Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/BOOKS/Novels/J.Austen/NorthangerAbbey.15-31

Text File | 1994-06-03 | 244.0 KB | 5,163 lines

CHAPTER 15


     Early the next day, a note from Isabella,
speaking peace and tenderness in every line, and entreating
the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the
utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings.
The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in
the parlour; and, on Anne's quitting it to call her sister,
Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other
for some particulars of their yesterday's party.
Maria desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it;
and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether
the most delightful scheme in the world, that nobody
could imagine how charming it had been, and that it
had been more delightful than anybody could conceive.
Such was the information of the first five minutes;
the second unfolded thus much in detail--that they had driven
directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke
an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted
the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars;
thence adjoined to eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurrying
back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste,
to prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful
drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little,
and Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.

     Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction.
It appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought of;
and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret
for half an instant.  Maria's intelligence concluded
with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne,
whom she represented as insupportably cross, from being
excluded the party.

     "She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know,
how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he
would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles.
I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month;
but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little
matter that puts me out of temper."

     Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step,
and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her
friend's notice.  Maria was without ceremony sent away,
and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes,
my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has
not deceived you.  Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees
through everything."

     Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.

     "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend," continued the other,
"compose yourself.  I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive.
Let us sit down and talk in comfort.  Well, and so you
guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature!
Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart,
can judge of my present happiness.  Your brother is the most
charming of men.  I only wish I were more worthy of him.
But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh!
Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!"

     Catherine's understanding began to awake: an idea
of the truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the
natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried out,
"Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can
you--can you really be in love with James?"

     This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt
comprehended but half the fact.  The anxious affection,
which she was accused of having continually watched
in Isabella's every look and action, had, in the course
of their yesterday's party, received the delightful
confession of an equal love.  Her heart and faith were
alike engaged to James.  Never had Catherine listened
to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy.
Her brother and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances,
the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she
contemplated it as one of those grand events, of which
the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return.
The strength of her feelings she could not express;
the nature of them, however, contented her friend.
The happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion,
and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.

     Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did
in the prospect of the connection, it must be acknowledged
that Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations.
"You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine,
than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much
more attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own."

     This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.

     "You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella,
"that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you.
But so it always is with me; the first moment
settles everything.  The very first day that Morland came
to us last Christmas--the very first moment I beheld
him--my heart was irrecoverably gone.  I remember I wore
my yellow gown, with my hair done up in braids; and when I
came into the drawing-room, and John introduced him,
I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before."

     Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power
of love; for, though exceedingly fond of her brother,
and partial to all his endowments, she had never in her
life thought him handsome.

     "I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us
that evening, and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet;
and she looked so heavenly that I thought your brother
must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep
a wink all right for thinking of it.  Oh! Catherine,
the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother's
account! I would not have you suffer half what I have done!
I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will not pain
you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it.
I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually--so unguarded
in speaking of my partiality for the church! But my secret
I was always sure would be safe with you."

     Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer;
but ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she dared
no longer contest the point, nor refuse to have been
as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy
as Isabella chose to consider her.  Her brother, she found,
was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton,
to make known his situation and ask consent; and here was
a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella.
Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she was
herself persuaded, that her father and mother would
never oppose their son's wishes.  "It is impossible,"
said she, "for parents to be more kind, or more desirous
of their children's happiness; I have no doubt of their
consenting immediately."

     "Morland says exactly the same," replied Isabella;
"and yet I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so small;
they never can consent to it.  Your brother, who might
marry anybody!"

     Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.

     "Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble.  The difference
of fortune can be nothing to signify."

     "Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I
know it would signify nothing; but we must not expect
such disinterestedness in many.  As for myself, I am sure
I only wish our situations were reversed.  Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world,
your brother would be my only choice."

     This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense
as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all
the heroines of her acquaintance; and she thought her friend
never looked more lovely than in uttering the grand idea.
"I am sure they will consent," was her frequent declaration;
"I am sure they will be delighted with you."

     "For my own part," said Isabella, "my wishes are so moderate
that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me.
Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth;
grandeur I detest: I would not settle in London for the universe.
A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy.
There are some charming little villas about Richmond."

     "Richmond!" cried Catherine.  "You must settle
near Fullerton.  You must be near us."

     "I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not.
If I can but be near you, I shall be satisfied.
But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself to think
of such things, till we have your father's answer.
Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury,
we may have it tomorrow.  Tomorrow? I know I shall never have
courage to open the letter.  I know it will be the death
of me."

     A reverie succeeded this conviction--and when
Isabella spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality
of her wedding-gown.

     Their conference was put an end to by the anxious
young lover himself, who came to breathe his parting sigh
before he set off for Wiltshire.  Catherine wished to
congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her eloquence
was only in her eyes.  From them, however, the eight parts
of speech shone out most expressively, and James could
combine them with ease.  Impatient for the realization
of all that he hoped at home, his adieus were not long;
and they would have been yet shorter, had he not been
frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair
one that he would go.  Twice was he called almost from the
door by her eagerness to have him gone.  "Indeed, Morland,
I must drive you away.  Consider how far you have to ride.
I cannot bear to see you linger so.  For heaven's sake,
waste no more time.  There, go, go--I insist on it."

     The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever,
were inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly
happiness the hours flew along.  Mrs. Thorpe and her son,
who were acquainted with everything, and who seemed only
to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's
engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable
for their family, were allowed to join their counsels,
and add their quota of significant looks and mysterious
expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity
to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters.
To Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve
seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported;
and its unkindness she would hardly have forborne
pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their friend;
but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the
sagacity of their "I know what"; and the evening was spent
in a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity,
on one side in the mystery of an affected secret,
on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.

     Catherine was with her friend again the next day,
endeavouring to support her spirits and while away the
many tedious hours before the delivery of the letters;
a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable expectation
drew near, Isabella became more and more desponding,
and before the letter arrived, had worked herself
into a state of real distress.  But when it did come,
where could distress be found? "I have had no difficulty
in gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am
promised that everything in their power shall be done
to forward my happiness," were the first three lines,
and in one moment all was joyful security.  The brightest
glow was instantly spread over Isabella's features,
all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits became
almost too high for control, and she called herself without
scruple the happiest of mortals.

     Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter,
her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half
the inhabitants of Bath with satisfaction.  Her heart
was overflowing with tenderness.  It was "dear John"
and "dear Catherine" at every word; "dear Anne and dear Maria"
must immediately be made sharers in their felicity;
and two "dears" at once before the name of Isabella were
not more than that beloved child had now well earned.
John himself was no skulker in joy.  He not only bestowed
on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the
finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences
in his praise.

     The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short,
containing little more than this assurance of success;
and every particular was deferred till James could write again.
But for particulars Isabella could well afford to wait.
The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's promise;
his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by
what means their income was to be formed, whether landed
property were to be resigned, or funded money made over,
was a matter in which her disinterested spirit took
no concern.  She knew enough to feel secure of an honourable
and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a rapid
flight over its attendant felicities.  She saw herself at
the end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every
new acquaintance at Fullerton, the envy of every valued
old friend in Putney, with a carriage at her command,
a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant exhibition
of hoop rings on her finger.

     When the contents of the letter were ascertained,
John Thorpe, who had only waited its arrival to begin his
journey to London, prepared to set off.  "Well, Miss Morland,"
said he, on finding her alone in the parlour, "I am come
to bid you good-bye." Catherine wished him a good journey.
Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window,
fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly
self-occupied.

     "Shall not you be late at Devizes?" said Catherine.
He made no answer; but after a minute's silence burst
out with, "A famous good thing this marrying scheme,
upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's.
What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no
bad notion."

     "I am sure I think it a very good one."

     "Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you
are no enemy to matrimony, however.  Did you ever hear
the old song 'Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?'
I say, you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope."

     "Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her,
if possible."

     "And then you know"--twisting himself about
and forcing a foolish laugh--"I say, then you know,
we may try the truth of this same old song."

     "May we? But I never sing.  Well, I wish you a good journey.
I dine with Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home."

     "Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry.
Who knows when we may be together again? Not but that I
shall be down again by the end of a fortnight, and a
devilish long fortnight it will appear to me."

     "Then why do you stay away so long?"
replied Catherine--finding that he waited for an answer.

     "That is kind of you, however--kind and good-natured.
I shall not forget it in a hurry.  But you have more good
nature and all that, than anybody living, I believe.
A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only
good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything;
and then you have such-- upon my soul, I do not know
anybody like you."

     "Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me,
I dare say, only a great deal better.  Good morning
to you."

     "But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my
respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable."

     "Pray do.  My father and mother will be very glad
to see you."

     "And I hope--I hope, Miss Morland, you will not
be sorry to see me."

     "Oh! dear, not at all.  There are very few people
I am sorry to see.  Company is always cheerful."

     "That is just my way of thinking.  Give me but a little
cheerful company, let me only have the company of the people
I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like,
and the devil take the rest, say I. And I am heartily
glad to hear you say the same.  But I have a notion,
Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much alike upon
most matters."

     "Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of.
And as to most matters, to say the truth, there are not
many that I know my own mind about."

     "By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother
my brains with what does not concern me.  My notion
of things is simple enough.  Let me only have the girl
I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head,
and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing.
I am sure of a good income of my own; and if she had not
a penny, why, so much the better."

     "Very true.  I think like you there.  If there is a good
fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for any on
the other.  No matter which has it, so that there is enough.
I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another.
And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing
in existence.  Good day.  We shall be very glad to see
you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient." And away
she went.  It was not in the power of all his gallantry
to detain her longer.  With such news to communicate,
and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not
to be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she
hurried away, leaving him to the undivided consciousness
of his own happy address, and her explicit encouragement.

     The agitation which she had herself experienced
on first learning her brother's engagement made her
expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mr. and
Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event.
How great was her disappointment! The important affair,
which many words of preparation ushered in, had been
foreseen by them both ever since her brother's arrival;
and all that they felt on the occasion was comprehended
in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark,
on the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty,
and on the lady's, of her great good luck.  It was to
Catherine the most surprising insensibility.  The disclosure,
however, of the great secret of James's going to Fullerton
the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen.
She could not listen to that with perfect calmness,
but repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment,
wished she could have known his intention, wished she could
have seen him before he went, as she should certainly have
troubled him with her best regards to his father and mother,
and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.



CHAPTER 16


     Catherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit
in Milsom Street were so very high that disappointment
was inevitable; and accordingly, though she was most
politely received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed
by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else
of the party, she found, on her return, without spending
many hours in the examination of her feelings, that she
had gone to her appointment preparing for happiness which it
had not afforded.  Instead of finding herself improved
in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse of
the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before;
instead of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage
than ever, in the ease of a family party, he had never said
so little, nor been so little agreeable; and, in spite
of their father's great civilities to her--in spite
of his thanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been
a release to get away from him.  It puzzled her to account
for all this.  It could not be General Tilney's fault.
That he was perfectly agreeable and good-natured, and
altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a doubt,
for he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father.
He could not be accountable for his children's want
of spirits, or for her want of enjoyment in his company.
The former she hoped at last might have been accidental,
and the latter she could only attribute to her own stupidity.
Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit,
gave a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride,
insufferable haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected
the family to be very high, and this made it certain.
Such insolence of behaviour as Miss Tilney's she had
never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of her
house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest
with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!"

     "But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was
no superciliousness; she was very civil."

     "Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he,
who had appeared so attached to you! Good heavens! Well,
some people's feelings are incomprehensible.  And so he
hardly looked once at you the whole day?"

     "I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits."

     "How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy
is my aversion.  Let me entreat you never to think
of him again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you."

     "Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."
           "That is exactly what I say; he never thinks
of you.  Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your
brother and to mine! I really believe John has the most
constant heart."

     "But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would
be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater
civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care
to entertain and make me happy."

     "Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him
of pride.  I believe he is a very gentleman-like man.
John thinks very well of him, and John's judgment--"

     "Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening;
we shall meet them at the rooms."

     "And must I go?"

     "Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled."

     "Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse
you nothing.  But do not insist upon my being very agreeable,
for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off.
And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is
quite out of the question.  Charles Hodges will plague me
to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short.
Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly
what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his
conjecture to himself."

     Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence
her friend; she was sure there had been no insolence
in the manners either of brother or sister; and she
did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.
The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with
the same kindness, and by the other with the same attention,
as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains to be near her,
and Henry asked her to dance.

     Having heard the day before in Milsom Street
that their elder brother, Captain Tilney, was expected
almost every hour, she was at no loss for the name of a
very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she
had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged
to their party.  She looked at him with great admiration,
and even supposed it possible that some people might think
him handsomer than his brother, though, in her eyes,
his air was more assuming, and his countenance
less prepossessing.  His taste and manners were beyond
a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within her hearing, he not
only protested against every thought of dancing himself,
but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible.
From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that,
whatever might be our heroine's opinion of him,
his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind;
not likely to produce animosities between the brothers,
nor persecutions to the lady.  He cannot be the instigator
of the three villains in horsemen's greatcoats, by whom
she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise
and four, which will drive off with incredible speed.
Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments
of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of
having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual
happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes
to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible,
becoming so herself.

     At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came
towards them again, and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction,
pulled his brother away.  They retired whispering together;
and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm,
and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have
heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he
now hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope
of separating them forever, she could not have her partner
conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations.
Her suspense was of full five minutes' duration; and she
was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour,
when they both returned, and an explanation was given,
by Henry's requesting to know if she thought her friend,
Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing,
as his brother would be most happy to be introduced
to her.  Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she
was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all.
The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he
immediately walked away.

     "Your brother will not mind it, I know," said she,
"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing;
but it was very good-natured in him to think of it.
I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she
might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken,
for she would not dance upon any account in the world."

     Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can
give you to understand the motive of other people's actions."

     "Why? What do you mean?"

     "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to
be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to act
upon such a person's feelings, age, situation, and probable
habits of life considered--but, How should I be influenced,
What would be my inducement in acting so and so?"

     "I do not understand you."

     "Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand
you perfectly well."

     "Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible."

     "Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language."

     "But pray tell me what you mean."

     "Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you
are not aware of the consequences; it will involve you
in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring
on a disagreement between us.

     "No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid."

     "Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my
brother's wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature
alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature
yourself to all the rest of the world."

     Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's
predictions were verified.  There was a something, however,
in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion;
and that something occupied her mind so much that she drew
back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen,
and almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the
voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with Captain
Tilney preparing to give them hands across.

     Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only
explanation of this extraordinary change which could
at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough
for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her astonishment
in very plain terms to her partner.

     "I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was
so determined not to dance."

     "And did Isabella never change her mind before?"

     "Oh! But, because-- And your brother! After what you
told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?"

     "I cannot take surprise to myself on that head.
You bid me be surprised on your friend's account,
and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his conduct
in the business, I must own, has been no more than I
believed him perfectly equal to.  The fairness of your
friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know,
could only be understood by yourself."

     "You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is
very firm in general."

     "It is as much as should be said of anyone.  To be
always firm must be to be often obstinate.  When properly
to relax is the trial of judgment; and, without reference
to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means
chosen ill in fixing on the present hour."

     The friends were not able to get together for any
confidential discourse till all the dancing was over;
but then, as they walked about the room arm in arm,
Isabella thus explained herself: "I do not wonder at
your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death.  He is such
a rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged;
but I would have given the world to sit still."

     "Then why did not you?"

