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                   NORTHANGER ABBEY

                          by
                      Jane Austen
                        (1803)




ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY

THIS little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended
for immediate publication.  It was disposed of to a bookseller,
it was even advertised, and why the business proceeded
no farther, the author has never been able to learn.
That any bookseller should think it worth-while to
purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish
seems extraordinary.  But with this, neither the author
nor the public have any other concern than as some
observation is necessary upon those parts of the work
which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete.
The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen
years have passed since it was finished, many more
since it was begun, and that during that period,
places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone
considerable changes.



CHAPTER 1


     No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her
infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine.
Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother,
her own person and disposition, were all equally against her.
Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected,
or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name
was Richard--and he had never been handsome.  He had a
considerable independence besides two good livings--and he
was not in the least addicted to locking up his daughters.
Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with a
good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a
good constitution.  She had three sons before Catherine
was born; and instead of dying in bringing the latter
into the world, as anybody might expect, she still lived
on--lived to have six children more--to see them growing
up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself.
A family of ten children will be always called a fine family,
where there are heads and arms and legs enough for the number;
but the Morlands had little other right to the word,
for they were in general very plain, and Catherine,
for many years of her life, as plain as any.  She had
a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour,
dark lank hair, and strong features--so much for her person;
and not less unpropiteous for heroism seemed her mind.
She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred
cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic
enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a
canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no
taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at all,
it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at least so it
was conjectured from her always preferring those which she
was forbidden to take.  Such were her propensities--her
abilities were quite as extraordinary.  She never could
learn or understand anything before she was taught;
and sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive,
and occasionally stupid.  Her mother was three months
in teaching her only to repeat the "Beggar's Petition";
and after all, her next sister, Sally, could say it
better than she did.  Not that Catherine was always
stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of "The Hare
and Many Friends" as quickly as any girl in England.
Her mother wished her to learn music; and Catherine was
sure she should like it, for she was very fond of tinkling
the keys of the old forlorn spinner; so, at eight years
old she began.  She learnt a year, and could not bear it;
and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters
being accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste,
allowed her to leave off.  The day which dismissed the
music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.
Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever
she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother
or seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did
what she could in that way, by drawing houses and trees,
hens and chickens, all very much like one another.
Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by
her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable,
and she shirked her lessons in both whenever she could.
What a strange, unaccountable character!--for with all
these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had
neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn,
scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,
with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy
and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing
so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the
back of the house.

     Such was Catherine Morland at ten.  At fifteen,
appearances were mending; she began to curl her hair
and long for balls; her complexion improved, her features
were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained
more animation, and her figure more consequence.
Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery,
and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had now the
pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother
remark on her personal improvement.  "Catherine grows
quite a good-looking girl--she is almost pretty today,"
were words which caught her ears now and then;
and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty
is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has
been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life
than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.

     Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished
to see her children everything they ought to be;
but her time was so much occupied in lying-in and teaching
the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably
left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her,
should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback,
and running about the country at the age of fourteen,
to books--or at least books of information--for, provided
that nothing like useful knowledge could be gained
from them, provided they were all story and no reflection,
she had never any objection to books at all.  But from
fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine;
she read all such works as heroines must read to supply
their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable
and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.

     From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
                 "bear about the mockery of woe."

     From Gray, that
                 "Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
      "And waste its fragrance on the desert air."

     From Thompson, that
                 --"It is a delightful task
      "To teach the young idea how to shoot."

     And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--
amongst the rest, that
                 --"Trifles light as air,
      "Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
      "As proofs of Holy Writ."

     That
                 "The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
      "In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
      "As when a giant dies."

     And that a young woman in love always looks
                 --"like Patience on a monument
      "Smiling at Grief."

     So far her improvement was sufficient--and in many
other points she came on exceedingly well; for though she
could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them;
and though there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole
party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte,
of her own composition, she could listen to other people's
performance with very little fatigue.  Her greatest
deficiency was in the pencil--she had no notion of
drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her
lover's profile, that she might be detected in the design.
There she fell miserably short of the true heroic height.
At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had no
lover to portray.  She had reached the age of seventeen,
without having seen one amiable youth who could call forth
her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,
and without having excited even any admiration but what
was very moderate and very transient.  This was strange
indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted
for if their cause be fairly searched out.  There was not
one lord in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet.
There was not one family among their acquaintance who
had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at
their door--not one young man whose origin was unknown.
Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish
no children.

     But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness
of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her.
Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.

     Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property
about Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the
Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a
gouty constitution--and his lady, a good-humoured woman,
fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures
will not befall a young lady in her own village,
she must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them.
Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and Catherine
all happiness.



CHAPTER 2


     In addition to what has been already said of
Catherine Morlands personal and mental endowments,
when about to be launched into all the difficulties
and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may
be stated, for the reader's more certain information,
lest the following pages should otherwise fail of
giving any idea of what her character is meant to be,
that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her
manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness
of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks,
pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed
as the female mind at seventeen usually is.

     When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal
anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed to be
most severe.  A thousand alarming presentiments of evil
to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation
must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in
tears for the last day or two of their being together;
and advice of the most important and applicable nature
must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting
conference in her closet.  Cautions against the violence
of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing
young ladies away to some remote farm-house, must,
at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart.
Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little
of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of
their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious
of danger to her daughter from their machinations.
Her cautions were confined to the following points.
"I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms
at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account
of the money you spend; I will give you this little book
on purpose.

     Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common
gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering
her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this
time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister.
It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise
of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance,
nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath
might produce.  Everything indeed relative to this
important journey was done, on the part of the Morlands,
with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life,
than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender
emotions which the first separation of a heroine
from her family ought always to excite.  Her father,
instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker,
or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands,
gave her only ten guineas, and promosed her more when she
wanted it.

     Under these unpromising auspices, the parting
took place, and the journey began.  It was performed
with suitable quietness and uneventful safety.
Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero.  Nothing more
alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side,
of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn,
and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

     They arrived at Bath.  Catherine was all eager
delight--her eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they
approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove
through those streets which conducted them to the hotel.
She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.

     They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings
in Pulteney Street.

     It is now expedient to give some description of
Mrs. Allen, that the reader may be able to judge in what
manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the
general distress of the work, and how she will, probably,
contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by
her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting
her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

     Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females,
whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise
at there being any men in the world who could like them
well enough to marry them.  She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner.  The air of a gentlewoman,
a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling
turn of mind were all that could account for her being
the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen.
In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a
young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere
and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
Dress was her passion.  She had a most harmless delight
in being fine; and our heroine's entree into life could
not take place till after three or four days had been
spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone
was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.
Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all
these matters were arranged, the important evening came
which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms.  Her hair
was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on
with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do.  With such encouragement,
Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd.
As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came,
but she did not depend on it.

     Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter
the ballroom till late.  The season was full, the room crowded,
and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could.
As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room,
and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.  With more
care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort
of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng
of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution
would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side,
and linked her arm too firmly within her friend's to be torn
asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly.
But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed
along the room was by no means the way to disengage
themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase
as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once
fairly within the door, they should easily find seats
and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience.
But this was far from being the case, and though by
unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room,
their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of
the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies.
Still they moved on--something better was yet in view;
and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity
they found themselves at last in the passage behind
the highest bench.  Here there was something less
of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
comprehensive view of all the company beneath her,
and of all the dangers of her late passage through them.
It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first
time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed
to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room.
Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case
by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you
could dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner."
For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for
these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved
so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last,
and would thank her no more.

     They were not long able, however, to enjoy the
repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained.
Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must
squeeze out like the rest.  Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment--she was tired of being
continually pressed against by people, the generality
of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with
all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the
exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives;
and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt
yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join,
no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them.
They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about
them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged
to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party
were already placed, without having anything to do there,
or anybody to speak to, except each other.

     Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they
were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury.
"It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she,
"would not it? It is such a delicate muslin.  For my part
I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room,
I assure you."

     "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,
"not to have a single acquaintance here!"

     "Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect
serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed."

     "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this
table look as if they wondered why we came here--we seem
forcing ourselves into their party."

     "Aye, so we do.  That is very disagreeable.
I wish we had a large acquaintance here."

     "I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to."

     "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would
join them directly.  The Skinners were here last year--I
wish they were here now."

     "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no
tea-things for us, you see."

     "No more there are, indeed.  How very provoking! But
I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled
in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave
me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid."

     "No, indeed, it looks very nice.  But, dear Mrs. Allen,
are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude
of people? I think you must know somebody."

     "I don't, upon my word--I wish I did.  I wish I had a
large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should
get you a partner.  I should be so glad to have you dance.
There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown
she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back."

     After some time they received an offer of tea from
one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted,
and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman
who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke
to them during the evening, till they were discovered
and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.

     "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope
you have had an agreeable ball."

     "Very agreeable indeed," she replied,
vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn.

     "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife;
"I wish we could have got a partner for her.  I have been
saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this
winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they
talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry.
I am so sorry she has not had a partner!"

     "We shall do better another evening I hope,"
was Mr. Allen's consolation.

     The company began to disperse when the dancing was
over--enough to leave space for the remainder to walk
about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine,
who had not yet played a very distinguished part in
the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired.
Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd,
gave greater openings for her charms.  She was now seen
by many young men who had not been near her before.
Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on
beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round
the room, nor was she once called a divinity by anybody.
Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company
only seen her three years before, they would now have thought
her exceedingly handsome.

     She was looked at, however, and with some admiration;
for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her
to be a pretty girl.  Such words had their due effect;
she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she
had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she
felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple
praise than a true-quality heroine would have been
for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms,
and went to her chair in good humour with everybody,
and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.



CHAPTER 3


     Every morning now brought its regular duties--shops were
to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at;
and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up
and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking
to no one.  The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath
was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it
after every fresh proof, which every morning brought,
of her knowing nobody at all.

     They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms;
and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine.
The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very
gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.
He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall,
had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and
lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it.
His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck.
There was little leisure for speaking while they danced;
but when they were seated at tea, she found him as
agreeable as she had already given him credit for being.
He talked with fluency and spirit--and there was an archness
and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it
was hardly understood by her.  After chatting some time
on such matters as naturally arose from the objects
around them, he suddenly addressed her with--"I have
hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions
of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you
have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before;
whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre,
and the concert; and how you like the place altogether.
I have been very negligent--but are you now at leisure
to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will
begin directly."

     "You need not give yourself that trouble, sir."

     "No trouble, I assure you, madam." Then forming
his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening
his voice, he added, with a simpering air, "Have you
been long in Bath, madam?"

     "About a week, sir," replied Catherine, trying not
to laugh.

     "Really!" with affected astonishment.

     "Why should you be surprised, sir?"

     "Why, indeed!" said he, in his natural tone.
"But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply,
and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less
reasonable than any other.  Now let us go on.  Were you
never here before, madam?"

     "Never, sir."

     "Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?"

     "Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."

     "Have you been to the theatre?"

     "Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday."

     "To the concert?"

     "Yes, sir, on Wednesday."

     "And are you altogether pleased with Bath?"

     "Yes--I like it very well."

     "Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be
rational again." Catherine turned away her head,
not knowing whether she might venture to laugh.
"I see what you think of me," said he gravely--"I
shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow."

     "My journal!" "Yes, I know exactly what you will
say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged
muslin robe with blue trimmings--plain black shoes--appeared
to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer,
half-witted man, who would make me dance with him,
and distressed me by his nonsense."

     "Indeed I shall say no such thing."

