pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing\nanything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,\nsaved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no\nobject on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found no stage\nof it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by\nfeeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to return in such\na manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting\nwith those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers--an eleven\nweeks' absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and\npain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession\nof it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent\nwith the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice\nto Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too strongly for expression;\nand should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of\nunfavourably, on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.\n\nWith these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view\nof that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of\nhome. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but\nafter the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the\nnames of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great\nhad been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,\nto distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal\npay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could\nrequire; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for\nabout eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven\no'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.\n\nA heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,\nin all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of\na countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several\nphaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,\nbehind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well\ndelight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author\nmust share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is\nwidely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and\ndisgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.\nA heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no\nattempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her\npost-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and\nspeedy shall be her descent from it.\n\nBut, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind, as she thus\nadvanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her\nbiographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday\nnature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her\ncarriage--and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being\na rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the\nwindow; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten\nevery eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked for by all\nbut the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old,\nwho expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance\nthat first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the\ndiscovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George\nor Harriet could never be exactly understood.\n\nHer father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the\ndoor to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken\nthe best feelings of Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each, as\nshe stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything\nthat she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even\nhappy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was\nsubdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little\nleisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table,\nwhich Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller,\nwhose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so\ndirect as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.\n\nReluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might\nperhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her\nhearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they\nat all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden\nreturn. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any\nquickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,\nwhen the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,\nfor the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any\nromantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's long and lonely\njourney, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been\nproductive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could\nnever have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such\na measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor\nfeelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,\nwhat could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so\nsuddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual\nill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining\nas Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;\nand, after a due course of useless conjecture, that \"it was a strange\nbusiness, and that he must be a very strange man,\" grew enough for all\ntheir indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the\nsweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful\nardour. \"My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,\"\nsaid her mother at last; \"depend upon it, it is something not at all\nworth understanding.\"\n\n\"I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this\nengagement,\" said Sarah, \"but why not do it civilly?\"\n\n\"I am sorry for the young people,\" returned Mrs. Morland; \"they must\nhave a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;\nCatherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General\nTilney.\" Catherine sighed. \"Well,\" continued her philosophic mother, \"I\nam glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all\nover, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for\nyoung people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear\nCatherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but\nnow you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much\nchanging of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you\nhave not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.\"\n\nCatherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own\namendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and\nalone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's\nnext counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in\nher ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified\nfeelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,\nparted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and\nthough, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal\nto their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being\nany deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the\nparents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first\nexcursion from home, was odd enough!\n\nAs soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to\nMiss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her\nfriend's disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine\nreproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with\nhaving never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough\ncommiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The\nstrength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;\nand never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor\nTilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her\nsentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret,\nbe guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment--a letter\nwhich Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,\nwhich she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an\nundertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after\nlong thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she\ncould determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore\nwhich Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful\nthanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.\n\n\"This has been a strange acquaintance,\" observed Mrs. Morland, as the\nletter was finished; \"soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens\nso, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and\nyou were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well,\nwe must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be\nbetter worth keeping.\"\n\nCatherine coloured as she warmly answered, \"No friend can be better\nworth keeping than Eleanor.\"\n\n\"If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do\nnot be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the\ncourse of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!\"\n\nMrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope\nof meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into\nCatherine's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting\ndreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him\nwith less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget\nher; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled with tears as she\npictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her\ncomfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another\nexpedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs.\nAllen.\n\nThe two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,\nMrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of\nJames's disappointment. \"We are sorry for him,\" said she; \"but otherwise\nthere is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be\na desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the\nsmallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and\nnow, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at\npresent it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and\nI dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness\nof his first choice.\"\n\nThis was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could\nlisten to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,\nand made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers\nswallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits\nsince last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months\nago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards\nand forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and\nindependent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and\nfree from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three\nmonths ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she\nreturn!\n\nShe was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her\nunlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally\ncall forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,\non hearing how she had been treated--though Mrs. Morland's account of\nit was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.\n\"Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,\" said she. \"She\ntravelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till\nSaturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all\nof a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out\nof the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd\nman; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great\ncomfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift\nvery well for herself.\"\n\nMr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable\nresentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions\nquite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His\nwonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,\nwith the addition of this single remark--\"I really have not patience\nwith the general\"--to fill up every accidental pause. And, \"I really\nhave not patience with the general,\" was uttered twice after Mr.