     "Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular;
and you know how I abhor doing that.  I refused him as
long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial.
You have no idea how he pressed me.  I begged him to
excuse me, and get some other partner--but no, not he;
after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the
room he could bear to think of; and it was not that he
wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me.
Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely
way to prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world,
I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so--and so then
I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up.
Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,
might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother,
I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down
the whole evening.  I am so glad it is over! My spirits
are quite jaded with listening to his nonsense: and then,
being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was
upon us."

     "He is very handsome indeed."

     "Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may.  I dare say people
would admire him in general; but he is not at all in my
style of beauty.  I hate a florid complexion and dark eyes
in a man.  However, he is very well.  Amazingly conceited,
I am sure.  I took him down several times, you know,
in my way."

     When the young ladies next met, they had a far
more interesting subject to discuss.  James Morland's
second letter was then received, and the kind intentions
of his father fully explained.  A living, of which
Mr. Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about
four hundred pounds yearly value, was to be resigned
to his son as soon as he should be old enough to take it;
no trifling deduction from the family income, no niggardly
assignment to one of ten children.  An estate of at least
equal value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.

     James expressed himself on the occasion with
becoming gratitude; and the necessity of waiting between
two and three years before they could marry, being,
however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne
by him without discontent.  Catherine, whose expectations
had been as unfixed as her ideas of her father's income,
and whose judgment was now entirely led by her brother,
felt equally well satisfied, and heartily congratulated
Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.

     "It is very charming indeed," said Isabella,
with a grave face.  "Mr. Morland has behaved vastly
handsome indeed," said the gentle Mrs. Thorpe,
looking anxiously at her daughter.  "I only wish I could
do as much.  One could not expect more from him, you know.
If he finds he can do more by and by, I dare say he will,
for I am sure he must be an excellent good-hearted man.
Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed,
but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do
not consider how little you ever want, my dear."

     "It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I
cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear Morland,
making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find
one in the common necessaries of life.  For myself,
it is nothing; I never think of myself."

     "I know you never do, my dear; and you will always
find your reward in the affection it makes everybody
feel for you.  There never was a young woman so beloved
as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child--but do not let
us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things.
Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know.
I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you know,
my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a
suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more,
for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man."

     "Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do,
I am sure.  But everybody has their failing, you know,
and everybody has a right to do what they like with their
own money." Catherine was hurt by these insinuations.
"I am very sure," said she, "that my father has promised
to do as much as he can afford."

     Isabella recollected herself.  "As to that,
my sweet Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know
me well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would
satisfy me.  It is not the want of more money that makes
me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money;
and if our union could take place now upon only fifty
pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied.
Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.  There's the sting.
The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass
before your brother can hold the living."

     "Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe,
"we perfectly see into your heart.  You have no disguise.
We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody
must love you the better for such a noble honest affection."

     Catherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen.
She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage
was the only source of Isabella's regret; and when she
saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable
as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute
thought otherwise.  James soon followed his letter,
and was received with the most gratifying kindness.



CHAPTER 17


     The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their
stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for
some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a
beating heart.  To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys
end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.
Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was
in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined
that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight.
What this additional fortnight was to produce to her
beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
made but a small part of Catherine's speculation.
Once or twice indeed, since James's engagement had taught
her what could be done, she had got so far as to indulge
in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being
with him for the present bounded her views: the present
was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness
being certain for that period, the rest of her life was
at such a distance as to excite but little interest.
In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged,
she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings.
It was doomed to be a day of trial.  No sooner had she
expressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay
than Miss Tilney told her of her father's having just
determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week.
Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had
been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.
Catherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most
sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney's concluding words,
"By the end of another week!"

     "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the
waters what I think a fair trial.  He has been disappointed
of some friends' arrival whom he expected to meet here,
and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."

     "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly;
"if I had known this before--"

     "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner,
"you would be so good--it would make me very happy if--"

     The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility,
which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce
a desire of their corresponding.  After addressing her
with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter
and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
successful in your application to your fair friend?"

     "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you
came in."

     "Well, proceed by all means.  I know how much
your heart is in it.  My daughter, Miss Morland,"
he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak,
"has been forming a very bold wish.  We leave Bath,
as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A
letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted
at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing
the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here,
some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain
me longer in Bath.  And could we carry our selfish point
with you, we should leave it without a single regret.
Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene
of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your
company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make
the request, though its presumption would certainly
appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself.
Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain
it by open praise.  If you can be induced to honour us
with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression.
'Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties
of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement
nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see,
is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall
be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not
wholly disagreeable."

     Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound
up Catherine's feelings to the highest point of ecstasy.
Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain
its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness.
To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company
so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing,
every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained
in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause
of Papa and Mamma's approbation, was eagerly given.
"I will write home directly," said she, and if they do
not object, as I dare say they will not--"

     General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already
waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street,
and obtained their sanction of his wishes.  "Since they
can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect
philosophy from all the world."

     Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her
secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few
minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference
to Fullerton would allow.

     The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's
feelings through the varieties of suspense, security,
and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged
in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips,
she hurried home to write her letter.  Mr. and Mrs. Morland,
relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they
had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt
of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed
under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post
their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire.
This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had
hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured
beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,
circumstance and chance.  Everything seemed to cooperate
for her advantage.  By the kindness of her first friends,
the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where
pleasures of every kind had met her.  Her feelings,
her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.
Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to
create it.  The affection of Isabella was to be secured
to her in a sister.  The Tilneys, they, by whom,
above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,
outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures
by which their intimacy was to be continued.  She was
to be their chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks
under the same roof with the person whose society
she mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest,
this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion
for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion
for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made usually
the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill.
To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one,
or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks
a darling wish, though to be more than the visitor
of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.
And yet, this was to happen.  With all the chances against
her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage,
Northanger turned up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant.
Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel,
were to be within her daily reach, and she could not
entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends,
some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.

     It was wonderful that her friends should seem
so little elated by the possession of such a home,
that the consciousness of it should be so meekly borne.
The power of early habit only could account for it.
A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride.
Their superiority of abode was no more to them than their
superiority of person.

     Many were the inquiries she was eager to make
of Miss Tilney; but so active were her thoughts,
that when these inquiries were answered, she was hardly
more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been
a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation,
of its having fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the
Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large portion of the ancient
building still making a part of the present dwelling although
the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in a valley,
sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.



CHAPTER 18


     With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly
aware that two or three days had passed away, without her
seeing Isabella for more than a few minutes together.
She began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh
for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room
one morning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without anything to say
or to hear; and scarcely had she felt a five minutes'
longing of friendship, before the object of it appeared,
and inviting her to a secret conference, led the way
to a seat.  "This is my favourite place," said she as they
sat down on a bench between the doors, which commanded
a tolerable view of everybody entering at either;
"it is so out of the way."

     Catherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were
continually bent towards one door or the other, as in
eager expectation, and remembering how often she had been
falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine
opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said,
"Do not be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here."

     "Psha! My dear creature," she replied, "do not think
me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him
to my elbow.  It would be hideous to be always together;
we should be the jest of the place.  And so you are
going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it.  It is
one of the finest old places in England, I understand.
I shall depend upon a most particular description of it."

     "You shall certainly have the best in my power to give.
But who are you looking for? Are your sisters coming?"

     "I am not looking for anybody.  One's eyes must
be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of
fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off.
I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent
creature in the world.  Tilney says it is always the case
with minds of a certain stamp."

     "But I thought, Isabella, you had something
in particular to tell me?"

     "Oh! Yes, and so I have.  But here is a proof of
what I was saying.  My poor head, I had quite forgot it.
Well, the thing is this: I have just had a letter from John;
you can guess the contents."

     "No, indeed, I cannot."

     "My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected.
What can he write about, but yourself? You know he is over
head and ears in love with you."

     "With me, dear Isabella!"

     "Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite
absurd! Modesty, and all that, is very well in its way,
but really a little common honesty is sometimes quite
as becoming.  I have no idea of being so overstrained!
It is fishing for compliments.  His attentions were
such as a child must have noticed.  And it was but half
an hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most
positive encouragement.  He says so in this letter,
says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you
received his advances in the kindest way; and now he
wants me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty
things to you.  So it is in vain to affect ignorance."

     Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth,
expressed her astonishment at such a charge, protesting
her innocence of every thought of Mr. Thorpe's being
in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of
her having ever intended to encourage him.  "As to any
attentions on his side, I do declare, upon my honour,
I never was sensible of them for a moment--except just
his asking me to dance the first day of his coming.
And as to making me an offer, or anything like it,
there must be some unaccountable, mistake.  I could not
have misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know! And,
as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest that
no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us.
The last half hour before he went away! It must be all
and completely a mistake--for I did not see him once
that whole morning."

     "But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole
morning in Edgar's Buildings--it was the day your father's
consent came--and I am pretty sure that you and John were
alone in the parlour some time before you left the house."

     "Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare
say--but for the life of me, I cannot recollect it.
I do remember now being with you, and seeing him as
well as the rest--but that we were ever alone for five
minutes-- However, it is not worth arguing about,
for whatever might pass on his side, you must be convinced,
by my having no recollection of it, that I never thought,
nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind from him.
I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard
for me--but indeed it has been quite unintentional
on my side; I never had the smallest idea of it.
Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg
his pardon--that is--I do not know what I ought to say--but
make him understand what I mean, in the properest way.
I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours,
Isabella, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could
think of one man more than another--he is not the person."
Isabella was silent.  "My dear friend, you must not be
angry with me.  I cannot suppose your brother cares
so very much about me.  And, you know, we shall still
be sisters."

     "Yes, yes" (with a blush), "there are more ways
than one of our being sisters.  But where am I wandering
to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case seems to be
that you are determined against poor John--is not it so?"

     "I certainly cannot return his affection, and as
certainly never meant to encourage it."

     "Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not
tease you any further.  John desired me to speak to you
on the subject, and therefore I have.  But I confess,
as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very foolish,
imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good
of either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you
came together? You have both of you something, to be sure,
but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays;
and after all that romancers may say, there is no doing
without money.  I only wonder John could think of it;
he could not have received my last."

     "You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?--You
are convinced that I never meant to deceive your brother,
never suspected him of liking me till this moment?"

     "Oh! As to that," answered Isabella laughingly,
"I do not pretend to determine what your thoughts and
designs in time past may have been.  All that is best known
to yourself.  A little harmless flirtation or so will occur,
and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than
one wishes to stand by.  But you may be assured that I
am the last person in the world to judge you severely.
All those things should be allowed for in youth and
high spirits.  What one means one day, you know, one may
not mean the next.  Circumstances change, opinions alter."

     "But my opinion of your brother never did alter;
it was always the same.  You are describing what never happened."

     "My dearest Catherine," continued the other without
at all listening to her, "I would not for all the world
be the means of hurrying you into an engagement before you
knew what you were about.  I do not think anything would
justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness
merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother,
and who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy
without you, for people seldom know what they would be at,
young men especially, they are so amazingly changeable
and inconstant.  What I say is, why should a brother's
happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I
carry my notions of friendship pretty high.  But, above
all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry.
Take my word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry,
you will certainly live to repent it.  Tilney says there
is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state
of their own affections, and I believe he is very right.
Ah! Here he comes; never mind, he will not see us,
I am sure."

     Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney;
and Isabella, earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke,
soon caught his notice.  He approached immediately,
and took the seat to which her movements invited him.
His first address made Catherine start.  Though spoken low,
she could distinguish, "What! Always to be watched, in person
or by proxy!"

     "Psha, nonsense!" was Isabella's answer in the
same half whisper.  "Why do you put such things into
my head? If I could believe it--my spirit, you know,
is pretty independent."

     "I wish your heart were independent.  That would
be enough for me."

     "My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with
hearts? You men have none of you any hearts."

     "If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give
us torment enough."

     "Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find
anything so disagreeable in me.  I will look another way.
I hope this pleases you" (turning her back on him);
"I hope your eyes are not tormented now."

     "Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek
is still in view--at once too much and too little."

     Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance,
could listen no longer.  Amazed that Isabella could endure it,
and jealous for her brother, she rose up, and saying she
should join Mrs. Allen, proposed their walking.  But for this
Isabella showed no inclination.  She was so amazingly tired,
and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters;
she was expecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest
Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly down again.
But Catherine could be stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just
then coming up to propose their returning home, she joined
her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving Isabella
still sitting with Captain Tilney.  With much uneasiness
did she thus leave them.  It seemed to her that Captain
Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and Isabella
unconsciously encouraging him; unconsciously it must be,
for Isabella's attachment to James was as certain and
well acknowledged as her engagement.  To doubt her truth
or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the
whole of their conversation her manner had been odd.
She wished Isabella had talked more like her usual self,
and not so much about money, and had not looked so well
pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney.  How strange
that she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine
longed to give her a hint of it, to put her on her guard,
and prevent all the pain which her too lively behaviour
might otherwise create both for him and her brother.

     The compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make
amends for this thoughtlessness in his sister.  She was almost
as far from believing as from wishing it to be sincere;
for she had not forgotten that he could mistake, and his
assertion of the offer and of her encouragement convinced
her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.
In vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief
profit was in wonder.  That he should think it worth
his while to fancy himself in love with her was a matter
of lively astonishment.  Isabella talked of his attentions;
she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said
many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste,
and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad
to rest altogether for present ease and comfort.



CHAPTER 19


     A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not
allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help
watching her closely.  The result of her observations
was not agreeable.  Isabella seemed an altered creature.
When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their
immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street,
her change of manners was so trifling that, had it
gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed.
A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted
absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before,
would occasionally come across her; but had nothing
worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace
and inspired a warmer interest.  But when Catherine saw
her in public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions
as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost
an equal share with James in her notice and smiles,
the alteration became too positive to be passed over.
What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her
friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension.
Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting;
but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which
Catherine could not but resent.  James was the sufferer.
She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless
of his present comfort the woman might be who had
given him her heart, to her it was always an object.
For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned.
Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport
to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion
of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what
she had believed herself to overbear in the pump-room,
his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of
Isabella's engagement that she could not, upon reflection,
imagine him aware of it.  He might be jealous of her
brother as a rival, but if more bad seemed implied,
the fault must have been in her misapprehension.
She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of
her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness;
but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension
was always against her.  If able to suggest a hint,
Isabella could never understand it.  In this distress,
the intended departure of the Tilney family became her
chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire
was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney's
removal would at least restore peace to every heart but
his own.  But Captain Tilney had at present no intention
of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger;
he was to continue at Bath.  When Catherine knew this,
her resolution was directly made.  She spoke to Henry Tilney
on the subject, regretting his brother's evident partiality
for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her
prior engagement.

     "My brother does know it," was Henry's answer.

     "Does he? Then why does he stay here?"

     He made no reply, and was beginning to talk
of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do
not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays,
the worse it will be for him at last.  Pray advise
him for his own sake, and for everybody's sake,
to leave Bath directly.  Absence will in time make
him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here,
and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled
and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that."

     "Then you will persuade him to go away?"

     "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I
cannot even endeavour to persuade him.  I have myself
told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged.  He knows what he
is about, and must be his own master."

     "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine;
"he does not know the pain he is giving my brother.
Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is
very uncomfortable."

     "And are you sure it is my brother's doing?"

     "Yes, very sure."

     "Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe,
or Miss Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain?"

     "Is not it the same thing?"

     "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference.
No man is offended by another man's admiration of the
woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it
a torment."

     Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,
"Isabella is wrong.  But I am sure she cannot mean
to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother.
She has been in love with him ever since they first met,
and while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted
herself almost into a fever.  You know she must be attached
to him."

     "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts
with Frederick."

     "Oh! no, not flirts.  A woman in love with one man
cannot flirt with another."

     "It is probable that she will neither love so well,
nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly.
The gentlemen must each give up a little."

     After a short pause, Catherine resumed with,
"Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached
to my brother?"

     "I can have no opinion on that subject."

     "But what can your brother mean? If he knows
her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?"

     "You are a very close questioner."

     "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told."

     "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?"

     "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart."

     "My brother's heart, as you term it, on the
present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at."

     "Well?"

     "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess
for ourselves.  To be guided by second-hand conjecture
is pitiful.  The premises are before you.  My brother is
a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man;
he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend,
and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has
known her."

     "Well," said Catherine, after some moments' consideration,
"you may be able to guess at your brother's intentions from
all this; but I am sure I cannot.  But is not your father
uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney
to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him,
he would go."

     "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable
solicitude for your brother's comfort, may you not be
a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far?
Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss
Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least
her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing
nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude?
Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited
by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may be sure
that he would not have you think it.  I will not say,
'Do not be uneasy,' because I know that you are so,
at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can.
You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother
and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real
jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it
that no disagreement between them can be of any duration.
Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can
be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can
be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease
the other beyond what is known to be pleasant."

     Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave,
he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us,
he will probably remain but a very short time,
perhaps only a few days behind us.  His leave of absence
will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment.
And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room
will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will
laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's passion for
a month."

     Catherine would contend no longer against comfort.
She had resisted its approaches during the whole length
of a speech, but it now carried her captive.  Henry Tilney
must know best.  She blamed herself for the extent
of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously
on the subject again.

     Her resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour
in their parting interview.  The Thorpes spent the last
evening of Catherine's stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing
passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness,
or make her quit them in apprehension.  James was in
excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid.
Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first feeling
of her heart; but that at such a moment was allowable;
and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once
she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry's
instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection.
The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair
ones may be fancied.



CHAPTER 20


     Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend,
whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a
valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment
their own had been gently increased.  Her happiness in
going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing
it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more
week in Bath themselves, her quitting them now would not
long be felt.  Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom Street,
where she was to breakfast, and saw her seated with the
kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family,
and so fearful was she of not doing exactly what was right,
and of not being able to preserve their good opinion,
that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes,
she could almost have wished to return with him to
Pulteney Street.

     Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did
away some of her unpleasant feelings; but still she
was far from being at ease; nor could the incessant
attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her.
Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she
might not have felt less, had she been less attended to.
His anxiety for her comfort--his continual solicitations
that she would eat, and his often-expressed fears of her
seeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life before
had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--made
it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she
was a visitor.  She felt utterly unworthy of such respect,
and knew not how to reply to it.  Her tranquillity was not
improved by the general's impatience for the appearance
of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed
at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down.
She was quite pained by the severity of his father's reproof,
which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much
was her concern increased when she found herself the
principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness
was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her.
This was placing her in a very uncomfortable situation,
and she felt great compassion for Captain Tilney,
without being able to hope for his goodwill.

     He listened to his father in silence, and attempted
not any defence, which confirmed her in fearing that the
inquietude of his mind, on Isabella's account, might,
by keeping him long sleepless, have been the real cause
of his rising late.  It was the first time of her being
decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now
able to form her opinion of him; but she scarcely
heard his voice while his father remained in the room;
and even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected,
she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper
to Eleanor, "How glad I shall be when you are all off."

     The bustle of going was not pleasant.  The clock
struck ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the
general had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour.
His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to put
on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he
was to accompany his son.  The middle seat of the chaise was
not drawn out, though there were three people to go in it,
and his daughter's maid had so crowded it with parcels
that Miss Morland would not have room to sit; and, so much
was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed
her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own
new writing-desk from being thrown out into the street.
At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females,
and they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome,
highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a
journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger
from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages.
Catherine's spirits revived as they drove from the door;
for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the
interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before,
and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath
without any regret, and met with every milestone before
she expected it.  The tediousness of a two hours'
wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done
but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without
anything to see, next followed--and her admiration of the
style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise
and four--postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly
in their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted,
sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience.
Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would
have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming
a man, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits,
and scarcely anything was said but by himself;
the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever
the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters,
made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him,
and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four.
At last, however, the order of release was given;
and much was Catherine then surprised by the general's
proposal of her taking his place in his son's curricle
for the rest of the journey: "the day was fine,
and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the country
as possible."

     The remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young
men's open carriages, made her blush at the mention
of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it;
but her second was of greater deference for General
Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything
improper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes,
she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy
a being as ever existed.  A very short trial convinced her
that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;
the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur,
to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business,
and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours
at Petty France.  Half the time would have been enough
for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have
his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it
with ease in half a minute.  But the merit of the curricle
did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well--so
quietly--without making any disturbance, without parading
to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only
gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him
with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable
capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important!
To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him,
was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.
In addition to every other delight, she had now that of
listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least,
on his sister's account, for her kindness in thus becoming
her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship,
and described as creating real gratitude.  His sister,
he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female
companion--and, in the frequent absence of her father,
was sometimes without any companion at all.

     "But how can that be?" said Catherine.  "Are not you
with her?"

     "Northanger is not more than half my home;
I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston,
which is nearly twenty miles from my father's, and some
of my time is necessarily spent there."

     "How sorry you must be for that!"

     "I am always sorry to leave Eleanor."

     "Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must
be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as
the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable."

     He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable
idea of the abbey."

     "To be sure, I have.  Is not it a fine old place,
just like what one reads about?"

     "And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors
that a building such as 'what one reads about' may produce?
Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels
and tapestry?"

     "Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened,
because there would be so many people in the house--and
besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted
for years, and then the family come back to it unawares,
without giving any notice, as generally happens."

     "No, certainly.  We shall not have to explore our
way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers
of a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread our beds on the
floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.
But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by
whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind,
she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family.
While they snugly repair to their own end of the house,
she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper,
up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages,
into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin
died in it about twenty years before.  Can you stand
such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive
you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--too
lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays
of a single lamp to take in its size--its walls hung
with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life,
and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet,
presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart
sink within you?"

     "Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure."

     "How fearfully will you examine the furniture of
your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables,
toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps
the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous
chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace
the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features
will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be
able to withdraw your eyes from it.  Dorothy, meanwhile,
no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in
great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.
To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason
to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is
undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have
a single domestic within call.  With this parting cordial
she curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her receding
footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you--and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door,
you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock."

     "Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like
a book! But it cannot really happen to me.  I am sure
your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.  Well, what then?"

     "Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the
first night.  After surmounting your unconquerable horror
of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours'
unquiet slumber.  But on the second, or at farthest
the third night after your arrival, you will probably
have a violent storm.  Peals of thunder so loud as to seem
to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round
the neighbouring mountains--and during the frightful
gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think
you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part
of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest.
Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable
a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise,
and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to
examine this mystery.  After a very short search,
you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully
constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on
opening it, a door will immediately appear--which door,
being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will,
after a few efforts, succeed in opening--and, with your
lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small
vaulted room."

     "No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do
any such thing."

     "What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand
that there is a secret subterraneous communication between
your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two
miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure?
No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,
and through this into several others, without perceiving
anything very remarkable in either.  In one perhaps
there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood,
and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture;
but there being nothing in all this out of the common way,
and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return
towards your own apartment.  In repassing through the small
vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards
a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which,
though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had
passed unnoticed.  Impelled by an irresistible presentiment,
you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors,
and search into every drawer--but for some time without
discovering anything of importance--perhaps nothing
but a considerable hoard of diamonds.  At last, however,
by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will
open--a roll of paper appears--you seize it--it contains
many sheets of manuscript--you hasten with the precious
treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been
able to decipher 'Oh! Thou--whomsoever thou mayst be,
into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda
may fall'--when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket,
and leaves you in total darkness."

     "Oh! No, no--do not say so.  Well, go on."

     But Henry was too much amused by the interest he
had raised to be able to carry it farther; he could
no longer command solemnity either of subject or voice,
and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the
perusal of Matilda's woes.  Catherine, recollecting herself,
grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure
him that her attention had been fixed without the smallest
apprehension of really meeting with what he related.
"Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into such
a chamber as he had described! She was not at all afraid."

     As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience
for a sight of the abbey--for some time suspended by his
conversation on subjects very different--returned in full force,
and every bend in the road was expected with solemn awe
to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone,
rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams
of the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high
Gothic windows.  But so low did the building stand,
that she found herself passing through the great gates
of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger,
without having discerned even an antique chimney.

     She knew not that she had any right to be surprised,
but there was a something in this mode of approach
which she certainly had not expected.  To pass between
lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such
ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven
so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel,
without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of any kind,
struck her as odd and inconsistent.  She was not
long at leisure, however, for such considerations.
A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it
impossible for her to observe anything further, and fixed
all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet;
and she was actually under the abbey walls, was springing,
with Henry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the
shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall,
where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her,
without feeling one awful foreboding of future misery
to herself, or one moment's suspicion of any past scenes
of horror being acted within the solemn edifice.  The breeze
had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her;
it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain;
and having given a good shake to her habit, she was ready
to be shown into the common drawing-room, and capable
of considering where she was.

     An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really
in an abbey! But she doubted, as she looked round
the room, whether anything within her observation would
have given her the consciousness.  The furniture was
in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste.
The fireplace, where she had expected the ample width
and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted
to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble,
and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china.
The windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence,
from having heard the general talk of his preserving them
in their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less
what her fancy had portrayed.  To be sure, the pointed
arch was preserved--the form of them was Gothic--they
might be even casements--but every pane was so large,
so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped
for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work,
for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was
very distressing.

     The general, perceiving how her eye was employed,
began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity
of the furniture, where everything, being for daily use,
pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering himself, however,
that there were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthy
her notice--and was proceeding to mention the costly
gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch,
he stopped short to pronounce it with surprise within
twenty minutes of five! This seemed the word of separation,
and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss Tilney
in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest
punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.

     Returning through the large and lofty hall,
they ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which,
after many flights and many landing-places, brought them
upon a long, wide gallery.  On one side it had a range
of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows
which Catherine had only time to discover looked
into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the way
into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would
find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty
that she would make as little alteration as possible
in her dress.



CHAPTER 21


     A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine
that her apartment was very unlike the one which Henry
had endeavoured to alarm her by the description of.
It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained neither
tapestry nor velvet.  The walls were papered, the floor
was carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more
dim than those of the drawing-room below; the furniture,
though not of the latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable,
and the air of the room altogether far from uncheerful.
Her heart instantaneously at ease on this point, she resolved
to lose no time in particular examination of anything,
as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.
Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste,
and she was preparing to unpin the linen package, which the
chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation,
when her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest,
standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.
The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything
else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder,
while these thoughts crossed her:

     "This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight
as this! An immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why
should it be placed here? Pushed back too, as if meant to
be out of sight! I will look into it--cost me what it may,
I will look into it--and directly too--by daylight.
If I stay till evening my candle may go out."
She advanced and examined it closely: it was of cedar,
curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised,
about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the same.
The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each
end were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver,
broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence;
and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher,
in the same metal.  Catherine bent over it intently,
but without being able to distinguish anything with certainty.
She could not, in whatever direction she took it,
believe the last letter to be a T; and yet that it should
be anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise
no common degree of astonishment.  If not originally theirs,
by what strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney
family?

     Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater;
and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock,
she resolved at all hazards to satisfy herself at least
as to its contents.  With difficulty, for something seemed
to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;
but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the
room made her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid
closed with alarming violence.  This ill-timed intruder
was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of
use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately
dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense of what she
ought to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious
desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing
without further delay.  Her progress was not quick,
for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object
so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though
she dared not waste a moment upon a second attempt,
she could not remain many paces from the chest.
At length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown,
her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience
of her curiosity might safely be indulged.  One moment
surely might be spared; and, so desperate should be
the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured
by supernatural means, the lid in one moment should
be thrown back.  With this spirit she sprang forward,
and her confidence did not deceive her.  Her resolute
effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes
the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded,
reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession!

     She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise
when Miss Tilney, anxious for her friend's being ready,
entered the room, and to the rising shame of having
harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation, was then
added the shame of being caught in so idle a search.
"That is a curious old chest, is not it?" said Miss Tilney,
as Catherine hastily closed it and turned away to the glass.
"It is impossible to say how many generations it has
been here.  How it came to be first put in this room I
know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought
it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets.
The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult
to open.  In that corner, however, it is at least out of
the way."

     Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at
once blushing, tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions
with the most violent dispatch.  Miss Tilney gently hinted
her fear of being late; and in half a minute they ran
downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded,
for General Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch
in his hand, and having, on the very instant of their entering,
pulled the bell with violence, ordered "Dinner to be
on table directly!"

     Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke,
and sat pale and breathless, in a most humble mood,
concerned for his children, and detesting old chests;
and the general, recovering his politeness as he looked
at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter
for so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely
out of breath from haste, when there was not the least
occasion for hurry in the world: but Catherine could not
at all get over the double distress of having involved
her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton herself,
till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when
the general's complacent smiles, and a good appetite
of her own, restored her to peace.  The dining-parlour
was a noble room, suitable in its dimensions to a much
larger drawing-room than the one in common use, and fitted
up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost
on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more
than its spaciousness and the number of their attendants.
Of the former, she spoke aloud her admiration;
and the general, with a very gracious countenance,
acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room,
and further confessed that, though as careless on such
subjects as most people, he did look upon a tolerably
large eating-room as one of the necessaries of life;
he supposed, however, "that she must have been used
to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?"

     "No, indeed," was Catherine's honest assurance;
"Mr. Allen's dining-parlour was not more than half as large,"
and she had never seen so large a room as this in her life.
The general's good humour increased.  Why, as he had
such rooms, he thought it would be simple not to make
use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there
might be more comfort in rooms of only half their size.
Mr. Allen's house, he was sure, must be exactly of the true
size for rational happiness.

     The evening passed without any further disturbance,
and, in the occasional absence of General Tilney, with much
positive cheerfulness.  It was only in his presence that
Catherine felt the smallest fatigue from her journey;
and even then, even in moments of languor or restraint,
a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could
think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being
with them.

     The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at
intervals the whole afternoon; and by the time the party
broke up, it blew and rained violently.  Catherine, as she
crossed the hall, listened to the tempest with sensations
of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of the
ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door,
felt for the first time that she was really in an abbey.
Yes, these were characteristic sounds; they brought to her
recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations
and horrid scenes, which such buildings had witnessed,
and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did
she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending
her entrance within walls so solemn! She had nothing
to dread from midnight assassins or drunken gallants.
Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told
her that morning.  In a house so furnished, and so guarded,
she could have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might
go to her bedroom as securely as if it had been her own
chamber at Fullerton.  Thus wisely fortifying her mind,
as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially on
perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her,
to enter her room with a tolerably stout heart; and her
spirits were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze
of a wood fire.  "How much better is this," said she,
as she walked to the fender--"how much better to find a fire
ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold
till all the family are in bed, as so many poor girls
have been obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old
servant frightening one by coming in with a faggot! How
glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had been
like some other places, I do not know that, in such a night
as this, I could have answered for my courage: but now,
to be sure, there is nothing to alarm one."