     "Shall I tell you what you ought to say?"

     "If you please."

     "I danced with a very agreeable young man,
introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of conversation
with him--seems a most extraordinary genius--hope I may
know more of him.  That, madam, is what I wish you to say."

     "But, perhaps, I keep no journal."

     "Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am
not sitting by you.  These are points in which a doubt is
equally possible.  Not keep a journal! How are your absent
cousins to understand the tenour of your life in Bath
without one? How are the civilities and compliments of
every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted
down every evening in a journal? How are your various
dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of
your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described
in all their diversities, without having constant recourse
to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of
young ladies' ways as you wish to believe me; it is this
delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes
to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are
so generally celebrated.  Everybody allows that the talent
of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female.
Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must
be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal."

     "I have sometimes thought," said Catherine, doubtingly,
"whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen!
That is--I should not think the superiority was always on our side."

     "As far as I have had opportunity of judging,
it appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing
among women is faultless, except in three particulars."

     "And what are they?"

     "A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention
to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar."

     "Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming
the compliment.  You do not think too highly of us in that way."

     "I should no more lay it down as a general rule that
women write better letters than men, than that they sing
better duets, or draw better landscapes.  In every power,
of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty
fairly divided between the sexes."

     They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: "My dear Catherine,"
said she, "do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it
has torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry if it has,
for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine
shillings a yard."

     "That is exactly what I should have guessed
it, madam," said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin.

     "Do you understand muslins, sir?"

     "Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats,
and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my
sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown.
I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced
to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it.
I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true
Indian muslin."

     Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius.  "Men commonly
take so little notice of those things," said she; "I can
never get Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns from another.
You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir."

     "I hope I am, madam."

     "And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?"

     "It is very pretty, madam," said he, gravely examining it;
"but I do not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray."

     "How can you," said Catherine, laughing, "be so--"
She had almost said "strange."

     "I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen;
"and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it."

     "But then you know, madam, muslin always turns
to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough
out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak.
Muslin can never be said to be wasted.  I have heard my
sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant
in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it
to pieces."

     "Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many
good shops here.  We are sadly off in the country;
not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury,
but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way;
Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it
cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag--I come
back tired to death.  Now, here one can step out of doors
and get a thing in five minutes."

     Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested
in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of
muslins till the dancing recommenced.  Catherine feared,
as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others.
"What are you thinking of so earnestly?" said he,
as they walked back to the ballroom; "not of your partner,
I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations
are not satisfactory."

     Catherine coloured, and said, "I was not thinking
of anything."

     "That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had
rather be told at once that you will not tell me."

     "Well then, I will not."

     "Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted,
as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever
we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy
so much."

     They danced again; and, when the assembly closed,
parted, on the lady's side at least, with a strong
inclination for continuing the acquaintance.  Whether she
thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine
and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no
more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most;
for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained,
that no young lady can be justified in falling in love
before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must be very
improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman
before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her.
How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover
had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's head, but that he
was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his
young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early
in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was,
and had been assured of Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman,
and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.



CHAPTER 4


     With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten
to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself
of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over,
and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was
demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear.  Every creature in Bath,
except himself, was to be seen in the room at different
periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were
every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down;
people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see;
and he only was absent.  "What a delightful place Bath is,"
said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock,
after parading the room till they were tired; "and how
pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here."

     This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain
that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would
be followed with more advantage now; but we are told
to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied
diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence
with which she had every day wished for the same thing
was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she
been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age,
who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively
for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance
in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken;
it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you,
but is not your name Allen?" This question answered, as it
readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe;
and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features
of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen
only once since their respective marriages, and that many
years ago.  Their joy on this meeting was very great,
as well it might, since they had been contented to know
nothing of each other for the last fifteen years.
Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing
how time had slipped away since they were last together,
how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what
a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded
to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their
families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together,
far more ready to give than to receive information,
and each hearing very little of what the other said.
Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker,
over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she
expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of
her daughters, when she related their different situations
and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant
Taylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved
and respected in their different station than any other
three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information
to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling
and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit
and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions,
consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her
keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe's
pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.

     "Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe,
pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm,
were then moving towards her.  "My dear Mrs. Allen,
I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see
you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine
young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I
believe Isabella is the handsomest."

     The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland,
who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise.
The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking
to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed
aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!"

     "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother--and
"I should have known her anywhere for his sister!"
was repeated by them all, two or three times over.
For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their
acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered
that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy
with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe;
and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas
vacation with his family, near London.

     The whole being explained, many obliging things were
said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better
acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends,
through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which
Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the
pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first
proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm
of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about
the room.  Catherine was delighted with this extension
of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney
while she talked to Miss Thorpe.  Friendship is certainly
the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

     Their conversation turned upon those subjects,
of which the free discussion has generally much to do
in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young
ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes.
Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than
Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed,
had a very decided advantage in discussing such points;
she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge,
its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify
the opinions of her new friend in many articles of
tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between
any gentleman and lady who only smiled on each other;
and point out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd.
These powers received due admiration from Catherine,
to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they
naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity,
had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe's manners,
and her frequent expressions of delight on this
acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe,
and left nothing but tender affection.  Their increasing
attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen
turns in the pump-room, but required, when they all
quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany
Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house;
and that they should there part with a most affectionate
and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their
mutual relief, that they should see each other across the
theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel
the next morning.  Catherine then ran directly upstairs,
and watched Miss Thorpe's progress down the street from
the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit
of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress;
and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance
which had procured her such a friend.

     Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one;
she was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a
very indulgent mother.  Her eldest daughter had great
personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending
to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air,
and dressing in the same style, did very well.

     This brief account of the family is intended to
supersede the necessity of a long and minute detail from
Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures and sufferings,
which might otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four
following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords
and attornies might be set forth, and conversations,
which had passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.



CHAPTER 5


     Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre
that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe,
though they certainly claimed much of her leisure,
as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilney
in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked
in vain.  Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the
pump-room. She hoped to be more fortunate the next day;
and when her wishes for fine weather were answered by seeing
a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of it; for a
fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,
and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk
about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

     As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes
and Allens eagerly joined each other; and after staying
long enough in the pump-room to discover that the crowd
was insupportable, and that there was not a genteel
face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent,
to breathe the fresh air of better company.  Here Catherine
and Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets of
friendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked much,
and with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine disappointed
in her hope of reseeing her partner.  He was nowhere to be
met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at
the upper nor lower rooms, at dressed or undressed balls,
was he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen,
or the curricle-drivers of the morning.  His name was not
in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more.
He must be gone from Bath.  Yet he had not mentioned that
his stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness,
which is always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace
in Catherine's imagination around his person and manners,
and increased her anxiety to know more of him.
From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been
only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen.
It was a subject, however, in which she often indulged
with her fair friend, from whom she received every possible
encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression
on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken.
Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man,
and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with
her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return.
She liked him the better for being a clergyman, "for she
must confess herself very partial to the profession";
and something like a sigh escaped her as she said it.
Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause
of that gentle emotion--but she was not experienced enough
in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship,
to know when delicate raillery was properly called for,
or when a confidence should be forced.

     Mrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied
with Bath.  She had found some acquaintance, had been
so lucky too as to find in them the family of a most
worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,
had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed
as herself.  Her daily expressions were no longer, "I wish
we had some acquaintance in Bath!" They were changed into,
"How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thorpe!" and she was
as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two families,
as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be;
never satisfied with the day unless she spent the
chief of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they
called conversation, but in which there was scarcely ever
any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance
of subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children,
and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.

     The progress of the friendship between Catherine
and Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm,
and they passed so rapidly through every gradation
of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh
proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves.
They called each other by their Christian name, were always
arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other's train
for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set;
and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments,
they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet
and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.
Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and
impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading
by their contemptuous censure the very performances,
to the number of which they are themselves adding--joining
with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest
epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them
to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally
take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages
with disgust.  Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not
patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she
expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it.
Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions
of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel
to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which
the press now groans.  Let us not desert one another;
we are an injured body.  Although our productions have
afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than
those of any other literary corporation in the world,
no species of composition has been so much decried.
From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost
as many as our readers.  And while the abilities of
the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England,
or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some
dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from
the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized
by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish
of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour
of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which
have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
"I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do
not imagine that I often read novels--It is really
very well for a novel." Such is the common cant.
"And what are you reading, Miss--?" "Oh! It is only
a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her
book with affected indifference, or momentary shame.
"It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short,
only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind
are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of
human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties,
the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed
to the world in the best-chosen language.  Now, had the same
young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator,
instead of such a work, how proudly would she have
produced the book, and told its name; though the chances
must be against her being occupied by any part of that
voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner
would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance
of its papers so often consisting in the statement of
improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics
of conversation which no longer concern anyone living;
and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give
no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.



CHAPTER 6


     The following conversation, which took place
between the two friends in the pump-room one morning,
after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given
as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of
the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary
taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

     They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived
nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address
naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made
you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!"

     "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really
I thought I was in very good time.  It is but just one.
I hope you have not been here long?"

     "Oh! These ten ages at least.  I am sure I have
been here this half hour.  But now, let us go and sit
down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves.
I have an hundred things to say to you.  In the
first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning,
just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery,
and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know,
I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop
window in Milsom Street just now--very like yours,
only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite
longed for it.  But, my dearest Catherine, what have you
been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone
on with Udolpho?"

     "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke;
and I am got to the black veil."

     "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not
tell you what is behind the black veil for the world!
Are not you wild to know?"

     "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell
me--I would not be told upon any account.  I know it must
be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton.
Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend
my whole life in reading it.  I assure you, if it had
not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it
for all the world."

     "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you;
and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the
Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten
or twelve more of the same kind for you."

     "Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"

     "I will read you their names directly; here they are,
in my pocketbook.  Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont,
Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest,
Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time."

     "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you
sure they are all horrid?"

     "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine,
a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures
in the world, has read every one of them.  I wish you
knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her.
She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive.
I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed
with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly
about it."

     "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?"

     "Yes, that I do.  There is nothing I would not do
for those who are really my friends.  I have no notion
of loving people by halves; it is not my nature.
My attachments are always excessively strong.  I told
Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he
was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him,
unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as
an angel.  The men think us incapable of real friendship,
you know, and I am determined to show them the difference.
Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you,
I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely,
for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite
with the men."

     "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring.  "How can
you say so?"

     "I know you very well; you have so much animation,
which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must
confess there is something amazingly insipid about her.
Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday,
I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am
sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured,
and disclaimed again.  Isabella laughed.  "It is very true,
upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent
to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman,
who shall be nameless.  Nay, I cannot blame you"--speaking
more seriously--"your feelings are easily understood.
Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little
one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else.
Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not
relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend
your feelings."

     "But you should not persuade me that I think so very
much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again."

     "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk
of it.  I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!"

     "No, indeed, I should not.  I do not pretend to say
that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I
have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make
me miserable.  Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella,
I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it."

     "It is so odd to me, that you should never have
read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects
to novels."

     "No, she does not.  She very often reads Sir Charles
Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way."

     "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book,
is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through
the first volume."

     "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it
is very entertaining."

     "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it
had not been readable.  But, my dearest Catherine,
have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am
determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.
The men take notice of that sometimes, you know."

     "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine,
very innocently.

     "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind
what they say.  They are very often amazingly impertinent
if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep
their distance."

     "Are they? Well, I never observed that.  They always
behave very well to me."