\nAllen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material\ndigression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended\nthe third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately\nadded, \"Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent\nin my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one\ncan hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath\nis a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half\nlike coming away. Mrs. Thorpe's being there was such a comfort to us,\nwas not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.\"\n\n\"Yes, but that did not last long,\" said Catherine, her eyes brightening\nat the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence\nthere.\n\n\"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for\nnothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well?\nI put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you\nknow, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that\nevening?\"\n\n\"Do I! Oh! Perfectly.\"\n\n\"It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I\nalways thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a\nnotion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my\nfavourite gown on.\"\n\nCatherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,\nMrs. Allen again returned to--\"I really have not patience with the\ngeneral! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not\nsuppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His\nlodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no\nwonder; Milsom Street, you know.\"\n\nAs they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her\ndaughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.\nand Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or\nunkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with\nher, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her\nearliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but\nthere are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has\nvery little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every\nposition her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very\nslight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and\nwhile Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the\njustness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting\nthat now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard\nof her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for\nHereford.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\n\nCatherine's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits\nbeen ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her\ndefects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be\ngreatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for\nten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and\nagain, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she\ncould even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time\nin the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her\nrambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but\nin her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had\nbeen before.\n\nFor two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint;\nbut when a third night's rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,\nimproved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for\nneedlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, \"My\ndear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not\nknow when poor Richard's cravats would be done, if he had no friend\nbut you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for\neverything--a time for balls and plays, and a time for work. You have\nhad a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be useful.\"\n\nCatherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that\n\"her head did not run upon Bath--much.\"\n\n\"Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple\nof you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never\nfret about trifles.\" After a short silence--\"I hope, my Catherine, you\nare not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand\nas Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed.\nWherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home,\nbecause there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite\nlike, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at\nNorthanger.\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what\nI eat.\"\n\n\"There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much\nsuch a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by\ngreat acquaintance--The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some\nday or other, because I am sure it will do you good.\"\n\nCatherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied\nto her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it\nherself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,\nfrom the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her\nneedle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,\nin her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that\nrepining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of\ncheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,\nanxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some\ntime before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters\noccurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she\nreturned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her\navocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself,\nshe knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes,\ntill, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young\nman whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he\nimmediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter\nas \"Mr. Henry Tilney,\" with the embarrassment of real sensibility began\nto apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had\npassed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating\nhis impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's having reached her home\nin safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to\nan uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or\nhis sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always\nkindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance,\nreceived him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;\nthanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that\nthe friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating\nhim to say not another word of the past.\n\nHe was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was\ngreatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that\nmoment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence\nto his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly\nanswering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about the weather and\nroads. Catherine meanwhile--the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish\nCatherine--said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye\nmade her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set\nher heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the\nfirst volume of The Mirror for a future hour.\n\nDesirous of Mr. Morland's assistance, as well in giving encouragement,\nas in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his\nfather's account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early\ndispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from\nhome--and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of\nan hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes' unbroken\nsilence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her\nmother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.\nAllen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her\nperplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable\nwould have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his\nrespects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would\nhave the goodness to show him the way. \"You may see the house from this\nwindow, sir,\" was information on Sarah's side, which produced only a\nbow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from\nher mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary\nconsideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he\nmight have some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it\nmust be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would\nnot on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk,\nand Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it.\nSome explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first\npurpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's\ngrounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could\never be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that\nheart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally\nknew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely\nattached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies\nof her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his\naffection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other\nwords, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only\ncause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in\nromance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's\ndignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild\nimagination will at least be all my own.\n\nA very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,\nwithout sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of\nher own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them\nto the ecstasies of another tete-a-tete; and before it was suffered to\nclose, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental\nauthority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two\ndays before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father,\nhastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland's departure, and ordered\nto think of her no more.\n\nSuch was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand.\nThe affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she\nlistened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution\nwith which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious\nrejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and\nas he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of\nhis father's conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant\ndelight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay\nto her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a\ndeception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride\nwould have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich\nthan he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her\npossessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,\nsolicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his\ndaughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house\nseemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his\nresentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.\n\nJohn Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son\none night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss\nMorland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her\nthan her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man\nof General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and proudly\ncommunicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation\nof Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon\nmarrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the\nfamily as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him\nbelieve them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his\nown consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his\nintimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune.\nThe expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first\noverrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually\nincreasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the\nmoment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland's\npreferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and\nsinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family\nto the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the\npeculiar object of the general's curiosity, and his own speculations,\nhe had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand\npounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr.\nAllen's estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on\nher being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore\nas the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally\nfollowed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never\nhad it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe's interest in the\nfamily, by his sister's approaching connection with one of its members,\nand his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with\nalmost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and\nto these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and\nchildless, of Miss Morland's being under their care, and--as soon as his\nacquaintance allowed him to judge--of their treating her with parental\nkindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a\nliking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful\nfor Mr. Thorpe's communication, he almost instantly determined to spare\nno pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest\nhopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all\nthis, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in\nher situation likely to engage their father's particular respect, had\nseen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his\nattention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an\nalmost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to\nattach her, Henry was convinced of his father's believing it to be\nan advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at\nNorthanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations\nwhich had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt\nfrom the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom\nhe had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of\nexactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine's refusal, and\nyet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a\nreconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were\nseparated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer\nserviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to\nthe advantage of the Morlands--confessed himself to have been totally\nmistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by\nthe rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance\nand credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks\nproved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first\noverture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal\nproposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of\nthe relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of\ngiving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a\nnecessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means\nrespected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular\nopportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their\nfortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy\nconnections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.\n\nThe terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring\nlook; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed,\nhad lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the\nFullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with\nalmost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for\nthe abbey, where his performances have been seen.\n\nI leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how much of all this\nit was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how\nmuch of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own\nconjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be\ntold in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must\ndivide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in\nsuspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife,\nshe had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.\n\nHenry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost\nas pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the\nnarrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation\nbetween them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's\nindignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending\nhis father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been\nopen and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to\ngive the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling,\nno opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill\nbrook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and\nthe dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his\nanger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was\nsustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself\nbound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing\nthat heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy\nretraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable\nanger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it\nprompted.\n\nHe steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an\nengagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of\nCatherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his\nhand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful\ndisagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours\nwere required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,\nand, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to\nFullerton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. Morland's surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for\ntheir consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,\nconsiderable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an\nattachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more\nnatural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it\nwith only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they\nalone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing\nmanners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having\nnever heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could\nbe told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character\nneeded no attestation. \"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young\nhousekeeper to be sure,\" was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick\nwas the consolation of there being nothing like practice.\n\nThere was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one\nwas removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.\nTheir tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while\nhis parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow\nthemselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to\nsolicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it,\nthey were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but\nthe decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once\nobtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be\nvery long denied--their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His\nconsent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than\nentitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son\nwas, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was\nan income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view,\nit was a match beyond the claims of their daughter.\n\nThe young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They\nfelt and they deplored--but they could not resent it; and they parted,\nendeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed\nalmost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in\nthe fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now\nhis only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his\nimprovements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously\nforward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the\ntorments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let\nus not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind\nto exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at\nthat time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.\n\nThe anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion\nof Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final\nevent, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will\nsee in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are\nall hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their\nearly marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable\ncircumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The\ncircumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with\na man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of\nthe summer--an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good\nhumour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained\nhis forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him \"to be a fool if he\nliked it!\"\n\nThe marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such\na home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of\nher choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to\ngive general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the\noccasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending\nmerit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy\nfelicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;\nand he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from\naddressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had\nremoved all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his\ndaughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient\nendurance as when he first hailed her \"Your Ladyship!\" Her husband was\nreally deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and\nhis attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the\nworld. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the\nmost charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination\nof us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to\nadd--aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a\ncharacter not connected with my fable--that this was the very\ngentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of\nwashing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my\nheroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.\n\nThe influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf\nwas assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances\nwhich, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they\nwere qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely\nmore misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his\nsubsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were\nthey necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand\npounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that\nit greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no\nmeans without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at\nsome pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at\nthe disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every\ngreedy speculation.\n\nOn the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,\npermitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the\nbearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty\nprofessions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:\nHenry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled;\nand, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their\nmeeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by\nthe general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin\nperfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is\nto do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the\ngeneral's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to\ntheir felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their\nknowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,\nI leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the\ntendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or\nreward filial disobedience.\n\n\n\n*Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. II, Rambler"