     She looked round the room.  The window curtains seemed
in motion.  It could be nothing but the violence of the
wind penetrating through the divisions of the shutters;
and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune,
to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat
to scare her, and on placing a hand against the shutter,
felt the strongest conviction of the wind's force.
A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from
this examination, was not without its use; she scorned
the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a
most happy indifference to prepare herself for bed.
"She should take her time; she should not hurry herself;
she did not care if she were the last person up in the house.
But she would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly,
as if she wished for the protection of light after she
were in bed." The fire therefore died away, and Catherine,
having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements,
was beginning to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving
a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the
appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which,
though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught
her notice before.  Henry's words, his description of the
ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation at first,
immediately rushed across her; and though there could
be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical,
it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She
took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet.
It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan,
black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she
held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect
of gold.  The key was in the door, and she had a strange
fancy to look into it; not, however, with the smallest
expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd,
after what Henry had said.  In short, she could not
sleep till she had examined it.  So, placing the candle
with great caution on a chair, she seized the key with a
very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted
her utmost strength.  Alarmed, but not discouraged,
she tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed
herself successful; but how strangely mysterious!
The door was still immovable.  She paused a moment
in breathless wonder.  The wind roared down the chimney,
the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything
seemed to speak the awfulness of her situation.
To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point,
would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the
consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her
immediate vicinity.  Again, therefore, she applied herself
to the key, and after moving it in every possible way
for some instants with the determined celerity of hope's
last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand: her
heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and having
thrown open each folding door, the second being secured
only by bolts of less wonderful construction than the lock,
though in that her eye could not discern anything unusual,
a double range of small drawers appeared in view,
with some larger drawers above and below them; and in
the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key,
secured in all probability a cavity of importance.

     Catherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did
not fail her.  With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye
straining with curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle
of a drawer and drew it forth.  It was entirely empty.
With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second,
a third, a fourth; each was equally empty.  Not one was
left unsearched, and in not one was anything found.
Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility
of false linings to the drawers did not escape her,
and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain.
The place in the middle alone remained now unexplored;
and though she had "never from the first had the smallest
idea of finding anything in any part of the cabinet,
and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success
thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly
while she was about it." It was some time however before
she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring
in the management of this inner lock as of the outer;
but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto,
was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll
of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity,
apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that
moment were indescribable.  Her heart fluttered,
her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale.  She seized,
with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half
a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters;
and while she acknowledged with awful sensations this
striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold,
resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted
to rest.

     The dimness of the light her candle emitted made
her turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger
of its sudden extinction; it had yet some hours to burn;
and that she might not have any greater difficulty
in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date
might occasion, she hastily snuffed it.  Alas! It was snuffed
and extinguished in one.  A lamp could not have expired
with more awful effect.  Catherine, for a few moments,
was motionless with horror.  It was done completely;
not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope
to the rekindling breath.  Darkness impenetrable and
immovable filled the room.  A violent gust of wind,
rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.
Catherine trembled from head to foot.  In the pause
which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the
closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted ear.
Human nature could support no more.  A cold sweat stood
on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand,
and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in,
and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far
underneath the clothes.  To close her eyes in sleep
that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question.
With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every
way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible.
The storm too abroad so dreadful! She had not been used
to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught
with awful intelligence.  The manuscript so wonderfully found,
so wonderfully accomplishing the morning's prediction,
how was it to be accounted for? What could it contain? To
whom could it relate? By what means could it have been
so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it
should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she had made
herself mistress of its contents, however, she could
have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun's first
rays she was determined to peruse it.  But many were the
tedious hours which must yet intervene.  She shuddered,
tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper.
The storm still raged, and various were the noises,
more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals
on her startled ear.  The very curtains of her bed seemed
at one moment in motion, and at another the lock of her door
was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to enter.
Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than
once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans.
Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine
had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house
before the tempest subsided or she unknowingly fell
fast asleep.



CHAPTER 22


     The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters
at eight o'clock the next day was the sound which
first roused Catherine; and she opened her eyes,
wondering that they could ever have been closed,
on objects of cheerfulness; her fire was already burning,
and a bright morning had succeeded the tempest of the night.
Instantaneously, with the consciousness of existence,
returned her recollection of the manuscript; and springing
from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away,
she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had
burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew
back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow.
She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript
of equal length with the generality of what she had
shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist
entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but
of trifling size, and much less than she had supposed
it to be at first.

     Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page.
She started at its import.  Could it be possible, or did
not her senses play her false? An inventory of linen,
in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before
her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held
a washing-bill in her hand.  She seized another sheet,
and saw the same articles with little variation;
a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new.
Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced
her in each.  Two others, penned by the same hand,
marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting,
in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball.
And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest,
seemed by its first cramp line, "To poultice chestnut
mare"--a farrier's bill! Such was the collection of papers
(left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the negligence
of a servant in the place whence she had taken them)
which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed
her of half her night's rest! She felt humbled to the dust.
Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her
wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as she lay,
seemed to rise up in judgment against her.  Nothing could
now be clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies.
To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back
could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that,
so modern, so habitable!--Or that she should be the first
to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key
of which was open to all!

     How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven
forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly! And
it was in a great measure his own doing, for had not the
cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his description
of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it.  This was the only comfort that occurred.
Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly,
those detestable papers then scattered over the bed,
she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as possible
in the same shape as before, returned them to the same
spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no
untoward accident might ever bring them forward again,
to disgrace her even with herself.

     Why the locks should have been so difficult
to open, however, was still something remarkable,
for she could now manage them with perfect ease.  In this
there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged
in the flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the
possibility of the door's having been at first unlocked,
and of being herself its fastener, darted into her head,
and cost her another blush.

     She got away as soon as she could from a room in
which her conduct produced such unpleasant reflections,
and found her way with all speed to the breakfast-parlour,
as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the
evening before.  Henry was alone in it; and his immediate
hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest,
with an arch reference to the character of the building
they inhabited, was rather distressing.  For the world
would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet,
unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to
acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little.
"But we have a charming morning after it," she added,
desiring to get rid of the subject; "and storms
and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over.
What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love
a hyacinth."

     "And how might you learn? By accident or argument?"

     "Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how.  Mrs. Allen
used to take pains, year after year, to make me like them;
but I never could, till I saw them the other day in
Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers."

     "But now you love a hyacinth.  So much the better.
You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is
well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible.
Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your sex,
as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you
to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take.
And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic,
who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but you may in time
come to love a rose?"

     "But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out
of doors.  The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh
air is enough for me, and in fine weather I am out more
than half my time.  Mamma says I am never within."

     "At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have
learnt to love a hyacinth.  The mere habit of learning
to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition
in a young lady is a great blessing.  Has my sister
a pleasant mode of instruction?"

     Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting
an answer by the entrance of the general, whose smiling
compliments announced a happy state of mind, but whose
gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance
her composure.

     The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself
on Catherine's notice when they were seated at table;
and, lucidly, it had been the general's choice.  He was
enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it
to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage
the manufacture of his country; and for his part, to his
uncritical palate, the tea was as well flavoured from the
clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden or Save.
But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago.
The manufacture was much improved since that time;
he had seen some beautiful specimens when last in town,
and had he not been perfectly without vanity of
that kind, might have been tempted to order a new set.
He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere
long occur of selecting one--though not for himself.
Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did
not understand him.

     Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston,
where business required and would keep him two or three days.
They all attended in the hall to see him mount his horse,
and immediately on re-entering the breakfast-room, Catherine
walked to a window in the hope of catching another glimpse
of his figure.  "This is a somewhat heavy call upon your
brother's fortitude," observed the general to Eleanor.
"Woodston will make but a sombre appearance today."

     "Is it a pretty place?" asked Catherine.

     "What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion,
for ladies can best tell the taste of ladies in regard
to places as well as men.  I think it would be acknowledged
by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations.
The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east,
with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect;
the walls surrounding which I built and stocked myself
about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son.  It is
a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the
place being chiefly my own, you may believe I take care
that it shall not be a bad one.  Did Henry's income depend
solely on this living, he would not be ill-provided for.
Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger children,
I should think any profession necessary for him;
and certainly there are moments when we could all wish him
disengaged from every tie of business.  But though I may
not exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure
your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in thinking
it expedient to give every young man some employment.
The money is nothing, it is not an object, but employment
is the thing.  Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see,
who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property
as any private man in the county, has his profession."

     The imposing effect of this last argument was
equal to his wishes.  The silence of the lady proved
it to be unanswerable.

     Something had been said the evening before of her
being shown over the house, and he now offered himself
as her conductor; and though Catherine had hoped to explore
it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a proposal
of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances,
not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already
eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of
its rooms.  The netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth,
was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to
attend him in a moment.  "And when they had gone over
the house, he promised himself moreover the pleasure
of accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden."
She curtsied her acquiescence.  "But perhaps it might be
more agreeable to her to make those her first object.
The weather was at present favourable, and at this time
of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so.
Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service.
Which did his daughter think would most accord with her
fair friend's wishes? But he thought he could discern.
Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious
desire of making use of the present smiling weather.
But when did she judge amiss? The abbey would be always
safe and dry.  He yielded implicitly, and would fetch
his hat and attend them in a moment." He left the room,
and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face,
began to speak of her unwillingness that he should be
taking them out of doors against his own inclination,
under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped
by Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion, "I believe
it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so fine;
and do not be uneasy on my father's account; he always walks
out at this time of day."

     Catherine did not exactly know how this was
to be understood.  Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed?
Could there be any unwillingness on the general's side
to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own.
And was not it odd that he should always take his walk
so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so.
It was certainly very provoking.  She was all impatience
to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about
the grounds.  If Henry had been with them indeed! But now
she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it.
Such were her thoughts, but she kept them to herself,
and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.

     She was struck, however, beyond her expectation,
by the grandeur of the abbey, as she saw it for the first time
from the lawn.  The whole building enclosed a large court;
and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic ornaments,
stood forward for admiration.  The remainder was shut
off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations,
and the steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter,
were beautiful even in the leafless month of March.
Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it; and her
feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting
for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder
and praise.  The general listened with assenting gratitude;
and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had
waited unfixed till that hour.

     The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he
led the way to it across a small portion of the park.

     The number of acres contained in this garden was
such as Catherine could not listen to without dismay,
being more than double the extent of all Mr. Allen's,
as well her father's, including church-yard and orchard.
The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length;
a village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them,
and a whole parish to be at work within the enclosure.
The general was flattered by her looks of surprise,
which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her
to tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens
at all equal to them before; and he then modestly owned that,
"without any ambition of that sort himself--without any
solicitude about it--he did believe them to be unrivalled
in the kingdom.  If he had a hobby-horse, it was that.
He loved a garden.  Though careless enough in most
matters of eating, he loved good fruit--or if he did not,
his friends and children did.  There were great vexations,
however, attending such a garden as his.  The utmost
care could not always secure the most valuable fruits.
The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last year.
Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well
as himself."

     "No, not at all.  Mr. Allen did not care about
the garden, and never went into it."

     With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction,
the general wished he could do the same, for he never
entered his, without being vexed in some way or other,
by its falling short of his plan.

     "How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?"
describing the nature of his own as they entered them.

     "Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which
Mrs. Allen had the use of for her plants in winter,
and there was a fire in it now and then."

     "He is a happy man!" said the general, with a look
of very happy contempt.

     Having taken her into every division, and led her
under every wall, till she was heartily weary of seeing
and wondering, he suffered the girls at last to seize
the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing his
wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations
about the tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant
extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not tired.
"But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you choose
that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet.
Our best way is across the park."

     "This is so favourite a walk of mine," said Miss Tilney,
"that I always think it the best and nearest way.
But perhaps it may be damp."

     It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old
Scotch firs; and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect,
and eager to enter it, could not, even by the general's
disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward.  He perceived
her inclination, and having again urged the plea of health
in vain, was too polite to make further opposition.
He excused himself, however, from attending them: "The
rays of the sun were not too cheerful for him, and he
would meet them by another course." He turned away;
and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits
were relieved by the separation.  The shock, however,
being less real than the relief, offered it no injury;
and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful
melancholy which such a grove inspired.

     "I am particularly fond of this spot," said her companion,
with a sigh.  "It was my mother's favourite walk."

     Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in
the family before, and the interest excited by this tender
remembrance showed itself directly in her altered countenance,
and in the attentive pause with which she waited for something more.

     "I used to walk here so often with her!" added Eleanor;
"though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since.
At that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice.
But her memory endears it now."

     "And ought it not," reflected Catherine, "to endear
it to her husband? Yet the general would not enter it."
Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured to say,
"Her death must have been a great affliction!"

     "A great and increasing one," replied the other,
in a low voice.  "I was only thirteen when it happened;
and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one
so young could feel it, I did not, I could not,
then know what a loss it was." She stopped for a moment,
and then added, with great firmness, "I have no sister,
you know--and though Henry--though my brothers are
very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here,
which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me
not to be often solitary."

     "To be sure you must miss him very much."

     "A mother would have been always present.  A mother
would have been a constant friend; her influence would
have been beyond all other."

     "Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome?
Was there any picture of her in the abbey? And why had
she been so partial to that grove? Was it from dejection
of spirits?"--were questions now eagerly poured forth;
the first three received a ready affirmative, the two
others were passed by; and Catherine's interest in the
deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with every question,
whether answered or not.  Of her unhappiness in marriage,
she felt persuaded.  The general certainly had been
an unkind husband.  He did not love her walk: could he
therefore have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was,
there was a something in the turn of his features which
spoke his not having behaved well to her.

     "Her picture, I suppose," blushing at the consummate
art of her own question, "hangs in your father's room?"

     "No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father
was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it
had no place.  Soon after her death I obtained it for my own,
and hung it in my bed-chamber--where I shall be happy
to show it you; it is very like." Here was another proof.
A portrait--very like--of a departed wife, not valued
by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!

     Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the
nature of the feelings which, in spite of all his attentions,
he had previously excited; and what had been terror and
dislike before, was now absolute aversion.  Yes, aversion! His
cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious to her.
She had often read of such characters, characters which
Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn;
but here was proof positive of the contrary.

     She had just settled this point when the end
of the path brought them directly upon the general;
and in spite of all her virtuous indignation, she found
herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him,
and even to smile when he smiled.  Being no longer able,
however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects,
she soon began to walk with lassitude; the general perceived it,
and with a concern for her health, which seemed to reproach
her for her opinion of him, was most urgent for returning
with his daughter to the house.  He would follow them
in a quarter of an hour.  Again they parted--but Eleanor
was called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge
against taking her friend round the abbey till his return.
This second instance of his anxiety to delay what she
so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.



CHAPTER 23


     An hour passed away before the general
came in, spent, on the part of his young guest,
in no very favourable consideration of his character.
"This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not
speak a mind at ease, or a conscience void of reproach."
At length he appeared; and, whatever might have been the
gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them.
Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend's
curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject;
and her father being, contrary to Catherine's expectations,
unprovided with any pretence for further delay,
beyond that of stopping five minutes to order refreshments
to be in the room by their return, was at last ready
to escort them.