     "Oh! They give themselves such airs.  They are
the most conceited creatures in the world, and think
themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I
have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot
to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man.
Do you like them best dark or fair?"

     "I hardly know.  I never much thought about it.
Something between both, I think.  Brown--not fair,
and--and not very dark."

     "Very well, Catherine.  That is exactly he.  I have
not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin,
with dark eyes, and rather dark hair.' Well, my taste
is different.  I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion--do
you know--I like a sallow better than any other.
You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one
of your acquaintance answering that description."

     "Betray you! What do you mean?"

     "Nay, do not distress me.  I believe I have said
too much.  Let us drop the subject."

     Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after
remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of
reverting to what interested her at that time rather more
than anything else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton,
when her friend prevented her, by saying, "For heaven's
sake! Let us move away from this end of the room.
Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been
staring at me this half hour.  They really put me quite
out of countenance.  Let us go and look at the arrivals.
They will hardly follow us there."

     Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella
examined the names, it was Catherine's employment to watch
the proceedings of these alarming young men.

     "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they
are not so impertinent as to follow us.  Pray let me know
if they are coming.  I am determined I will not look up."

     In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure,
assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the
gentlemen had just left the pump-room.

     "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella,
turning hastily round.  "One was a very good-looking
young man."

     "They went towards the church-yard."

     "Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them!
And now, what say you to going to Edgar's Buildings
with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should
like to see it."

     Catherine readily agreed.  "Only," she added,
"perhaps we may overtake the two young men."

     "Oh! Never mind that.  If we make haste, we shall
pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat."

     "But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be
no danger of our seeing them at all."

     "I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you.
I have no notion of treating men with such respect.
That is the way to spoil them."

     Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning;
and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe,
and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off
immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the
two young men.



CHAPTER 7


     Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard
to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they
were stopped.  Everybody acquainted with Bath may remember
the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this point;
it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature,
so unfortunately connected with the great London
and Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city,
that a day never passes in which parties of ladies,
however important their business, whether in quest
of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case)
of young men, are not detained on one side or other
by carriages, horsemen, or carts.  This evil had been felt
and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella
since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated
to feel and lament it once more, for at the very moment
of coming opposite to Union Passage, and within view of
the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the crowds,
and threading the gutters of that interesting alley,
they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig,
driven along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking
coachman with all the vehemence that could most fitly
endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.

     "Oh, these odious gigs!" said Isabella, looking up.
"How I detest them." But this detestation, though so just,
was of short duration, for she looked again and exclaimed,
"Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!"

     "Good heaven! 'Tis James!" was uttered at the same
moment by Catherine; and, on catching the young men's eyes,
the horse was immediately checked with a violence
which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant
having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out,
and the equipage was delivered to his care.

     Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected,
received her brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he,
being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely attached
to her, gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction,
which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes
of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture
of joy and embarrassment which might have informed Catherine,
had she been more expert in the development of other
people's feelings, and less simply engrossed by her own,
that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she
could do herself.

     John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving
orders about the horses, soon joined them, and from him she
directly received the amends which were her due; for while
he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of Isabella,
on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow.
He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a
plain face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being
too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom,
and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he
ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed
to be easy.  He took out his watch: "How long do you
think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?"

     "I do not know the distance." Her brother told
her that it was twenty-three miles.

     "Three and twenty!" cried Thorpe.  "Five and twenty if it
is an inch." Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority
of road-books, innkeepers, and milestones; but his friend
disregarded them all; he had a surer test of distance.
"I know it must be five and twenty," said he, "by the
time we have been doing it.  It is now half after one;
we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock
struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to make
my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;
that makes it exactly twenty-five."

     "You have lost an hour," said Morland; "it was only
ten o'clock when we came from Tetbury."

     "Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted
every stroke.  This brother of yours would persuade me
out of my senses, Miss Morland; do but look at my horse;
did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your life?"
(The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving off.)
"Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming
only three and twenty miles! Look at that creature,
and suppose it possible if you can."

     "He does look very hot, to be sure."

     "Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to
Walcot Church; but look at his forehand; look at his loins;
only see how he moves; that horse cannot go less than
ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.
What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one,
is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month.
It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine,
a very good sort of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till,
I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.
I happened just then to be looking out for some light
thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on
a curricle too; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge,
as he was driving into Oxford, last term: 'Ah! Thorpe,'
said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing
as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am
cursed tired of it.' 'Oh! D--,' said I; 'I am your man;
what do you ask?' And how much do you think he did,
Miss Morland?"

     "I am sure I cannot guess at all."

     "Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case,
splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you
see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or better.
He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,
threw down the money, and the carriage was mine."

     "And I am sure," said Catherine, "I know so little
of such things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap
or dear."

     "Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less,
I dare say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash."

     "That was very good-natured of you," said Catherine,
quite pleased.

     "Oh! D-- it, when one has the means of doing a kind
thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful."

     An inquiry now took place into the intended movements
of the young ladies; and, on finding whither they were going,
it was decided that the gentlemen should accompany them
to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their respects to Mrs. Thorpe.
James and Isabella led the way; and so well satisfied
was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she
endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought
the double recommendation of being her brother's friend,
and her friend's brother, so pure and uncoquettish
were her feelings, that, though they overtook and
passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street,
she was so far from seeking to attract their notice,
that she looked back at them only three times.

     John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a
few minutes' silence, renewed the conversation about his gig.
"You will find, however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned
a cheap thing by some people, for I might have sold it
for ten guineas more the next day; Jackson, of Oriel,
bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the time."

     "Yes," said Morland, who overheard this; "but you
forget that your horse was included."

     "My horse! Oh, d-- it! I would not sell my horse
for a hundred.  Are you fond of an open carriage,
Miss Morland?"

     "Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity
of being in one; but I am particularly fond of it."

     "I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine
every day."

     "Thank you," said Catherine, in some distress,
from a doubt of the propriety of accepting such an offer.

     "I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow."

     "Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?"

     "Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today;
all nonsense; nothing ruins horses so much as rest;
nothing knocks them up so soon.  No, no; I shall exercise
mine at the average of four hours every day while I
am here."

     "Shall you indeed!" said Catherine very seriously.
"That will be forty miles a day."

     "Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care.  Well, I will
drive you up Lansdown tomorrow; mind, I am engaged."

     "How delightful that will be!" cried Isabella,
turning round.  "My dearest Catherine, I quite envy you;
but I am afraid, brother, you will not have room for
a third."

     "A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath
to drive my sisters about; that would be a good joke,
faith! Morland must take care of you."

     This brought on a dialogue of civilities between
the other two; but Catherine heard neither the particulars
nor the result.  Her companion's discourse now sunk from
its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than a short
decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face
of every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening
and agreeing as long as she could, with all the civility
and deference of the youthful female mind, fearful of
hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a
self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own
sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject
by a question which had been long uppermost in her thoughts;
it was, "Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?"

     "Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels;
I have something else to do."

     Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize
for her question, but he prevented her by saying,
"Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has
not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones,
except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all
the others, they are the stupidest things in creation."

     "I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it;
it is so very interesting."

     "Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall
be Mrs. Radcliffe's; her novels are amusing enough;
they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them."

     "Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe," said Catherine,
with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.

     "No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was;
I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by
that woman they make such a fuss about, she who married
the French emigrant."

     "I suppose you mean Camilla?"

     "Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old
man playing at see-saw, I took up the first volume once
and looked it over, but I soon found it would not do;
indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I
saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant,
I was sure I should never be able to get through it."

     "I have never read it."

     "You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest
nonsense you can imagine; there is nothing in the world in it
but an old man's playing at see-saw and learning Latin;
upon my soul there is not."

     This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately
lost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door
of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the feelings of the
discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son,
as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried them from above,
in the passage.  "Ah, Mother! How do you do?" said he,
giving her a hearty shake of the hand.  "Where did you get
that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.
Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you,
so you must look out for a couple of good beds
somewhere near." And this address seemed to satisfy all
the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she received
him with the most delighted and exulting affection.
On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion
of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them
how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.

     These manners did not please Catherine;
but he was James's friend and Isabella's brother;
and her judgment was further bought off by Isabella's
assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat,
that John thought her the most charming girl in the world,
and by John's engaging her before they parted to dance
with him that evening.  Had she been older or vainer,
such attacks might have done little; but, where youth
and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness
of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most
charming girl in the world, and of being so very early
engaged as a partner; and the consequence was that,
when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with the Thorpes,
set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James,
as the door was closed on them, said, "Well, Catherine,
how do you like my friend Thorpe?" instead of answering,
as she probably would have done, had there been no friendship
and no flattery in the case, "I do not like him at all,"
she directly replied, "I like him very much; he seems
very agreeable."

     "He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived;
a little of a rattle; but that will recommend him to your sex,
I believe: and how do you like the rest of the family?"

     "Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly."

     "I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the
kind of young woman I could wish to see you attached to;
she has so much good sense, and is so thoroughly
unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;
and she seems very fond of you.  She said the highest
things in your praise that could possibly be; and the
praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you, Catherine,"
taking her hand with affection, "may be proud of."

     "Indeed I am," she replied; "I love her exceedingly,
and am delighted to find that you like her too.
You hardly mentioned anything of her when you wrote to me
after your visit there."

     "Because I thought I should soon see you myself.
I hope you will be a great deal together while you are
in Bath.  She is a most amiable girl; such a superior
understanding! How fond all the family are of her;
she is evidently the general favourite; and how much she
must be admired in such a place as this--is not she?"

     "Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks
her the prettiest girl in Bath."

     "I dare say he does; and I do not know any man
who is a better judge of beauty than Mr. Allen.  I need
not ask you whether you are happy here, my dear Catherine;
with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it would
be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens,
I am sure, are very kind to you?"

     "Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before;
and now you are come it will be more delightful than ever;
how good it is of you to come so far on purpose to see me."

     James accepted this tribute of gratitude,
and qualified his conscience for accepting it too,
by saying with perfect sincerity, "Indeed, Catherine,
I love you dearly."

     Inquiries and communications concerning brothers
and sisters, the situation of some, the growth of the rest,
and other family matters now passed between them, and continued,
with only one small digression on James's part, in praise
of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney Street, where he
was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen,
invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by
the latter to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new
muff and tippet.  A pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings
prevented his accepting the invitation of one friend,
and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he had satisfied
the demands of the other.  The time of the two parties
uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted,
Catherine was then left to the luxury of a raised, restless,
and frightened imagination over the pages of Udolpho,
lost from all worldly concerns of dressing and dinner,
incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen's fears on the delay of an
expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty
to bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity,
in being already engaged for the evening.



CHAPTER 8


     In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however,
the party from Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms
in very good time.  The Thorpes and James Morland
were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting
her friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste,
of admiring the set of her gown, and envying the curl
of her hair, they followed their chaperones, arm in arm,
into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever
a thought occurred, and supplying the place of many
ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection.

     The dancing began within a few minutes after they
were seated; and James, who had been engaged quite as long
as his sister, was very importunate with Isabella to stand up;
but John was gone into the card-room to speak to a friend,
and nothing, she declared, should induce her to join
the set before her dear Catherine could join it too.
"I assure you," said she, "I would not stand up without
your dear sister for all the world; for if I did we
should certainly be separated the whole evening."
Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
and they continued as they were for three minutes longer,
when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other
side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered,
"My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you,
your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know
you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will
be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out."
Catherine, though a little disappointed, had too much good
nature to make any opposition, and the others rising up,
Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and say,
"Good-bye, my dear love," before they hurried off.
The younger Miss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was
left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen,
between whom she now remained.  She could not help being
vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not
only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware that,
as the real dignity of her situation could not be known,
she was sharing with the scores of other young ladies still
sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner.
To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the
appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity,
her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another
the true source of her debasement, is one of those
circumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's life,
and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies
her character.  Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered,
but no murmur passed her lips.

