CHAPTER XXV 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 tranquility. 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 all been 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 feeling she had prepared for a knowledge of North Anger. 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 specs in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blushed of 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 fanged him as heartily as if he had written it himself. It is 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 a 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 under-ceived in time. But it is a heavy blow. After my father's consent had been so kindly given. But no more of this. She has made me miserable for ever. Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine. You are my only friend. Your love I do build upon. I wish your visited Northanger may be over before Captain Tillney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumcised. 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 Tillney. We parted at last by mutual consent. Happy for me had we never met. I can never expect to know another such woman. Just Catherine, beware how you give your heart. Believe me, etc. 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 throughout 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.  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 brothers 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. Moorland, 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 in this to marry yours! Could you have believed there had been such inconstancy in fickleness and everything that is bad in the world? I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he is not at any material share in bringing on Mr. Moorland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Moorland. Sorry that any one 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' 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 clear. 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.  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 it not 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 and understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in. Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affection 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 is 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 any one's character in my life before. Among all the great variety that you have known and studied. My own disappointment and loss in her is very great. But as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it. Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present. But we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours.  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 won't 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 XXVI 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, opposed 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 be only dispersed by 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 of mutter, 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 stations. 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 only tell 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 society and employments would disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frazier's 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 vowel, no game, and the Lady Frazier's 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 to some one of these 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. It will not come on Monday. And Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from Brocum 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 Mall, and never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year, and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say, is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us. And we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose. We shall be in the carriage by ten. So about a quarter before one on Wednesday you may look for us." A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this little excursion. So strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston, and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came booted and great-coated into the room where she and Eleanor were sitting, and said, "'I am come, young ladies, in a very moralising strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a greater disadvantage, giving ready-moneyed actual happiness for a draft on the future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself at the 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!' "'I, and sadly, too, for I'd 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 if you're providing nothing extraordinary. Besides, if he had not said half so much as he did, he is always such an excellent dinner at home. That sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify.  Goodbye. As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.' He went. And if 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 a 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.  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 shez 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 shops which they passed. At the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new built substantial stone house, with its semi-circular sweep and green gates, and as they drove up to the door, Henry with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of them. Catherine's mind was too full as she entered the house, for her either to observe or to say a great deal, and till called on by the general for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable room in the world, but she was too guarded to say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him. "'We are not calling it a good house,' said he. "'We are not comparing it with Fullerton and North Anger. We are considering it as a mere parsonage, small and confined, 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-parlor, and on there 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?  It is the prettiest room that ever I saw. It is the prettiest room in the world. I trust, said the general, with the most satisfied smile, that it will be very speedily furnished. It waits only for a lady's taste. Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else.  Apple trees, too. It is the prettiest cottage. You like it. You approve it as an object. It is enough. Henry, remember that Robbins and has spoken to about it. The cottage remains. Such a complementary called all Catherine's consciousness and silenced her directly, and though pointedly applied to you 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. Catherine 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 is 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 butters 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 XXVII 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 trifle or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct my own home. Thank God we leave this vile place to-morrow. Since you went away I have had no pleasure in it. The dust is beyond anything, and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford, and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right. He is the only man I ever did or ever could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down, and the hat's the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but I'm 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 appore has left bath. You will know from this description I must mean Captain Tilney, who as you may remember was amazingly disposed of 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 pamprem afterwards, but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such contrasts 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 mislead his direction, and as I hinted above I am afraid he took something in my conduct to miss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction. Or if he still harbors 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 Tillney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchell's, 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.  I wear nothing but purple now. I know I look hideous in it, but no matter. It is your dear brother's favourite colour. Loose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, whoever am, 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 imprudent. Right to James on her behalf! No! James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her again. When Henry's arrival from Woodstone, 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 a 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 a 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 misthought, 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 XXVIII. Soon after this the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week, and he left North Anger 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 again. 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. Moorland were rare of the pleasure it was to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return. Catherine explained, Oh! As to that, Papa and Mama were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would be always 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 father, 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 holy at North Anger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London. The engagements of his curate had 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 torture. 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 any one's approaching so cautiously. But resolving not to begin 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 tranquilized but for the 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 Woodstown.' "'You are mistaken, indeed,' returned Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately. "'It is no one from Woodstown. It is my father himself.' Her voice faltered, and her eyes returned 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 Longtowns 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 lords, come to Fullerton?" "'It will not be in my power, Catherine.' "'Come when you can, then.' Eleanor made no answer, and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, "'Monday? So soon as Monday? And you will 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 daresay, 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 wore. 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 decensability! 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. But 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 a 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. Turn 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 here to fore 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 an ocean, 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 exceed 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 good will 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 parlor, 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 Woodstone 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 color 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, at all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you were 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 Longtowns, and I must ask it, undercover, to Alice. No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. There could be no doubt of my getting home safe. Eleanor only replied, I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not important you. I will trust 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 Tillney 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, along an affectionate embrace, supplied the place of language, and 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 shares, and in a moment was driven from the door. CHAPTER XXIX Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her, and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head, and the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston, and for fourteen miles every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive. The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard, had he even confused her by his too significant reference, and now, what had she done? Or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a change? The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained, and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power. Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How would Henry think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to North Anger 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 unuseless 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 postmasters for the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it, so great had been her ignorance of her root. 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 accountess, with a long train of noble relations in their several fatens, and three waiting maids in a travelling shez 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 my newtness.  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 shez 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 hears and 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 hole 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, enforcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honorably 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 disengagement,' said Sarah. "'But why not do it civilly?' "'I am sorry for the young people,' returned Mrs. Morland. "'They must have a sad time of it. But as for anything else, it is no matter now. Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney.' Catherine sighed. "'Well,' continued her philosophic mother, "'I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time. But now it is all over. Perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves.  But now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of shares 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 council 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 their 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 fulfill 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 had 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 a thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart. This has been a strange acquaintance—observe, Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished. Soon made, and soon ended. I am sorry it happened so, for Mrs. Ellen 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 pour James, but that will not last for ever, and I daresay 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 complacence, 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 a 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 fancier 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 could hardly see where it was. I must show it to 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. Orps 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 it not? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I always thought of a great addition. He is so very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but I 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 bread man in your life! His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder! Milsome street, you know! As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavored 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 acquaintances like the Tilney's 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 acquaintances that all her present happiness depended, and while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the justice 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 XXXV 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 parlor. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself, but in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had been before. For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint, but when a third night's rest had neither restored her cheerfulness, improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for needle-work, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not know when Paul Richard's cravats would be done, if he had no friend but you.  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. Pretend 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.  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 spoiled 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 lanker and listlessness, moving herself and her chair from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Moreland 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 in treating 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 and reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respect 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 acknowledgement 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, wrapped in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another tetatet, and before it was suffered to close, she was unable to judge how far he was sanctioned by a 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 his 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 shamed to own.  Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had quartered her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her accompany at Northanger, and designed her for his future 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 Tillney'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, troubling 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 determined 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 Allen's 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 redomintod 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 evolve. 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 point 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 to 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 on his family, prepared for no reluctance but a feeling. No opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill-brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who were sustained in his purpose by conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much an honour, as an 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 an 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 XXXI 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 their 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 parents 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. Sister and Mrs. Moreland 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 affected can be the only doubt. What probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the Generals? 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, and a session of dignity that threw him into a fit of good humor, 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 Tillney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as North Anger 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 North Anger, 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 bride. 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 North Anger, 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 authorised, soon followed. Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled, and as this took place within a twelve-month from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well, and professing myself moreover convinced that the general's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment. I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience. End of North Anger Abbey by Jane Austen