     They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air,
a dignified step, which caught the eye, but could not
shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine, he led
the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room
and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent
both in size and furniture--the real drawing-room, used
only with company of consequence.  It was very noble--very
grand--very charming!--was all that Catherine had to say,
for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned the colour
of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise
that had much meaning, was supplied by the general:
the costliness or elegance of any room's fitting-up
could be nothing to her; she cared for no furniture
of a more modern date than the fifteenth century.
When the general had satisfied his own curiosity,
in a close examination of every well-known ornament,
they proceeded into the library, an apartment, in its way,
of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books,
on which an humble man might have looked with pride.
Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine
feeling than before--gathered all that she could from
this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles
of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed.  But suites
of apartments did not spring up with her wishes.
Large as was the building, she had already visited
the greatest part; though, on being told that,
with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms
she had now seen surrounded three sides of the court,
she could scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion
of there being many chambers secreted.  It was some relief,
however, that they were to return to the rooms in
common use, by passing through a few of less importance,
looking into the court, which, with occasional passages,
not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides;
and she was further soothed in her progress by being told
that she was treading what had once been a cloister,
having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several
doors that were neither opened nor explained to her--by
finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in
the general's private apartment, without comprehending
their connection, or being able to turn aright when she
left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room,
owning Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter
of books, guns, and greatcoats.

     From the dining-room, of which, though already seen,
and always to be seen at five o'clock, the general
could not forgo the pleasure of pacing out the length,
for the more certain information of Miss Morland,
as to what she neither doubted nor cared for,
they proceeded by quick communication to the kitchen--
the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls
and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot
closets of the present.  The general's improving hand had
not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate
the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this,
their spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others
had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted.
His endowments of this spot alone might at any time
have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.

     With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity
of the abbey; the fourth side of the quadrangle having,
on account of its decaying state, been removed by the
general's father, and the present erected in its place.
All that was venerable ceased here.  The new building was
not only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only
for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no
uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary.
Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept
away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest,
for the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would
willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk
through scenes so fallen, had the general allowed it;
but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of
his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like
Miss Morland's, a view of the accommodations and comforts,
by which the labours of her inferiors were softened,
must always be gratifying, he should make no apology
for leading her on.  They took a slight survey of all;
and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation,
by their multiplicity and their convenience.  The purposes
for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless
scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here
carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy.
The number of servants continually appearing did not
strike her less than the number of their offices.
Wherever they went, some pattened girl stopped to curtsy,
or some footman in dishabille sneaked off.  Yet this was
an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic
arrangements from such as she had read about--from
abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly larger
than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was
to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost.
How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen;
and, when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she began
to be amazed herself.

     They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase
might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments
of rich carving might be pointed out: having gained
the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the
gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one
on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth.
She was here shown successively into three large
bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely
and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste
could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments,
had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within
the last five years, they were perfect in all that would
be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give
pleasure to Catherine.  As they were surveying the last,
the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished
characters by whom they had at times been honoured,
turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine,
and ventured to hope that henceforward some of their
earliest tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton."
She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted
the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed
towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family.

     The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss
Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through,
and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first
door to the left, in another long reach of gallery,
when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,
as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether
she were going?--And what was there more to be seen?--Had
not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth
her notice?--And did she not suppose her friend might be
glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss
Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were
closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen,
in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage,
more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase,
believed herself at last within the reach of something
worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back
the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine
that end of the house than see all the finery of all
the rest.  The general's evident desire of preventing
such an examination was an additional stimulant.
Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy,
though it had trespassed lately once or twice,
could not mislead her here; and what that something was,
a short sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they followed
the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point
out: "I was going to take you into what was my mother's
room--the room in which she died--" were all her words;
but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence
to Catherine.  It was no wonder that the general should
shrink from the sight of such objects as that room
must contain; a room in all probability never entered
by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released
his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.

     She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor,
to express her wish of being permitted to see it,
as well as all the rest of that side of the house;
and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they
should have a convenient hour.  Catherine understood her:
the general must be watched from home, before that room
could be entered.  "It remains as it was, I suppose?"
said she, in a tone of feeling.

     "Yes, entirely."

     "And how long ago may it be that your mother died?"

     "She has been dead these nine years." And nine years,
Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what
generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife,
before her room was put to rights.

     "You were with her, I suppose, to the last?"

     "No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I was unfortunately
from home.  Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I
arrived it was all over."

     Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid
suggestions which naturally sprang from these words.
Could it be possible? Could Henry's father--? And yet
how many were the examples to justify even the blackest
suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening,
while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the
drawing-room for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness,
with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure
from all possibility of wronging him.  It was the air
and attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak
the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every
sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes
of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits
directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly,
as to catch Miss Tilney's notice.  "My father,"
she whispered, "often walks about the room in this way;
it is nothing unusual."

     "So much the worse!" thought Catherine; such ill-timed
exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness
of his morning walks, and boded nothing good.

     After an evening, the little variety and seeming
length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's
importance among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed;
though it was a look from the general not designed for
her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.
When the butler would have lit his master's candle, however,
he was forbidden.  The latter was not going to retire.
"I have many pamphlets to finish," said he to Catherine,
"before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be poring over
the affairs of the nation for hours after you are asleep.
Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will
be blinding for the good of others, and yours preparing
by rest for future mischief."

     But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent
compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some
very different object must occasion so serious a delay
of proper repose.  To be kept up for hours, after the family
were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely.
There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done
which could be done only while the household slept;
and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up
for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless
hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food,
was the conclusion which necessarily followed.
Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than
a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course
of things, she must ere long be released.  The suddenness
of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter,
and probably of her other children, at the time--all favoured
the supposition of her imprisonment.  Its origin--jealousy
perhaps, or wanton cruelty--was yet to be unravelled.

     In revolving these matters, while she undressed,
it suddenly struck her as not unlikely that she might
that morning have passed near the very spot of this
unfortunate woman's confinement--might have been within a few
paces of the cell in which she languished out her days;
for what part of the abbey could be more fitted for the
purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic
division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone,
which already she had trodden with peculiar awe,
she well remembered the doors of which the general
had given no account.  To what might not those doors
lead? In support of the plausibility of this conjecture,
it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery,
in which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney,
must be, as certainly as her memory could guide her,
exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the staircase
by the side of those apartments of which she had caught
a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means
with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous
proceedings of her husband.  Down that staircase she
had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared
insensibility!

     Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her
own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had
gone too far; but they were supported by such appearances
as made their dismissal impossible.

     The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed
the guilty scene to be acting, being, according to
her belief, just opposite her own, it struck her that,
if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the
general's lamp might glimmer through the lower windows,
as he passed to the prison of his wife; and, twice before
she stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room to the
corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared;
but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early.
The various ascending noises convinced her that the
servants must still be up.  Till midnight, she supposed
it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock
had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not
quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more.
The clock struck twelve--and Catherine had been half
an hour asleep.



CHAPTER 24


     The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed
examination of the mysterious apartments.  It was Sunday,
and the whole time between morning and afternoon service
was required by the general in exercise abroad or eating
cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity,
her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them
after dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between
six and seven o'clock, or by the yet more partial though
stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp.  The day was
unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination
beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory
of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew.
By that her eye was instantly caught and long retained;
and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which every
virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband,
who must have been in some way or other her destroyer,
affected her even to tears.

     That the general, having erected such a monument,
should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange,
and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its view,
maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around,
nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful
to Catherine.  Not, however, that many instances of beings
equally hardened in guilt might not be produced.  She could
remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice,
going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever
they chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse;
till a violent death or a religious retirement closed
their black career.  The erection of the monument itself
could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of
Mrs. Tilney's actual decease.  Were she even to descend into
the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber,
were she to behold the coffin in which they were said
to be enclosed--what could it avail in such a case?
Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly aware
of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced,
and a supposititious funeral carried on.

     The succeeding morning promised something better.
The general's early walk, ill-timed as it was in every
other view, was favourable here; and when she knew
him to be out of the house, she directly proposed
to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise.
Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and Catherine reminding
her as they went of another promise, their first visit
in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It
represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive
countenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its
new observer; but they were not in every respect answered,
for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features,
hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,
the very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the only
portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking,
bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child.
A face once taken was taken for generations.  But here she
was obliged to look and consider and study for a likeness.
She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,
with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest,
would have left it unwillingly.

     Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too
much for any endeavour at discourse; she could only look
at her companion.  Eleanor's countenance was dejected,
yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured to all the
gloomy objects to which they were advancing.  Again she
passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon
the important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe,
was turning to close the former with fearful caution,
when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himself
at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The
name of "Eleanor" at the same moment, in his loudest tone,
resounded through the building, giving to his daughter
the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine
terror upon terror.  An attempt at concealment had been
her first instinctive movement on perceiving him,
yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye;
and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted
hastily by her, had joined and disappeared with him,
she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself in,
believed that she should never have courage to go
down again.  She remained there at least an hour,
in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state
of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from
the angry general to attend him in his own apartment.
No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing
a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened
to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors.
The breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was named
to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in a
complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire,
as to make her feel secure at least of life for the present.
And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did
honour to her concern for his character, taking an early
occasion of saying to her, "My father only wanted me
to answer a note," she began to hope that she had either
been unseen by the general, or that from some consideration
of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so.
Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence,
after the company left them, and nothing occurred to
disturb it.

     In the course of this morning's reflections,
she came to a resolution of making her next attempt on
the forbidden door alone.  It would be much better in every
respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.
To involve her in the danger of a second detection,
to court her into an apartment which must wring her heart,
could not be the office of a friend.  The general's
utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to
a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself
would be more satisfactory if made without any companion.
It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions,
from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto
happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in her presence,
search for those proofs of the general's cruelty,
which however they might yet have escaped discovery,
she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape
of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp.
Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress;
and as she wished to get it over before Henry's return,
who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost,
The day was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock,
the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it
would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier
than usual.

     It was done; and Catherine found herself alone
in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike.
It was no time for thought; she hurried on, slipped with
the least possible noise through the folding doors,
and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward
to the one in question.  The lock yielded to her hand,
and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm
a human being.  On tiptoe she entered; the room was
before her; but it was some minutes before she could
advance another step.  She beheld what fixed her to
the spot and agitated every feature.  She saw a large,
well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed,
arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright
Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs,
on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured
through two sash windows! Catherine had expected
to have her feelings worked, and worked they were.
Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortly
succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions
of shame.  She could not be mistaken as to the room;
but how grossly mistaken in everything else!--in Miss
Tilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment,
to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful,
proved to be one end of what the general's father had built.
There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably
into dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to
open either.  Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had
last walked, or the volume in which she had last read,
remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper?
No: whatever might have been the general's crimes, he had
certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection.
She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in
her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly;
and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she
had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly
tell where, made her pause and tremble.  To be found there,
even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the general
(and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much
worse! She listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving not
to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.
At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened;
someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs,
by the head of which she had yet to pass before she
could gain the gallery.  She bad no power to move.
With a feeling of terror not very definable, she fixed
her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave
Henry to her view.  "Mr. Tilney!" she exclaimed in a voice
of more than common astonishment.  He looked astonished too.
"Good God!" she continued, not attending to his address.
"How came you here? How came you up that staircase?"

     "How came I up that staircase!" he replied,
greatly surprised.  "Because it is my nearest way from the
stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?"

     Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could
say no more.  He seemed to be looking in her countenance
for that explanation which her lips did not afford.
She moved on towards the gallery.  "And may I not, in my turn,"
said he, as be pushed back the folding doors, "ask how you
came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary
a road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment,
as that staircase can be from the stables to mine."

     "I have been," said Catherine, looking down,
"to see your mother's room."

     "My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary
to be seen there?"

     "No, nothing at all.  I thought you did not mean
to come back till tomorrow."

     "I did not expect to be able to return sooner,
when I went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure
of finding nothing to detain me.  You look pale.  I am
afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.
Perhaps you did not know--you were not aware of their leading
from the offices in common use?"

     "No, I was not.  You have had a very fine day
for your ride."

     "Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way
into an the rooms in the house by yourself?"

     "Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on
Saturday--and we were coming here to these rooms--but
only"--dropping her voice--"your father was with us."

     "And that prevented you," said Henry, earnestly
regarding her.  "Have you looked into all the rooms in
that passage?"

     "No, I only wanted to see-- Is not it very late? I
must go and dress."

     "It is only a quarter past four" showing his
watch--"and you are not now in Bath.  No theatre, no rooms
to prepare for.  Half an hour at Northanger must be enough."

     She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered
herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions
made her, for the first time in their acquaintance,
wish to leave him.  They walked slowly up the gallery.
"Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?"

     "No, and I am very much surprised.  Isabella promised
so faithfully to write directly."

     "Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That
puzzles me.  I have heard of a faithful performance.
But a faithful promise--the fidelity of promising! It
is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can
deceive and pain you.  My mother's room is very commodious,
is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the
dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me
as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I
rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own.
She sent you to look at it, I suppose?"

     "No."

     "It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine said
nothing.  After a short silence, during which he had closely
observed her, he added, "As there is nothing in the room
in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded
from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character,
as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory.
The world, I believe, never saw a better woman.
But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such
as this.  The domestic, unpretending merits of a person
never known do not often create that kind of fervent,
venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit
like yours.  Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?"

     "Yes, a great deal.  That is--no, not much,
but what she did say was very interesting.  Her dying
so suddenly" (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken),
"and you--none of you being at home--and your father,
I thought--perhaps had not been very fond of her."

     "And from these circumstances," he replied (his quick
eye fixed on hers), "you infer perhaps the probability
of some negligence--some"--(involuntarily she shook her
head)--"or it may be--of something still less pardonable."
She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had
ever done before.  "My mother's illness," he continued,
"the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden.
The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered,
a bilious fever--its cause therefore constitutional.
On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be
prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man,
and one in whom she had always placed great confidence.
Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called
in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance
for four and twenty hours.  On the fifth day she died.
During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we
were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own
observation can bear witness to her having received
every possible attention which could spring from the
affection of those about her, or which her situation
in life could command.  Poor Eleanor was absent, and at
such a distance as to return only to see her mother in
her coffin."

     "But your father," said Catherine, "was he afflicted?"

     "For a time, greatly so.  You have erred in supposing
him not attached to her.  He loved her, I am persuaded,
as well as it was possible for him to--we have not all,
you know, the same tenderness of disposition--and
I will not pretend to say that while she lived,
she might not often have had much to bear, but though
his temper injured her, his judgment never did.
His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently,
he was truly afflicted by her death."

     "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would
have been very shocking!"

     "If I understand you rightly, you had formed a
surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to-- Dear
Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions
you have entertained.  What have you been judging from?
Remember the country and the age in which we live.
Remember that we are English, that we are Christians.
Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable,
your own observation of what is passing around you.
Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do
our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated
without being known, in a country like this, where social
and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every
man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies,
and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest
Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"

     They had reached the end of the gallery, and with
tears of shame she ran off to her own room.



CHAPTER 25


     The visions of romance were over.  Catherine was
completely awakened.  Henry's address, short as it had been,
had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her
late fancies than all their several disappointments had done.
Most grievously was she humbled.  Most bitterly did she cry.
It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but
with Henry.  Her folly, which now seemed even criminal,
was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever.
The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with
the character of his father--could he ever forgive it? The
absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they ever
be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.
He had--she thought he had, once or twice before this
fatal morning, shown something like affection for her.
But now--in short, she made herself as miserable as
possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock
struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give
an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room,
and the only difference in his behaviour to her was
that he paid her rather more attention than usual.
Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked
as if he was aware of it.