     From this state of humiliation, she was roused,
at the end of ten minutes, to a pleasanter feeling,
by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within three
yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be
moving that way, but be did not see her, and therefore
the smile and the blush, which his sudden reappearance
raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her
heroic importance.  He looked as handsome and as lively
as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable
and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm,
and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his sister;
thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of
considering him lost to her forever, by being married already.
But guided only by what was simple and probable,
it had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could
be married; he had not behaved, he had not talked,
like the married men to whom she had been used; he had
never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.
From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion
of his sister's now being by his side; and therefore,
instead of turning of a deathlike paleness and falling
in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat erect,
in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a
little redder than usual.

     Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued,
though slowly, to approach, were immediately preceded
by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe; and this lady
stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her,
stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney's eye,
instantly received from him the smiling tribute
of recognition.  She returned it with pleasure,
and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her
and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged.
"I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was
afraid you had left Bath." He thanked her for her fears,
and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very
morning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.

     "Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be
back again, for it is just the place for young people--
and indeed for everybody else too.  I tell Mr. Allen,
when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he
should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place,
that it is much better to be here than at home at this
dull time of year.  I tell him he is quite in luck
to be sent here for his health."

     "And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged
to like the place, from finding it of service to him."

     "Thank you, sir.  I have no doubt that he will.
A neighbour of ours, Dr. Skinner, was here for his health
last winter, and came away quite stout."

     "That circumstance must give great encouragement."

     "Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here
three months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry
to get away."

     Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe
to Mrs. Allen, that she would move a little to accommodate
Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as they had
agreed to join their party.  This was accordingly done,
Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them;
and after a few minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine
to dance with him.  This compliment, delightful as it was,
produced severe mortification to the lady; and in giving
her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion
so very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe,
who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier,
he might have thought her sufferings rather too acute.
The very easy manner in which he then told her that he
had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her
more to her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered
into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs
of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed
exchange of terriers between them, interest her so much
as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of the
room where she had left Mr. Tilney.  Of her dear Isabella,
to whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman,
she could see nothing.  They were in different sets.
She was separated from all her party, and away from all
her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded another,
and from the whole she deduced this useful lesson,
that to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily
increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady.
From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly
roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,
perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss
Tilney and a gentleman.  "I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,"
said she, "for this liberty--but I cannot anyhow get to
Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would
not have the least objection to letting in this young lady
by you." Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature
in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine.
The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney
expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss Morland
with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light
of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having
so respectably settled her young charge, returned to
her party.

     Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face,
and a very agreeable countenance; and her air, though it
had not all the decided pretension, the resolute
stylishness of Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance.
Her manners showed good sense and good breeding;
they were neither shy nor affectedly open; and she
seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball
without wanting to fix the attention of every man
near her, and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic
delight or inconceivable vexation on every little
trifling occurrence.  Catherine, interested at once
by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney,
was desirous of being acquainted with her, and readily
talked therefore whenever she could think of anything
to say, and had courage and leisure for saying it.
But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy,
by the frequent want of one or more of these requisites,
prevented their doing more than going through the first
rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how well
the other liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings
and surrounding country, whether she drew, or played,
or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.

     The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine
found her arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella,
who in great spirits exclaimed, "At last I have got you.
My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour.
What could induce you to come into this set, when you
knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched
without you."

     "My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get
at you? I could not even see where you were."

     "So I told your brother all the time--but he would
not believe me.  Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland,
said I--but all in vain--he would not stir an inch.
Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so
immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such
a degree, my dear Catherine, you would be quite amazed.
You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people."

     "Look at that young lady with the white beads round
her head," whispered Catherine, detaching her friend
from James.  "It is Mr. Tilney's sister."

     "Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her
this moment.  What a delightful girl! I never saw anything
half so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is
he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he is.
I die to see him.  Mr. Morland, you are not to listen.
We are not talking about you."

     "But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?"

     "There now, I knew how it would be.  You men have
such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women,
indeed! 'Tis nothing.  But be satisfied, for you are not
to know anything at all of the matter."

     "And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?"

     "Well, I declare I never knew anything like you.
What can it signify to you, what we are talking of.
Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I would advise
you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not
very agreeable."

     In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time,
the original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though
Catherine was very well pleased to have it dropped for a while,
she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension
of all Isabella's impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney.
When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would
have led his fair partner away, but she resisted.
"I tell you, Mr. Morland," she cried, "I would not do such
a thing for all the world.  How can you be so teasing;
only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your brother wants
me to do.  He wants me to dance with him again, though I
tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely
against the rules.  It would make us the talk of the place,
if we were not to change partners."

     "Upon my honour," said James, "in these public assemblies,
it is as often done as not."

     "Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men
have a point to carry, you never stick at anything.
My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother
how impossible it is.  Tell him that it would quite shock
you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?"

     "No, not at all; but if you think it wrong,
you had much better change."

     "There," cried Isabella, "you hear what your sister says,
and yet you will not mind her.  Well, remember that it
is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath
in a bustle.  Come along, my dearest Catherine,
for heaven's sake, and stand by me." And off they went,
to regain their former place.  John Thorpe, in the meanwhile,
had walked away; and Catherine, ever willing to give
Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable
request which had already flattered her once, made her
way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could,
in the hope of finding him still with them--a hope which,
when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been
highly unreasonable.  "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe,
impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had
an agreeable partner."

     "Very agreeable, madam."

     "I am glad of it.  John has charming spirits,
has not he?"

     "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen.

     "No, where is he?"

     "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired
of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance;
so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you."

     "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round;
but she had not looked round long before she saw him
leading a young lady to the dance.

     "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you,"
said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added,
"he is a very agreeable young man."

     "Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen," said Mrs. Thorpe,
smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I am his mother,
that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world."

     This inapplicable answer might have been too much
for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle
Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment's consideration,
she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she
thought I was speaking of her son."

     Catherine was disappointed and vexed.  She seemed
to have missed by so little the very object she had
had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her
to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up
to her soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland,
I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again."

     "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances
are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean
to dance any more."

     "Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people.
Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest
quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners.
I have been laughing at them this half hour."

     Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked
off to quiz his sisters by himself.  The rest of the evening
she found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from their
party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney,
though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James
and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together
that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend
than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest Catherine."



CHAPTER 9


     The progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the
events of the evening was as follows.  It appeared first
in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her,
while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought
on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home.
This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction
of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased,
changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was
the extreme point of her distress; for when there
she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted
nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived,
in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes.
The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance
with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution,
to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon.
In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must
be met with, and that building she had already found
so favourable for the discovery of female excellence,
and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted
for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she
was most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from
within its walls.  Her plan for the morning thus settled,
she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast,
resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment
till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little
incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen,
whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking were such,
that as she never talked a great deal, so she could never be
entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work,
if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard
a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown,
she must observe it aloud, whether there were anyone at
leisure to answer her or not.  At about half past twelve,
a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window,
and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there
being two open carriages at the door, in the first only
a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second,
before John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling out,
"Well, Miss Morland, here I am.  Have you been waiting
long? We could not come before; the old devil of a
coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing
fit to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one
but they break down before we are out of the street.
How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous bag last night,
was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others
are in a confounded hurry to be off.  They want to get their
tumble over."

     "What do you mean?" said Catherine.  "Where are you
all going to?" "Going to? Why, you have not forgot our
engagement! Did not we agree together to take a drive this
morning? What a head you have! We are going up Claverton Down."

     "Something was said about it, I remember,"
said Catherine, looking at Mrs. Allen for her opinion;
"but really I did not expect you."

     "Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust
you would have made, if I had not come."

     Catherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile,
was entirely thrown away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all
in the habit of conveying any expression herself by a look,
was not aware of its being ever intended by anybody else;
and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again could
at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive,
and who thought there could be no impropriety in her going
with Mr. Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the same time
with James, was therefore obliged to speak plainer.
"Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me
for an hour or two? Shall I go?"

     "Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen,
with the most placid indifference.  Catherine took
the advice, and ran off to get ready.  In a very few minutes
she reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others time
enough to get through a few short sentences in her praise,
after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen's admiration of his gig;
and then receiving her friend's parting good wishes,
they both hurried downstairs.  "My dearest creature,"
cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately
called her before she could get into the carriage,
"you have been at least three hours getting ready.
I was afraid you were ill.  What a delightful ball we
had last night.  I have a thousand things to say to you;
but make haste and get in, for I long to be off."

     Catherine followed her orders and turned away,
but not too soon to hear her friend exclaim aloud to James,
"What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on her."

     "You will not be frightened, Miss Morland," said Thorpe,
as he handed her in, "if my horse should dance about
a little at first setting off.  He will, most likely,
give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute;
but he will soon know his master.  He is full of spirits,
playful as can be, but there is no vice in him."

     Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one,
but it was too late to retreat, and she was too young to own
herself frightened; so, resigning herself to her fate,
and trusting to the animal's boasted knowledge of its owner,
she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her.
Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the
horse's head was bid in an important voice "to let him go,"
and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable,
without a plunge or a caper, or anything like one.
Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her
pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion
immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring
her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious
manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular
discernment and dexterity with which he had directed
his whip.  Catherine, though she could not help wondering
that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think
it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care
of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal
continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing
the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity,
and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour)
by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the
enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind,
in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness
of safety.  A silence of several minutes succeeded their
first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe's saying
very abruptly, "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew--is not he?"
Catherine did not understand him--and he repeated his question,
adding in explanation, "Old Allen, the man you are with."

     "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean.  Yes, I believe, he is
very rich."

     "And no children at all?"

     "No--not any."

     "A famous thing for his next heirs.  He is your godfather,
is not he?"

     "My godfather! No."

     "But you are always very much with them."

     "Yes, very much."

     "Aye, that is what I meant.  He seems a good kind
of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time,
I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing.  Does he drink
his bottle a day now?"

     "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think
of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you
could not fancy him in liquor last night?"

     "Lord help you! You women are always thinking
of men's being in liquor.  Why, you do not suppose
a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of this--that
if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would
not be half the disorders in the world there are now.
It would be a famous good thing for us all."

     "I cannot believe it."

     "Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands.
There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed
in this kingdom that there ought to be.  Our foggy climate
wants help."

     "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal
of wine drunk in Oxford."

     "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now,
I assure you.  Nobody drinks there.  You would hardly meet
with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost.
Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing,
at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we
cleared about five pints a head.  It was looked upon
as something out of the common way.  Mine is famous
good stuff, to be sure.  You would not often meet with
anything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it.
But this will just give you a notion of the general rate
of drinking there."

     "Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly,
"and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine
than I thought you did.  However, I am sure James does
not drink so much."

     This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply,
of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent
exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it,
and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather a strengthened
belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford,
and the same happy conviction of her brother's comparative sobriety.

     Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits
of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire
the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along,
and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence
of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage.
She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could.
To go before or beyond him was impossible.  His knowledge
and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression,
and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power;
she could strike out nothing new in commendation,
but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert,
and it was finally settled between them without any
difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most
complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest,
his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman.
"You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine,
venturing after some time to consider the matter as
entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on
the subject, "that James's gig will break down?"