     The evening wore away with no abatement of this
soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised
to a modest tranquillity.  She did not learn either
to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope
that it would never transpire farther, and that it might
not cost her Henry's entire regard.  Her thoughts being
still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless
terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than
that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,
each trifling circumstance receiving importance from
an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced
to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she
entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened.
She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger.  She saw that the infatuation
had been created, the mischief settled, long before her
quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced
to the influence of that sort of reading which she had
there indulged.

     Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works,
and charming even as were the works of all her imitators,
it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least
in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for.
Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and
their vices, they might give a faithful delineation;
and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be
as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented.
Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern
and western extremities.  But in the central part of
England there was surely some security for the existence
even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land,
and the manners of the age.  Murder was not tolerated,
servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping
potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist.
Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no
mixed characters.  There, such as were not as spotless
as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend.
But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed,
in their hearts and habits, there was a general though
unequal mixture of good and bad.  Upon this conviction,
she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear;
and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge
some actual specks in the character of their father, who,
though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which
she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe,
upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.

     Her mind made up on these several points,
and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting
in future with the greatest good sense, she had nothing
to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever;
and the lenient hand of time did much for her by
insensible gradations in the course of another day.
Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct,
in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than
she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of
her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable,
and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by
anything he said.  There were still some subjects, indeed,
under which she believed they must always tremble--the
mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did
not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she
could allow that an occasional memento of past folly,
however painful, might not be without use.

     The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to
the alarms of romance.  Her desire of hearing from Isabella
grew every day greater.  She was quite impatient to know
how the Bath world went on, and how the rooms were attended;
and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella's
having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she
had left her intent; and of her continuing on the best
terms with James.  Her only dependence for information
of any kind was on Isabella.  James had protested against
writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen
had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back
to Fullerton.  But Isabella had promised and promised again;
and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous
in performing it! This made it so particularly strange!

     For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered
over the repetition of a disappointment, which each
morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she
entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter,
held out by Henry's willing hand.  She thanked him
as heartily as if he had written it himself.  "'Tis only
from James, however," as she looked at the direction.
She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:

     "Dear Catherine,

          "Though, God knows, with little inclination
     for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that
     everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me.
     I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either
     again.  I shall not enter into particulars--they
     would only pain you more.  You will soon hear enough
     from another quarter to know where lies the blame;
     and I hope will acquit your brother of everything
     but the folly of too easily thinking his affection
     returned.  Thank God! I am undeceived in time!  But
     it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had
     been so kindly given--but no more of this.  She has
     made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from
     you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your
     love I do build upon.  I wish your visit at Northanger
     may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement
     known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced.
     Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;
     his honest heart would feel so much.  I have written
     to him and my father.  Her duplicity hurts me more
     than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with
     her, she declared herself as much attached to me as
     ever, and laughed at my fears.  I am ashamed to
     think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had
     reason to believe himself loved, I was that man.
     I cannot understand even now what she would be at,
     for there could be no need of my being played off
     to make her secure of Tilney.  We parted at last by
     mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I
     can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest
     Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
                             "Believe me," &c.


     Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden
change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing
wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news;
and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter,
saw plainly that it ended no better than it began.
He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise
by his father's entrance.  They went to breakfast directly;
but Catherine could hardly eat anything.  Tears filled
her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat.
The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap,
and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew
not what she did.  The general, between his cocoa and
his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her;
but to the other two her distress was equally visible.
As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away
to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it,
and she was obliged to come down again.  She turned
into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor
had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment
deep in consultation about her.  She drew back,
trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence,
forced to return; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor had
affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort
to her.

     After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and
reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends;
but whether she should make her distress known to them was
another consideration.  Perhaps, if particularly questioned,
she might just give an idea--just distantly hint at
it--but not more.  To expose a friend, such a friend
as Isabella had been to her--and then their own brother
so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive
the subject altogether.  Henry and Eleanor were by themselves
in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
looked at her anxiously.  Catherine took her place at
the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad
news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your
brothers and sisters--I hope they are none of them ill?"

     "No, I thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "they are
all very well.  My letter was from my brother at Oxford."

     Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then
speaking through her tears, she added, "I do not think
I shall ever wish for a letter again!"

     "I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had
just opened; "if I had suspected the letter of containing
anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings."

     "It contained something worse than anybody could
suppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know why."

     "To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,"
replied Henry warmly, "must be a comfort to him under
any distress."

     "I have one favour to beg," said Catherine,
shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, "that, if
your brother should be coming here, you will give
me notice of it, that I may go away."

     "Our brother! Frederick!"

     "Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you
so soon, but something has happened that would make it very
dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney."

     Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with
increasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth,
and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included,
passed his lips.

     "How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you have
guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about
it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so.
Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella
has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could
you have believed there had been such inconstancy
and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?"

     "I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed.
I hope he has not had any material share in bringing on
Mr. Morland's disappointment.  His marrying Miss Thorpe
is not probable.  I think you must be deceived so far.
I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that anyone you
love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater
at Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."

     "It is very true, however; you shall read
James's letter yourself.  Stay-- There is one part--"
recollecting with a blush the last line.

     "Will you take the trouble of reading to us
the passages which concern my brother?"

     "No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second
thoughts were clearer.  "I do not know what I was
thinking of" (blushing again that she had blushed before);
"James only means to give me good advice."

     He gladly received the letter, and, having read
it through, with close attention, returned it saying,
"Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry
for it.  Frederick will not be the first man who has
chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected.
I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son."

     Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read
the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her
concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe's
connections and fortune.

     "Her mother is a very good sort of woman,"
was Catherine's answer.

     "What was her father?"

     "A lawyer, I believe.  They live at Putney."

     "Are they a wealthy family?"

     "No, not very.  I do not believe Isabella has any
fortune at all: but that will not signify in your family.
Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day
that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the
happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked
at each other.  "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause,
"would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him
to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one,
or she could not have used your brother so.  And how
strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who,
before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily
entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable,
Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly!
Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



CHAPTER 26


     From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed
by the three young people; and Catherine found,
with some surprise, that her two young friends were
perfectly agreed in considering Isabella's want
of consequence and fortune as likely to throw great
difficulties in the way of her marrying their brother.
Their persuasion that the general would, upon this
ground alone, independent of the objection that might
be raised against her character, oppose the connection,
turned her feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself.
She was as insignificant, and perhaps as portionless,
as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney property had
not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point
of interest were the demands of his younger brother to
rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought
led could only be dispersed by a dependence on the effect
of that particular partiality, which, as she was given
to understand by his words as well as his actions,
she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite
in the general; and by a recollection of some most generous
and disinterested sentiments on the subject of money,
which she had more than once heard him utter, and which
tempted her to think his disposition in such matters
misunderstood by his children.

     They were so fully convinced, however, that their
brother would not have the courage to apply in person
for his father's consent, and so repeatedly assured her
that he had never in his life been less likely to come
to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered
her mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden
removal of her own.  But as it was not to be supposed
that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his application,
would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,
it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should
lay the whole business before him as it really was,
enabling the general by that means to form a cool
and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections
on a fairer ground than inequality of situations.
She proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not
catch at the measure so eagerly as she had expected.
"No," said he, "my father's hands need not be strengthened,
and Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled.
He must tell his own story."

     "But he will tell only half of it."

     "A quarter would be enough."

     A day or two passed away and brought no tidings
of Captain Tilney.  His brother and sister knew not what
to think.  Sometimes it appeared to them as if his silence
would be the natural result of the suspected engagement,
and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.
The general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by
Frederick's remissness in writing, was free from any real
anxiety about him, and had no more pressing solicitude
than that of making Miss Morland's time at Northanger
pass pleasantly.  He often expressed his uneasiness on
this head, feared the sameness of every day's society
and employments would disgust her with the place,
wished the Lady Frasers had been in the country,
talked every now and then of having a large party
to dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate
the number of young dancing people in the neighbourhood.
But then it was such a dead time of year, no wild-fowl,
no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country.
And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning
that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him
by surprise there some day or other, and eat their mutton
with him.  Henry was greatly honoured and very happy,
and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme.
"And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this
pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the
parish meeting, and shall probably be obliged to stay two
or three days."

     "Well, well, we will take our chance some one
of those days.  There is no need to fix.  You are not
to put yourself at all out of your way.  Whatever you
may happen to have in the house will be enough.
I think I can answer for the young ladies making allowance
for a bachelor's table.  Let me see; Monday will be
a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday;
and Tuesday will be a busy one with me.  I expect my
surveyor from Brockham with his report in the morning;
and afterwards I cannot in decency fail attending the club.
I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed
away now; for, as I am known to be in the country,
it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule
with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of
my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention
can prevent it.  They are a set of very worthy men.
They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year;
and I dine with them whenever I can.  Tuesday, therefore,
we may say is out of the question.  But on Wednesday,
I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with
you early, that we may have time to look about us.
Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston,
I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a
quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for us."

     A ball itself could not have been more welcome
to Catherine than this little excursion, so strong
was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston;
and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry,
about an hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into
the room where she and Eleanor were sitting, and said,
"I am come, young ladies, in a very moralizing strain,
to observe that our pleasures in this world are always
to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a
great disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness
for a draft on the future, that may not be honoured.
Witness myself, at this present hour.  Because I am
to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston
on Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes,
may prevent, I must go away directly, two days before I
intended it."

     "Go away!" said Catherine, with a very long face.
"And why?"

     "Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time
is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper out of
her wits, because I must go and prepare a dinner for you,
to be sure."

     "Oh! Not seriously!"

     "Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay."

     "But how can you think of such a thing, after what
the general said? When he so particularly desired you
not to give yourself any trouble, because anything would do."

     Henry only smiled.  "I am sure it is quite
unnecessary upon your sister's account and mine.
You must know it to be so; and the general made such a
point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides,
if he had not said half so much as he did, he has
always such an excellent dinner at home, that sitting
down to a middling one for one day could not signify."

     "I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own.
Good-bye. As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return."

     He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler
operation to Catherine to doubt her own judgment than
Henry's, she was very soon obliged to give him credit
for being right, however disagreeable to her his going.
But the inexplicability of the general's conduct dwelt
much on her thoughts.  That he was very particular in
his eating, she had, by her own unassisted observation,
already discovered; but why he should say one thing
so positively, and mean another all the while,
was most unaccountable! How were people, at that rate,
to be understood? Who but Henry could have been aware
of what his father was at?

     From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now
to be without Henry.  This was the sad finale of every
reflection: and Captain Tilney's letter would certainly come
in his absence; and Wednesday she was very sure would be wet.
The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.
Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great;
and Eleanor's spirits always affected by Henry's absence!
What was there to interest or amuse her? She was tired of
the woods and the shrubberies--always so smooth and so dry;
and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than any
other house.  The painful remembrance of the folly it
had helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion
which could spring from a consideration of the building.
What a revolution in her ideas! She, who had so longed
to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming
to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a
well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton,
but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably
had none.  If Wednesday should ever come!

     It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably
looked for.  It came--it was fine--and Catherine trod
on air.  By ten o'clock, the chaise and four conveyed
the two from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive
of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large
and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant.
Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it,
as the general seemed to think an apology necessary for
the flatness of the country, and the size of the village;
but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever
been at, and looked with great admiration at every neat
house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the little
chandler's shops which they passed.  At the further end
of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it,
stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house,
with its semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they
drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude,
a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers,
was ready to receive and make much of them.

     Catherine's mind was too full, as she entered
the house, for her either to observe or to say a
great deal; and, till called on by the general for her
opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room
in which she was sitting.  Upon looking round it then,
she perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable
room in the world; but she was too guarded to say so,
and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.

     "We are not calling it a good house," said he.
"We are not comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger--we
are considering it as a mere parsonage, small and confined,
we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and altogether
not inferior to the generality; or, in other words,
I believe there are few country parsonages in England half
so good.  It may admit of improvement, however.  Far be
it from me to say otherwise; and anything in reason--a
bow thrown out, perhaps--though, between ourselves,
if there is one thing more than another my aversion,
it is a patched-on bow."

     Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand
or be pained by it; and other subjects being studiously
brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same time that
a tray full of refreshments was introduced by his servant,
the general was shortly restored to his complacency,
and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.

     The room in question was of a commodious,
well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as
a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk round
the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,
belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made
unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what
was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of which,
though unfurnished, Catherine was delighted enough even
to satisfy the general.  It was a prettily shaped room,
the windows reaching to the ground, and the view
from them pleasant, though only over green meadows;
and she expressed her admiration at the moment with
all the honest simplicity with which she felt it.
"Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What
a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest
room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!"

     "I trust," said the general, with a most satisfied smile,
"that it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for
a lady's taste!"

     "Well, if it was my house, I should never sit
anywhere else.  Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is
among the trees--apple trees, too! It is the prettiest cottage!"

     "You like it--you approve it as an object--it is enough.
Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it.
The cottage remains."

     Such a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness,
and silenced her directly; and, though pointedly applied
to by the general for her choice of the prevailing colour
of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion
on the subject could be drawn from her.  The influence
of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great
use in dissipating these embarrassing associations;
and, having reached the ornamental part of the premises,
consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on which
Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago,
she was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any
pleasure-ground she had ever been in before, though there
was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench in the corner.

     A saunter into other meadows, and through part
of the village, with a visit to the stables to examine
some improvements, and a charming game of play with a
litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them
to four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could
be three.  At four they were to dine, and at six to set
off on their return.  Never had any day passed so quickly!

     She could not but observe that the abundance of the
dinner did not seem to create the smallest astonishment
in the general; nay, that he was even looking at the
side-table for cold meat which was not there.  His son
and daughter's observations were of a different kind.
They had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table
but his own, and never before known him so little
disconcerted by the melted butter's being oiled.

     At six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee,
the carriage again received them; and so gratifying had been
the tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well
assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations,
that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes
of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with
little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.



CHAPTER 27


     The next morning brought the following very unexpected
letter from Isabella:

                                         Bath, April

          My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind
     letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand
     apologies to make for not answering them sooner.
     I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in
     this horrid place one can find time for nothing.
     I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to
     you almost every day since you left Bath, but have
     always been prevented by some silly trifler or other.
     Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home.
     Thank God, we leave this vile place tomorrow.  Since
     you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the
     dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares
     for is gone.  I believe if I could see you I should
     not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than
     anybody can conceive.  I am quite uneasy about your
     dear brother, not having heard from him since he
     went to Oxford; and am fearful of some
     misunderstanding.  Your kind offices will set all
     right: he is the only man I ever did or could love,
     and I trust you will convince him of it.  The spring
     fashions are partly down; and the hats the most
     frightful you can imagine.  I hope you spend your
     time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of
     me.  I will not say all that I could of the family
     you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or
     set you against those you esteem; but it is very
     difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never
     know their minds two days together.  I rejoice to
     say that the young man whom, of all others, I
     particularly abhor, has left Bath.  You will know,
     from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney,
     who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to
     follow and tease me, before you went away.  Afterwards
     he got worse, and became quite my shadow.  Many
     girls might have been taken in, for never were such
     attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well.  He
     went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust
     I shall never be plagued with him again.  He is the
     greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly
     disagreeable.  The last two days he was always by
     the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste,
     but took no notice of him.  The last time we met
     was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a
     shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even
     look at him.  He went into the pump-room afterwards;
     but I would not have followed him for all the world.
     Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray
     send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy
     about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went
     away, with a cold, or something that affected his
     spirits.  I would write to him myself, but have
     mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am
     afraid he took something in my conduct amiss.  Pray
     explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he
     still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to
     me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might
     set all to rights.  I have not been to the rooms
     this age, nor to the play, except going in last
     night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price:
     they teased me into it; and I was determined they
     should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was
     gone.  We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they
     pretended to be quite surprised to see me out.  I
     knew their spite: at one time they could not be
     civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but
     I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them.
     You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own.
     Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like
     mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert,
     but made wretched work of it--it happened to become
     my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me so
     at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he
     is the last man whose word I would take.  I wear
     nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in
     it, but no matter-- it is your dear brother's
     favourite colour.  Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest
     Catherine, in writing to him and to me,
                                 Who ever am, etc.


     Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose
even upon Catherine.  Its inconsistencies, contradictions,
and falsehood struck her from the very first.  She was
ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her.
Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting
as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent.
"Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear
Isabella's name mentioned by her again."

     On Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him
and Eleanor their brother's safety, congratulating them
with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material
passages of her letter with strong indignation.
When she had finished it--"So much for Isabella,"
she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me
an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps
this has served to make her character better known to me
than mine is to her.  I see what she has been about.
She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered.
I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James
or for me, and I wish I had never known her."

     "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.

     "There is but one thing that I cannot understand.
I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have
not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney
has been about all this time.  Why should he pay her
such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother,
and then fly off himself?"

     "I have very little to say for Frederick's motives,
such as I believe them to have been.  He has his vanities
as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that,
having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself.
If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him with you,
we had better not seek after the cause."

     "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?"

     "I am persuaded that he never did."

     "And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?"

     Henry bowed his assent.

     "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all.
Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him
at all.  As it happens, there is no great harm done,
because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose.
But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?"

     "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart
to lose--consequently to have been a very different creature;
and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment."

     "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."

     "And if you would stand by yours, you would not be
much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe.
But your mind is warped by an innate principle of
general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool
reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."

     Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness.
Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry
made himself so agreeable.  She resolved on not answering
Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more of it.



CHAPTER 28


     Soon after this, the general found himself obliged
to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger
earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him
even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously
recommending the study of her comfort and amusement
to his children as their chief object in his absence.
His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction
that a loss may be sometimes a gain.  The happiness with
which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,
every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and
good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked,
their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command,
made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the
general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel
their present release from it.  Such ease and such delights
made her love the place and the people more and more
every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon
becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension
of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at
each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she
was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general
came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps
it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer.
This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred;
and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind,
she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it
at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct
by the manner in which her proposal might be taken.

     Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might
feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant
a subject, she took the first opportunity of being
suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being
in the middle of a speech about something very different,
to start forth her obligation of going away very soon.
Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned.
She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much
longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes)
to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised--and
could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were
aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there,
they would be too generous to hasten her return."
Catherine explained: "Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were
in no hurry at all.  As long as she was happy, they would
always be satisfied."

     "Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself
to leave them?"

     "Oh! Because she had been there so long."

     "Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you
no farther.  If you think it long--"

     "Oh! No, I do not indeed.  For my own pleasure, I could
stay with you as long again." And it was directly settled that,
till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought of.
In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed,
the force of the other was likewise weakened.  The kindness,
the earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay,
and Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay
was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance
with them, as left her only just so much solicitude
as the human mind can never do comfortably without.
She did--almost always--believe that Henry loved her,
and quite always that his father and sister loved and
even wished her to belong to them; and believing so far,
her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations.

     Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of
remaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies,
during his absence in London, the engagements of his curate
at Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a
couple of nights.  His loss was not now what it had been
while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety,
but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing
in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves
so well sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was
eleven o'clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they
quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry's departure.
They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,
as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them
to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the door,
and the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise
of the house-bell. After the first perturbation of surprise
had passed away, in a "Good heaven! What can be the matter?"
it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother,
whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable,
and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.

     Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her
mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with
Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant
impression his conduct had given her, and the persuasion
of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her,
that at least they should not meet under such circumstances
as would make their meeting materially painful.
She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe;
and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the
part he had acted, there could be no danger of it;
and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided,
she thought she could behave to him very civilly.
In such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly
in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him,
and have so much to say, for half an hour was almost
gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.

     At that moment Catherine thought she heard her
step in the gallery, and listened for its continuance;
but all was silent.  Scarcely, however, had she convicted
her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving
close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone
was touching the very doorway--and in another moment
a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must
be on it.  She trembled a little at the idea of anyone's
approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again
overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled
by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward,
and opened the door.  Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine's spirits, however, were tranquillized but for
an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and her manner
greatly agitated.  Though evidently intending to come in,
it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still
greater to speak when there.  Catherine, supposing some
uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account, could only
express her concern by silent attention, obliged her
to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water,
and hung over her with affectionate solicitude.
"My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not indeed--"
were Eleanor's first connected words.  "I am quite well.
This kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come
to you on such an errand!"

     "Errand! To me!"

     "How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!"

     A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind,
and turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed,
"'Tis a messenger from Woodston!"

     "You are mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking at
her most compassionately; "it is no one from Woodston.
It is my father himself." Her voice faltered, and her eyes
were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name.
His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make
Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she
hardly supposed there were anything worse to be told.
She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect
herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still
cast down, soon went on.  "You are too good, I am sure,
to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged
to perform.  I am indeed a most unwilling messenger.
After what has so lately passed, so lately been
settled between us--how joyfully, how thankfully on my
side!--as to your continuing here as I hoped for many,
many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness
is not to be accepted--and that the happiness your
company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by-- But
I must not trust myself with words.  My dear Catherine,
we are to part.  My father has recollected an engagement
that takes our whole family away on Monday.  We are going
to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.
Explanation and apology are equally impossible.  I cannot
attempt either."

     "My dear Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her
feelings as well as she could, "do not be so distressed.
A second engagement must give way to a first.  I am very,
very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so suddenly too;
but I am not offended, indeed I am not.  I can finish my
visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come
to me.  Can you, when you return from this lord's, come
to Fullerton?"

     "It will not be in my power, Catherine."

     "Come when you can, then."

     Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts
recurring to something more directly interesting,
she added, thinkng aloud, "Monday--so soon as Monday;
and you all go.  Well, I am certain of-- I shall be able
to take leave, however.  I need not go till just before
you do, you know.  Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can
go on Monday very well.  My father and mother's having
no notice of it is of very little consequence.
The general will send a servant with me, I dare say,
half the way--and then I shall soon be at Salisbury,
and then I am only nine miles from home."

     "Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be
somewhat less intolerable, though in such common attentions
you would have received but half what you ought.
But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow morning is fixed for your
leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;
the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven
o'clock, and no servant will be offered you."

     Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless.
"I could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it;
and no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at
this moment, however justly great, can be more than I
myself--but I must not talk of what I felt.  Oh! That I
could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What
will your father and mother say! After courting you from
the protection of real friends to this--almost double
distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,
without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear,
dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message,
I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you
will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this
house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it,
that my real power is nothing."

     "Have I offended the general?" said Catherine
in a faltering voice.

     "Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know,
all that I answer for, is that you can have given him
no just cause of offence.  He certainly is greatly,
very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so.
His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred
to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment,
some vexation, which just at this moment seems important,
but which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in,
for how is it possible?"

     It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all;
and it was only for Eleanor's sake that she attempted it.
"I am sure," said she, "I am very sorry if I have offended him.
It was the last thing I would willingly have done.
But do not be unhappy, Eleanor.  An engagement, you know,
must be kept.  I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner,
that I might have written home.  But it is of very
little consequence."

     "I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it
will be of none; but to everything else it is of the greatest
consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family,
to the world.  Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath,
you might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours
would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles,
to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!"

     "Oh, the journey is nothing.  Do not think about that.
And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later,
you know, makes no difference.  I can be ready by seven.
Let me be called in time." Eleanor saw that she wished
to be alone; and believing it better for each that they
should avoid any further conversation, now left her with,
"I shall see you in the morning."

     Catherine's swelling heart needed relief.
In Eleanor's presence friendship and pride had equally
restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than
they burst forth in torrents.  Turned from the house,
and in such a way! Without any reason that could justify,
any apology that could atone for the abruptness,
the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it.  Henry at a
distance--not able even to bid him farewell.  Every hope,
every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could
say how long? Who could say when they might meet again?
And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite,
so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It
was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous.
From what it could arise, and where it would end,
were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm.
The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil,
hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience,
or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time
or mode of her travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on,
and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning,
that he might not be obliged even to see her.  What could
all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means
or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him.
Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion,
but Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury
or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against
a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be
connected with it.

     Heavily passed the night.  Sleep, or repose that
deserved the name of sleep, was out of the question.
That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented
her on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated
spirits and unquiet slumbers.  Yet how different now the
source of her inquietude from what it had been then--how
mournfully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety
had foundation in fact, her fears in probability;
and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of
actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building,
were felt and considered without the smallest emotion;
and though the wind was high, and often produced strange
and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard it
all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity
or terror.

     Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show
attention or give assistance where it was possible; but very
little remained to be done.  Catherine had not loitered;
she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished.
The possibility of some conciliatory message from
the general occurred to her as his daughter appeared.
What so natural, as that anger should pass away and
repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know how far,
after what had passed, an apology might properly be received
by her.  But the knowledge would have been useless here;
it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity
was put to the trial--Eleanor brought no message.
Very little passed between them on meeting; each found
her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were
the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,
Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress,
and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon
filling the trunk.  When everything was done they left
the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind
her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known,
cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour,
where breakfast was prepared.  She tried to eat, as well
to save herself from the pain of being urged as to make
her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could
not swallow many mouthfuls.  The contrast between this
and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery,
and strengthened her distaste for everything before her.
It was not four and twenty hours ago since they had
met there to the same repast, but in circumstances
how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy,
though false, security, had she then looked around her,
enjoying everything present, and fearing little in future,
beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy,
happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat
by her and helped her.  These reflections were long
indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion,
who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the appearance
of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall
them to the present moment.  Catherine's colour rose at the
sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated,
striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force,
made her for a short time sensible only of resentment.
Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

     "You must write to me, Catherine," she cried;
"you must let me hear from you as soon as possible.
Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have
an hour's comfort.  For one letter, at all risks,
all hazards, I must entreat.  Let me have the satisfaction
of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found
your family well, and then, till I can ask for your
correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more.
Direct to me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it,
under cover to Alice."

     "No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive
a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write.
There can be no doubt of my getting home safe."

     Eleanor only replied, "I cannot wonder at your feelings.
I will not importune you.  I will trust to your own kindness
of heart when I am at a distance from you." But this,
with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt
Catherine's pride in a moment, and she instantly said,
"Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed."

     There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious
to settle, though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of.
It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home,
Catherine might not be provided with money enough for the
expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to her
with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved
to be exactly the case.  Catherine had never thought on
the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse,
was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend,
she might have been turned from the house without even
the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both,
scarcely another word was said by either during the time
of their remaining together.  Short, however, was that time.
The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine,
instantly rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied
the place of language in bidding each other adieu;
and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
without some mention of one whose name had not yet been
spoken by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering
lips just made it intelligible that she left "her kind
remembrance for her absent friend." But with this
approach to his name ended all possibility of restraining
her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could
with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall,
jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.



CHAPTER 29


     Catherine was too wretched to be fearful.  The journey
in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it without
either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness.
Leaning back in one comer of the carriage, in a violent
burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond
the walls of the abbey before she raised her head;
and the highest point of ground within the park was almost
closed from her view before she was capable of turning
her eyes towards it.  Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had
so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston;
and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered
more severe by the review of objects on which she had
first looked under impressions so different.  Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings,
and when within the distance of five, she passed the
turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near,
yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive.

     The day which she had spent at that place had
been one of the happiest of her life.  It was there,
it was on that day, that the general had made use of such
expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken
and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction
of his actually wishing their marriage.  Yes, only ten
days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard--had he
even confused her by his too significant reference! And
now--what had she done, or what had she omitted to do,
to merit such a change?

     The only offence against him of which she could accuse
herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach
his knowledge.  Henry and her own heart only were privy
to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained;
and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.
Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her.
If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have
gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for,
of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations,
she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation.
If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
not wonder at his even turning her from his house.
But a justification so full of torture to herself,
she trusted, would not be in his power.

     Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point,
it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most.
There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing,
more impetuous concern.  How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger
and heard of her being gone, was a question of force and
interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing,
alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested
the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered
by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.
To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak;
but to Eleanor--what might he not say to Eleanor about
her?

     In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries,
on any one article of which her mind was incapable of more
than momentary repose, the hours passed away, and her journey
advanced much faster than she looked for.  The pressing
anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood
of Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching
her progress; and though no object on the road could engage
a moment's attention, she found no stage of it tedious.
From this, she was preserved too by another cause,
by feeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion;
for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost
to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she
loved best, even after an absence such as hers--an
eleven weeks' absence.  What had she to say that would
not humble herself and pain her family, that would not
increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an
useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent
with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could
never do justice to Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it
too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken
against them, should they be thought of unfavourably,
on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.

     With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought
for the first view of that well-known spire which would
announce her within twenty miles of home.  Salisbury she
had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but after
the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters
for the names of the places which were then to conduct
her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route.
She met with nothing, however, to distress or frighten her.
Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured her all
the attention that a traveller like herself could require;
and stopping only to change horses, she travelled
on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm,
and between six and seven o'clock in the evening found
herself entering Fullerton.

     A heroine returning, at the close of her career,
to her native village, in all the triumph of recovered
reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a long
train of noble relations in their several phaetons,
and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver
may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every
conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she
so liberally bestows.  But my affair is widely different;
I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace;
and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment,
as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand.
Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through
the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy
shall be her descent from it.

     But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind,
as she thus advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever
the humiliation of her biographer in relating it,
she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature
for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance
of her carriage--and secondly, in herself.  The chaise
of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole
family were immediately at the window; and to have it
stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every
eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked
for by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl
of six and four years old, who expected a brother or
sister in every carriage.  Happy the glance that first
distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed
the discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful
property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.

     Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet,
all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate
eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings
of Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each, as she
stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond
anything that she had believed possible.  So surrounded,
so caressed, she was even happy! In the joyfulness
of family love everything for a short time was subdued,
and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first
little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated
round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried
for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and
jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry
so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.

     Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then
begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour,
be termed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation;
but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover
the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return.
They were far from being an irritable race; far from
any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting,
affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded,
was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first
half hour, to be easily pardoned.  Without suffering any
romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's
long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could
not but feel that it might have been productive of much
unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never
have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such
a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably
nor feelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent.
Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such
a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his
partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will,
was a matter which they were at least as far from
divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress
them by any means so long; and, after a due course
of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business,
and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough
for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed
still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility,
exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour.  "My dear,
you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,"
said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something
not at all worth understanding."

     "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away,
when he recollected this engagement," said Sarah,
"but why not do it civilly?"

     "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland;
"they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else,
it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home,
and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney."
Catherine sighed.  "Well," continued her philosophic mother,
"I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time;
but now it is an over, perhaps there is no great harm done.
It is always good for young people to be put upon
exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine,
you always were a sad little shatter-brained creature;
but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you,
with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope
it will appear that you have not left anything behind you
in any of the pockets."

     Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest
in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down;
and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish,
she readily agreed to her mother's next counsel of going early
to bed.  Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and
agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings,
and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,
parted from her without any doubt of their being soon
slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning,
her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still
perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil.
They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned
from her first excursion from home, was odd enough!

     As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil
her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect
of time and distance on her friend's disposition was
already justified, for already did Catherine reproach
herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having
never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never
enough commiserated her for what she had been yesterday
left to endure.  The strength of these feelings, however,
was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been
harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney.
To compose a letter which might at once do justice
to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude
without servile regret, be guarded without coldness,
and honest without resentment--a letter which Eleanor
might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,
which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance
to see, was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers
of performance; and, after long thought and much perplexity,
to be very brief was all that she could determine on with any
confidence of safety.  The money therefore which Eleanor had
advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks,
and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.

     "This has been a strange acquaintance,"
observed Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished;
"soon made and soon ended.  I am sorry it happens so,
for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people;
and you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella.
Ah! Poor James! Well, we must live and learn; and the next
new friends you make I hope will be better worth keeping."

     Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, "No friend
can be better worth keeping than Eleanor."

     "If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some
time or other; do not be uneasy.  It is ten to one but you
are thrown together again in the course of a few years;
and then what a pleasure it will be!"

     Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation.
The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years
could only put into Catherine's head what might happen
within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her.
She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with
less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might
forget her; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled
with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed;
and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions
to have had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient
for restoring her spirits, that they should call on
Mrs. Allen.

     The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart;
and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all
that she felt on the score of James's disappointment.
"We are sorry for him," said she; "but otherwise there
is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not
be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom
we had not the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so
entirely without fortune; and now, after such behaviour,
we cannot think at all well of her.  Just at present it
comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever;
and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life,
for the foolishness of his first choice."

     This was just such a summary view of the affair
as Catherine could listen to; another sentence might have
endangered her complaisance, and made her reply less rational;
for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed up in
the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits
since last she had trodden that well-known road.  It was
not three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation,
she had there run backwards and forwards some ten times
a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent;
looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed,
and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge
of it.  Three months ago had seen her all this; and now,
how altered a being did she return!

     She was received by the Allens with all the kindness
which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection,
would naturally call forth; and great was their surprise,
and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been
treated--though Mrs. Morland's account of it was no
inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.
"Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,"
said she.  "She travelled all the way post by herself, and knew
nothing of coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney,
from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired
of having her there, and almost turned her out of the house.
Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man;
but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And
it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor
helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself."

     Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the
reasonable resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen
thought his expressions quite good enough to be immediately
made use of again by herself.  His wonder, his conjectures,
and his explanations became in succession hers, with the
addition of this single remark--"I really have not patience
with the general"--to fill up every accidental pause.
And, "I really have not patience with the general,"
was uttered twice after Mr. Allen left the room,
without any relaxation of anger, or any material digression
of thought.  A more considerable degree of wandering
attended the third repetition; and, after completing
the fourth, she immediately added, "Only think, my dear,
of my having got that frightful great rent in my best
Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one
can hardly see where it was.  I must show it you some day
or other.  Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all.
I assure you I did not above half like coming away.
Mrs. Thorpe's being there was such a comfort to us,
was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first."

     "Yes, but that did not last long," said Catherine,
her eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first
given spirit to her existence there.

     "Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we
wanted for nothing.  My dear, do not you think these silk
gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first time
of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn
them a great deal since.  Do you remember that evening?"

     "Do I! Oh! Perfectly."

     "It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank
tea with us, and I always thought him a great addition,
he is so very agreeable.  I have a notion you danced with him,
but am not quite sure.  I remember I had my favourite
gown on."

     Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial
of other subjects, Mrs. Allen again returned to--"I really
have not patience with the general! Such an agreeable,
worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not suppose,
Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life.
His lodgings were taken the very day after he left
them, Catherine.  But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know."

     As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured
to impress on her daughter's mind the happiness of
having such steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen,
and the very little consideration which the neglect
or unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys
ought to have with her, while she could preserve the
good opinion and affection of her earliest friends.
There was a great deal of good sense in all this;
but there are some situations of the human mind in which
good sense has very little power; and Catherine's feelings
contradicted almost every position her mother advanced.
It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance
that all her present happiness depended; and while
Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions
by the justness of her own representations, Catherine was
silently reflecting that now Henry must have arrived
at Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure;
and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.



CHAPTER 30


     Catherine's disposition was not naturally sedentary,
nor had her habits been ever very industrious; but whatever
might hitherto have been her defects of that sort, her mother
could not but perceive them now to be greatly increased.
She could neither sit still nor employ herself for ten
minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard
again and again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary;
and it seemed as if she could even walk about the house
rather than remain fixed for any time in the parlour.
Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration.  In her
rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature
of herself; but in her silence and sadness she was the very
reverse of all that she had been before.

     For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even
without a hint; but when a third night's rest had neither
restored her cheerfulness, improved her in useful activity,
nor given her a greater inclination for needlework,
she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of,
"My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite
a fine lady.  I do not know when poor Richard's cravats
would be done, if he had no friend but you.  Your head runs
too much upon Bath; but there is a time for everything--a
time for balls and plays, and a time for work.
You have had a long run of amusement, and now you must
try to be useful."

     Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a
dejected voice, that "her head did not run upon Bath--much."

     "Then you are fretting about General Tilney,
and that is very simple of you; for ten to one whether you
ever see him again.  You should never fret about trifles."
After a short silence--"I hope, my Catherine, you are
not getting out of humour with home because it is not
so grand as Northanger.  That would be turning your visit
into an evil indeed.  Wherever you are you should always
be contented, but especially at home, because there you
must spend the most of your time.  I did not quite like,
at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French
bread at Northanger."

     "I am sure I do not care about the bread.
it is all the same to me what I eat."

     "There is a very clever essay in one of the books
upstairs upon much such a subject, about young girls that
have been spoilt for home by great acquaintance--The Mirror,
I think.  I will look it out for you some day or other,
because I am sure it will do you good."

     Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right,
applied to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again,
without knowing it herself, into languor and listlessness,
moving herself in her chair, from the irritation
of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle.
Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse;
and seeing, in her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look,
the full proof of that repining spirit to which she
had now begun to attribute her want of cheerfulness,
hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady.
It was some time before she could find what she looked for;
and other family matters occurring to detain her,
a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she returned
downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped.
Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she
created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived
within the last few minutes, till, on entering the room,
the first object she beheld was a young man whom she
had never seen before.  With a look of much respect,
he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her
conscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Tilney," with the
embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize
for his appearance there, acknowledging that after
what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome
at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured
of Miss Morland's having reached her home in safety,
as the cause of his intrusion.  He did not address himself
to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart.  Far from
comprehending him or his sister in their father's misconduct,
Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each,
and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him
with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;
thanking him for such an attention to her daughter,
assuring him that the friends of her children were always
welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of
the past.

     He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for,
though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for
mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power
to say anything to the purpose.  Returning in silence
to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
civilly answering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about
the weather and roads.  Catherine meanwhile--the anxious,
agitated, happy, feverish Catherine--said not a word;
but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother
trust that this good-natured visit would at least set
her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore
did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour.

     Desirous of Mr. Morland's assistance, as well in
giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for
her guest, whose embarrassment on his father's account she
earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched
one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home--and being thus without any support, at the end of a
quarter of an hour she had nothing to say.  After a couple
of minutes' unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine
for the first time since her mother's entrance, asked her,
with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at
Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity
of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
would have given, immediately expressed his intention
of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour,
asked her if she would have the goodness to show him
the way.  "You may see the house from this window, sir,"
was information on Sarah's side, which produced only a bow
of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod
from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable,
as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their
worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation
to give of his father's behaviour, which it must be
more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine,
would not on any account prevent her accompanying him.
They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely
mistaken in his object in wishing it.  Some explanation
on his father's account he had to give; but his first
purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
Mr. Allen's grounds he had done it so well that Catherine
did not think it could ever be repeated too often.
She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return
was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew
was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now
sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted
in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved
her society, I must confess that his affection originated
in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words,
that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the
only cause of giving her a serious thought.  It is a new
circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully
derogatory of an heroine's dignity; but if it be as new
in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will
at least be all my own.

     A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked
at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine,
rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness,
scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies
of another tete-a-tete; and before it was suffered to close,
she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned
by parental authority in his present application.
On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had
been met near the abbey by his impatient father,
hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland's departure,
and ordered to think of her no more.

     Such was the permission upon which he had now offered
her his hand.  The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the
terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account,
could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry
had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection,
by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject;
and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain
the motives of his father's conduct, her feelings soon
hardened into even a triumphant delight.  The general had
had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge,
but her being the involuntary, unconscious object
of a deception which his pride could not pardon,
and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own.
She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed
her to be.  Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions
and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,
solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her
for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn
her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings
an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself,
and his contempt of her family.

     John Thorpe had first misled him.  The general,
perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying
considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally
inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name.
Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man
of General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and
proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily
expectation of Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise
pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself,
his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more
wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them.
With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected,
his own consequence always required that theirs should
be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew,
so regularly grew their fortune.  The expectations of his
friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated,
had ever since his introduction to Isabella been
gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much
for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he
chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland's preferment,
trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt,
and sinking half the children, he was able to represent
the whole family to the general in a most respectable light.
For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general's
curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something
more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds
which her father could give her would be a pretty addition
to Mr. Allen's estate.  Her intimacy there had made him
seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter;
and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged
future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed.
Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded;
for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority.
Thorpe's interest in the family, by his sister's approaching
connection with one of its members, and his own views
on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost
equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth;
and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens
being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland's being under
their care, and--as soon as his acquaintance allowed him
to judge--of their treating her with parental kindness.
His resolution was soon formed.  Already had he discerned
a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son;
and thankful for Mr. Thorpe's communication, he almost
instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening
his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes.
Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time
of all this, than his own children.  Henry and Eleanor,
perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their
father's particular respect, had seen with astonishment
the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention;
and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied
an almost positive command to his son of doing everything
in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his
father's believing it to be an advantageous connection,
it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they
had the smallest idea of the false calculations which
had hurried him on.  That they were false, the general
had learnt from the very person who had suggested them,
from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again
in town, and who, under the influence of exactly
opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine's refusal,
and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour
to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella,
convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning
a friendship which could be no longer serviceable,
hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the
advantage of the Morlands--confessed himself to have been
totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances
and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend
to believe his father a man of substance and credit,
whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks
proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward
on the first overture of a marriage between the families,
with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being
brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator,
been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving
the young people even a decent support.  They were, in fact,
a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example;
by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he
had lately had particular opportunities of discovering;
aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant;
seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections;
a forward, bragging, scheming race.

     The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen
with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt
his error.  The Allens, he believed, had lived near them
too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton
estate must devolve.  The general needed no more.
Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself,
he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances
have been seen.

     I leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how
much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate
at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have
learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures
might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be
told in a letter from James.  I have united for their case
what they must divide for mine.  Catherine, at any rate,
heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of
either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely
sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.

     Henry, in having such things to relate of his father,
was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself.
He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he
was obliged to expose.  The conversation between them
at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind.
Henry's indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated,
on comprehending his father's views, and being ordered
to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold.  The general,
accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law
in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling,
no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself
in words, could in brook the opposition of his son,
steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of
conscience could make it.  But, in such a cause, his anger,
though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was
sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice.
He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection
to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own
which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction
of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger,
could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions
it prompted.

     He steadily refused to accompany his father
into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the
moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as
steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand.
The general was furious in his anger, and they parted
in dreadful disagreement.  Henry, in an agitation of mind
which many solitary hours were required to compose,
had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the
afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton.



CHAPTER 31


     Mr. and Mrs. Morland's surprise on being applied
to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their
daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having
never entered their heads to suspect an attachment
on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be
more natural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon
learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of
gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned,
had not a single objection to start.  His pleasing
manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations;
and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way
to suppose any evil could be told.  Goodwill supplying the
place of experience, his character needed no attestation.
"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper
to be sure," was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick
was the consolation of there being nothing like practice.

     There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned;
but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for
them to sanction the engagement.  Their tempers were mild,
but their principles were steady, and while his parent
so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow
themselves to encourage it.  That the general should
come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should
even very heartily approve it, they were not refined
enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent
appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once
obtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it
could not be very long denied--their willing approbation
was instantly to follow.  His consent was all that they
wished for.  They were no more inclined than entitled
to demand his money.  Of a very considerable fortune,
his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure;
his present income was an income of independence and comfort,
and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond
the claims of their daughter.

     The young people could not be surprised at a decision
like this.  They felt and they deplored--but they could
not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope
that such a change in the general, as each believed
almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite
them again in the fullness of privileged affection.
Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch
over his young plantations, and extend his improvements
for her sake, to whose share in them he looked
anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton
to cry.  Whether the torments of absence were softened
by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire.
Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind
to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received
a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often,
they always looked another way.

     The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment
must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all
who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend,
I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see
in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them,
that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity.
The means by which their early marriage was effected can
be the only doubt: what probable circumstance could work
upon a temper like the general's? The circumstance which
chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man
of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course
of the summer--an accession of dignity that threw him
into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover
till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry,
and his permission for him "to be a fool if he liked it!"

     The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from
all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been
made by Henry's banishment, to the home of her choice
and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect
to give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance.
My own joy on the occasion is very sincere.  I know no one
more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared
by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity.
Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;
and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of
situation from addressing her.  His unexpected accession
to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties;
and never had the general loved his daughter so well
in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient
endurance as when he first hailed her "Your Ladyship!"
Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of
his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to
a precision the most charming young man in the world.
Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary;
the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all.  Concerning the one
in question, therefore, I have only to add--aware
that the rules of composition forbid the introduction
of a character not connected with my fable--that this was
the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him
that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long
visit at Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in
one of her most alarming adventures.

     The influence of the viscount and viscountess
in their brother's behalf was assisted by that right
understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances which,
as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed,
they were qualified to give.  It taught him that he had been
scarcely more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family
wealth than by his subsequent malicious overthrow of it;
that in no sense of the word were they necessitous or poor,
and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds.
This was so material an amendment of his late expectations
that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of
his pride; and by no means without its effect was the
private intelligence, which he was at some pains to procure,
that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal
of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
greedy speculation.

     On the strength of this, the general, soon after
Eleanor's marriage, permitted his son to return to Northanger,
and thence made him the bearer of his consent,
very courteously worded in a page full of empty professions
to Mr. Morland.  The event which it authorized soon
followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang,
and everybody smiled; and, as this took place within
a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting,
it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned
by the general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt
by it.  To begin perfect happiness at the respective
ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well;
and professing myself moreover convinced that the general's
unjust interference, so far from being really injurious
to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it,
by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding
strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled,
by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of
this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny,
or reward filial disobedience.



     *Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol.  II, Rambler.


A NOTE ON THE TEXT

Northanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title.
The manuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a
London publisher, Crosbie & Co., who sold it back in 1816.
The Signet Classic text is based on the first edition,
published by John Murray, London, in 1818--the year
following Miss Austen's death.  Spelling and punctuation
have been largely brought into conformity with modern
British usage.