     "Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little
tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece
of iron about it.  The wheels have been fairly worn out
these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon my soul,
you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch.
It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever
beheld! Thank God! we have got a better.  I would not be
bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds."

     "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened.
"Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with
an accident if we go on.  Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe;
stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe
it is."

     "Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will
only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty
of dirt; it will be excellent falling.  Oh, curse it! The
carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it;
a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty
years after it is fairly worn out.  Lord bless you! I
would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York
and back again, without losing a nail."

     Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew
not how to reconcile two such very different accounts
of the same thing; for she had not been brought up
to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know
to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the
excess of vanity will lead.  Her own family were plain,
matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind;
her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun,
and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit
therefore of telling lies to increase their importance,
or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict
the next.  She reflected on the affair for some time
in much perplexity, and was more than once on the point
of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his
real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself,
because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving
those clearer insights, in making those things plain
which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this,
the consideration that he would not really suffer
his sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger
from which he might easily preserve them, she concluded
at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact
perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer.
By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten;
and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk,
began and ended with himself and his own concerns.
He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle
and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches,
in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner;
of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds
(though without having one good shot) than all his
companions together; and described to her some famous
day's sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight
and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes
of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness
of his riding, though it had never endangered his own
life for a moment, had been constantly leading others
into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken
the necks of many.

     Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging
for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what
men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt,
while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit,
of his being altogether completely agreeable.  It was a
bold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had
been assured by James that his manners would recommend him
to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness
of his company, which crept over her before they had been
out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase
till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her,
in some small degree, to resist such high authority,
and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure.

     When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, the astonishment
of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it
was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into
the house: "Past three o'clock!" It was inconceivable,
incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her
own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would
believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality,
till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact;
to have doubted a moment longer then would have been
equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible;
and she could only protest, over and over again, that no
two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before,
as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not
tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter
was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice,
by not waiting for her answer.  Her own feelings entirely
engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding
herself obliged to go directly home.  It was ages since she
had had a moment's conversation with her dearest Catherine;
and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her,
it appeared as if they were never to be together again;
so, with sniffles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing
eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.

     Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all
the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately
greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth
which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute;
"and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?"

     "Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had
a nicer day."

     "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased
at your all going."

     "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?"

     "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone,
and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together.
She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market
this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."

     "Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"

     "Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent,
and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney
walking with her."

     "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?"

     "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half
an hour.  They seem very agreeable people.  Miss Tilney
was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I
can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely.
Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family."

     "And what did she tell you of them?"

     "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else."

     "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they
come from?"

     "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now.  But they
are very good kind of people, and very rich.  Mrs. Tilney was
a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows;
and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she
married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds,
and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes
saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse."

     "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?"

     "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain.
Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead;
at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead,
because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful
set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her
wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they
were put by for her when her mother died."

     "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?"

     "I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear;
I have some idea he is; but, however, he is a very fine
young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very well."

     Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough
to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give,
and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself
in having missed such a meeting with both brother
and sister.  Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others;
and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck,
and think over what she had lost, till it was clear
to her that the drive had by no means been very pleasant
and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.



CHAPTER 10


     The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the
evening at the theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella
sat together, there was then an opportunity for the
latter to utter some few of the many thousand things
which had been collecting within her for communication
in the immeasurable length of time which had divided them.
"Oh, heavens! My beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?"
was her address on Catherine's entering the box and sitting
by her.  "Now, Mr. Morland," for he was close to her on
the other side, "I shall not speak another word to you all
the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it.
My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But
I need not ask you, for you look delightfully.  You really
have done your hair in a more heavenly style than ever;
you mischievous creature, do you want to attract everybody?
I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you already;
and as for Mr. Tilney--but that is a settled thing--even
your modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming
back to Bath makes it too plain.  Oh! What would not I
give to see him! I really am quite wild with impatience.
My mother says he is the most delightful young man in
the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must
introduce him to me.  Is he in the house now? Look about,
for heaven's sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I
see him."

     "No," said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see
him anywhere."

     "Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him?
How do you like my gown? I think it does not look amiss;
the sleeves were entirely my own thought.  Do you know,
I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I
were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly
well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live
here for millions.  We soon found out that our tastes
were exactly alike in preferring the country to every
other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same,
it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in
which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world;
you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made
some droll remark or other about it."

     "No, indeed I should not."

     "Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you
know yourself.  You would have told us that we seemed
born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind,
which would have distressed me beyond conception;
my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would
not have had you by for the world."

     "Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made
so improper a remark upon any account; and besides,
I am sure it would never have entered my head."

     Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest
of the evening to James.

     Catherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss
Tilney again continued in full force the next morning;
and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she
felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention.
But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared
to delay them, and they all three set off in good time
for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events
and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking
his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over
the politics of the day and compare the accounts of
their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together,
noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet
in the room.  The female part of the Thorpe family,
attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less
than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took
her usual place by the side of her friend.  James, who was
now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position,
and separating themselves from the rest of their party,
they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine
began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,
confining her entirely to her friend and brother,
gave her very little share in the notice of either.
They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion
or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed
in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended
with so much laughter, that though Catherine's supporting
opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other,
she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word
of the subject.  At length however she was empowered to
disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity
of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw
just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she
instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted,
than she might have had courage to command, had she
not been urged by the disappointment of the day before.
Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her
advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking
together as long as both parties remained in the room;
and though in all probability not an observation was made,
nor an expression used by either which had not been made
and used some thousands of times before, under that roof,
in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken
with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit,
might be something uncommon.

     "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation
of Catherine's towards the close of their conversation,
which at once surprised and amused her companion.

     "Henry!" she replied with a smile.  "Yes, he does
dance very well."

     "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I
was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down.
But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe."
Miss Tilney could only bow.  "You cannot think,"
added Catherine after a moment's silence, "how surprised I
was to see him again.  I felt so sure of his being quite
gone away."

     "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before,
he was in Bath but for a couple of days.  He came only
to engage lodgings for us."

     "That never occurred to me; and of course,
not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone.
Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?"

     "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes."

     "I dare say she was very glad to dance.  Do you
think her pretty?" "Not very."

     "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"
"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with
my father."

     Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney
if she was ready to go.  "I hope I shall have the
pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine.
"Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?"

     "Perhaps we-- Yes, I think we certainly shall."

     "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there."
This civility was duly returned; and they parted--on
Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge of her new
acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without
the smallest consciousness of having explained them.

     She went home very happy.  The morning had answered
all her hopes, and the evening of the following day
was now the object of expectation, the future good.
What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern.  She cannot be justified
in it.  Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction,
and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim.
Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read
her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before;
and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night
debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin,
and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her
buying a new one for the evening.  This would have been
an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which
one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather
than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can
be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown.
It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies,
could they be made to understand how little the heart of
man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire;
how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin,
and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards
the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet.
Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone.  No man will
admire her the more, no woman will like her the better
for it.  Neatness and fashion are enough for the former,
and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most
endearing to the latter.  But not one of these grave
reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.

     She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings
very different from what had attended her thither the
Monday before.  She had then been exulting in her engagement
to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight,
lest he should engage her again; for though she could not,
dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third
time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred
in nothing less.  Every young lady may feel for my
heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady
has at some time or other known the same agitation.
All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be,
in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished
to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions
of someone whom they wished to please.  As soon as they
were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began;
she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her,
hid herself as much as possible from his view,
and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him.
The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning,
and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.

     "Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"
whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your
brother again.  I declare positively it is quite shocking.
I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you
and John must keep us in countenance.  Make haste,
my dear creature, and come to us.  John is just walked off,
but he will be back in a moment."

     Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer.
The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view,
and she gave herself up for lost.  That she might
not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept
her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation
for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they
should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time,
had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly
found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,
by Mr. Tilney himself.  With what sparkling eyes and ready
motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing
a flutter of heart she went with him to the set,
may be easily imagined.  To escape, and, as she believed,
so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked,
so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney,
as if he had sought her on purpose!--it did not appear
to her that life could supply any greater felicity.

     Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet
possession of a place, however, when her attention
was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her.
"Heyday, Miss Morland!" said he.  "What is the meaning
of this? I thought you and I were to dance together."

     "I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me."

     "That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon
as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask
you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This
is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of
dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged
to me ever since Monday.  Yes; I remember, I asked you
while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak.
And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I
was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room;
and when they see you standing up with somebody else,
they will quiz me famously."

     "Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such
a description as that."

     "By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out
of the room for blockheads.  What chap have you there?"
Catherine satisfied his curiosity.  "Tilney," he repeated.
"Hum--I do not know him.  A good figure of a man; well put
together.  Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of mine,
Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody.
A famous clever animal for the road--only forty guineas.
I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my
maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one;
but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for
the field.  I would give any money for a real good hunter.
I have three now, the best that ever were backed.
I would not take eight hundred guineas for them.
Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire,
against the next season.  It is so d-- uncomfortable,
living at an inn."

     This was the last sentence by which he could weary
Catherine's attention, for he was just then borne off by the
resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies.
Her partner now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would
have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half
a minute longer.  He has no business to withdraw the attention
of my partner from me.  We have entered into a contract
of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening,
and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other
for that time.  Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice
of one, without injuring the rights of the other.
I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage.
Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both;
and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves,
have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours."

     "But they are such very different things!"

     "--That you think they cannot be compared together."

     "To be sure not.  People that marry can never part,
but must go and keep house together.  People that dance
only stand opposite each other in a long room for half
an hour."

     "And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing.
Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is
not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view.
You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage
of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both,
it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for
the advantage of each; and that when once entered into,
they belong exclusively to each other till the moment
of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to
endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he
or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best
interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering
towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying
that they should have been better off with anyone else.
You will allow all this?"

     "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds
very well; but still they are so very different.
I cannot look upon them at all in the same light,
nor think the same duties belong to them."

     "In one respect, there certainly is a difference.
In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support
of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man;
he is to purvey, and she is to smile.  But in dancing,
their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness,
the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes
the fan and the lavender water.  That, I suppose, was the
difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the
conditions incapable of comparison."

     "No, indeed, I never thought of that."

     "Then I am quite at a loss.  One thing, however, I must
observe.  This disposition on your side is rather alarming.
You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations;
and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties
of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner
might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman
who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other
gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing
to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?"

     "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my
brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again;
but there are hardly three young men in the room besides
him that I have any acquaintance with."

     "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!"

     "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I
do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk
to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody."

     "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I
shall proceed with courage.  Do you find Bath as agreeable
as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"

     "Yes, quite--more so, indeed."

     "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be
tired of it at the proper time.  You ought to be tired
at the end of six weeks."

     "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay
here six months."

     "Bath, compared with London, has little variety,
and so everybody finds out every year.  'For six weeks,
I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is
the most tiresome place in the world.' You would be told
so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly
every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve,
and go away at last because they can afford to stay
no longer."

     "Well, other people must judge for themselves,
and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath.
But I, who live in a small retired village in the country,
can never find greater sameness in such a place as this
than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements,
a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I
can know nothing of there."

     "You are not fond of the country."

     "Yes, I am.  I have always lived there, and always
been very happy.  But certainly there is much more
sameness in a country life than in a Bath life.
One day in the country is exactly like another."

     "But then you spend your time so much more rationally
in the country."

     "Do I?"

     "Do you not?"

     "I do not believe there is much difference."

     "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long."

     "And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it.
I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see
a variety of people in every street, and there I can
only go and call on Mrs. Allen."

     Mr. Tilney was very much amused.

     "Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated.
"What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you
sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say.
You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you
did here."

     "Oh! Yes.  I shall never be in want of something
to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else.
I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath,
when I am at home again--I do like it so very much.
If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of
them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James's coming
(my eldest brother) is quite delightful--and especially
as it turns out that the very family we are just got
so intimate with are his intimate friends already.
Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?"

     "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every
sort to it as you do.  But papas and mammas, and brothers,
and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of
the frequenters of Bath--and the honest relish of balls
and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them."
Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance
becoming now too importunate for a divided attention.

     Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set,
Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a
gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind
her partner.  He was a very handsome man, of a commanding
aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life;
and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him
presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper.
Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of
its being excited by something wrong in her appearance,
she turned away her head.  But while she did so,
the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer,
said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked.
That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right
to know his.  It is General Tilney, my father."

     Catherine's answer was only "Oh!"--but it was an "Oh!"
expressing everything needful: attention to his words,
and perfect reliance on their truth.  With real interest
and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general,
as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family
they are!" was her secret remark.

     In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded,
a new source of felicity arose to her.  She had never taken
a country walk since her arrival in Bath.  Miss Tilney,
to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar,
spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness
to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she
might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by
the brother and sister that they should join in a walk,
some morning or other.  "I shall like it," she cried,
"beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it
off--let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to,
with only a proviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain,
which Catherine was sure it would not.  At twelve
o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street;
and "Remember--twelve o'clock," was her parting speech
to her new friend.  Of her other, her older, her more
established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth
she had enjoyed a fortnight's experience, she scarcely
saw anything during the evening.  Yet, though longing
to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully
submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them
rather early away, and her spirits danced within her,
as she danced in her chair all the way home.



CHAPTER 11


     The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning,
the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine
augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes.
A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed,
would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
improvement as the day advanced.  She applied to
Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen,
not having his own skies and barometer about him,
declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.
She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was
more positive.  "She had no doubt in the world of its
being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off,
and the sun keep out."

     At about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small
rain upon the windows caught Catherine's watchful eye,
and "Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from
her in a most desponding tone.

     "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen.

     "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps
it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve."

     "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty."

     "Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt."

     "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you
never mind dirt."

     After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!"
said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window.

     "So it does indeed.  If it keeps raining, the streets
will be very wet."

     "There are four umbrellas up already.  How I hate
the sight of an umbrella!"

     "They are disagreeable things to carry.  I would
much rather take a chair at any time."

     "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt
so convinced it would be dry!"

     "Anybody would have thought so indeed.  There will
be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all
the morning.  I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat
when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather
do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat;
I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable."

     The rain continued--fast, though not heavy.
Catherine went every five minutes to the clock,
threatening on each return that, if it still kept on
raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter
as hopeless.  The clock struck twelve, and it still rained.
"You will not be able to go, my dear."

     "I do not quite despair yet.  I shall not give
it up till a quarter after twelve.  This is just
the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it
looks a little lighter.  There, it is twenty minutes
after twelve, and now I shall give it up entirely.
Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho,
or at least in Tuscany and the south of France!--the
night that poor St. Aubin died!--such beautiful weather!"

     At half past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention
to the weather was over and she could no longer claim
any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily
to clear.  A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprise;
she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly
returned to the window to watch over and encourage the
happy appearance.  Ten minutes more made it certain that a
bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion
of Mrs. Allen, who had "always thought it would clear up."
But whether Catherine might still expect her friends,
whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney
to venture, must yet be a question.

     It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her
husband to the pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself,
and Catherine had barely watched him down the street
when her notice was claimed by the approach of the same
two open carriages, containing the same three people
that had surprised her so much a few mornings back.

     "Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare!
They are coming for me perhaps--but I shall not go--I
cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call."
Mrs. Allen agreed to it.  John Thorpe was soon with them,
and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the
stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick.
"Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door.
"Put on your hat this moment--there is no time to be lost--we
are going to Bristol.  How d'ye do, Mrs. Allen?"

     "To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But,
however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged;
I expect some friends every moment." This was of course
vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen
was called on to second him, and the two others walked in,
to give their assistance.  "My sweetest Catherine, is not
this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive.
You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme;
it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily
believe at the same instant; and we should have been off
two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain.
But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we
shall do delightfully.  Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the
thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better
than going to the Lower Rooms.  We shall drive directly
to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over,
if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston."

     "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland.

     "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe.  "We shall
be able to do ten times more.  Kingsweston! Aye,
and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of;
but here is your sister says she will not go."

     "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine.  "What is that'?"

     "The finest place in England--worth going fifty
miles at any time to see."

     "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?"

     "The oldest in the kingdom."

     "But is it like what one reads of?"

     "Exactly--the very same."

     "But now really--are there towers and long galleries?"

     "By dozens."

     "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot--I
cannot go.

     "Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean'?"

     "I cannot go, because"--looking down as she spoke,
fearful of Isabella's smile--"I expect Miss Tilney
and her brother to call on me to take a country walk.
They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon."

     "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned
into Broad Street, I saw them--does he not drive a phaeton
with bright chestnuts?"

     "I do not know indeed."

     "Yes, I know he does; I saw him.  You are talking
of the man you danced with last night, are not you?"

     "Yes.

     "Well, I saw him at that moment
turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl."

     "Did you indeed?"

     "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he
seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too."

     "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would
be too dirty for a walk."

     "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt
in my life.  Walk! You could no more walk than you
could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter;
it is ankle-deep everywhere."

     Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine,
you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go;
you cannot refuse going now."

     "I should like to see the castle; but may we go
all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every
suite of rooms?"

     "Yes, yes, every hole and corner."

     "But then, if they should only be gone out for
an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?"

     "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that,
for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing
by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks."

     "Then I will.  Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?"

     "Just as you please, my dear."

     "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,"
was the general cry.  Mrs. Allen was not inattentive
to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go."
And in two minutes they were off.

     Catherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage,
were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret
for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon
enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike
in kind.  She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite
well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse.  It was now
but an hour later than the time fixed on for the beginning
of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the
prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour,
she could not from her own observation help thinking
that they might have gone with very little inconvenience.
To feel herself slighted by them was very painful.
On the other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice
like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize Castle to be,
was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for
almost anything.

     They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through
Laura Place, without the exchange of many words.
Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns,
on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered
Argyle Buildings, however, she was roused by this address
from her companion, "Who is that girl who looked at you
so hard as she went by?"

     "Who? Where?"

     "On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost
out of sight now." Catherine looked round and saw Miss
Tilney leaning on her brother's arm, walking slowly down
the street.  She saw them both looking back at her.
"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried;
"it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed.  How could you tell me
they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment
and go to them." But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe
only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys,
who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment
out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in another
moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace.
Still, however, and during the length of another street,
she entreated him to stop.  "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe.
I cannot go on.  I will not go on.  I must go back to
Miss Tilney." But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip,
encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on;
and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no
power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point
and submit.  Her reproaches, however, were not spared.
"How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you
say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown Road? I
would not have had it happen so for the world.  They must
think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too,
without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am;
I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else.
I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now,
and walk back to them.  How could you say you saw them driving
out in a phaeton?" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly,
declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life,
and would hardly give up the point of its having been
Tilney himself.

     Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not
likely to be very agreeable.  Catherine's complaisance
was no longer what it had been in their former airing.
She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short.
Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards that,
she still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather
than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially
rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would
willingly have given up all the happiness which its walls
could supply--the happiness of a progress through a long
suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent
furniture, though now for many years deserted--the happiness
of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults,
by a low, grated door; or even of having their lamp,
their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind,
and of being left in total darkness.  In the meanwhile,
they proceeded on their journey without any mischance,
and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo
from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up,
to know what was the matter.  The others then came close
enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had
better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on today;
your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly
an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more
than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight
more to go.  It will never do.  We set out a great deal
too late.  We had much better put it off till another day,
and turn round."

     "It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily;
and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way
back to Bath.

     "If your brother had not got such a d-- beast to drive,"
said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well.
My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour,
if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with
pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade's pace.
Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of
his own."

     "No, he is not," said Catherine warmly, "for I am
sure he could not afford it."

     "And why cannot he afford it?"

     "Because he has not money enough."

     "And whose fault is that?"

     "Nobody's, that I know of." Thorpe then said something
in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse,
about its being a d-- thing to be miserly; and that if
people who rolled in money could not afford things,
he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
endeavour to understand.  Disappointed of what was to
have been the consolation for her first disappointment,
she was less and less disposed either to be agreeable
herself or to find her companion so; and they returned
to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.

     As she entered the house, the footman told her that a
gentleman and lady had catted and inquired for her a few
minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she
was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether
any message had been left for her; and on his saying no,
had felt for a card, but said she had none about her,
and went away.  Pondering over these heart-rending tidings,
Catherine walked slowly upstairs.  At the head of them
she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason
of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother
had so much sense; I am glad you are come back.
It was a strange, wild scheme."

     They all spent the evening together at Thorpe's.
Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella
seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of
which she shared, by private partnership with Morland,
a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air
of an inn at Clifton.  Her satisfaction, too, in not
being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once.
"How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How
glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether
it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun
dancing yet.  I would not be there for all the world.
It is so delightful to have an evening now and then
to oneself.  I dare say it will not be a very good ball.
I know the Mitchells will not be there.  I am sure I
pity everybody that is.  But I dare say, Mr. Morland,
you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do.
Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you.
I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men
think yourselves of such consequence."

     Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being
wanting in tenderness towards herself and her sorrows,
so very little did they appear to dwell on her mind,
and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered.
"Do not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered.
"You will quite break my heart.  It was amazingly shocking,
to be sure; but the Tilneys were entirely to blame.
Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed,
but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should
not have minded it.  I never mind going through anything,
where a friend is concerned; that is my disposition,
and John is just the same; he has amazing strong feelings.
Good heavens! What a delightful hand you have got! Kings,
I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would fifty times
rather you should have them than myself."

     And now I may dismiss my heroine to the
sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion;
to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears.
And lucky may she think herself, if she get another
good night's rest in the course of the next three months.



CHAPTER 12


     "Mrs. Allen," said Catherine the next morning,
"will there be any harm in my calling on Miss Tilney today?
I shall not be easy till I have explained everything."

     "Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown;
Miss Tilney always wears white."

     Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped,
was more impatient than ever to be at the pump-room,
that she might inform herself of General Tilneys lodgings,
for though she believed they were in Milsom Street,
she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's wavering
convictions only made it more doubtful.  To Milsom Street she
was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number,
hastened away with eager steps and a beating heart
to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be forgiven;
tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely
turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see
her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had
reason to believe, were in a shop hard by.  She reached
the house without any impediment, looked at the number,
knocked at the door, and inquired for Miss Tilney.
The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
quite certain.  Would she be pleased to send up her name?
She gave her card.  In a few minutes the servant returned,
and with a look which did not quite confirm his words,
said he had been mistaken, for that Miss Tilney was
walked out.  Catherine, with a blush of mortification,
left the house.  She felt almost persuaded that Miss
Tilney was at home, and too much offended to admit her;
and as she retired down the street, could not withhold
one glance at the drawing-room windows, in expectation
of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them.
At the bottom of the street, however, she looked back again,
and then, not at a window, but issuing from the door,
she saw Miss Tilney herself.  She was followed by
a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
and they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings.
Catherine, in deep mortification, proceeded on her way.
She could almost be angry herself at such angry incivility;
but she checked the resentful sensation; she remembered
her own ignorance.  She knew not how such an offence as hers
might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what
a degree of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead,
nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly
make her amenable.

     Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not
going with the others to the theatre that night; but it
must be confessed that they were not of long continuance,
for she soon recollected, in the first place, that she was
without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the second,
that it was a play she wanted very much to see.
To the theatre accordingly they all went; no Tilneys
appeared to plague or please her; she feared that,
amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because
they were habituated to the finer performances of the
London stage, which she knew, on Isabella's authority,
rendered everything else of the kind "quite horrid."
She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;
the comedy so well suspended her care that no one,
observing her during the first four acts, would have supposed
she had any wretchedness about her.  On the beginning
of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney
and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress.  The stage could
no longer excite genuine merriment--no longer keep her
whole attention.  Every other look upon an average was
directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space
of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney,
without being once able to catch his eye.  No longer could
he be suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was
never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.
At length, however, he did look towards her, and he
bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance
attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their
former direction.  Catherine was restlessly miserable;
she could almost have run round to the box in which he sat
and forced him to hear her explanation.  Feelings rather
natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering
her own dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead
of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her
resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it,
to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation,
and to enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight,
or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself all
the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance,
and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining
its cause.

     The play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney
was no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat, but his
father remained, and perhaps he might be now coming round
to their box.  She was right; in a few minutes he appeared,
and, making his way through the then thinning rows,
spoke with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend.
Not with such calmness was he answered by the latter:
"Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you,
and make my apologies.  You must have thought me so rude;
but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen?
Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were
gone out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do?
But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you;
now had not I, Mrs. Allen?"


     "My dear, you tumble my gown," was Mrs. Allen's reply.

     Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did,
was not thrown away; it brought a more cordial,
more natural smile into his countenance, and he replied
in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:
"We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us
a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle Street:
you were so kind as to look back on purpose."

     "But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk;
I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe
so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I
saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not-- Oh! You were not there;
but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,
I would have jumped out and run after you."

     Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible
to such a declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not.
With a yet sweeter smile, he said everything that need
be said of his sister's concern, regret, and dependence
on Catherine's honour.  "Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was
not angry," cried Catherine, "because I know she was;
for she would not see me this morning when I called;
I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after
my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted.
Perhaps you did not know I had been there."

     "I was not within at the time; but I heard of it
from Eleanor, and she has been wishing ever since to
see you, to explain the reason of such incivility;
but perhaps I can do it as well.  It was nothing more than
that my father--they were just preparing to walk out,
and he being hurried for time, and not caring to have it
put off--made a point of her being denied.  That was all,
I do assure you.  She was very much vexed, and meant
to make her apology as soon as possible."

     Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information,
yet a something of solicitude remained, from which sprang
the following question, thoroughly artless in itself,
though rather distressing to the gentleman: "But, Mr. Tilney,
why were you less generous than your sister? If she felt
such confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose
it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready
to take offence?"

     "Me! I take offence!"

     "Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into
the box, you were angry."

     "I angry! I could have no right."

     "Well, nobody would have thought you had no right
who saw your face." He replied by asking her to make
room for him, and talking of the play.

     He remained with them some time, and was only too
agreeable for Catherine to be contented when he went away.
Before they parted, however, it was agreed that the projected
walk should be taken as soon as possible; and, setting aside
the misery of his quitting their box, she was, upon the whole,
left one of the happiest creatures in the world.

     While talking to each other, she had observed with
some surprise that John Thorpe, who was never in the same
part of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged
in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt something
more than surprise when she thought she could perceive
herself the object of their attention and discourse.
What could they have to say of her? She feared General
Tilney did not like her appearance: she found it was
implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter,
rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes.  "How came
Mr. Thorpe to know your father?" was her anxious inquiry,
as she pointed them out to her companion.  He knew nothing
about it; but his father, like every military man,
had a very large acquaintance.

     When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist
them in getting out.  Catherine was the immediate object
of his gallantry; and, while they waited in the lobby
for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had travelled
from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking,
in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him
talking with General Tilney: "He is a fine old fellow,
upon my soul! Stout, active--looks as young as his son.
I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like,
good sort of fellow as ever lived."

     "But how came you to know him?"

     "Know him! There are few people much about town that I
do not know.  I have met him forever at the Bedford;
and I knew his face again today the moment he came into
the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,
by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I
was almost afraid of him at first: the odds were five
to four against me; and, if I had not made one of the
cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this
world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you
understand it without a table; however, I did beat him.
A very fine fellow; as rich as a Jew.  I should like
to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners.
But what do you think we have been talking of? You.
Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you the finest
girl in Bath."

     "Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?"

     "And what do you think I said?"--lowering his
voice--"well done, general, said I; I am quite of your mind."

     Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his
admiration than by General Tilney's, was not sorry to be
called away by Mr. Allen.  Thorpe, however, would see her to
her chair, and, till she entered it, continued the same kind
of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done.

     That General Tilney, instead of disliking,
should admire her, was very delightful; and she joyfully
thought that there was not one of the family whom she need
now fear to meet.  The evening had done more, much more,
for her than could have been expected.



CHAPTER 13


     Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
have now passed in review before the reader; the events of
each day, its hopes and fears, mortifications and pleasures,
have been separately stated, and the pangs of Sunday
only now remain to be described, and close the week.
The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished,
and on the afternoon's crescent of this day, it was
brought forward again.  In a private consultation between
Isabella and James, the former of whom had particularly
set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously
placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that,
provided the weather were fair, the party should take
place on the following morning; and they were to set
off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured,
Catherine only remained to be apprised of it.  She had
left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney.
In that interval the plan was completed, and as soon as she
came again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the gay
acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave,
was very sorry, but could not go.  The engagement which
ought to have kept her from joining in the former attempt
would make it impossible for her to accompany them now.
She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take
their proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined,
and she would not, upon any account, retract.  But that
she must and should retract was instantly the eager cry
of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton tomorrow,
they would not go without her, it would be nothing
to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they
would not hear of a refusal.  Catherine was distressed,
but not subdued.  "Do not urge me, Isabella.  I am engaged
to Miss Tilney.  I cannot go." This availed nothing.
The same arguments assailed her again; she must go,
she should go, and they would not hear of a refusal.
"It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just
been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to
put off the walk till Tuesday."

     "No, it would not be easy.  I could not do it.
There has been no prior engagement." But Isabella became
only more and more urgent, calling on her in the most
affectionate manner, addressing her by the most endearing names.
She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend
who loved her so dearly.  She knew her beloved Catherine
to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so
easily persuaded by those she loved.  But all in vain;
Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though
pained by such tender, such flattering supplication,
could not allow it to influence her.  Isabella then
tried another method.  She reproached her with having
more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her
so little a while, than for her best and oldest friends,
with being grown cold and indifferent, in short,
towards herself.  "I cannot help being jealous, Catherine,
when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love
you so excessively! When once my affections are placed,
it is not in the power of anything to change them.
But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody's;
I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see
myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut
me to the quick, I own.  These Tilneys seem to swallow up
everything else."

     Catherine thought this reproach equally strange
and unkind.  Was it the part of a friend thus to expose her
feelings to the notice of others? Isabella appeared to her
ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her
own gratification.  These painful ideas crossed her mind,
though she said nothing.  Isabella, in the meanwhile,
had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland,
miserable at such a sight, could not help saying,
"Nay, Catherine.  I think you cannot stand out any longer now.
The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I
shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse."

     This was the first time of her brother's openly
siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure,
she proposed a compromise.  If they would only put off
their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do,
as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them,
and everybody might then be satisfied.  But "No, no,
no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be,
for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town
on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more;
and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella,
who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well,
then there is an end of the party.  If Catherine
does not go, I cannot.  I cannot be the only woman.
I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper
a thing."

     "Catherine, you must go," said James.

     "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other
sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go."

     "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath
to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool.  No, if you
do not go, d-- me if I do.  I only go for the sake of driving you."

     "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure."
But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned
abruptly away.

     The three others still continued together,
walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine;
sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked
with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still
linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were at war.
At one moment she was softened, at another irritated;
always distressed, but always steady.

     "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,"
said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade;
you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters."

     "I hope I am not less so now," she replied,
very feelingly; "but indeed I cannot go.  If I am wrong,
I am doing what I believe to be right."

     "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice,
"there is no great struggle."

     Catherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm,
and Isabella made no opposition.  Thus passed a long ten minutes,
till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them
with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter,
and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience.
I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses."

     "You have not!" cried Catherine.

     "I have, upon my soul.  Left her this moment.  Told her
you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior
engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could
not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday.
She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her;
so there is an end of all our difficulties.  A pretty
good thought of mine--hey?"

     Isabella's countenance was once more all smiles
and good humour, and James too looked happy again.

     "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine,
all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted,
and we shall have a most delightful party."

     "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit
to this.  I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set
her right."

     Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of
the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three.
Even James was quite angry.  When everything was settled,
when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her
as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make
any further objection.

     "I do not care.  Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent
any such message.  If I had thought it right to put
it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself.
This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know
that Mr. Thorpe has-- He may be mistaken again perhaps;
he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday.
Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me.

     Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after
the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street,
when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time.

     "Then I will go after them," said Catherine;
"wherever they are I will go after them.  It does not
signify talking.  If I could not be persuaded into doing
what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it."
And with these words she broke away and hurried off.
Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him.
"Let her go, let her go, if she will go.  She is as
obstinate as--"

     Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could
hardly have been a proper one.

     Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast
as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued,
yet determined to persevere.  As she walked, she reflected
on what had passed.  It was painful to her to disappoint
and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
but she could not repent her resistance.  Setting her own
inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her
engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise
voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false
pretence too, must have been wrong.  She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had
not consulted merely her own gratification; that might
have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself,
by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what was
due to others, and to her own character in their opinion.
Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough
to restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss
Tilney she could not be at ease; and quickening her pace
when she got clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the
remaining ground till she gained the top of Milsom Street.
So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the Tilneys'
advantage in the outset, they were but just fuming
into their lodgings as she came within view of them;
and the servant still remaining at the open door,
she used only the ceremony of saying that she must
speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him
proceeded upstairs.  Then, opening the first door
before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately
found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney,
his son, and daughter.  Her explanation, defective only
in being--from her irritation of nerves and shortness
of breath--no explanation at all, was instantly given.
"I am come in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I
never promised to go--I told them from the first I could
not go.--I ran away in a great hurry to explain it.--I
did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay
for the servant."

     The business, however, though not perfectly
elucidated by this speech, soon ceased to be a puzzle.
Catherine found that John Thorpe had given the message;
and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly
surprised by it.  But whether her brother had still
exceeded her in resentment, Catherine, though she
instinctively addressed herself as much to one as to
the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival,
her eager declarations immediately made every look
and sentence as friendly as she could desire.

     The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced
by Miss Tilney to her father, and received by him
with such ready, such solicitous politeness as recalled
Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her think
with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on.
To such anxious attention was the general's civility carried,
that not aware of her extraordinary swiftness in entering
the house, he was quite angry with the servant whose neglect
had reduced her to open the door of the apartment herself.
"What did William mean by it? He should make a point
of inquiring into the matter." And if Catherine had not
most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely
that William would lose the favour of his master forever,
if not his place, by her rapidity.

     After sitting with them a quarter of an hour,
she rose to take leave, and was then most agreeably
surprised by General Tilney's asking her if she would do
his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest
of the day with her.  Miss Tilney added her own wishes.
Catherine was greatly obliged; but it was quite out
of her power.  Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back
every moment.  The general declared he could say no more;
the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded;
but on some other day he trusted, when longer notice could
be given, they would not refuse to spare her to her friend.
"Oh, no; Catherine was sure they would not have the least
objection, and she should have great pleasure in coming."
The general attended her himself to the street-door,
saying everything gallant as they went downstairs,
admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded
exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making
her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld,
when they parted.

     Catherine, delighted by all that had passed,
proceeded gaily to Pulteney Street, walking, as she
concluded, with great elasticity, though she had never
thought of it before.  She reached home without seeing
anything more of the offended party; and now that she
had been triumphant throughout, had carried her point,
and was secure of her walk, she began (as the flutter
of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been
perfectly right.  A sacrifice was always noble; and if she
had given way to their entreaties, she should have been
spared the distressing idea of a friend displeased,
a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness to both
destroyed, perhaps through her means.  To ease her mind,
and ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person
what her own conduct had really been, she took occasion
to mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme
of her brother and the Thorpes for the following day.
Mr. Allen caught at it directly.  "Well," said he,
"and do you think of going too?"

     "No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss
Tilney before they told me of it; and therefore you know
I could not go with them, could I?"

     "No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not
think of it.  These schemes are not at all the thing.
Young men and women driving about the country in open
carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns
and public places together! It is not right; and I wonder
Mrs. Thorpe should allow it.  I am glad you do not think
of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland would not be pleased.
Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do not you
think these kind of projects objectionable?"

     "Yes, very much so indeed.  Open carriages are
nasty things.  A clean gown is not five minutes' wear in them.
You are splashed getting in and getting out; and the wind
takes your hair and your bonnet in every direction.
I hate an open carriage myself."

     "I know you do; but that is not the question.
Do not you think it has an odd appearance, if young
ladies are frequently driven about in them by young men,
to whom they are not even related?"

     "Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed.
I cannot bear to see it."

     "Dear madam," cried Catherine, "then why did not
you tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to
be improper, I would not have gone with Mr. Thorpe at all;
but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought I
was doing wrong."

     "And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I
told Mrs. Morland at parting, I would always do the best
for you in my power.  But one must not be over particular.
Young people will be young people, as your good mother
says herself.  You know I wanted you, when we first came,
not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would.
Young people do not like to be always thwarted."

     "But this was something of real consequence; and I
do not think you would have found me hard to persuade."

     "As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,"
said Mr. Allen; "and I would only advise you, my dear,
not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any more."

     "That is just what I was going to say," added his wife.

     Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy
for Isabella, and after a moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen
whether it would not be both proper and kind in her
to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum
of which she must be as insensible as herself; for she
considered that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going
to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had passed.
Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any
such thing.  "You had better leave her alone, my dear;
she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not,
has a mother to advise her.  Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent
beyond a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere.
She and your brother choose to go, and you will be only
getting ill will."

     Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that
Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved
by Mr. Allen's approbation of her own conduct, and truly
rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger
of falling into such an error herself.  Her escape from
being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed;
for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she
had broken her promise to them in order to do what was
wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach
of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?



CHAPTER 14


     The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost
expected another attack from the assembled party.
With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of
the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest,
where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced
therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them.
The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time;
and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection,
no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert
their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil
her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.
They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble
hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it
so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.

     "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they
walked along the side of the river, "without thinking
of the south of France."

     "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised.

     "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about.
It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her
father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho.
But you never read novels, I dare say?"

     "Why not?"

     "Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen
read better books."

     "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not
pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.
I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of
them with great pleasure.  The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again;
I remember finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end
the whole time."

     "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you
undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called
away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of
waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk,
and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."

     "Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony.
You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions.
Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait
only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise
I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in
suspense at a most interesting part, by running away
with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own,
particularly her own.  I am proud when I reflect on it,
and I think it must establish me in your good opinion."

     "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall
never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself.  But I really
thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."

     "It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement
if they do--for they read nearly as many as women.
I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.  Do not imagine
that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias
and Louisas.  If we proceed to particulars, and engage
in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?'
and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far
behind me as--what shall I say?--l want an appropriate
simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor
Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy.
Consider how many years I have had the start of you.
I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good
little girl working your sampler at home!"

     "Not very good, I am afraid.  But now really,
do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?"

     "The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest.
That must depend upon the binding."

     "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent.
Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister.
He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness
of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you.
The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not suit him;
and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we
shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest
of the way."

     "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean
to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why
should not I call it so?"

     "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day,
and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two
very nice young ladies.  Oh! It is a very nice word
indeed! It does for everything.  Originally perhaps it
was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy,
or refinement--people were nice in their dress,
in their sentiments, or their choice.  But now every
commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word."

     "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only
to be applied to you, without any commendation at all.
You are more nice than wise.  Come, Miss Morland,
let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost
propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever
terms we like best.  It is a most interesting work.
You are fond of that kind of reading?"

     "To say the truth, I do not much like any other."

     "Indeed!"

     "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things
of that sort, and do not dislike travels.  But history,
real solemn history, I cannot be interested in.
Can you?"

     "Yes, I am fond of history."

     "I wish I were too.  I read it a little as a duty,
but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me.
The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences,
in every page; the men all so good for nothing,
and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome:
and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull,
for a great deal of it must be invention.  The speeches
that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts
and designs--the chief of all this must be invention,
and invention is what delights me in other books."

     "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not
happy in their flights of fancy.  They display imagination
without raising interest.  I am fond of history--and am
very well contented to take the false with the true.
In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence
in former histories and records, which may be as much
depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually
pass under one's own observation; and as for the little
embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments,
and I like them as such.  If a speech be well drawn up,
I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and
probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume
or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus,
Agricola, or Alfred the Great."

     "You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and
my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it.
So many instances within my small circle of friends is
remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers
of history any longer.  If people like to read their books,
it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling
great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would
willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment
of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate;
and though I know it is all very right and necessary,
I have often wondered at the person's courage that could
sit down on purpose to do it."

     "That little boys and girls should be tormented,"
said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human
nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf
of our most distinguished historians, I must observe
that they might well be offended at being supposed to
have no higher aim, and that by their method and style,
they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers
of the most advanced reason and mature time of life.
I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your
own method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be
now admitted as synonymous."

     "You think me foolish to call instruction a torment,
but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor
little children first learning their letters and then
learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they
they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired
my poor mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit
of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you would
allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might sometimes
be used as synonymous words."

     "Very probably.  But historians are not accountable
for the difficulty of learning to read; and even you yourself,
who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to
very severe, very intense application, may perhaps be
brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while
to be tormented for two or three years of one's life,
for the sake of being able to read all the rest of it.
Consider--if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe
would have written in vain--or perhaps might not have
written at all."

     Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric
from her on that lady's merits closed the subject.
The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on which she
had nothing to say.  They were viewing the country with
the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on
its capability of being formed into pictures, with all the
eagerness of real taste.  Here Catherine was quite lost.
She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste: and she
listened to them with an attention which brought her
little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed
scarcely any idea to her.  The little which she could
understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few
notions she had entertained on the matter before.
It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken
from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue
sky was no longer a proof of a fine day.  She was
heartily ashamed of her ignorance.  A misplaced shame.
Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.
To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an
inability of administering to the vanity of others,
which a sensible person would always wish to avoid.
A woman especially, if she have the misfortune
of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

     The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful
girl have been already set forth by the capital pen
of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject
I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in
females is a great enhancement of their personal charms,
there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well
informed themselves to desire anything more in woman
than ignorance.  But Catherine did not know her own
advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an
affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail
of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances
are particularly untoward.  In the present instance,
she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared that
she would give anything in the world to be able to draw;
and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed,
in which his instructions were so clear that she soon
began to see beauty in everything admired by him,
and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly
satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.
He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second
distances--side-screens and perspectives--lights and shades;
and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained
the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole
city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.
Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with
too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline,
and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment
and the withered oak which he had placed near its summit,
to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them,
waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly
found himself arrived at politics; and from politics,
it was an easy step to silence.  The general pause
which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of
the nation was put an end to by Catherine, who, in rather
a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have
heard that something very shocking indeed will soon
come out in London."

     Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed,
was startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed! And of
what nature?" "That I do not know, nor who is the author.
I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than
anything we have met with yet."

     "Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?"

     "A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a
letter from London yesterday.  It is to be uncommonly dreadful.
I shall expect murder and everything of the kind."

     "You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope
your friend's accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a
design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly
be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect."

     "Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile,
"neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters.
There must be murder; and government cares not how much."

     The ladies stared.  He laughed, and added,
"Come, shall I make you understand each other, or leave
you to puzzle out an explanation as you can? No--I will
be noble.  I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head.
I have no patience with such of my sex as disdain to let
themselves sometimes down to the comprehension of yours.
Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor
acute--neither vigorous nor keen.  Perhaps they may
want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit."

     "Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have
the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."

     "Riot! What riot?"

     "My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain.
The confusion there is scandalous.  Miss Morland has been
talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication
which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes,
two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece
to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you
understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has
mistaken all your clearest expressions.  You talked
of expected horrors in London--and instead of instantly
conceiving, as any rational creature would have done,
that such words could relate only to a circulating library,
she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand
men assembling in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked,
the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing
with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the
hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney,
in the moment of charging at the head of his troop,
knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window.
Forgive her stupidity.  The fears of the sister have added
to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means
a simpleton in general."

     Catherine looked grave.  "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney,
"that you have made us understand each other, you may
as well make Miss Morland understand yourself--unless you
mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister,
and a great brute in your opinion of women in general.
Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways."

     "I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted
with them."

     "No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present."

     "What am I to do?"

     "You know what you ought to do.  Clear your character handsomely
before her.  Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women."

     "Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding
of all the women in the world--especially of those--whoever
they may be--with whom I happen to be in company."

     "That is not enough.  Be more serious."

     "Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of
the understanding of women than I do.  In my opinion,
nature has given them so much that they never find it
necessary to use more than half."

     "We shall get nothing more serious from him now,
Miss Morland.  He is not in a sober mood.  But I do assure
you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can
ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all,
or an unkind one of me."

     It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney
could never be wrong.  His manner might sometimes surprise,
but his meaning must always be just: and what she did
not understand, she was almost as ready to admire,
as what she did.  The whole walk was delightful, and though
it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too;
her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney,
before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form,
as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for
the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after
the next.  No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side,
and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing
the excess of her pleasure.

     The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish
all her friendship and natural affection, for no thought
of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk.
When the Tilneys were gone, she became amiable again,
but she was amiable for some time to little effect;
Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve
her anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them.
Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine,
having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon
which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out
into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second
Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar's
Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world,
who had been her dear friends all the morning.  From her,
she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place.
"They set off at eight this morning," said Miss Anne,
"and I am sure I do not envy them their drive.  I think
you and I are very well off to be out of the scrape.
it must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not
a soul at Clifton at this time of year.  Belle went with
your brother, and John drove Maria."

     Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt
on hearing this part of the arrangement.

     "Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone.
She was quite wild to go.  She thought it would be
something very fine.  I cannot say I admire her taste;
and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go,
if they pressed me ever so much."

     Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not
help answering, "I wish you could have gone too.
It is a pity you could not all go."

     "Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference
to me.  Indeed, I would not have gone on any account.
I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us.

     Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne
should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to
console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness,
and returned home, pleased that the party had not been
prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily
wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either
James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer.