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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Northanger Abbey
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
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have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.
Title: Northanger Abbey
Author: Jane Austen
Release date: April 1, 1994 [eBook #121]
Most recently updated: October 7, 2025
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/121
Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger. Revised by Richard
Tonsing.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTHANGER
ABBEY ***
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.
Title: Northanger Abbey
Author: Jane Austen
Release date: April 1, 1994 [eBook #121]
Most recently updated: October 7, 2025
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/121
Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger. Revised by Richard
Tonsing.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTHANGER
ABBEY ***
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Northanger Abbey
by Jane Austen
(1803)
by Jane Austen
(1803)
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Contents
ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER
ABBEY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER
ABBEY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
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CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
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ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO
NORTHANGER ABBEY
This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for
immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even
advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has never
been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it worth-while to
purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish seems
extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public have any other
concern than as some observation is necessary upon those parts of the work
which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete. The public are
entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have passed since it was
finished, many more since it was begun, and that during that period, places,
manners, books, and opinions have undergone considerable changes.
NORTHANGER ABBEY
This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for
immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even
advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has never
been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it worth-while to
purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish seems
extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public have any other
concern than as some observation is necessary upon those parts of the work
which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete. The public are
entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have passed since it was
finished, many more since it was begun, and that during that period, places,
manners, books, and opinions have undergone considerable changes.
Page 8
CHAPTER 1
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of
her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally
against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor,
and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard—and he had
never been handsome. He had a considerable independence besides two
good livings—and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his
daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with a good
temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had
three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the
latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she still lived on—lived to
have six children more—to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy
excellent health herself. A family of ten children will be always called a fine
family, where there are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but
the Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in general very
plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a
thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and
strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for
heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and greatly
preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of
infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-
bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at
all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief—at least so it was
conjectured from her always preferring those which she was forbidden to
take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught; and
sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally
stupid. Her mother was three months in teaching her only to repeat the
“Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of
her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally
against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor,
and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard—and he had
never been handsome. He had a considerable independence besides two
good livings—and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his
daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with a good
temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had
three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the
latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she still lived on—lived to
have six children more—to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy
excellent health herself. A family of ten children will be always called a fine
family, where there are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but
the Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in general very
plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a
thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and
strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for
heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and greatly
preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of
infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-
bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at
all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief—at least so it was
conjectured from her always preferring those which she was forbidden to
take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught; and
sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally
stupid. Her mother was three months in teaching her only to repeat the
“Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better
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than she did. Not that Catherine was always stupid—by no means; she
learnt the fable of “The Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in
England. Her mother wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she
should like it, for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn
spinnet; so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not
bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being
accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The
day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of
Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever
she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any
other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing
houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing
and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her
proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in
both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!—for
with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a bad
heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome,
and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she was
moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved
nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of
the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were
mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes
gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt
gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart;
she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother
remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a good-
looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught her
ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost
pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking
plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever
receive.
Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in lying-in
and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left to
shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had
learnt the fable of “The Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in
England. Her mother wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she
should like it, for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn
spinnet; so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not
bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being
accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The
day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of
Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever
she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any
other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing
houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing
and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her
proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in
both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!—for
with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a bad
heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome,
and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she was
moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved
nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of
the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were
mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes
gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt
gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart;
she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother
remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a good-
looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught her
ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost
pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking
plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever
receive.
Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in lying-in
and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left to
shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had
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by nature nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on
horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books—
or at least books of information—for, provided that nothing like useful
knowledge could be gained from them, provided they were all story and no
reflection, she had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to
seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as
heroines must read to supply their memories with those quotations which
are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
“bear about the mockery of woe.”
From Gray, that
“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
From Thomson, that—
“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst
the rest, that—
“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”
That
“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”
And that a young woman in love always looks—
“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”
So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she
came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her
horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books—
or at least books of information—for, provided that nothing like useful
knowledge could be gained from them, provided they were all story and no
reflection, she had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to
seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as
heroines must read to supply their memories with those quotations which
are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
“bear about the mockery of woe.”
From Gray, that
“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
From Thomson, that—
“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst
the rest, that—
“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”
That
“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”
And that a young woman in love always looks—
“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”
So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she
came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her
Page 11
own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance with very
little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she had no notion
of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover’s profile, that
she might be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the
true heroic height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had
no lover to portray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without having
seen one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility, without having
inspired one real passion, and without having excited even any admiration
but what was very moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed!
But strange things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly
searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a
baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had
reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one young
man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of
the parish no children.
But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the
benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured woman,
fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall
a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad, invited her to
go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all
happiness.
little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she had no notion
of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover’s profile, that
she might be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the
true heroic height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had
no lover to portray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without having
seen one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility, without having
inspired one real passion, and without having excited even any admiration
but what was very moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed!
But strange things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly
searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a
baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had
reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one young
man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of
the parish no children.
But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the
benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured woman,
fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall
a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad, invited her to
go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all
happiness.
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CHAPTER 2
In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be stated,
for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following pages should
otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be, that
her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without
conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just removed from the
awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good
looks, pretty—and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the
female mind at seventeen usually is.
When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming
presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation
must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day
or two of their being together; and advice of the most important and
applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting
conference in her closet. Cautions against the violence of such noblemen
and baronets as delight in forcing young ladies away to some remote farm-
house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would
not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords and baronets, that
she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly
unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from their machinations. Her
cautions were confined to the following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will
always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from
the Rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the
money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose.”
Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must
from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister.
In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be stated,
for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following pages should
otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be, that
her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without
conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just removed from the
awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good
looks, pretty—and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the
female mind at seventeen usually is.
When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming
presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation
must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day
or two of their being together; and advice of the most important and
applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting
conference in her closet. Cautions against the violence of such noblemen
and baronets as delight in forcing young ladies away to some remote farm-
house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would
not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords and baronets, that
she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly
unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from their machinations. Her
cautions were confined to the following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will
always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from
the Rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the
money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose.”
Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must
from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister.
Page 13
It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine’s writing by
every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every
new acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath
might produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was
done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and
composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of
common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions
which the first separation of a heroine from her family ought always to
excite. Her father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or
even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten
guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.
Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind her at
an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.
They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs,
and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the
hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.
They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.
It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the reader
may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to
promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably,
contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of
which a last volume is capable—whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or
jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or
turning her out of doors.
Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world
who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great
deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that
could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr.
Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady
every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every
new acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath
might produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was
done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and
composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of
common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions
which the first separation of a heroine from her family ought always to
excite. Her father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or
even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten
guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.
Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind her at
an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.
They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs,
and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the
hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.
They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.
It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the reader
may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to
promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably,
contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of
which a last volume is capable—whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or
jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or
turning her out of doors.
Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world
who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great
deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that
could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr.
Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady
Page 14
into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything
herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most
harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine’s entree into life could not
take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was
mostly worn, and her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest
fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these
matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her
into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her
clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped
at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was
always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to
the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care
for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protégée, Mrs.
Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the
necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side,
and linked her arm too firmly within her friend’s to be torn asunder by any
common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she
found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to
disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they
went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door,
they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect
convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by
unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation
was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of
some of the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view;
and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found
themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers
of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for
the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but
she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could
do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, “I wish you
herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most
harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine’s entree into life could not
take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was
mostly worn, and her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest
fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these
matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her
into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her
clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped
at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was
always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to
the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care
for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protégée, Mrs.
Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the
necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side,
and linked her arm too firmly within her friend’s to be torn asunder by any
common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she
found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to
disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they
went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door,
they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect
convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by
unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation
was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of
some of the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view;
and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found
themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers
of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for
the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but
she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could
do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, “I wish you
Page 15
could dance, my dear—I wish you could get a partner.” For some time her
young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so
often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and
would thank her no more.
They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea,
and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something
of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed against by
people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with
all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the
irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her
fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more
the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no
gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking
about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at
the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without
having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having
preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very shocking to have
it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I
have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.”
“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single
acquaintance here!”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very
uncomfortable indeed.”
“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they
wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”
“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here.”
“I wish we had any;—it would be somebody to go to.”
“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”
“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
see.”
young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so
often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and
would thank her no more.
They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea,
and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something
of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed against by
people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with
all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the
irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her
fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more
the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no
gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking
about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at
the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without
having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having
preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very shocking to have
it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I
have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.”
“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single
acquaintance here!”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very
uncomfortable indeed.”
“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they
wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”
“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here.”
“I wish we had any;—it would be somebody to go to.”
“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”
“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
see.”
Page 16
“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had
better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head,
my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is
nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know
somebody.”
“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so
glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd
gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”
After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered
and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.
“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an
agreeable ball.”
“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great
yawn.
“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could have
got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the
Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as
they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so
sorry she has not had a partner!”
“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s consolation.
The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to
leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was
the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in
the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by
removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She
was now seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not
one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper
of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by
anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only
better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head,
my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is
nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know
somebody.”
“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so
glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd
gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”
After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered
and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.
“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an
agreeable ball.”
“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great
yawn.
“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could have
got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the
Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as
they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so
sorry she has not had a partner!”
“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s consolation.
The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to
leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was
the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in
the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by
removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She
was now seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not
one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper
of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by
anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only
Page 17
seen her three years before, they would now have thought her exceedingly
handsome.
She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had
their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she
had found it before—her humble vanity was contented—she felt more
obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true quality
heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms,
and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly
satisfied with her share of public attention.
handsome.
She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had
their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she
had found it before—her humble vanity was contented—she felt more
obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true quality
heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms,
and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly
satisfied with her share of public attention.
Page 18
CHAPTER 3
Every morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited;
some new part of the town to be looked at; and the Pump-room to be
attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at
everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in
Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every
fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all.
They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was
more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to
her a very gentleman-like young man as a partner; his name was Tilney. He
seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing
countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome,
was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high
luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced; but when they
were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given him
credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an
archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it was
hardly understood by her. After chatting some time on such matters as
naturally arose from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her
with—“I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of
a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath;
whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper
Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I
have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these
particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”
“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set
smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air,
“Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
Every morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited;
some new part of the town to be looked at; and the Pump-room to be
attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at
everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in
Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every
fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all.
They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was
more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to
her a very gentleman-like young man as a partner; his name was Tilney. He
seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing
countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome,
was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high
luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced; but when they
were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given him
credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an
archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it was
hardly understood by her. After chatting some time on such matters as
naturally arose from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her
with—“I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of
a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath;
whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper
Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I
have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these
particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”
“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set
smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air,
“Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
Page 19
“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
“Really!” with affected astonishment.
“Why should you be surprised, sir?”
“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must
appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and
not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here
before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”
“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
“Have you been to the theatre?”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
“Yes—I like it very well.”
“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to
laugh.
“I see what you think of me,” said he gravely—“I shall make but a poor
figure in your journal to-morrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black
shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer,
half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by
his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such thing.”
“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary genius
—hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.”
“Really!” with affected astonishment.
“Why should you be surprised, sir?”
“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must
appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and
not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here
before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”
“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
“Have you been to the theatre?”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
“Yes—I like it very well.”
“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to
laugh.
“I see what you think of me,” said he gravely—“I shall make but a poor
figure in your journal to-morrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black
shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer,
half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by
his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such thing.”
“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary genius
—hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.”
Page 20
“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”
“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you.
These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal!
How are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your life in Bath
without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be
related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal?
How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of
your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their
diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal? My dear madam,
I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways as you wish to believe me; it is
this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy
style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody
allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female.
Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially
assisted by the practice of keeping a journal.”
“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is—I should not think
the superiority was always on our side.”
“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars.”
“And what are they?”
“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very
frequent ignorance of grammar.”
“Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.”
“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes.
In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly
divided between the sexes.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall
be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine
shillings a yard.”
“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you.
These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal!
How are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your life in Bath
without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be
related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal?
How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of
your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their
diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal? My dear madam,
I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways as you wish to believe me; it is
this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy
style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody
allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female.
Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially
assisted by the practice of keeping a journal.”
“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is—I should not think
the superiority was always on our side.”
“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars.”
“And what are they?”
“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very
frequent ignorance of grammar.”
“Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.”
“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes.
In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly
divided between the sexes.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall
be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine
shillings a yard.”
Page 21
“That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr. Tilney,
looking at the muslin.
“Do you understand muslins, sir?”
“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a
gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a
prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard
for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little
notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of
my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir.”
“I hope I am, madam.”
“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do not
think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
“strange.”
“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told Miss
Morland when she bought it.”
“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap,
or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister
say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she
wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
“Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are
sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury,
but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine,
measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a
fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and
get a thing in five minutes.”
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she
kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine
feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too
much with the foibles of others. “What are you thinking of so earnestly?”
looking at the muslin.
“Do you understand muslins, sir?”
“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a
gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a
prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard
for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little
notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of
my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir.”
“I hope I am, madam.”
“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do not
think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
“strange.”
“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told Miss
Morland when she bought it.”
“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap,
or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister
say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she
wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
“Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are
sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury,
but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine,
measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a
fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and
get a thing in five minutes.”
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she
kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine
feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too
much with the foibles of others. “What are you thinking of so earnestly?”
Page 22
said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope,
for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.”
Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that
you will not tell me.”
“Well then, I will not.”
“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much.”
They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s
side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance.
Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and
water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot
be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a
morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has
maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the
gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady
should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have
dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had
not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable
as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied;
for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was,
and had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very
respectable family in Gloucestershire.
[1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler.
for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.”
Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that
you will not tell me.”
“Well then, I will not.”
“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much.”
They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s
side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance.
Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and
water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot
be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a
morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has
maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the
gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady
should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have
dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had
not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable
as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied;
for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was,
and had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very
respectable family in Gloucestershire.
[1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler.
Page 23
CHAPTER 4
With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the
morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was
demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except
himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable
hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the
steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to
see; and he only was absent. “What a delightful place Bath is,” said Mrs.
Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they
were tired; “and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.”
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied
diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just
reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about
her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively
for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words:
“I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the
pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?” This question
answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and
Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow
and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective
marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very
great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of
each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now
passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last
together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a
pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and
With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the
morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was
demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except
himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable
hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the
steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to
see; and he only was absent. “What a delightful place Bath is,” said Mrs.
Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they
were tired; “and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.”
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied
diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just
reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about
her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively
for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words:
“I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the
pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?” This question
answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and
Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow
and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective
marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very
great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of
each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now
passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last
together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a
pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and
Page 24
give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both
together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each
hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one
great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and
when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her
daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that John
was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and all
of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other
three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no
similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend,
and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions,
consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eyes soon
made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s pelisse was not half so handsome as
that on her own.
“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-
looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. “My dear
Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you:
the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others
are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest.”
The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for
a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike
them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady
observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her brother Miss Morland
is!”
“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or three
times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her
daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr.
James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately
formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of
Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with
his family, near London.
The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc.,
which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty
together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each
hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one
great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and
when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her
daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that John
was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and all
of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other
three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no
similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend,
and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions,
consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eyes soon
made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s pelisse was not half so handsome as
that on her own.
“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-
looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. “My dear
Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you:
the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others
are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest.”
The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for
a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike
them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady
observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her brother Miss Morland
is!”
“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or three
times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her
daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr.
James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately
formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of
Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with
his family, near London.
The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc.,
which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty
Page 25
expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was
soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn
with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this extension of her
Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss
Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed
love.
Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes.
Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at
least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing
such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge,
its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her
new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation
between any gentleman and lady who only smiled on each other; and point
out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd. These powers received due
admiration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the
respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for
familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her
frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened
down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their
increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the
pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss
Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s
house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and
lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they
should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the
same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and
watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street from the drawing-room
window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her
figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which
had procured her such a friend.
Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a good-
humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her eldest
daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to
be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same
style, did very well.
soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn
with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this extension of her
Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss
Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed
love.
Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes.
Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at
least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing
such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge,
its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her
new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation
between any gentleman and lady who only smiled on each other; and point
out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd. These powers received due
admiration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the
respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for
familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her
frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened
down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their
increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the
pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss
Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s
house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and
lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they
should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the
same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and
watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street from the drawing-room
window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her
figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which
had procured her such a friend.
Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a good-
humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her eldest
daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to
be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same
style, did very well.
Page 26
This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity of
a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures
and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy the three or
four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and attorneys
might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed twenty years
before, be minutely repeated.
a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures
and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy the three or
four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and attorneys
might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed twenty years
before, be minutely repeated.
Page 27
CHAPTER 5
Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for
Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in vain.
Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped to be
more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather were
answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of it; for a
fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants, and all the
world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance
what a charming day it is.
As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a genteel
face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday throughout the
season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of better
company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets
of friendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked much, and with
much enjoyment; but again was Catherine disappointed in her hope of
reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to be met with; every search for him
was equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening assemblies;
neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was
he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-
drivers of the morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and
curiosity could do no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not
mentioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness,
which is always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s
imagination around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to
know more of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had
been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a
Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for
Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in vain.
Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped to be
more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather were
answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of it; for a
fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants, and all the
world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance
what a charming day it is.
As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a genteel
face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday throughout the
season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of better
company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets
of friendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked much, and with
much enjoyment; but again was Catherine disappointed in her hope of
reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to be met with; every search for him
was equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening assemblies;
neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was
he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-
drivers of the morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and
curiosity could do no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not
mentioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness,
which is always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s
imagination around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to
know more of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had
been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a
Page 28
subject, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from
whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of
him; and his impression on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken.
Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man, and was
equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and
would therefore shortly return. She liked him the better for being a
clergyman, “for she must confess herself very partial to the profession”; and
something like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was
wrong in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion—but she was not
experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to
know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence
should be forced.
Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had
found some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the
family of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,
had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her
daily expressions were no longer, “I wish we had some acquaintance in
Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs.
Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two
families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs.
Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was scarcely
ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for
Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every
gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it
to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other by their
Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each
other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a
rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute
in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read
novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and
impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their
contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they
are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing
the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be
whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of
him; and his impression on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken.
Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man, and was
equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and
would therefore shortly return. She liked him the better for being a
clergyman, “for she must confess herself very partial to the profession”; and
something like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was
wrong in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion—but she was not
experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to
know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence
should be forced.
Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had
found some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the
family of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,
had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her
daily expressions were no longer, “I wish we had some acquaintance in
Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs.
Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two
families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs.
Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was scarcely
ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for
Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every
gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it
to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other by their
Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each
other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a
rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute
in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read
novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and
impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their
contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they
are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing
the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be
Page 29
read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure
to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel
be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect
protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every
new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now
groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our
productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than
those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of
composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion,
our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the
nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who
collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and
Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are
eulogized by a thousand pens—there seems almost a general wish of
decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of
slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to
recommend them. “I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do
not imagine that I often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.”
Such is the common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss——?” “Oh! It
is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with
affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or Camilla,
or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of
the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human
nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit
and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now,
had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator,
instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book,
and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied
by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or
manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its
papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances,
unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern
anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no
very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.
to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel
be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect
protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every
new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now
groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our
productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than
those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of
composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion,
our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the
nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who
collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and
Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are
eulogized by a thousand pens—there seems almost a general wish of
decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of
slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to
recommend them. “I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do
not imagine that I often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.”
Such is the common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss——?” “Oh! It
is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with
affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or Camilla,
or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of
the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human
nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit
and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now,
had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator,
instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book,
and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied
by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or
manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its
papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances,
unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern
anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no
very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.
Page 30
CHAPTER 6
The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is
given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy,
discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the
reasonableness of that attachment.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes
before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest creature,
what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this
age!”
“Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in
very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?”
“Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.
But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy
ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so
afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very
showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw
the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just
now—very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite
longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with
yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?”
“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black
veil.”
“Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is
behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?”
“Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told
upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina’s
skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my
The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is
given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy,
discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the
reasonableness of that attachment.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes
before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest creature,
what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this
age!”
“Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in
very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?”
“Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.
But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy
ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so
afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very
showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw
the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just
now—very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite
longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with
yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?”
“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black
veil.”
“Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is
behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?”
“Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told
upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina’s
skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my
Page 31
whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would
not have come away from it for all the world.”
“Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have
finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a
list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”
“Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?”
“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time.”
“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
horrid?”
“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet
girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them.
I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is
netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful
as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold
them all amazingly about it.”
“Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?”
“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really
my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature.
My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of
our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not
dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as
an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am
determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody
speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all
likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly
insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I
saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with
you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. “It is
very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to
not have come away from it for all the world.”
“Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have
finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a
list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”
“Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?”
“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time.”
“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
horrid?”
“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet
girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them.
I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is
netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful
as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold
them all amazingly about it.”
“Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?”
“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really
my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature.
My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of
our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not
dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as
an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am
determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody
speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all
likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly
insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I
saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with
you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. “It is
very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to
Page 32
everybody’s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be
nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking more seriously—“your
feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know
very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else.
Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved
object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.
Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
“Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you
would be miserable if you thought so!”
“No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.”
“It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but
I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.”
“No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
but new books do not fall in our way.”
“Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.”
“It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining.”
“Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head to-
night? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men
take notice of that sometimes, you know.”
“But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently.
“Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.
They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
spirit, and make them keep their distance.”
“Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to
me.”
“Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the
by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask
nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking more seriously—“your
feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know
very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else.
Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved
object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.
Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
“Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you
would be miserable if you thought so!”
“No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.”
“It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but
I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.”
“No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
but new books do not fall in our way.”
“Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.”
“It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining.”
“Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head to-
night? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men
take notice of that sometimes, you know.”
“But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently.
“Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.
They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
spirit, and make them keep their distance.”
“Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to
me.”
“Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the
by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask
Page 33
you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best
dark or fair?”
“I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both,
I think. Brown—not fair, and—and not very dark.”
“Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr. Tilney—‘a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark
hair.’ Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion—
do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray
me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that
description.”
“Betray you! What do you mean?”
“Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the
subject.”
Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that
time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s skeleton,
when her friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake! Let us move
away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young
men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite
out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly
follow us there.”
Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men.
“They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up.”
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that
she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-
room.
“And which way are they gone?” said Isabella, turning hastily round.
“One was a very good-looking young man.”
“They went towards the church-yard.”
“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say
you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You
dark or fair?”
“I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both,
I think. Brown—not fair, and—and not very dark.”
“Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr. Tilney—‘a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark
hair.’ Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion—
do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray
me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that
description.”
“Betray you! What do you mean?”
“Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the
subject.”
Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that
time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s skeleton,
when her friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake! Let us move
away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young
men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite
out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly
follow us there.”
Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men.
“They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up.”
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that
she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-
room.
“And which way are they gone?” said Isabella, turning hastily round.
“One was a very good-looking young man.”
“They went towards the church-yard.”
“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say
you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You
Page 34
said you should like to see it.”
Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake
the two young men.”
“Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,
and I am dying to show you my hat.”
“But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing
them at all.”
“I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
notion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil them.”
Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to
show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the
sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the
two young men.
Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake
the two young men.”
“Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,
and I am dying to show you my hat.”
“But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing
them at all.”
“I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
notion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil them.”
Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to
show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the
sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the
two young men.
Page 35
CHAPTER 7
Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted
with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this
point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately
connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the principal inn of
the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies, however
important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in
the present case) of young men, are not detained on one side or other by
carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had been felt and lamented, at least
three times a day, by Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now
fated to feel and lament it once more, for at the very moment of coming
opposite to Union Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were
proceeding through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting
alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along
on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the
vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his
companion, and his horse.
“Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest them.”
But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she looked
again and exclaimed, “Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!”
“Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by
Catherine; and, on catching the young men’s eyes, the horse was
immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his
haunches, and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped
out, and the equipage was delivered to his care.
Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his side of
equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes
Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted
with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this
point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately
connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the principal inn of
the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies, however
important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in
the present case) of young men, are not detained on one side or other by
carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had been felt and lamented, at least
three times a day, by Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now
fated to feel and lament it once more, for at the very moment of coming
opposite to Union Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were
proceeding through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting
alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along
on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the
vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his
companion, and his horse.
“Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest them.”
But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she looked
again and exclaimed, “Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!”
“Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by
Catherine; and, on catching the young men’s eyes, the horse was
immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his
haunches, and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped
out, and the equipage was delivered to his care.
Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his side of
equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes
Page 36
of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice; and to her his
devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which
might have informed Catherine, had she been more expert in the
development of other people’s feelings, and less simply engrossed by her
own, that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she could do
herself.
John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of
Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a
stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful
form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a
groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought
to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out
his watch: “How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury,
Miss Morland?”
“I do not know the distance.” Her brother told her that it was twenty-
three miles.
“Three-and-twenty!” cried Thorpe, “five-and-twenty if it is an inch.”
Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers, and
milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test of
distance. “I know it must be five-and-twenty,” said he, “by the time we
have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at
Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to
make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness; that makes it
exactly twenty-five.”
“You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we
came from Tetbury.”
“Ten o’clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This
brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do
but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your
life?” (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving off.)
“Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only three and
twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can.”
“He does look very hot, to be sure.”
devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which
might have informed Catherine, had she been more expert in the
development of other people’s feelings, and less simply engrossed by her
own, that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she could do
herself.
John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of
Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a
stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful
form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a
groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought
to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out
his watch: “How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury,
Miss Morland?”
“I do not know the distance.” Her brother told her that it was twenty-
three miles.
“Three-and-twenty!” cried Thorpe, “five-and-twenty if it is an inch.”
Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers, and
milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test of
distance. “I know it must be five-and-twenty,” said he, “by the time we
have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at
Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to
make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness; that makes it
exactly twenty-five.”
“You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we
came from Tetbury.”
“Ten o’clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This
brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do
but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your
life?” (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving off.)
“Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only three and
twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can.”
“He does look very hot, to be sure.”
Page 37
“Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look at
his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse cannot go
less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you
think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built;
I have not had it a month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of
mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was
convenient to have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for
some light thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a
curricle too; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was
driving into Oxford, last term: ‘Ah! Thorpe,’ said he, ‘do you happen to
want such a little thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am
cursed tired of it.’ ‘Oh! D—,’ said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’
And how much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”
“I am sure I cannot guess at all.”
“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps,
silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or
better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly, threw down the
money, and the carriage was mine.”
“And I am sure,” said Catherine, “I know so little of such things that I
cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.”
“Neither one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but I hate
haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.”
“That was very good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased.
“Oh! D—— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
I hate to be pitiful.”
An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that the
gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their
respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well
satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she endeavouring to
ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double recommendation of
being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s brother, so pure and
uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook and passed the
two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far from seeking to
attract their notice, that she looked back at them only three times.
his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse cannot go
less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you
think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built;
I have not had it a month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of
mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was
convenient to have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for
some light thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a
curricle too; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was
driving into Oxford, last term: ‘Ah! Thorpe,’ said he, ‘do you happen to
want such a little thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am
cursed tired of it.’ ‘Oh! D—,’ said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’
And how much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”
“I am sure I cannot guess at all.”
“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps,
silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or
better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly, threw down the
money, and the carriage was mine.”
“And I am sure,” said Catherine, “I know so little of such things that I
cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.”
“Neither one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but I hate
haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.”
“That was very good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased.
“Oh! D—— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
I hate to be pitiful.”
An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that the
gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their
respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well
satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she endeavouring to
ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double recommendation of
being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s brother, so pure and
uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook and passed the
two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far from seeking to
attract their notice, that she looked back at them only three times.
Page 38
John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes’
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. “You will find, however,
Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some people, for I
might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day; Jackson, of Oriel, bid
me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the time.”
“Yes,” said Morland, who overheard this; “but you forget that your horse
was included.”
“My horse! Oh, d—— it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are
you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”
“Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
particularly fond of it.”
“I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”
“Thank you,” said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
propriety of accepting such an offer.
“I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.”
“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”
“Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles to-day; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No,
no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day while I am
here.”
“Shall you indeed!” said Catherine very seriously. “That will be forty
miles a day.”
“Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown to-
morrow; mind, I am engaged.”
“How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella, turning round. “My dearest
Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will not have room
for a third.”
“A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about;
that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you.”
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than a
short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every
woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as she
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. “You will find, however,
Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some people, for I
might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day; Jackson, of Oriel, bid
me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the time.”
“Yes,” said Morland, who overheard this; “but you forget that your horse
was included.”
“My horse! Oh, d—— it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are
you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”
“Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
particularly fond of it.”
“I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”
“Thank you,” said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
propriety of accepting such an offer.
“I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.”
“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”
“Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles to-day; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No,
no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day while I am
here.”
“Shall you indeed!” said Catherine very seriously. “That will be forty
miles a day.”
“Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown to-
morrow; mind, I am engaged.”
“How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella, turning round. “My dearest
Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will not have room
for a third.”
“A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about;
that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you.”
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than a
short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every
woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as she
Page 39
could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female mind,
fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-
assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is concerned,
ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which had been long
uppermost in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr.
Thorpe?”
“Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to
do.”
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her
question, but he prevented her by saying, “Novels are all so full of nonsense
and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom
Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for all the others,
they are the stupidest things in creation.”
“I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
interesting.”
“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are
amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.”
“Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
“No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other
stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who
married the French emigrant.”
“I suppose you mean Camilla?”
“Yes, that’s the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at see-
saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon found it
would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it:
as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was sure I should never be
able to get through it.”
“I have never read it.”
“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing at see-
saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to
fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-
assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is concerned,
ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which had been long
uppermost in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr.
Thorpe?”
“Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to
do.”
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her
question, but he prevented her by saying, “Novels are all so full of nonsense
and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom
Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for all the others,
they are the stupidest things in creation.”
“I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
interesting.”
“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are
amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.”
“Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
“No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other
stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who
married the French emigrant.”
“I suppose you mean Camilla?”
“Yes, that’s the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at see-
saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon found it
would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it:
as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was sure I should never be
able to get through it.”
“I have never read it.”
“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing at see-
saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to
Page 40
the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe,
who had descried them from above, in the passage. “Ah, Mother! How do
you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where did you get
that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and
I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look out for a couple of
good beds somewhere near.” And this address seemed to satisfy all the
fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she received him with the most
delighted and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters he then
bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of
them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.
These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and
Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by Isabella’s
assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that John thought her
the most charming girl in the world, and by John’s engaging her before they
parted to dance with him that evening. Had she been older or vainer, such
attacks might have done little; but, where youth and diffidence are united, it
requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being
called the most charming girl in the world, and of being so very early
engaged as a partner; and the consequence was that, when the two
Morlands, after sitting an hour with the Thorpes, set off to walk together to
Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the door was closed on them, said, “Well,
Catherine, how do you like my friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she
probably would have done, had there been no friendship and no flattery in
the case, “I do not like him at all,” she directly replied, “I like him very
much; he seems very agreeable.”
“He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but that
will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the rest of
the family?”
“Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman I
could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is so
thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her; and
she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your praise that
could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you,
Catherine,” taking her hand with affection, “may be proud of.”
who had descried them from above, in the passage. “Ah, Mother! How do
you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where did you get
that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and
I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look out for a couple of
good beds somewhere near.” And this address seemed to satisfy all the
fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she received him with the most
delighted and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters he then
bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of
them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.
These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and
Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by Isabella’s
assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that John thought her
the most charming girl in the world, and by John’s engaging her before they
parted to dance with him that evening. Had she been older or vainer, such
attacks might have done little; but, where youth and diffidence are united, it
requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being
called the most charming girl in the world, and of being so very early
engaged as a partner; and the consequence was that, when the two
Morlands, after sitting an hour with the Thorpes, set off to walk together to
Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the door was closed on them, said, “Well,
Catherine, how do you like my friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she
probably would have done, had there been no friendship and no flattery in
the case, “I do not like him at all,” she directly replied, “I like him very
much; he seems very agreeable.”
“He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but that
will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the rest of
the family?”
“Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman I
could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is so
thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her; and
she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your praise that
could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you,
Catherine,” taking her hand with affection, “may be proud of.”
Page 41
“Indeed I am,” she replied; “I love her exceedingly, and am delighted to
find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when you
wrote to me after your visit there.”
“Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a
great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl; such a
superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she is evidently
the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in such a place as
this—is not she?”
“Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl in
Bath.”
“I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of
beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my
dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it
would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure, are
very kind to you?”
“Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far on
purpose to see me.”
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience for
accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, “Indeed, Catherine, I love
you dearly.”
Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression on
James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney Street,
where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen, invited
by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter to guess the
price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet. A pre-engagement in
Edgar’s Buildings prevented his accepting the invitation of one friend, and
obliged him to hurry away as soon as he had satisfied the demands of the
other. The time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon Room being
correctly adjusted, Catherine was then left to the luxury of a raised, restless,
and frightened imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly
concerns of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on
the delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when you
wrote to me after your visit there.”
“Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a
great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl; such a
superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she is evidently
the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in such a place as
this—is not she?”
“Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl in
Bath.”
“I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of
beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my
dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it
would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure, are
very kind to you?”
“Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far on
purpose to see me.”
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience for
accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, “Indeed, Catherine, I love
you dearly.”
Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression on
James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney Street,
where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen, invited
by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter to guess the
price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet. A pre-engagement in
Edgar’s Buildings prevented his accepting the invitation of one friend, and
obliged him to hurry away as soon as he had satisfied the demands of the
other. The time of the two parties uniting in the Octagon Room being
correctly adjusted, Catherine was then left to the luxury of a raised, restless,
and frightened imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly
concerns of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on
the delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
Page 42
bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged
for the evening.
for the evening.
Page 43
CHAPTER 8
In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from
Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes
and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the
most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and
envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperons, arm in arm, into
the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought occurred, and
supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of
affection.
The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and
James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the card-room
to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce her to join the
set before her dear Catherine could join it too. “I assure you,” said she, “I
would not stand up without your dear sister for all the world; for if I did we
should certainly be separated the whole evening.” Catherine accepted this
kindness with gratitude, and they continued as they were for three minutes
longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of
her, turned again to his sister and whispered, “My dear creature, I am afraid
I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know
you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a
moment, and then you may easily find me out.” Catherine, though a little
disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the
others rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend’s hand and say,
“Good-bye, my dear love,” before they hurried off. The younger Miss
Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe
and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help being
vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed to be
dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her situation
In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from
Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes
and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the
most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown, and
envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperons, arm in arm, into
the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought occurred, and
supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of
affection.
The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and
James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the card-room
to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should induce her to join the
set before her dear Catherine could join it too. “I assure you,” said she, “I
would not stand up without your dear sister for all the world; for if I did we
should certainly be separated the whole evening.” Catherine accepted this
kindness with gratitude, and they continued as they were for three minutes
longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of
her, turned again to his sister and whispered, “My dear creature, I am afraid
I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know
you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a
moment, and then you may easily find me out.” Catherine, though a little
disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the
others rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend’s hand and say,
“Good-bye, my dear love,” before they hurried off. The younger Miss
Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe
and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help being
vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, for she not only longed to be
dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of her situation
Page 44
could not be known, she was sharing with the scores of other young ladies
still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in
the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all
purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true
source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly
belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it what particularly
dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no
murmur passed her lips.
From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten minutes,
to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within
three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be moving that way,
but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his
sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her
heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was
talking with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman,
who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his
sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering
him lost to her forever, by being married already. But guided only by what
was simple and probable, it had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney
could be married; he had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married
men to whom she had been used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he
had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances sprang the instant
conclusion of his sister’s now being by his side; and therefore, instead of
turning of a deathlike paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen’s bosom,
Catherine sat erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a
little redder than usual.
Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to
approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her,
stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye, instantly
received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with
pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs.
Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. “I am very happy to see
you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.” He thanked her for
her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning
after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.
still sitting down all the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in
the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all
purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true
source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly
belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it what particularly
dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no
murmur passed her lips.
From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten minutes,
to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within
three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be moving that way,
but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and the blush, which his
sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed away without sullying her
heroic importance. He looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was
talking with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman,
who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his
sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a fair opportunity of considering
him lost to her forever, by being married already. But guided only by what
was simple and probable, it had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney
could be married; he had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married
men to whom she had been used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he
had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances sprang the instant
conclusion of his sister’s now being by his side; and therefore, instead of
turning of a deathlike paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen’s bosom,
Catherine sat erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a
little redder than usual.
Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to
approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her,
stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye, instantly
received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned it with
pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to her and Mrs.
Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. “I am very happy to see
you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.” He thanked her for
her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning
after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.
Page 45
“Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it is just
the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I tell Mr.
Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not
complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here
than at home at this dull time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent
here for his health.”
“And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,
from finding it of service to him.”
“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr.
Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite stout.”
“That circumstance must give great encouragement.”
“Yes, sir—and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I
tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.”
Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,
that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney
with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly done,
Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a few minutes’
consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This compliment,
delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the lady; and in giving
her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she
really felt it, that had Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a
minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The
very easy manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did
not by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars
which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs
of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers
between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking very often
towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear
Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman, she
could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was separated from all
her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded
another, and from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go
previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity
or enjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she
was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,
perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a
the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I tell Mr.
Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not
complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here
than at home at this dull time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent
here for his health.”
“And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,
from finding it of service to him.”
“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr.
Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite stout.”
“That circumstance must give great encouragement.”
“Yes, sir—and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I
tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.”
Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,
that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney
with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly done,
Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a few minutes’
consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This compliment,
delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the lady; and in giving
her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she
really felt it, that had Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a
minute earlier, he might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The
very easy manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did
not by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars
which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs
of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers
between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking very often
towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear
Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman, she
could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was separated from all
her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one mortification succeeded
another, and from the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go
previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity
or enjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she
was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,
perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a
Page 46
gentleman. “I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,” said she, “for this liberty—
but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure
you would not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you.”
Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the room more
happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to
each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss
Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of the
obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably settled
her young charge, returned to her party.
Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable
countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension, the
resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her manners
showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor affectedly
open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball
without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her, and without
exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every
little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at once by her appearance
and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted with
her, and readily talked therefore whenever she could think of anything to
say, and had courage and leisure for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in
the way of a very speedy intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of
these requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the first
rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how well the other
liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding country,
whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on
horseback.
The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm
gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed, “At
last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this
hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in
the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”
“My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not
even see where you were.”
“So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go
and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I—but all in vain—he would not stir an
inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately
but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure
you would not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you.”
Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the room more
happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to
each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness, Miss
Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of the
obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably settled
her young charge, returned to her party.
Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable
countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension, the
resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her manners
showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor affectedly
open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball
without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her, and without
exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every
little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at once by her appearance
and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being acquainted with
her, and readily talked therefore whenever she could think of anything to
say, and had courage and leisure for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in
the way of a very speedy intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of
these requisites, prevented their doing more than going through the first
rudiments of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how well the other
liked Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding country,
whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on
horseback.
The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm
gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed, “At
last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this
hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in
the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”
“My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not
even see where you were.”
“So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go
and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I—but all in vain—he would not stir an
inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately
Page 47
lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you
would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such
people.”
“Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,”
whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr. Tilney’s
sister.”
“Oh! Heavens! You don’t say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a
delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is her all-
conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if
he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking
about you.”
“But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?”
“There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! ’Tis nothing. But be
satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.”
“And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”
“Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to
you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I
would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not
very agreeable.”
In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject
seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well pleased to
have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total
suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the
orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led his fair partner
away, but she resisted. “I tell you, Mr. Morland,” she cried, “I would not do
such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive,
my dear Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to
dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and
entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were
not to change partners.”
“Upon my honour,” said James, “in these public assemblies, it is as often
done as not.”
“Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to
carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me;
would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such
people.”
“Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,”
whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr. Tilney’s
sister.”
“Oh! Heavens! You don’t say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a
delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is her all-
conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if
he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking
about you.”
“But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?”
“There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! ’Tis nothing. But be
satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.”
“And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”
“Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to
you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I
would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not
very agreeable.”
In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject
seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well pleased to
have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total
suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the
orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led his fair partner
away, but she resisted. “I tell you, Mr. Morland,” she cried, “I would not do
such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive,
my dear Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to
dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and
entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were
not to change partners.”
“Upon my honour,” said James, “in these public assemblies, it is as often
done as not.”
“Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to
carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me;
Page 48
persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite
shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”
“No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.”
“There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you will
not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old
ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven’s
sake, and stand by me.” And off they went, to regain their former place.
John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever
willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request
which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs.
Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them—a
hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly
unreasonable. “Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her
son, “I hope you have had an agreeable partner.”
“Very agreeable, madam.”
“I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”
“Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?” said Mrs. Allen.
“No, where is he?”
“He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,
that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask
you, if he met with you.”
“Where can he be?” said Catherine, looking round; but she had not
looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.
“Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you,” said Mrs. Allen; and
after a short silence, she added, “he is a very agreeable young man.”
“Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,” said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; “I
must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable
young man in the world.”
This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the
comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a
moment’s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, “I dare say she
thought I was speaking of her son.”
Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so
little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline
shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”
“No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.”
“There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you will
not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old
ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven’s
sake, and stand by me.” And off they went, to regain their former place.
John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever
willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request
which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs.
Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them—a
hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly
unreasonable. “Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her
son, “I hope you have had an agreeable partner.”
“Very agreeable, madam.”
“I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”
“Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?” said Mrs. Allen.
“No, where is he?”
“He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,
that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask
you, if he met with you.”
“Where can he be?” said Catherine, looking round; but she had not
looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.
“Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you,” said Mrs. Allen; and
after a short silence, she added, “he is a very agreeable young man.”
“Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,” said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; “I
must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable
young man in the world.”
This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the
comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a
moment’s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, “I dare say she
thought I was speaking of her son.”
Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so
little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline
Page 49
her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon
afterwards and said, “Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand
up and jig it together again.”
“Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”
“Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with
me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two
younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half
hour.”
Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney
was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss
Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella
were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure
to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one “dearest
Catherine.”
afterwards and said, “Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand
up and jig it together again.”
“Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”
“Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with
me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two
younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half
hour.”
Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney
was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss
Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella
were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure
to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one “dearest
Catherine.”
Page 50
CHAPTER 9
The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody
about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on
considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in
Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary hunger, and when that
was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the
extreme point of her distress; for when there she immediately fell into a
sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly
revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first
wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and
almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at
noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must be met with,
and that building she had already found so favourable for the discovery of
female excellence, and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably
adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most
reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her
plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after
breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment
till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by the
remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and
incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so
she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work,
if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the
street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether
there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve,
a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had
she time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages at the door,
in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second,
before John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling out, “Well, Miss
The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody
about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on
considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in
Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary hunger, and when that
was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the
extreme point of her distress; for when there she immediately fell into a
sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly
revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first
wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and
almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at
noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must be met with,
and that building she had already found so favourable for the discovery of
female excellence, and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably
adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most
reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her
plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after
breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment
till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by the
remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and
incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so
she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work,
if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the
street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether
there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve,
a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had
she time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages at the door,
in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second,
before John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling out, “Well, Miss
Page 51
Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come
before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a
thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one but they break
down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous
ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are
in a confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.”
“What do you mean?” said Catherine. “Where are you all going to?”
“Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree
together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are going
up Claverton Down.”
“Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at
Mrs. Allen for her opinion; “but really I did not expect you.”
“Not expect me! That’s a good one! And what a dust you would have
made, if I had not come.”
Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any
expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended by
anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again
could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who
thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as
Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to
speak plainer. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for
an hour or two? Shall I go?”
“Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a
very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others
time enough to get through a few short sentences in her praise, after Thorpe
had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig; and then receiving her
friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried downstairs. “My dearest
creature,” cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called
her before she could get into the carriage, “you have been at least three
hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had
last night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in,
for I long to be off.”
Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear
her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on
before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a
thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one but they break
down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous
ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are
in a confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.”
“What do you mean?” said Catherine. “Where are you all going to?”
“Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree
together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are going
up Claverton Down.”
“Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at
Mrs. Allen for her opinion; “but really I did not expect you.”
“Not expect me! That’s a good one! And what a dust you would have
made, if I had not come.”
Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any
expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended by
anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again
could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who
thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as
Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to
speak plainer. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for
an hour or two? Shall I go?”
“Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a
very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others
time enough to get through a few short sentences in her praise, after Thorpe
had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig; and then receiving her
friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried downstairs. “My dearest
creature,” cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called
her before she could get into the carriage, “you have been at least three
hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had
last night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in,
for I long to be off.”
Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear
her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on
Page 52
her.”
“You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,” said Thorpe, as he handed
her in, “if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will,
most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but
he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but
there is no vice in him.”
Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late
to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning
herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted knowledge of its
owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her.
Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse’s head
was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off they went in the
quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like
one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud
with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter
perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly
judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular
discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine,
though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his
horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a
coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same
quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any
unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an
hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of
air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of
February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes
succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe’s saying very
abruptly, “Old Allen is as rich as a Jew—is not he?” Catherine did not
understand him—and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, “Old
Allen, the man you are with.”
“Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”
“And no children at all?”
“No—not any.”
“A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?”
“My godfather! No.”
“You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,” said Thorpe, as he handed
her in, “if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will,
most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but
he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but
there is no vice in him.”
Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late
to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning
herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted knowledge of its
owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her.
Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse’s head
was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off they went in the
quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like
one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud
with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter
perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly
judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular
discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine,
though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his
horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a
coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same
quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any
unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an
hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of
air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of
February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes
succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe’s saying very
abruptly, “Old Allen is as rich as a Jew—is not he?” Catherine did not
understand him—and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, “Old
Allen, the man you are with.”
“Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”
“And no children at all?”
“No—not any.”
“A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?”
“My godfather! No.”
Page 53
“But you are always very much with them.”
“Yes, very much.”
“Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing.
Does he drink his bottle a day now?”
“His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?”
“Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men’s being in
liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
this—that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be
half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good
thing for us all.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be.
Our foggy climate wants help.”
“And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford.”
“Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody
drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four
pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing,
at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five
pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.
Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with
anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it. But this will just
give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there.”
“Yes, it does give a notion,” said Catherine warmly, “and that is, that you
all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure
James does not drink so much.”
This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no
part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost
to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with
rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in
Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother’s comparative
sobriety.
“Yes, very much.”
“Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing.
Does he drink his bottle a day now?”
“His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?”
“Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men’s being in
liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
this—that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be
half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good
thing for us all.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be.
Our foggy climate wants help.”
“And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford.”
“Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody
drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four
pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing,
at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five
pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.
Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with
anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it. But this will just
give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there.”
“Yes, it does give a notion,” said Catherine warmly, “and that is, that you
all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure
James does not drink so much.”
This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no
part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost
to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with
rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in
Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother’s comparative
sobriety.
Page 54
Thorpe’s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse
moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the
springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his
admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was
impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of
expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she
could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed
whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without
any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind
in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the
best coachman. “You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine,
venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to
offer some little variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break
down?”
“Break down! Oh, lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been
fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! Upon my soul,
you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish
little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I
would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds.”
“Good heavens!” cried Catherine, quite frightened. “Then pray let us turn
back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn
back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very
unsafe it is.”
“Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it
does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh,
curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing
of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn
out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York
and back again, without losing a nail.”
Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two
such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought
up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle
assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own
family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any
she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse
moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the
springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his
admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was
impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of
expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she
could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed
whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without
any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind
in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the
best coachman. “You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine,
venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to
offer some little variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break
down?”
“Break down! Oh, lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been
fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! Upon my soul,
you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish
little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I
would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds.”
“Good heavens!” cried Catherine, quite frightened. “Then pray let us turn
back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn
back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very
unsafe it is.”
“Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it
does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh,
curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing
of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn
out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York
and back again, without losing a nail.”
Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two
such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought
up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle
assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own
family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any
Page 55
kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother
with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase
their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict
the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and
was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer
insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because
it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in
making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and,
joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister
and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily
preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in
fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the
whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation,
or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told
her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums;
of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner;
of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without
having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to
her some famous day’s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight
and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most
experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it
had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly
leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the
necks of many.
Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as
were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely
repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of
his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was
Isabella’s brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners
would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme
weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an
hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in
Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high
authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure.
When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella was
hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to
attend her friend into the house: “Past three o’clock!” It was inconceivable,
with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase
their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict
the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and
was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer
insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because
it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in
making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and,
joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister
and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily
preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in
fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the
whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation,
or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told
her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums;
of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner;
of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without
having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to
her some famous day’s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight
and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most
experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it
had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly
leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the
necks of many.
Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as
were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely
repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of
his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was
Isabella’s brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners
would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme
weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an
hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in
Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high
authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure.
When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella was
hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to
attend her friend into the house: “Past three o’clock!” It was inconceivable,
Page 56
incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor
her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would believe no assurance of it
founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and
ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then, would have
been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only
protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off
so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could
not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the
misery of her friend’s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her
own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on
finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a
moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had
such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to
be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the
laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.
Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the
morning, and was immediately greeted with, “Well, my dear, here you are,”
a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; “and I
hope you have had a pleasant airing?”
“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”
“So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”
“You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?”
“Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any
veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce.”
“Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?”
“Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.”
“Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”
“Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem
very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and
I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs.
Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.”
“And what did she tell you of them?”
“Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.”
her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would believe no assurance of it
founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and
ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then, would have
been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only
protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off
so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could
not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the
misery of her friend’s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her
own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on
finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a
moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had
such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to
be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the
laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on.
Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the
morning, and was immediately greeted with, “Well, my dear, here you are,”
a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; “and I
hope you have had a pleasant airing?”
“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”
“So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”
“You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?”
“Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any
veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce.”
“Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?”
“Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.”
“Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”
“Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem
very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and
I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs.
Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.”
“And what did she tell you of them?”
“Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.”
Page 57
“Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?”
“Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of
people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs.
Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune;
and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and
five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after
they came from the warehouse.”
“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”
“Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am
sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very
beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her
wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her
when her mother died.”
“And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?”
“I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is;
but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to
do very well.”
Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs.
Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly
unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and
sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have
persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only
lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her
that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John Thorpe
himself was quite disagreeable.
“Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of
people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs.
Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune;
and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and
five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after
they came from the warehouse.”
“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”
“Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am
sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very
beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her
wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her
when her mother died.”
“And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?”
“I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is;
but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to
do very well.”
Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs.
Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly
unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and
sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have
persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only
lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her
that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John Thorpe
himself was quite disagreeable.
Page 58
CHAPTER 10
The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre;
and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity
for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand things which had been
collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time
which had divided them. “Oh, heavens! My beloved Catherine, have I got
you at last?” was her address on Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by
her. “Now, Mr. Morland,” for he was close to her on the other side, “I shall
not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you
not to expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age?
But I need not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your
hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you
want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with
you already; and as for Mr. Tilney—but that is a settled thing—even your
modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes
it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite wild
with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man in the
world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him to me.
Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven’s sake! I assure you, I can
hardly exist till I see him.”
“No,” said Catherine, “he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.”
“Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my
gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and
I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a
few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our
tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place;
really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There
was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by
The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre;
and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity
for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand things which had been
collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time
which had divided them. “Oh, heavens! My beloved Catherine, have I got
you at last?” was her address on Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by
her. “Now, Mr. Morland,” for he was close to her on the other side, “I shall
not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you
not to expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age?
But I need not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your
hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you
want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with
you already; and as for Mr. Tilney—but that is a settled thing—even your
modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes
it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite wild
with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man in the
world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him to me.
Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven’s sake! I assure you, I can
hardly exist till I see him.”
“No,” said Catherine, “he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.”
“Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my
gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and
I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a
few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our
tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place;
really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There
was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by
Page 59
for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made
some droll remark or other about it.”
“No, indeed I should not.”
“Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself.
You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some
nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception;
my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you
by for the world.”
“Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a
remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have
entered my head.”
Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to James.
Catherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going
to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay
them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the
ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after
drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics
of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies
walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new
bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by
James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour,
and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend.
James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position,
and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that
manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a
situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her
very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed
in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much
laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion was not unfrequently
called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not
having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered
to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to
Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs.
some droll remark or other about it.”
“No, indeed I should not.”
“Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself.
You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some
nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception;
my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you
by for the world.”
“Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a
remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have
entered my head.”
Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to James.
Catherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going
to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay
them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the
ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after
drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics
of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies
walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new
bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by
James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour,
and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend.
James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position,
and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that
manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a
situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her
very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed
in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much
laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion was not unfrequently
called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not
having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered
to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to
Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs.
Page 60
Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be
acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been
urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with
great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they
continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and
though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression
used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times
before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being
spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be
something uncommon.
“How well your brother dances!” was an artless exclamation of
Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised
and amused her companion.
“Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”
“He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the
other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged
the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.” Miss Tilney could only bow. “You cannot
think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised I was to
see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”
“When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but
for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.”
“That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on
Monday a Miss Smith?”
“Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.”
“I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?”
“Not very.”
“He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”
“Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”
Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
go. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” said
Catherine. “Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?”
“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”
acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been
urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with
great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they
continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and
though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression
used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times
before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being
spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be
something uncommon.
“How well your brother dances!” was an artless exclamation of
Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised
and amused her companion.
“Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”
“He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the
other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged
the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.” Miss Tilney could only bow. “You cannot
think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised I was to
see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”
“When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but
for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.”
“That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on
Monday a Miss Smith?”
“Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.”
“I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?”
“Not very.”
“He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”
“Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”
Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
go. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” said
Catherine. “Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?”
“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”
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“I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.” This civility was duly returned;
and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of her new
acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the smallest
consciousness of having explained them.
She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the
future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at
all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often
destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had
read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay
awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and
her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented
her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in
judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex
rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned
her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new
gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be
made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly
or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin,
and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the
sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better
for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of
shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one
of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.
She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not,
dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her
wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may
feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at
some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all
have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone
whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of
someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the
and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of her new
acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the smallest
consciousness of having explained them.
She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the
future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at
all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often
destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had
read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay
awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and
her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented
her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in
judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex
rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned
her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new
gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be
made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly
or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin,
and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the
sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better
for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of
shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one
of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.
She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not,
dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her
wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may
feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at
some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all
have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone
whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of
someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the
Page 62
Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came
towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he
spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the
country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.
“Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I am
really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite
shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John
must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to
us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.”
Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That
she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes
intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in
supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys
in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she
suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr.
Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his
request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the
set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly
escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her,
asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought her on purpose!—it did not appear
to her that life could supply any greater felicity.
Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place,
however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood
behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning of
this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”
“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”
“That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the
room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you
were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of
dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since
Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby
for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was
going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when they see you
standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously.”
“Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.”
towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he
spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the
country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.
“Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I am
really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite
shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John
must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to
us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment.”
Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That
she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes
intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in
supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys
in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she
suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr.
Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his
request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the
set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly
escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her,
asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought her on purpose!—it did not appear
to her that life could supply any greater felicity.
Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place,
however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood
behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning of
this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”
“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”
“That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the
room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you
were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of
dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since
Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby
for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was
going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when they see you
standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously.”
“Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.”
Page 63
“By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for
blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his curiosity.
“Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure of a man;
well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of mine, Sam
Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A famous clever
animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself,
for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with
one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I
would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that
ever were backed. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them.
Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next
season. It is so d—— uncomfortable, living at an inn.”
This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s attention,
for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of
passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, “That gentleman
would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute
longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me.
We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an
evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that
time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring
the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of
marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and
those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no
business with the partners or wives of their neighbours.”
“But they are such very different things!”
“—That you think they cannot be compared together.”
“To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long
room for half an hour.”
“And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that
light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place
them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of
choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement
between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when
once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of
its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no
blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his curiosity.
“Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure of a man;
well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of mine, Sam
Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A famous clever
animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself,
for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with
one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I
would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that
ever were backed. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them.
Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next
season. It is so d—— uncomfortable, living at an inn.”
This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s attention,
for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of
passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, “That gentleman
would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute
longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me.
We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an
evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that
time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring
the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of
marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and
those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no
business with the partners or wives of their neighbours.”
“But they are such very different things!”
“—That you think they cannot be compared together.”
“To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long
room for half an hour.”
“And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that
light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place
them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of
choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement
between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when
once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of
its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no
Page 64
cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and
their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards
the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been
better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?”
“Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are
so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think
the same duties belong to them.”
“In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is
supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the
home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in
dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance
are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water.
That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering
the conditions incapable of comparison.”
“No, indeed, I never thought of that.”
“Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of
the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish?
Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now
were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would
be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?”
“Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if he
talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men
in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.”
“And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”
“Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it
is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to
anybody.”
“Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
making the inquiry before?”
“Yes, quite—more so, indeed.”
“More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time.
You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.”
their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards
the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been
better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?”
“Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are
so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think
the same duties belong to them.”
“In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is
supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the
home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in
dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance
are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water.
That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering
the conditions incapable of comparison.”
“No, indeed, I never thought of that.”
“Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of
the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish?
Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now
were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would
be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?”
“Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if he
talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men
in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.”
“And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”
“Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it
is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to
anybody.”
“Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
making the inquiry before?”
“Yes, quite—more so, indeed.”
“More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time.
You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.”
Page 65
“I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.”
“Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds
out every year. ‘For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond
that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.’ You would be told so by
people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their
six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to
stay no longer.”
“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to
London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village
in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than
in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things
to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there.”
“You are not fond of the country.”
“Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life.
One day in the country is exactly like another.”
“But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”
“Do I?”
“Do you not?”
“I do not believe there is much difference.”
“Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”
“And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and
there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.”
Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
“Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!” he repeated. “What a picture of
intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will
have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did
here.”
“Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.
Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath,
when I am at home again—I do like it so very much. If I could but have
Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too
happy! James’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful—and
“Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds
out every year. ‘For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond
that, it is the most tiresome place in the world.’ You would be told so by
people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their
six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to
stay no longer.”
“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to
London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village
in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than
in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things
to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there.”
“You are not fond of the country.”
“Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life.
One day in the country is exactly like another.”
“But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”
“Do I?”
“Do you not?”
“I do not believe there is much difference.”
“Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”
“And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and
there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.”
Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
“Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!” he repeated. “What a picture of
intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will
have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did
here.”
“Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.
Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath,
when I am at home again—I do like it so very much. If I could but have
Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too
happy! James’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful—and
Page 66
especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate
with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”
“Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.
But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal
gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath—and the honest relish of balls
and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.”
Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now
too importunate for a divided attention.
Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and
with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr.
Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the
fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned
away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her
partner, coming nearer, said, “I see that you guess what I have just been
asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his.
It is General Tilney, my father.”
Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing
everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their
truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the
general, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a family they
are!” was her secret remark.
In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival
in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were
familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know
them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with
her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a
walk, some morning or other. “I shall like it,” she cried, “beyond anything
in the world; and do not let us put it off—let us go to-morrow.” This was
readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney’s, that it did not rain,
which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o’clock, they were to call
for her in Pulteney Street; and “Remember—twelve o’clock,” was her
parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more
with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”
“Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.
But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal
gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath—and the honest relish of balls
and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.”
Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now
too importunate for a divided attention.
Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and
with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr.
Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the
fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned
away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her
partner, coming nearer, said, “I see that you guess what I have just been
asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his.
It is General Tilney, my father.”
Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing
everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their
truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the
general, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a family they
are!” was her secret remark.
In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival
in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were
familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know
them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with
her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a
walk, some morning or other. “I shall like it,” she cried, “beyond anything
in the world; and do not let us put it off—let us go to-morrow.” This was
readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney’s, that it did not rain,
which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o’clock, they were to call
for her in Pulteney Street; and “Remember—twelve o’clock,” was her
parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more
Page 67
established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a
fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet,
though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully
submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and
her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home.
fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet,
though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully
submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and
her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home.
Page 68
CHAPTER 11
The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only
a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed,
would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the
day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but
Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined
giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and
Mrs. Allen’s opinion was more positive. “She had no doubt in the world of
its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep
out.”
At about eleven o’clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
windows caught Catherine’s watchful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it
will be wet,” broke from her in a most desponding tone.
“I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen.
“No walk for me to-day,” sighed Catherine; “but perhaps it may come to
nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”
“Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”
“Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.”
“No,” replied her friend very placidly, “I know you never mind dirt.”
After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Catherine, as she
stood watching at a window.
“So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”
“There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
umbrella!”
“They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair
at any time.”
The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only
a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed,
would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the
day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but
Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined
giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and
Mrs. Allen’s opinion was more positive. “She had no doubt in the world of
its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep
out.”
At about eleven o’clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
windows caught Catherine’s watchful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it
will be wet,” broke from her in a most desponding tone.
“I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen.
“No walk for me to-day,” sighed Catherine; “but perhaps it may come to
nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”
“Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”
“Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt.”
“No,” replied her friend very placidly, “I know you never mind dirt.”
After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Catherine, as she
stood watching at a window.
“So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”
“There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
umbrella!”
“They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair
at any time.”
Page 69
“It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be
dry!”
“Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people
in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on
his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do
anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should
dislike it, it must be so comfortable.”
The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five
minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on
raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The
clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not be able to go, my
dear.”
“I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve.
This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little
lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I shall give it up
entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at
least in Tuscany and the south of France!—the night that poor St. Aubin
died!—such beautiful weather!”
At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather
was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the
sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by
surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly
returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.
Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,
and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always thought it would
clear up.” But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether
there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a
question.
It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-
room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely watched
him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the
same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had
surprised her so much a few mornings back.
“Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me
perhaps—but I shall not go—I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney
may still call.” Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them,
dry!”
“Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people
in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on
his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do
anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should
dislike it, it must be so comfortable.”
The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five
minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on
raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The
clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not be able to go, my
dear.”
“I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve.
This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little
lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I shall give it up
entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at
least in Tuscany and the south of France!—the night that poor St. Aubin
died!—such beautiful weather!”
At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather
was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the
sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by
surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly
returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance.
Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed,
and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always thought it would
clear up.” But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether
there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a
question.
It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-
room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely watched
him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the
same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had
surprised her so much a few mornings back.
“Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me
perhaps—but I shall not go—I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney
may still call.” Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them,
Page 70
and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out
to Miss Morland to be quick. “Make haste! Make haste!” as he threw open
the door. “Put on your hat this moment—there is no time to be lost—we are
going to Bristol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”
“To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with
you to-day, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.”
This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen
was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their
assistance. “My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a
most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme;
it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same
instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for
this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we
shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We
shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over,
if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston.”
“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland.
“You croaking fellow!” cried Thorpe. “We shall be able to do ten times
more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.”
“Blaize Castle!” cried Catherine. “What is that?”
“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to
see.”
“What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”
“The oldest in the kingdom.”
“But is it like what one reads of?”
“Exactly—the very same.”
“But now really—are there towers and long galleries?”
“By dozens.”
“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.”
“Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?”
“I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
to Miss Morland to be quick. “Make haste! Make haste!” as he threw open
the door. “Put on your hat this moment—there is no time to be lost—we are
going to Bristol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”
“To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with
you to-day, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.”
This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen
was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their
assistance. “My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a
most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme;
it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same
instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for
this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we
shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We
shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over,
if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston.”
“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland.
“You croaking fellow!” cried Thorpe. “We shall be able to do ten times
more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.”
“Blaize Castle!” cried Catherine. “What is that?”
“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to
see.”
“What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”
“The oldest in the kingdom.”
“But is it like what one reads of?”
“Exactly—the very same.”
“But now really—are there towers and long galleries?”
“By dozens.”
“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.”
“Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?”
“I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
Page 71
country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as
it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”
“Not they indeed,” cried Thorpe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street, I
saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”
“I do not know indeed.”
“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
smart-looking girl.”
“Did you indeed?”
“Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too.”
“It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
walk.”
“And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You
could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole
winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”
Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea
of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”
“I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up
every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”
“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”
“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and
call by and by?”
“Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks.”
“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”
“Just as you please, my dear.”
“Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,” was the general cry. Mrs.
Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose you go.”
And in two minutes they were off.
it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”
“Not they indeed,” cried Thorpe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street, I
saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”
“I do not know indeed.”
“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
smart-looking girl.”
“Did you indeed?”
“Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too.”
“It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
walk.”
“And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You
could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole
winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”
Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea
of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”
“I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up
every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”
“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”
“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and
call by and by?”
“Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks.”
“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”
“Just as you please, my dear.”
“Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,” was the general cry. Mrs.
Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose you go.”
And in two minutes they were off.
Page 72
Catherine’s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled
state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope
of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in
kind. She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite well by her, in so
readily giving up their engagement, without sending her any message of
excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for the
beginning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the
prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not
from her own observation help thinking that they might have gone with
very little inconvenience. To feel herself slighted by them was very painful.
On the other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her
fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as
might console her for almost anything.
They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Buildings,
however, she was roused by this address from her companion, “Who is that
girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”
“Who? Where?”
“On the right-hand pavement—she must be almost out of sight now.”
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s arm,
walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.
“Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss Tilney; it is
indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out
this moment and go to them.” But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe
only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to
look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura
Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace.
Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to
stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must
go back to Miss Tilney.” But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip,
encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry
and vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give
up the point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How
could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw
state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope
of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in
kind. She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite well by her, in so
readily giving up their engagement, without sending her any message of
excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for the
beginning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the
prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not
from her own observation help thinking that they might have gone with
very little inconvenience. To feel herself slighted by them was very painful.
On the other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her
fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as
might console her for almost anything.
They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Buildings,
however, she was roused by this address from her companion, “Who is that
girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”
“Who? Where?”
“On the right-hand pavement—she must be almost out of sight now.”
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s arm,
walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.
“Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss Tilney; it is
indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out
this moment and go to them.” But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe
only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to
look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura
Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace.
Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to
stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must
go back to Miss Tilney.” But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip,
encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry
and vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give
up the point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How
could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw
Page 73
them driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for
the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too,
without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no
pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times
rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw
them driving out in a phaeton?” Thorpe defended himself very stoutly,
declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would
hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney himself.
Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in their
former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize
Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still looked at intervals
with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and
especially rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly
have given up all the happiness which its walls could supply—the
happiness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the
remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the
happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a
low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness.
In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance,
and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from
Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was
the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and
Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on to-day;
your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming
from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we
have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too
late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round.”
“It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning
his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.
“If your brother had not got such a d—— beast to drive,” said he soon
afterwards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted
to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my
arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade’s pace. Morland
is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own.”
the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too,
without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no
pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times
rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw
them driving out in a phaeton?” Thorpe defended himself very stoutly,
declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would
hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney himself.
Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in their
former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize
Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still looked at intervals
with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and
especially rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly
have given up all the happiness which its walls could supply—the
happiness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the
remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the
happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a
low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness.
In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance,
and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from
Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was
the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and
Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on to-day;
your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming
from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we
have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too
late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round.”
“It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning
his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.
“If your brother had not got such a d—— beast to drive,” said he soon
afterwards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted
to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my
arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade’s pace. Morland
is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own.”
Page 74
“No, he is not,” said Catherine warmly, “for I am sure he could not afford
it.”
“And why cannot he afford it?”
“Because he has not money enough.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud,
incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d——
thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford
things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed
either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they returned
to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.
As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady
had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off; that,
when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked
whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt
for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over
these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs. At the head
of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their
speedy return, said, “I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad
you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.”
They all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was disturbed
and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the
fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very good
equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction,
too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once. “How I
pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not
amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not
begun dancing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful
to have an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very
good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody
that is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am
sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare
say we could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of
such consequence.”
it.”
“And why cannot he afford it?”
“Because he has not money enough.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud,
incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d——
thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford
things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed
either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they returned
to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.
As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady
had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off; that,
when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked
whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt
for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over
these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs. At the head
of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their
speedy return, said, “I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad
you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.”
They all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was disturbed
and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the
fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very good
equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction,
too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once. “How I
pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not
amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not
begun dancing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful
to have an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very
good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody
that is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am
sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare
say we could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of
such consequence.”
Page 75
Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they appear to
dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered.
“Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,” she whispered. “You will quite
break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but the Tilneys were
entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed,
but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I
never mind going through anything, where a friend is concerned; that is my
disposition, and John is just the same; he has amazing strong feelings. Good
heavens! What a delightful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so
happy in my life! I would fifty times rather you should have them than
myself.”
And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
true heroine’s portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears.
And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night’s rest in the
course of the next three months.
tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they appear to
dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered.
“Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,” she whispered. “You will quite
break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but the Tilneys were
entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed,
but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I
never mind going through anything, where a friend is concerned; that is my
disposition, and John is just the same; he has amazing strong feelings. Good
heavens! What a delightful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so
happy in my life! I would fifty times rather you should have them than
myself.”
And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
true heroine’s portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears.
And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night’s rest in the
course of the next three months.
Page 76
CHAPTER 12
“Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm in
my calling on Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not be easy till I have explained
everything.”
“Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
always wears white.”
Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform herself
of General Tilney’s lodgings, for though she believed they were in Milsom
Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen’s wavering
convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she was directed,
and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened away with eager
steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be
forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning
away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see her beloved Isabella and
her dear family, who, she had reason to believe, were in a shop hard by. She
reached the house without any impediment, looked at the number, knocked
at the door, and inquired for Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to
be at home, but was not quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her
name? She gave her card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a
look which did not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for
that Miss Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification,
left the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and
too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street, could
not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in expectation of
seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the bottom of the street,
however, she looked back again, and then, not at a window, but issuing
from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was followed by a
gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they turned up
towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep mortification, proceeded on
“Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm in
my calling on Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not be easy till I have explained
everything.”
“Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
always wears white.”
Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform herself
of General Tilney’s lodgings, for though she believed they were in Milsom
Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen’s wavering
convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she was directed,
and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened away with eager
steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be
forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning
away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see her beloved Isabella and
her dear family, who, she had reason to believe, were in a shop hard by. She
reached the house without any impediment, looked at the number, knocked
at the door, and inquired for Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to
be at home, but was not quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her
name? She gave her card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a
look which did not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for
that Miss Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification,
left the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and
too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street, could
not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in expectation of
seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the bottom of the street,
however, she looked back again, and then, not at a window, but issuing
from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was followed by a
gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they turned up
towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep mortification, proceeded on
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her way. She could almost be angry herself at such angry incivility; but she
checked the resentful sensation; she remembered her own ignorance. She
knew not how such an offence as hers might be classed by the laws of
worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it might with
propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make
her amenable.
Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they were not
of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first place, that she was
without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the second, that it was a
play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre accordingly they all went;
no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her; she feared that, amongst the
many perfections of the family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked;
but perhaps it was because they were habituated to the finer performances
of the London stage, which she knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered
everything else of the kind “quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own
expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no one,
observing her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any
wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden
view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite
genuine merriment—no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look
upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space
of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without being once
able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a
play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole
scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed—but
such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended it; his eyes were
immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine was restlessly
miserable; she could almost have run round to the box in which he sat and
forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings rather natural than heroic
possessed her; instead of considering her own dignity injured by this ready
condemnation—instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to
show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave
to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the
past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else—she took to
checked the resentful sensation; she remembered her own ignorance. She
knew not how such an offence as hers might be classed by the laws of
worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it might with
propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make
her amenable.
Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they were not
of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first place, that she was
without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the second, that it was a
play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre accordingly they all went;
no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her; she feared that, amongst the
many perfections of the family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked;
but perhaps it was because they were habituated to the finer performances
of the London stage, which she knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered
everything else of the kind “quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own
expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no one,
observing her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any
wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden
view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite
genuine merriment—no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look
upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space
of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without being once
able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a
play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole
scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed—but
such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended it; his eyes were
immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine was restlessly
miserable; she could almost have run round to the box in which he sat and
forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings rather natural than heroic
possessed her; instead of considering her own dignity injured by this ready
condemnation—instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to
show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave
to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the
past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else—she took to
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herself all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was
only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.
The play concluded—the curtain fell—Henry Tilney was no longer to be
seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes he
appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with
like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such calmness
was he answered by the latter: “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to
speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude;
but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me
that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then
what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you;
now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”
“My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply.
Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it
brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and he
replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We were
much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our
passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose.”
“But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a
thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as
soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not—Oh! You were not there;
but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have
jumped out and run after you.”
Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said
everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret, and dependence
on Catherine’s honour. “Oh, do not say Miss Tilney was not angry,” cried
Catherine, “because I know she was; for she would not see me this morning
when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after my
leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I
had been there.”
“I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she has
been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such incivility;
but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than that my father—
they were just preparing to walk out, and he being hurried for time, and not
only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.
The play concluded—the curtain fell—Henry Tilney was no longer to be
seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes he
appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with
like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such calmness
was he answered by the latter: “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to
speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude;
but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me
that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then
what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you;
now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”
“My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply.
Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it
brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and he
replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We were
much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our
passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose.”
“But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a
thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as
soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not—Oh! You were not there;
but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have
jumped out and run after you.”
Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said
everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret, and dependence
on Catherine’s honour. “Oh, do not say Miss Tilney was not angry,” cried
Catherine, “because I know she was; for she would not see me this morning
when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after my
leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I
had been there.”
“I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she has
been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such incivility;
but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than that my father—
they were just preparing to walk out, and he being hurried for time, and not
Page 79
caring to have it put off—made a point of her being denied. That was all, I
do assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to make her apology
as soon as possible.”
Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the gentleman: “But,
Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your sister? If she felt such
confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a
mistake, why should you be so ready to take offence?”
“Me! I take offence!”
“Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
angry.”
“I angry! I could have no right.”
“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”
He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.
He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however,
it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible;
and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, she was, upon the
whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the world.
While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes
together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt
something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself
the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say of
her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found it
was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather than
postpone his own walk a few minutes. “How came Mr. Thorpe to know
your father?” was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her
companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military
man, had a very large acquaintance.
When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while they
waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had travelled
from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in a consequential
do assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to make her apology
as soon as possible.”
Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the gentleman: “But,
Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your sister? If she felt such
confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a
mistake, why should you be so ready to take offence?”
“Me! I take offence!”
“Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
angry.”
“I angry! I could have no right.”
“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”
He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.
He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however,
it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible;
and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, she was, upon the
whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the world.
While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes
together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt
something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself
the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say of
her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found it
was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather than
postpone his own walk a few minutes. “How came Mr. Thorpe to know
your father?” was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her
companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military
man, had a very large acquaintance.
When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while they
waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had travelled
from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in a consequential
Page 80
manner, whether she had seen him talking with General Tilney: “He is a
fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active—looks as young as his son. I
have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of
fellow as ever lived.”
“But how came you to know him?”
“Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again to-day the
moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have, by
the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost afraid of him
at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if I had not made one of
the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this world—I took his
ball exactly—but I could not make you understand it without a table;
however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like to
dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners. But what do you think
we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you
the finest girl in Bath.”
“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”
“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done,
general, said I; I am quite of your mind.”
Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued the
same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done.
That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the family
whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much more,
for her than could have been expected.
fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active—looks as young as his son. I
have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of
fellow as ever lived.”
“But how came you to know him?”
“Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again to-day the
moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have, by
the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost afraid of him
at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if I had not made one of
the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this world—I took his
ball exactly—but I could not make you understand it without a table;
however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like to
dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners. But what do you think
we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you
the finest girl in Bath.”
“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”
“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done,
general, said I; I am quite of your mind.”
Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued the
same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done.
That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the family
whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much more,
for her than could have been expected.
Page 81
CHAPTER 13
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes and
fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated, and the
pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the week. The
Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on the afternoon’s
Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a private consultation
between Isabella and James, the former of whom had particularly set her
heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously placed his upon pleasing
her, it was agreed that, provided the weather were fair, the party should take
place on the following morning; and they were to set off very early, in order
to be at home in good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s
approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it. She had
left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan
was completed, and as soon as she came again, her agreement was
demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella,
Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The engagement
which ought to have kept her from joining in the former attempt would
make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had that moment
settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk to-morrow; it was quite
determined, and she would not, upon any account, retract. But that she must
and should retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they
must go to Clifton to-morrow, they would not go without her, it would be
nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear
of a refusal. Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me,
Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.” This availed nothing.
The same arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and
they would not hear of a refusal. “It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney
that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg
to put off the walk till Tuesday.”
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes and
fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated, and the
pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the week. The
Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on the afternoon’s
Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a private consultation
between Isabella and James, the former of whom had particularly set her
heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously placed his upon pleasing
her, it was agreed that, provided the weather were fair, the party should take
place on the following morning; and they were to set off very early, in order
to be at home in good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s
approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it. She had
left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan
was completed, and as soon as she came again, her agreement was
demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella,
Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The engagement
which ought to have kept her from joining in the former attempt would
make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had that moment
settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk to-morrow; it was quite
determined, and she would not, upon any account, retract. But that she must
and should retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they
must go to Clifton to-morrow, they would not go without her, it would be
nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear
of a refusal. Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me,
Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.” This availed nothing.
The same arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and
they would not hear of a refusal. “It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney
that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg
to put off the walk till Tuesday.”
Page 82
“No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
engagement.” But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on
her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most endearing
names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not seriously
refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so dearly. She knew
her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so
easily persuaded by those she loved. But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to
be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such flattering
supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another
method. She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney,
though she had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest
friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. “I
cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for
strangers, I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are
placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my
feelings are stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my
own peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers
does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up
everything else.”
Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella
appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her
own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said
nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her
eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, “Nay,
Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not
much; and to oblige such a friend—I shall think you quite unkind, if you
still refuse.”
This was the first time of her brother’s openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would
only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it
depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody
might then be satisfied. But “No, no, no!” was the immediate answer; “that
could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on
Tuesday.” Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence
ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment
said, “Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I
engagement.” But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on
her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most endearing
names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not seriously
refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so dearly. She knew
her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so
easily persuaded by those she loved. But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to
be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such flattering
supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another
method. She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney,
though she had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest
friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. “I
cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for
strangers, I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are
placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my
feelings are stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my
own peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers
does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up
everything else.”
Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella
appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her
own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said
nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her
eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, “Nay,
Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not
much; and to oblige such a friend—I shall think you quite unkind, if you
still refuse.”
This was the first time of her brother’s openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would
only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it
depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody
might then be satisfied. But “No, no, no!” was the immediate answer; “that
could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on
Tuesday.” Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence
ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment
said, “Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I
Page 83
cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the
world, do so improper a thing.”
“Catherine, you must go,” said James.
“But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go.”
“Thank ye,” cried Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I do. I only go
for the sake of driving you.”
“That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.
The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her
arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at war. At
one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but
always steady.
“I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,” said James; “you
were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-
tempered of my sisters.”
“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feelingly; “but indeed I
cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”
“I suspect,” said Isabella, in a low voice, “there is no great struggle.”
Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by
Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have settled
the matter, and now we may all go to-morrow with a safe conscience. I have
been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”
“You have not!” cried Catherine.
“I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to
say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with
us to-morrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till
Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there
is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine—hey?”
world, do so improper a thing.”
“Catherine, you must go,” said James.
“But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go.”
“Thank ye,” cried Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I do. I only go
for the sake of driving you.”
“That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.
The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her
arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at war. At
one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but
always steady.
“I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,” said James; “you
were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-
tempered of my sisters.”
“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feelingly; “but indeed I
cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”
“I suspect,” said Isabella, in a low voice, “there is no great struggle.”
Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by
Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have settled
the matter, and now we may all go to-morrow with a safe conscience. I have
been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”
“You have not!” cried Catherine.
“I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to
say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with
us to-morrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till
Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there
is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine—hey?”
Page 84
Isabella’s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and
James too looked happy again.
“A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our
distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most
delightful party.”
“This will not do,” said Catherine; “I cannot submit to this. I must run
after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.”
Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When
everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would
suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further
objection.
“I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If
I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney
myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr.
Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of
rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not
hold me.”
Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were
at home by this time.
“Then I will go after them,” said Catherine; “wherever they are I will go
after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing
what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.” And with these words
she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but
Morland withheld him. “Let her go, let her go, if she will go.”
“She is as obstinate as—”
Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper
one.
Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she
walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint
and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not
repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a
second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise
James too looked happy again.
“A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our
distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most
delightful party.”
“This will not do,” said Catherine; “I cannot submit to this. I must run
after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.”
Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When
everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would
suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further
objection.
“I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If
I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney
myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr.
Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of
rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not
hold me.”
Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were
at home by this time.
“Then I will go after them,” said Catherine; “wherever they are I will go
after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing
what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.” And with these words
she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but
Morland withheld him. “Let her go, let her go, if she will go.”
“She is as obstinate as—”
Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper
one.
Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she
walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint
and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not
repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a
second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise
Page 85
voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretence too, must
have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles
alone, she had not consulted merely her own gratification; that might have
been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize
Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to others, and to her own
character in their opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not
enough to restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she
could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the
Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top
of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their
lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still remaining at
the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that she must speak
with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs.
Then, opening the first door before her, which happened to be the right, she
immediately found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his
son, and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in being—from her
irritation of nerves and shortness of breath—no explanation at all, was
instantly given. “I am come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I never
promised to go—I told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a
great hurry to explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would
not stay for the servant.”
The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given the
message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly
surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in
resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as much
to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations
immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could desire.
The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to her
father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous politeness as
recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her think with
pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such anxious
attention was the General’s civility carried, that not aware of her
extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry with the
servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apartment
have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles
alone, she had not consulted merely her own gratification; that might have
been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize
Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to others, and to her own
character in their opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not
enough to restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she
could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the
Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top
of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their
lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still remaining at
the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that she must speak
with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs.
Then, opening the first door before her, which happened to be the right, she
immediately found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his
son, and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in being—from her
irritation of nerves and shortness of breath—no explanation at all, was
instantly given. “I am come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I never
promised to go—I told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a
great hurry to explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would
not stay for the servant.”
The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given the
message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly
surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in
resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as much
to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations
immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could desire.
The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to her
father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous politeness as
recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her think with
pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such anxious
attention was the General’s civility carried, that not aware of her
extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry with the
servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apartment
Page 86
herself. “What did William mean by it? He should make a point of inquiring
into the matter.” And if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his
innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the favour of his master
forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.
After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave, and
was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if she
would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest of the day
with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was greatly obliged;
but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back
every moment. The general declared he could say no more; the claims of
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on some other day he
trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would not refuse to spare
her to her friend. “Oh, no; Catherine was sure they would not have the least
objection, and she should have great pleasure in coming.” The general
attended her himself to the street-door, saying everything gallant as they
went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded
exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most
graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.
Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney
Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she had
never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything more
of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant throughout,
had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began (as the flutter
of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been perfectly right. A
sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way to their entreaties, she
should have been spared the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a
brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps
through her means. To ease her mind, and ascertain by the opinion of an
unprejudiced person what her own conduct had really been, she took
occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother
and the Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly.
“Well,” said he, “and do you think of going too?”
“No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told
me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?”
“No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country in
into the matter.” And if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his
innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the favour of his master
forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.
After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave, and
was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if she
would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest of the day
with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was greatly obliged;
but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back
every moment. The general declared he could say no more; the claims of
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on some other day he
trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would not refuse to spare
her to her friend. “Oh, no; Catherine was sure they would not have the least
objection, and she should have great pleasure in coming.” The general
attended her himself to the street-door, saying everything gallant as they
went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded
exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most
graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.
Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney
Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she had
never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything more
of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant throughout,
had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began (as the flutter
of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been perfectly right. A
sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way to their entreaties, she
should have been spared the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a
brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps
through her means. To ease her mind, and ascertain by the opinion of an
unprejudiced person what her own conduct had really been, she took
occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother
and the Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly.
“Well,” said he, “and do you think of going too?”
“No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told
me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?”
“No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country in
Page 87
open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and public
places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should allow it. I
am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland would not be
pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do not you think
these kind of projects objectionable?”
“Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You are splashed getting in and
getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every direction.
I hate an open carriage myself.”
“I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an
odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by
young men, to whom they are not even related?”
“Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
“Dear madam,” cried Catherine, “then why did not you tell me so before?
I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with Mr.
Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought I was
doing wrong.”
“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people will be young people, as your
good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first came, not
to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do not like to be
always thwarted.”
“But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
would have found me hard to persuade.”
“As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,” said Mr. Allen;
“and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any
more.”
“That is just what I was going to say,” added his wife.
Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
moment’s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper and
kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she
must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella might
otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had
passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any such thing.
places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should allow it. I
am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland would not be
pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do not you think
these kind of projects objectionable?”
“Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You are splashed getting in and
getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every direction.
I hate an open carriage myself.”
“I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an
odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by
young men, to whom they are not even related?”
“Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
“Dear madam,” cried Catherine, “then why did not you tell me so before?
I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with Mr.
Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought I was
doing wrong.”
“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people will be young people, as your
good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first came, not
to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do not like to be
always thwarted.”
“But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
would have found me hard to persuade.”
“As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,” said Mr. Allen;
“and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any
more.”
“That is just what I was going to say,” added his wife.
Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
moment’s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper and
kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she
must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella might
otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had
passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any such thing.
Page 88
“You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old enough to know what
she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too
indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere. She
and your brother choose to go, and you will be only getting ill will.”
Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her own
conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger of
falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one of the party to
Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought
of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong
in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her
to be guilty of another?
she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too
indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere. She
and your brother choose to go, and you will be only getting ill will.”
Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her own
conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger of
falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one of the party to
Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought
of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong
in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her
to be guilty of another?
Page 89
CHAPTER 14
The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread
of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself
was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor
hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time;
and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected
summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine
was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made
with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff,
that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so
striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.
“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the
river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
“Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries
of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better
books.”
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works,
and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I
had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in
two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”
“Yes,” added Miss Tilney, “and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread
of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself
was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor
hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time;
and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected
summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine
was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made
with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff,
that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so
striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.
“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the
river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
“Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries
of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better
books.”
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works,
and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I
had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in
two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”
“Yes,” added Miss Tilney, “and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
Page 90
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.”
“Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss
Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to
get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the
promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a
most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to
observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it,
and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”
“I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
novels amazingly.”
“It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do—for they
read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.
Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ and ‘Have you read that?’ I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say?—I want an appropriate
simile.—as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she
went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start
of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little
girl working your sampler at home!”
“Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?”
“The nicest—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must
depend upon the binding.”
“Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with
me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same
liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not suit him; and you
had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with
Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”
“I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong; but
it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?”
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.”
“Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss
Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to
get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the
promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a
most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to
observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it,
and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”
“I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
novels amazingly.”
“It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do—for they
read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.
Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ and ‘Have you read that?’ I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say?—I want an appropriate
simile.—as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she
went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start
of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little
girl working your sampler at home!”
“Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?”
“The nicest—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must
depend upon the binding.”
“Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with
me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same
liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not suit him; and you
had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with
Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”
“I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong; but
it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?”
Page 91
“Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a
very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very
nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied
only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement—people were
nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every
commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.”
“While, in fact,” cried his sister, “it ought only to be applied to you,
without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss
Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety
of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a
most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?”
“To say the truth, I do not much like any other.”
“Indeed!”
“That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not
dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in.
Can you?”
“Yes, I am fond of history.”
“I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that
does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars
or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly
any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it
should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that
are put into the heroes’ mouths, their thoughts and designs—the chief of all
this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books.”
“Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their flights
of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of
history—and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the
principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and
records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that
does not actually pass under one’s own observation; and as for the little
embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as
such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever
it may be made—and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr.
Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola,
or Alfred the Great.”
very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very
nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied
only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement—people were
nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every
commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.”
“While, in fact,” cried his sister, “it ought only to be applied to you,
without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss
Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety
of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a
most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?”
“To say the truth, I do not much like any other.”
“Indeed!”
“That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not
dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in.
Can you?”
“Yes, I am fond of history.”
“I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that
does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars
or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly
any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it
should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that
are put into the heroes’ mouths, their thoughts and designs—the chief of all
this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books.”
“Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their flights
of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of
history—and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the
principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and
records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that
does not actually pass under one’s own observation; and as for the little
embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as
such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever
it may be made—and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr.
Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola,
or Alfred the Great.”
Page 92
“You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have
two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small
circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of
history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but
to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think,
nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment
of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know
it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s
courage that could sit down on purpose to do it.”
“That little boys and girls should be tormented,” said Henry, “is what no
one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in
behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might
well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their
method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the
most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb ‘to torment,’ as
I observed to be your own method, instead of ‘to instruct,’ supposing them
to be now admitted as synonymous.”
“You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been as
much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their letters
and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be for a
whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it,
as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you
would allow that to torment and to instruct might sometimes be used as
synonymous words.”
“Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty of
learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may perhaps
be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to be tormented
for two or three years of one’s life, for the sake of being able to read all the
rest of it. Consider—if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would
have written in vain—or perhaps might not have written at all.”
Catherine assented—and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady’s
merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes
of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being
formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine
two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small
circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of
history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but
to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think,
nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment
of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know
it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s
courage that could sit down on purpose to do it.”
“That little boys and girls should be tormented,” said Henry, “is what no
one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in
behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might
well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their
method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the
most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb ‘to torment,’ as
I observed to be your own method, instead of ‘to instruct,’ supposing them
to be now admitted as synonymous.”
“You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been as
much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their letters
and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be for a
whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it,
as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you
would allow that to torment and to instruct might sometimes be used as
synonymous words.”
“Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty of
learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may perhaps
be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to be tormented
for two or three years of one’s life, for the sake of being able to read all the
rest of it. Consider—if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would
have written in vain—or perhaps might not have written at all.”
Catherine assented—and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady’s
merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes
of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being
formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine
Page 93
was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing—nothing of taste: and she
listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they
talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which
she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions
she had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view were
no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky
was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her
ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should
always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an
inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person
would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the
misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set
forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject
I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling
part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their
personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well
informed themselves to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But
Catherine did not know her own advantages—did not know that a good-
looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail
of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly
untoward. In the present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of
knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to
draw; and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in everything
admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly
satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of
foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens and
perspectives—lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar
that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the
whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with
her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much wisdom at once,
Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece
of rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near its
summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands,
crown lands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics;
and from politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which
listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they
talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which
she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions
she had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view were
no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky
was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her
ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should
always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an
inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person
would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the
misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set
forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject
I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling
part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their
personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well
informed themselves to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But
Catherine did not know her own advantages—did not know that a good-
looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail
of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly
untoward. In the present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of
knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to
draw; and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in everything
admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly
satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of
foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens and
perspectives—lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar
that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the
whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with
her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much wisdom at once,
Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece
of rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near its
summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands,
crown lands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics;
and from politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which
Page 94
succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to
by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, “I
have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in
London.”
Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, “Indeed! And of what nature?”
“That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to
be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.”
“Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?”
“A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London
yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and
everything of the kind.”
“You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend’s
accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand,
proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its
coming to effect.”
“Government,” said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires
nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
government cares not how much.”
The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, “Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you
can? No—I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound
nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,
discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.”
“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”
“Riot! What riot?”
“My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there
is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than
a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo
volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to
the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you understand? And you,
by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, “I
have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in
London.”
Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, “Indeed! And of what nature?”
“That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to
be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.”
“Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?”
“A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London
yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and
everything of the kind.”
“You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend’s
accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand,
proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its
coming to effect.”
“Government,” said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires
nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
government cares not how much.”
The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, “Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you
can? No—I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound
nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,
discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.”
“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”
“Riot! What riot?”
“My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there
is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than
a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo
volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to
the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you understand? And you,
Page 95
Miss Morland—my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions.
You talked of expected horrors in London—and instead of instantly
conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could
relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a
mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George’s Fields, the Bank
attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a
detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called
up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain
Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop,
knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her
stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman;
but she is by no means a simpleton in general.”
Catherine looked grave. “And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general.
Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”
“I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.”
“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”
“What am I to do?”
“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely
before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of
women.”
“Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women
in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I
happen to be in company.”
“That is not enough. Be more serious.”
“Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
never find it necessary to use more than half.”
“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely
misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at
all, or an unkind one of me.”
You talked of expected horrors in London—and instead of instantly
conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could
relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a
mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George’s Fields, the Bank
attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a
detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called
up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain
Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop,
knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her
stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman;
but she is by no means a simpleton in general.”
Catherine looked grave. “And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general.
Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”
“I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.”
“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”
“What am I to do?”
“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely
before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of
women.”
“Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women
in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I
happen to be in company.”
“That is not enough. Be more serious.”
“Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
never find it necessary to use more than half.”
“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely
misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at
all, or an unkind one of me.”
Page 96
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be
wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always
be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready to admire,
as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too
soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended her into the
house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with
respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the
pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty
was made on Mrs. Allen’s side, and the only difficulty on Catherine’s was
in concealing the excess of her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had
crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became
amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen
had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had heard
nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however,
Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which
must be bought without a moment’s delay, walked out into the town, and in
Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards
Edgar’s Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had
been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon learned that the
party to Clifton had taken place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said
Miss Anne, “and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I
are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the
world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with
your brother, and John drove Maria.”
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the
arrangement.
“Oh! yes,” rejoined the other, “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.
She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her
taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if they
pressed me ever so much.”
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, “I wish you
could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.”
“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would
not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when
wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always
be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready to admire,
as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too
soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended her into the
house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with
respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the
pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty
was made on Mrs. Allen’s side, and the only difficulty on Catherine’s was
in concealing the excess of her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had
crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became
amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen
had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had heard
nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however,
Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which
must be bought without a moment’s delay, walked out into the town, and in
Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards
Edgar’s Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had
been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon learned that the
party to Clifton had taken place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said
Miss Anne, “and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I
are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the
world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with
your brother, and John drove Maria.”
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the
arrangement.
“Oh! yes,” rejoined the other, “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.
She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her
taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if they
pressed me ever so much.”
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, “I wish you
could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.”
“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would
not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when
Page 97
you overtook us.”
Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had not
been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it
might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her
resistance any longer.
Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had not
been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it
might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her
resistance any longer.
Page 98
CHAPTER 15
Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness in
every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter
of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest state of
confidence and curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings. The two youngest Miss
Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne’s quitting it to call
her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other for some
particulars of their yesterday’s party. Maria desired no greater pleasure than
to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether
the most delightful scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how
charming it had been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody
could conceive. Such was the information of the first five minutes; the
second unfolded thus much in detail—that they had driven directly to the
York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to
the pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and
spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook’s, and hurrying back to
the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and
then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a
little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.
Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing
to regret for half an instant. Maria’s intelligence concluded with a tender
effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably
cross, from being excluded the party.
“She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help
it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because
she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again
this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter
that puts me out of temper.”
Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness in
every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter
of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest state of
confidence and curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings. The two youngest Miss
Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne’s quitting it to call
her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other for some
particulars of their yesterday’s party. Maria desired no greater pleasure than
to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether
the most delightful scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how
charming it had been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody
could conceive. Such was the information of the first five minutes; the
second unfolded thus much in detail—that they had driven directly to the
York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to
the pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and
spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook’s, and hurrying back to
the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and
then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a
little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.
Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing
to regret for half an instant. Maria’s intelligence concluded with a tender
effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably
cross, from being excluded the party.
“She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help
it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because
she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again
this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter
that puts me out of temper.”
Page 99
Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such
happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: “Yes,
my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you.
Oh, that arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.”
Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
“Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, “compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk
in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly
creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge
of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only
wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and
mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!”
Catherine’s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she
cried out, “Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you—
can you really be in love with James?”
This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually
watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the course of their
yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her
heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened
to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend
engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared
unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of
which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return. The strength of
her feelings she could not express; the nature of them, however, contented
her friend. The happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion,
and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the prospect of the
connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine,
than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to
my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”
This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: “Yes,
my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you.
Oh, that arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.”
Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
“Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, “compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk
in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly
creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge
of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only
wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and
mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!”
Catherine’s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she
cried out, “Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you—
can you really be in love with James?”
This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually
watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the course of their
yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her
heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened
to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend
engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared
unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of
which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return. The strength of
her feelings she could not express; the nature of them, however, contented
her friend. The happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion,
and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the prospect of the
connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine,
than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to
my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”
This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
Page 100
“You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me; the
first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us
last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart was
irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done
up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John introduced
him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.”
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had
never in her life thought him handsome.
“I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought your
brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a wink all
night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had
on your brother’s account! I would not have you suffer half what I have
done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will not pain you by
describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have
betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for
the church! But my secret I was always sure would be safe with you.”
Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor refuse
to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy as
Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was preparing to set
off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask consent;
and here was a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella.
Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she was herself persuaded, that
her father and mother would never oppose their son’s wishes. “It is
impossible,” said she, “for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of
their children’s happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting
immediately.”
“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your
brother, who might marry anybody!”
Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.
“Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify.”
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me; the
first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us
last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart was
irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done
up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John introduced
him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.”
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had
never in her life thought him handsome.
“I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought your
brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a wink all
night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had
on your brother’s account! I would not have you suffer half what I have
done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will not pain you by
describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have
betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for
the church! But my secret I was always sure would be safe with you.”
Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor refuse
to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy as
Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was preparing to set
off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask consent;
and here was a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella.
Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she was herself persuaded, that
her father and mother would never oppose their son’s wishes. “It is
impossible,” said she, “for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of
their children’s happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting
immediately.”
“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your
brother, who might marry anybody!”
Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.
“Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify.”
Page 101
“Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify
nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for
myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother
would be my only choice.”
This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,
gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than in
uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her frequent
declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.”
“For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really
attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would not settle in
London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy.
There are some charming little villas about Richmond.”
“Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
be near us.”
“I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you, I
shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself to think of
such things, till we have your father’s answer. Morland says that by sending
it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it to-morrow. To-morrow? I know I
shall never have courage to open the letter. I know it will be the death of
me.”
A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.
Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his adieus
were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not been
frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that he would go.
Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness to have him
gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how far you have
nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for
myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother
would be my only choice.”
This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,
gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than in
uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her frequent
declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.”
“For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really
attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would not settle in
London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy.
There are some charming little villas about Richmond.”
“Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
be near us.”
“I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you, I
shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself to think of
such things, till we have your father’s answer. Morland says that by sending
it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it to-morrow. To-morrow? I know I
shall never have courage to open the letter. I know it will be the death of
me.”
A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.
Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his adieus
were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not been
frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that he would go.
Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness to have him
gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how far you have
Page 102
to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven’s sake, waste no more
time. There, go, go—I insist on it.”
The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable
for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along. Mrs.
Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and who seemed
only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to consider Isabella’s engagement as
the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed
to join their counsels, and add their quota of significant looks and
mysterious expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the
unprivileged younger sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of
reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart
at ease by the sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening was spent in
a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on one side in the
mystery of an affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all
equally acute.
Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable
expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more desponding, and
before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a state of real distress. But
when it did come, where could distress be found? “I have had no difficulty
in gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am promised that everything
in their power shall be done to forward my happiness,” were the first three
lines, and in one moment all was joyful security. The brightest glow was
instantly spread over Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed
removed, her spirits became almost too high for control, and she called
herself without scruple the happiest of mortals.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her
visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was “dear John”
and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria” must
immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two “dears” at once
before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child had now
well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only bestowed on
time. There, go, go—I insist on it.”
The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable
for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along. Mrs.
Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and who seemed
only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to consider Isabella’s engagement as
the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed
to join their counsels, and add their quota of significant looks and
mysterious expressions to fill up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the
unprivileged younger sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of
reserve seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart
at ease by the sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening was spent in
a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on one side in the
mystery of an affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all
equally acute.
Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable
expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more desponding, and
before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a state of real distress. But
when it did come, where could distress be found? “I have had no difficulty
in gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am promised that everything
in their power shall be done to forward my happiness,” were the first three
lines, and in one moment all was joyful security. The brightest glow was
instantly spread over Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed
removed, her spirits became almost too high for control, and she called
herself without scruple the happiest of mortals.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her
visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was “dear John”
and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria” must
immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two “dears” at once
before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child had now
well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only bestowed on
Page 103
Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the finest fellows in
the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.
The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing little
more than this assurance of success; and every particular was deferred till
James could write again. But for particulars Isabella could well afford to
wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s promise; his honour was
pledged to make everything easy; and by what means their income was to
be formed, whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded money
made over, was a matter in which her disinterested spirit took no concern.
She knew enough to feel secure of an honourable and speedy establishment,
and her imagination took a rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw
herself at the end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new
acquaintance at Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney,
with a carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant
exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.
When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set off.
“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the parlour, “I am
come to bid you good-bye.” Catherine wished him a good journey. Without
appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a
tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.
“Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said Catherine. He made no answer;
but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this
marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s.
What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.”
“I am sure I think it a very good one.”
“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to
matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song, ‘Going to One
Wedding Brings on Another?’ I say, you will come to Belle’s wedding, I
hope.”
“Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.”
“And then you know”—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
laugh—“I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old song.”
“May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with
Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be going home.”
the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.
The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing little
more than this assurance of success; and every particular was deferred till
James could write again. But for particulars Isabella could well afford to
wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s promise; his honour was
pledged to make everything easy; and by what means their income was to
be formed, whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded money
made over, was a matter in which her disinterested spirit took no concern.
She knew enough to feel secure of an honourable and speedy establishment,
and her imagination took a rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw
herself at the end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new
acquaintance at Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney,
with a carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant
exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.
When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set off.
“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the parlour, “I am
come to bid you good-bye.” Catherine wished him a good journey. Without
appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a
tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.
“Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said Catherine. He made no answer;
but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this
marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s.
What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.”
“I am sure I think it a very good one.”
“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to
matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song, ‘Going to One
Wedding Brings on Another?’ I say, you will come to Belle’s wedding, I
hope.”
“Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.”
“And then you know”—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
laugh—“I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old song.”
“May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with
Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be going home.”
Page 104
“Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may
be together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a
fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”
“Then why do you stay away so long?” replied Catherine—finding that
he waited for an answer.
“That is kind of you, however—kind and good-natured. I shall not forget
it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody
living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good
nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you have
such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”
“Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a great
deal better. Good morning to you.”
“But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton
before it is long, if not disagreeable.”
“Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.”
“Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.
Company is always cheerful.”
“That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company,
let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I
like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And I am
heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss Morland,
you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.”
“Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most
matters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind
about.”
“By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what
does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only
have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and what
care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my
own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.”
“Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one side,
there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which has it, so
that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for
another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence.
be together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a
fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”
“Then why do you stay away so long?” replied Catherine—finding that
he waited for an answer.
“That is kind of you, however—kind and good-natured. I shall not forget
it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody
living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good
nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you have
such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”
“Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a great
deal better. Good morning to you.”
“But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton
before it is long, if not disagreeable.”
“Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.”
“Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.
Company is always cheerful.”
“That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company,
let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I
like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And I am
heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss Morland,
you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.”
“Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most
matters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind
about.”
“By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what
does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only
have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and what
care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my
own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.”
“Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one side,
there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which has it, so
that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for
another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence.
Page 105
Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is
convenient.” And away she went. It was not in the power of all his gallantry
to detain her longer. With such news to communicate, and such a visit to
prepare for, her departure was not to be delayed by anything in his nature to
urge; and she hurried away, leaving him to the undivided consciousness of
his own happy address, and her explicit encouragement.
The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her
brother’s engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion in
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How
great was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of
preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since her
brother’s arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was comprehended in
a wish for the young people’s happiness, with a remark, on the gentleman’s
side, in favour of Isabella’s beauty, and on the lady’s, of her great good
luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising insensibility. The disclosure,
however, of the great secret of James’s going to Fullerton the day before,
did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen to that with
perfect calmness, but repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment,
wished she could have known his intention, wished she could have seen
him before he went, as she should certainly have troubled him with her best
regards to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the
Skinners.
convenient.” And away she went. It was not in the power of all his gallantry
to detain her longer. With such news to communicate, and such a visit to
prepare for, her departure was not to be delayed by anything in his nature to
urge; and she hurried away, leaving him to the undivided consciousness of
his own happy address, and her explicit encouragement.
The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her
brother’s engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion in
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How
great was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of
preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since her
brother’s arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was comprehended in
a wish for the young people’s happiness, with a remark, on the gentleman’s
side, in favour of Isabella’s beauty, and on the lady’s, of her great good
luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising insensibility. The disclosure,
however, of the great secret of James’s going to Fullerton the day before,
did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen to that with
perfect calmness, but repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment,
wished she could have known his intention, wished she could have seen
him before he went, as she should certainly have troubled him with her best
regards to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the
Skinners.
Page 106
CHAPTER 16
Catherine’s expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street were
so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, though
she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed by
his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of the party, she
found, on her return, without spending many hours in the examination of
her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment preparing for happiness
which it had not afforded. Instead of finding herself improved in
acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse of the day, she seemed
hardly so intimate with her as before; instead of seeing Henry Tilney to
greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a family party, he had never said
so little, nor been so little agreeable; and, in spite of their father’s great
civilities to her—in spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments—it
had been a release to get away from him. It puzzled her to account for all
this. It could not be General Tilney’s fault. That he was perfectly agreeable
and good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a
doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry’s father. He could not be
accountable for his children’s want of spirits, or for her want of enjoyment
in his company. The former she hoped at last might have been accidental,
and the latter she could only attribute to her own stupidity. Isabella, on
hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a different explanation: “It was all
pride, pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the
family to be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of
behaviour as Miss Tilney’s she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the
honours of her house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest
with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!”
“But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;
she was very civil.”
“Oh, don’t defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared so
attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people’s feelings are
Catherine’s expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street were
so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, though
she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly welcomed by
his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of the party, she
found, on her return, without spending many hours in the examination of
her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment preparing for happiness
which it had not afforded. Instead of finding herself improved in
acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse of the day, she seemed
hardly so intimate with her as before; instead of seeing Henry Tilney to
greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a family party, he had never said
so little, nor been so little agreeable; and, in spite of their father’s great
civilities to her—in spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments—it
had been a release to get away from him. It puzzled her to account for all
this. It could not be General Tilney’s fault. That he was perfectly agreeable
and good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a
doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry’s father. He could not be
accountable for his children’s want of spirits, or for her want of enjoyment
in his company. The former she hoped at last might have been accidental,
and the latter she could only attribute to her own stupidity. Isabella, on
hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a different explanation: “It was all
pride, pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the
family to be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of
behaviour as Miss Tilney’s she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the
honours of her house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest
with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!”
“But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;
she was very civil.”
“Oh, don’t defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared so
attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people’s feelings are
Page 107
incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?”
“I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.”
“How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my
aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.”
“Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”
“That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh!
How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the
most constant heart.”
“But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for
anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed to be
his only care to entertain and make me happy.”
“Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he
is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John’s
judgment—”
“Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet
them at the rooms.”
“And must I go?”
“Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.”
“Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do
not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be
some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is
quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare
say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and
that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his
conjecture to himself.”
Isabella’s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or sister;
and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts. The evening
rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same kindness, and
by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains
to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.
Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for the
“I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.”
“How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my
aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.”
“Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”
“That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh!
How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the
most constant heart.”
“But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for
anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed to be
his only care to entertain and make me happy.”
“Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he
is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John’s
judgment—”
“Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet
them at the rooms.”
“And must I go?”
“Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.”
“Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do
not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be
some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is
quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare
say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and
that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his
conjecture to himself.”
Isabella’s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or sister;
and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts. The evening
rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same kindness, and
by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains
to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.
Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for the
Page 108
name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had
never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She
looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that
some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her
eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.
His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within
her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself,
but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible. From the latter
circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine’s
opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind; not
likely to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions to the
lady. He cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s
greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and
four, which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile,
undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except
that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness
with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and,
in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself.
At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
and, much to Catherine’s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They
retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did not take
immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have
heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to
communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she
could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy
sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes’ duration; and she was
beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both
returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry’s requesting to know, if
she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing,
as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine,
without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean
to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he
immediately walked away.
“Your brother will not mind it, I know,” said she, “because I heard him
say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to
think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might
never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She
looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that
some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her
eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.
His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within
her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself,
but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible. From the latter
circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine’s
opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind; not
likely to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions to the
lady. He cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s
greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and
four, which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile,
undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except
that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness
with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and,
in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself.
At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
and, much to Catherine’s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They
retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did not take
immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have
heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to
communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she
could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy
sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes’ duration; and she was
beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both
returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry’s requesting to know, if
she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing,
as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine,
without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean
to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he
immediately walked away.
“Your brother will not mind it, I know,” said she, “because I heard him
say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to
think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might
Page 109
wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon
any account in the world.”
Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to
understand the motive of other people’s actions.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is
the inducement most likely to act upon such a person’s feelings, age,
situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, How should I be
influenced, What would be my inducement in acting so and so?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well.”
“Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”
“Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.”
“But pray tell me what you mean.”
“Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
certainly bring on a disagreement between us.”
“No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”
“Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother’s wish of
dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being
superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were
verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her for
the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much that
she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost
forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up
and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across.
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this
extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not
quite enough for Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in
very plain terms to her partner.
“I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to
dance.”
any account in the world.”
Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to
understand the motive of other people’s actions.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is
the inducement most likely to act upon such a person’s feelings, age,
situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, How should I be
influenced, What would be my inducement in acting so and so?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well.”
“Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”
“Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.”
“But pray tell me what you mean.”
“Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
certainly bring on a disagreement between us.”
“No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”
“Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother’s wish of
dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being
superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were
verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her for
the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much that
she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost
forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up
and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across.
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this
extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not
quite enough for Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in
very plain terms to her partner.
“I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to
dance.”
Page 110
“And did Isabella never change her mind before?”
“Oh! But, because—And your brother! After what you told him from me,
how could he think of going to ask her?”
“I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised
on your friend’s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his
conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed him
perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her
firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself.”
“You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.”
“It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be to
be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment; and,
without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no
means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.”
The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse
till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in
arm, Isabella thus explained herself: “I do not wonder at your surprise; and
I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my
mind had been disengaged; but I would have given the world to sit still.”
“Then why did not you?”
“Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I
abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he would
take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him to
excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he; after aspiring to my
hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of; and it
was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such
nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me;
for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and
so—and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up.
Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I
did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I
had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are quite
jaded with listening to his nonsense: and then, being such a smart young
fellow, I saw every eye was upon us.”
“He is very handsome indeed.”
“Oh! But, because—And your brother! After what you told him from me,
how could he think of going to ask her?”
“I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised
on your friend’s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his
conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed him
perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her
firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself.”
“You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general.”
“It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be to
be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment; and,
without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no
means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.”
The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse
till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in
arm, Isabella thus explained herself: “I do not wonder at your surprise; and
I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my
mind had been disengaged; but I would have given the world to sit still.”
“Then why did not you?”
“Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I
abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he would
take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him to
excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he; after aspiring to my
hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of; and it
was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such
nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me;
for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and
so—and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up.
Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I
did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I
had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are quite
jaded with listening to his nonsense: and then, being such a smart young
fellow, I saw every eye was upon us.”
“He is very handsome indeed.”
Page 111
“Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him
in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid
complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly
conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my way.”
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject
to discuss. James Morland’s second letter was then received, and the kind
intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland was
himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly value,
was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be old enough to take it;
no trifling deduction from the family income, no niggardly assignment to
one of ten children. An estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured
as his future inheritance.
James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and
the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was
borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been
as unfixed as her ideas of her father’s income, and whose judgment was
now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily
congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.
“It is very charming indeed,” said Isabella, with a grave face. “Mr.
Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,” said the gentle Mrs.
Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. “I only wish I could do as much.
One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he can do more
by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an excellent good-
hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed, but
your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do not consider how
little you ever want, my dear.”
“It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be the
means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an income
hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For myself, it
is nothing; I never think of myself.”
“I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in
the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young
woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our
dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very
in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid
complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly
conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my way.”
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject
to discuss. James Morland’s second letter was then received, and the kind
intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland was
himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly value,
was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be old enough to take it;
no trifling deduction from the family income, no niggardly assignment to
one of ten children. An estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured
as his future inheritance.
James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and
the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was
borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been
as unfixed as her ideas of her father’s income, and whose judgment was
now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily
congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.
“It is very charming indeed,” said Isabella, with a grave face. “Mr.
Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,” said the gentle Mrs.
Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. “I only wish I could do as much.
One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he can do more
by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an excellent good-
hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed, but
your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do not consider how
little you ever want, my dear.”
“It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be the
means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an income
hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For myself, it
is nothing; I never think of myself.”
“I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in
the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young
woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our
dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very
Page 112
handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you
know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable
fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he
must be a most liberal-minded man.”
“Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what
they like with their own money.”
Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she, “that
my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”
Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot
be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller
income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me
just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could
take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish
unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There’s the sting.
The long, long, endless two years and a half that are to pass before your
brother can hold the living.”
“Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see into
your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present
vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest
affection.”
Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella’s
regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable
as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise.
James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying
kindness.
know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable
fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he
must be a most liberal-minded man.”
“Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what
they like with their own money.”
Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she, “that
my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”
Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot
be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller
income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me
just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could
take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish
unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There’s the sting.
The long, long, endless two years and a half that are to pass before your
brother can hold the living.”
“Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see into
your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present
vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest
affection.”
Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella’s
regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable
as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise.
James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying
kindness.
Page 113
CHAPTER 17
The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and
whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which
Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the
Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her
whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and
everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be
taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to
her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a
small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James’s
engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so far as to
indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the felicity of being with him
for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in
another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest
of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course
of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney,
and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No
sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay than
Miss Tilney told her of her father’s having just determined upon quitting
Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the
morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine’s
countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss
Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end of another week!”
“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival whom he
expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get
home.”
“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known this
before—”
The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and
whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which
Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the
Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her
whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and
everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be
taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to
her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a
small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James’s
engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so far as to
indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the felicity of being with him
for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in
another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest
of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course
of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney,
and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No
sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay than
Miss Tilney told her of her father’s having just determined upon quitting
Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the
morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine’s
countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss
Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end of another week!”
“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival whom he
expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get
home.”
“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known this
before—”
Page 114
“Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so
good—it would make me very happy if—”
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was
beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After
addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said,
“Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your
application to your fair friend?”
“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”
“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My
daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter time
to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has
perhaps told you, on Saturday se’nnight. A letter from my steward tells me
that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of
seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my
very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we
carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret.
Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and
oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am
almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would
certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty
such as yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you
can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond
expression. ’Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively
place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode
of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be
wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.”
Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up
Catherine’s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and
gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her
company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s approbation,
was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she, “and if they do not
object, as I dare say they will not—”
good—it would make me very happy if—”
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was
beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After
addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said,
“Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your
application to your fair friend?”
“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”
“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My
daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter time
to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has
perhaps told you, on Saturday se’nnight. A letter from my steward tells me
that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of
seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my
very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we
carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret.
Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and
oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am
almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would
certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty
such as yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you
can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond
expression. ’Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively
place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode
of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be
wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.”
Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up
Catherine’s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and
gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her
company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s approbation,
was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she, “and if they do not
object, as I dare say they will not—”
Page 115
General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her
excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his
wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may expect
philosophy from all the world.”
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and
the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary
reference to Fullerton would allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now
safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry
at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write
her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to
whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the
propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and
sent therefore by return of post their ready consent to her visit in
Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had
hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond every other
human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance.
Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of her
first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where
pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each
known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had
been able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a
sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably
thought of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she
was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she
mostly prized—and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of
an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion
for Henry Tilney—and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those
reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts
and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a
darling wish, though to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too
nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the
chances against her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage,
Northanger turned up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long,
damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her
excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his
wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may expect
philosophy from all the world.”
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and
the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary
reference to Fullerton would allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now
safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry
at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write
her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to
whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the
propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and
sent therefore by return of post their ready consent to her visit in
Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had
hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond every other
human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance.
Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of her
first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where
pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each
known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had
been able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a
sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably
thought of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she
was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she
mostly prized—and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of
an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion
for Henry Tilney—and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those
reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts
and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a
darling wish, though to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too
nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the
chances against her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage,
Northanger turned up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long,
damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her
Page 116
daily reach, and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional
legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.
It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the
possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so meekly
borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A distinction to
which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority of abode was no
more to them than their superiority of person.
Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so
active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she was
hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been a richly
endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having fallen into
the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large portion
of the ancient building still making a part of the present dwelling although
the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the
north and east by rising woods of oak.
legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.
It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the
possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so meekly
borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A distinction to
which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority of abode was no
more to them than their superiority of person.
Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so
active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she was
hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been a richly
endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having fallen into
the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large portion
of the ancient building still making a part of the present dwelling although
the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the
north and east by rising woods of oak.
Page 117
CHAPTER 18
With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than a
few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh for
her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one morning, by
Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear; and scarcely had she
felt a five minutes’ longing of friendship, before the object of it appeared,
and inviting her to a secret conference, led the way to a seat. “This is my
favourite place,” said she as they sat down on a bench between the doors,
which commanded a tolerable view of everybody entering at either; “it is so
out of the way.”
Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards
one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how often
she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine
opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, “Do not be uneasy,
Isabella, James will soon be here.”
“Psha! My dear creature,” she replied, “do not think me such a simpleton
as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous to
be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you are going
to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in
England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular description of
it.”
“You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
looking for? Are your sisters coming?”
“I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you
know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an
hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent
creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a
certain stamp.”
With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than a
few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and to sigh for
her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one morning, by
Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear; and scarcely had she
felt a five minutes’ longing of friendship, before the object of it appeared,
and inviting her to a secret conference, led the way to a seat. “This is my
favourite place,” said she as they sat down on a bench between the doors,
which commanded a tolerable view of everybody entering at either; “it is so
out of the way.”
Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards
one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how often
she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a fine
opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, “Do not be uneasy,
Isabella, James will soon be here.”
“Psha! My dear creature,” she replied, “do not think me such a simpleton
as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous to
be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you are going
to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in
England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular description of
it.”
“You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
looking for? Are your sisters coming?”
“I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you
know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an
hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent
creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a
certain stamp.”
Page 118
“But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?”
“Oh yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My poor
head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just had a letter
from John; you can guess the contents.”
“No, indeed, I cannot.”
“My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write
about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with you.”
“With me, dear Isabella!”
“Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and all
that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is sometimes
quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained! It is fishing for
compliments. His attentions were such as a child must have noticed. And it
was but half an hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most positive
encouragement. He says so in this letter, says that he as good as made you
an offer, and that you received his advances in the kindest way; and now he
wants me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is
in vain to affect ignorance.”
Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment at
such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr. Thorpe’s
being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of her having ever
intended to encourage him. “As to any attentions on his side, I do declare,
upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment—except just
his asking me to dance the first day of his coming. And as to making me an
offer, or anything like it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could
not have misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know! And, as I ever wish
to be believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such a nature ever
passed between us. The last half hour before he went away! It must be all
and completely a mistake—for I did not see him once that whole morning.”
“But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar’s
Buildings—it was the day your father’s consent came—and I am pretty sure
that you and John were alone in the parlour some time before you left the
house.”
“Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say—but for the life of me,
I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and seeing him as
well as the rest—but that we were ever alone for five minutes— However,
“Oh yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My poor
head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just had a letter
from John; you can guess the contents.”
“No, indeed, I cannot.”
“My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write
about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with you.”
“With me, dear Isabella!”
“Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and all
that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is sometimes
quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained! It is fishing for
compliments. His attentions were such as a child must have noticed. And it
was but half an hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most positive
encouragement. He says so in this letter, says that he as good as made you
an offer, and that you received his advances in the kindest way; and now he
wants me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is
in vain to affect ignorance.”
Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment at
such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr. Thorpe’s
being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of her having ever
intended to encourage him. “As to any attentions on his side, I do declare,
upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment—except just
his asking me to dance the first day of his coming. And as to making me an
offer, or anything like it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could
not have misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know! And, as I ever wish
to be believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such a nature ever
passed between us. The last half hour before he went away! It must be all
and completely a mistake—for I did not see him once that whole morning.”
“But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar’s
Buildings—it was the day your father’s consent came—and I am pretty sure
that you and John were alone in the parlour some time before you left the
house.”
“Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say—but for the life of me,
I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and seeing him as
well as the rest—but that we were ever alone for five minutes— However,
Page 119
it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass on his side, you must
be convinced, by my having no recollection of it, that I never thought, nor
expected, nor wished for anything of the kind from him. I am excessively
concerned that he should have any regard for me—but indeed it has been
quite unintentional on my side; I never had the smallest idea of it. Pray
undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg his pardon—that is—I
do not know what I ought to say—but make him understand what I mean, in
the properest way. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours,
Isabella, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could think of one man
more than another—he is not the person.” Isabella was silent. “My dear
friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares
so very much about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters.”
“Yes, yes” (with a blush), “there are more ways than one of our being
sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
seems to be that you are determined against poor John—is not it so?”
“I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant to
encourage it.”
“Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further. John
desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have. But I
confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very foolish, imprudent
business, and not likely to promote the good of either; for what were you to
live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you something,
to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays; and after
all that romancers may say, there is no doing without money. I only wonder
John could think of it; he could not have received my last.”
“You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?—You are convinced that I
never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me till
this moment?”
“Oh! As to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All
that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will occur,
and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one wishes to
stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in the world to
judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for in youth and high
spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next.
Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
be convinced, by my having no recollection of it, that I never thought, nor
expected, nor wished for anything of the kind from him. I am excessively
concerned that he should have any regard for me—but indeed it has been
quite unintentional on my side; I never had the smallest idea of it. Pray
undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg his pardon—that is—I
do not know what I ought to say—but make him understand what I mean, in
the properest way. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours,
Isabella, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could think of one man
more than another—he is not the person.” Isabella was silent. “My dear
friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares
so very much about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters.”
“Yes, yes” (with a blush), “there are more ways than one of our being
sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
seems to be that you are determined against poor John—is not it so?”
“I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant to
encourage it.”
“Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further. John
desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have. But I
confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very foolish, imprudent
business, and not likely to promote the good of either; for what were you to
live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you something,
to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays; and after
all that romancers may say, there is no doing without money. I only wonder
John could think of it; he could not have received my last.”
“You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?—You are convinced that I
never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me till
this moment?”
“Oh! As to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All
that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will occur,
and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one wishes to
stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in the world to
judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for in youth and high
spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next.
Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
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“But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same.
You are describing what never happened.”
“My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an
engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything
would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to
oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after all, you
know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom know what
they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly changeable
and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother’s happiness be dearer to
me than a friend’s? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high.
But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my
word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to
repent it. Tilney says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the
state of their own affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he
comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.”
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella, earnestly
fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached
immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited him. His
first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she could
distinguish, “What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!”
“Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit, you
know, is pretty independent.”
“I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.”
“My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
“Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so disagreeable
in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you” (turning her back on
him); “I hope your eyes are not tormented now.”
“Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at
once too much and too little.”
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no
longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her brother, she
You are describing what never happened.”
“My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an
engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything
would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to
oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after all, you
know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom know what
they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly changeable
and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother’s happiness be dearer to
me than a friend’s? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high.
But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my
word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to
repent it. Tilney says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the
state of their own affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he
comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.”
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella, earnestly
fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached
immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited him. His
first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she could
distinguish, “What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!”
“Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit, you
know, is pretty independent.”
“I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.”
“My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
“Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so disagreeable
in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you” (turning her back on
him); “I hope your eyes are not tormented now.”
“Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at
once too much and too little.”
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no
longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her brother, she
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rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed their walking. But
for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it
was so odious to parade about the pump-room; and if she moved from her
seat she should miss her sisters; she was expecting her sisters every
moment; so that her dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly
down again. But Catherine could be stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then
coming up to propose their returning home, she joined her and walked out
of the pump-room, leaving Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With
much uneasiness did she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain
Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously
encouraging him; unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to
James was as certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt
her truth or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of
their conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not looked
so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she should
not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint of it, to put
her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively behaviour
might otherwise create both for him and her brother.
The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as from
wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could mistake, and
his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his
mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In vanity, therefore, she
gained but little; her chief profit was in wonder. That he should think it
worth his while to fancy himself in love with her was a matter of lively
astonishment. Isabella talked of his attentions; she had never been sensible
of any; but Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been spoken
in haste, and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest
altogether for present ease and comfort.
for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it
was so odious to parade about the pump-room; and if she moved from her
seat she should miss her sisters; she was expecting her sisters every
moment; so that her dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly
down again. But Catherine could be stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then
coming up to propose their returning home, she joined her and walked out
of the pump-room, leaving Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With
much uneasiness did she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain
Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously
encouraging him; unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to
James was as certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt
her truth or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of
their conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not looked
so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she should
not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint of it, to put
her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively behaviour
might otherwise create both for him and her brother.
The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as from
wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could mistake, and
his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his
mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In vanity, therefore, she
gained but little; her chief profit was in wonder. That he should think it
worth his while to fancy himself in love with her was a matter of lively
astonishment. Isabella talked of his attentions; she had never been sensible
of any; but Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been spoken
in haste, and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest
altogether for present ease and comfort.
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CHAPTER 19
A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her
observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When
she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar’s
Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that,
had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of
languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine
had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had
nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace and
inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting
Captain Tilney’s attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing
him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the
alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by
such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her
comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting;
but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but
resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however
careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her
heart, to her it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was
greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a
passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his
approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself
to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a
knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not, upon reflection,
imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if
more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension.
She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation,
and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either
opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a
A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her
observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When
she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar’s
Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that,
had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of
languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine
had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had
nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace and
inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting
Captain Tilney’s attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing
him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the
alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by
such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her
comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting;
but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but
resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however
careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her
heart, to her it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was
greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a
passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his
approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself
to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a
knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not, upon reflection,
imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if
more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension.
She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation,
and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either
opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a
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hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended
departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey
into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain
Tilney’s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own.
But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to
be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine
knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on
the subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and
entreating him to make known her prior engagement.
“My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.
“Does he? Then why does he stay here?”
He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own
sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time
make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only
staying to be miserable.”
Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.”
“Then you will persuade him to go away?”
“Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even
endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is
engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”
“No, he does not know what he is about,” cried Catherine; “he does not
know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so,
but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s admission
of them, that gives the pain?”
“Is not it the same thing?”
“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is
offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the
woman only who can make it a torment.”
departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey
into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain
Tilney’s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own.
But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to
be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine
knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on
the subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and
entreating him to make known her prior engagement.
“My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.
“Does he? Then why does he stay here?”
He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own
sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time
make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only
staying to be miserable.”
Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.”
“Then you will persuade him to go away?”
“Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even
endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is
engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”
“No, he does not know what he is about,” cried Catherine; “he does not
know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so,
but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s admission
of them, that gives the pain?”
“Is not it the same thing?”
“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is
offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the
woman only who can make it a torment.”
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Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I am
sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while
my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever.
You know she must be attached to him.”
“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
“Oh no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
another.”
“It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she
might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little.”
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe
Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”
“I can have no opinion on that subject.”
“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can
he mean by his behaviour?”
“You are a very close questioner.”
“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”
“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”
“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”
“My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you
I can only guess at.”
“Well?”
“Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be
guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you.
My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he
has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known
her engagement almost as long as he has known her.”
“Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “you may be
able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am sure I
cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want
Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he
would go.”
“My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry, “in this amiable solicitude for your
brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a
sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while
my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever.
You know she must be attached to him.”
“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
“Oh no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
another.”
“It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she
might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little.”
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe
Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”
“I can have no opinion on that subject.”
“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can
he mean by his behaviour?”
“You are a very close questioner.”
“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”
“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”
“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”
“My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you
I can only guess at.”
“Well?”
“Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be
guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you.
My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he
has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known
her engagement almost as long as he has known her.”
“Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “you may be
able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am sure I
cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want
Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he
would go.”
“My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry, “in this amiable solicitude for your
brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a
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little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss
Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is
only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only
in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone
else? He cannot think this—and you may be sure that he would not have
you think it. I will not say, ‘Do not be uneasy,’ because I know that you are
so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of
the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it,
therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it
that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are
open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is
required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never
tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.”
Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, “Though
Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very
short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will
soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their
acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight,
and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney’s passion for a
month.”
Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its
approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her
captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of
her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again.
Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting
interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in
Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her
uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent
spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend
seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such a moment was
allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she
drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry’s instructions, and
placed it all to judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the
parting fair ones may be fancied.
Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is
only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only
in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone
else? He cannot think this—and you may be sure that he would not have
you think it. I will not say, ‘Do not be uneasy,’ because I know that you are
so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of
the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it,
therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it
that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are
open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is
required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never
tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.”
Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, “Though
Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very
short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will
soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their
acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight,
and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney’s passion for a
month.”
Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its
approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her
captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of
her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again.
Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting
interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in
Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her
uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent
spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend
seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such a moment was
allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she
drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry’s instructions, and
placed it all to judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the
parting fair ones may be fancied.
Page 126
CHAPTER 20
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the
promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it
otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen
attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was she
of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve their
good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, she could
almost have wished to return with him to Pulteney Street.
Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her
unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could the
incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her. Nay,
perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt less, had
she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort—his continual
solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed fears of her seeing
nothing to her taste—though never in her life before had she beheld half
such variety on a breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a
moment that she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect,
and knew not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the
General’s impatience for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the
displeasure he expressed at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came
down. She was quite pained by the severity of his father’s reproof, which
seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her concern
increased when she found herself the principal cause of the lecture, and that
his tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her. This was
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the
promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it
otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen
attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was she
of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve their
good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, she could
almost have wished to return with him to Pulteney Street.
Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her
unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could the
incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her. Nay,
perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt less, had
she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort—his continual
solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed fears of her seeing
nothing to her taste—though never in her life before had she beheld half
such variety on a breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a
moment that she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect,
and knew not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the
General’s impatience for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the
displeasure he expressed at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came
down. She was quite pained by the severity of his father’s reproof, which
seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her concern
increased when she found herself the principal cause of the lecture, and that
his tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her. This was
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placing her in a very uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion
for Captain Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.
He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence, which
confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on Isabella’s
account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been the real cause of
his rising late. It was the first time of her being decidedly in his company,
and she had hoped to be now able to form her opinion of him; but she
scarcely heard his voice while his father remained in the room; and even
afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she could distinguish nothing
but these words, in a whisper to Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are
all off.”
The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the
trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom
Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to put on
directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his
son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were
three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had so crowded it with
parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit; and, so much was he
influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some
difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into
the street. At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and
they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses
of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the
distance of Northanger from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages.
Catherine’s spirits revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss
Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new to
her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of
Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected
it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was
nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without
anything to see, next followed—and her admiration of the style in which
they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four—postilions handsomely
liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous outriders
properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience. Had
their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but
General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his
children’s spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the
for Captain Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.
He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence, which
confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on Isabella’s
account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been the real cause of
his rising late. It was the first time of her being decidedly in his company,
and she had hoped to be now able to form her opinion of him; but she
scarcely heard his voice while his father remained in the room; and even
afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she could distinguish nothing
but these words, in a whisper to Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are
all off.”
The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the
trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom
Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to put on
directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his
son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were
three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had so crowded it with
parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit; and, so much was he
influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some
difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into
the street. At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and
they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses
of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the
distance of Northanger from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages.
Catherine’s spirits revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss
Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new to
her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of
Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected
it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was
nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without
anything to see, next followed—and her admiration of the style in which
they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four—postilions handsomely
liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous outriders
properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience. Had
their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but
General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his
children’s spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the
Page 128
observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and
his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment
more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. At
last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine then
surprised by the General’s proposal of her taking his place in his son’s
curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he was anxious
for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”
The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for
General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her;
and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the
curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her
that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world; the chaise and four
wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it was a heavy and
troublesome business, and she could not easily forget its having stopped
two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the
curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not
the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have
passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all
belong to the horses; Henry drove so well—so quietly—without making
any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them: so different
from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare
him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his
greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to
being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.
In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own
praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for her kindness in
thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and
described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably
circumstanced—she had no female companion—and, in the frequent
absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.
“But how can that be?” said Catherine. “Are not you with her?”
“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father’s,
and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”
his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment
more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. At
last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine then
surprised by the General’s proposal of her taking his place in his son’s
curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he was anxious
for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”
The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for
General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her;
and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the
curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her
that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world; the chaise and four
wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it was a heavy and
troublesome business, and she could not easily forget its having stopped
two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the
curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not
the general chosen to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have
passed it with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all
belong to the horses; Henry drove so well—so quietly—without making
any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them: so different
from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare
him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his
greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to
being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.
In addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her own
praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for her kindness in
thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and
described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably
circumstanced—she had no female companion—and, in the frequent
absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.
“But how can that be?” said Catherine. “Are not you with her?”
“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father’s,
and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”
Page 129
“How sorry you must be for that!”
“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.”
“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the
abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”
He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the
abbey.”
“To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads
about?”
“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as
‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for
sliding panels and tapestry?”
“Oh! yes—I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there
would be so many people in the house—and besides, it has never been
uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it
unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.”
“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly
lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread our
beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you
must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced
into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the
family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is
formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different
staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used
since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand
such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find
yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with
only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with
tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff
or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart
sink within you?”
“Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.”
“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And
what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on
one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous
“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.”
“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the
abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”
He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the
abbey.”
“To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads
about?”
“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as
‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for
sliding panels and tapestry?”
“Oh! yes—I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there
would be so many people in the house—and besides, it has never been
uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it
unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.”
“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly
lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread our
beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you
must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced
into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the
family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is
formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different
staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used
since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand
such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find
yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with
only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with
tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff
or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart
sink within you?”
“Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.”
“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And
what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on
one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous
Page 130
chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some
handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that
you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no
less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a
few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you
reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly
haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within
call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of
her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with
increased alarm, that it has no lock.”
“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot
really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.
Well, what then?”
“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest,
and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the
third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals
of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll
round the neighbouring mountains—and during the frightful gusts of wind
which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is
not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the
rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment
for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown
around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you
will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the
minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear—
which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after
a few efforts, succeed in opening—and, with your lamp in your hand, will
pass through it into a small vaulted room.”
“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.”
“What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a
secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the
chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off. Could you shrink from so
simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,
and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very
handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that
you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no
less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a
few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you
reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly
haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within
call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of
her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with
increased alarm, that it has no lock.”
“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot
really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.
Well, what then?”
“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest,
and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the
third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals
of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll
round the neighbouring mountains—and during the frightful gusts of wind
which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is
not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the
rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment
for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown
around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you
will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the
minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear—
which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after
a few efforts, succeed in opening—and, with your lamp in your hand, will
pass through it into a small vaulted room.”
“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.”
“What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a
secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the
chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off. Could you shrink from so
simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,
and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very
Page 131
remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few
drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but
there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being
nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing
through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted
towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though
narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed.
Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it,
unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time
without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a
considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret
spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of paper appears—you seize
it—it contains many sheets of manuscript—you hasten with the precious
treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to
decipher ‘Oh thou, whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these
memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’—when your lamp suddenly
expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”
“Oh, no, no; do not say so. Well, go on.”
But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able
to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of subject
or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal
of Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her
eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her attention had been
fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he
related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into such a
chamber as he had described! She was not at all afraid.”
As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight of
the abbey—for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects very
different—returned in full force, and every bend in the road was expected
with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone, rising
amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in
beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building
stand, that she found herself passing through the great gates of the lodge
into the very grounds of Northanger, without having discerned even an
antique chimney.
drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but
there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being
nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing
through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted
towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though
narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed.
Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it,
unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time
without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a
considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret
spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of paper appears—you seize
it—it contains many sheets of manuscript—you hasten with the precious
treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to
decipher ‘Oh thou, whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these
memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’—when your lamp suddenly
expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”
“Oh, no, no; do not say so. Well, go on.”
But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able
to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of subject
or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal
of Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her
eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her attention had been
fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he
related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into such a
chamber as he had described! She was not at all afraid.”
As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight of
the abbey—for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects very
different—returned in full force, and every bend in the road was expected
with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone, rising
amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in
beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building
stand, that she found herself passing through the great gates of the lodge
into the very grounds of Northanger, without having discerned even an
antique chimney.
Page 132
She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a
something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.
To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such
ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a
smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of
any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long at leisure,
however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her
face, made it impossible for her to observe anything further, and fixed all
her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet; and she was actually
under the abbey walls, was springing, with Henry’s assistance, from the
carriage, was beneath the shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on
to the hall, where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her,
without feeling one awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one
moment’s suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted within the
solemn edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the
murdered to her; it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and
having given a good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shown into the
common drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was.
An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she
doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her
observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in
all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had
expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was
contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and
ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which she
looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk of his
preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less
what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved—
the form of them was Gothic—they might be even casements—but every
pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for
the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt,
and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.
The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the
smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,
being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering himself,
however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthy her
notice—and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding of one in
something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.
To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such
ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a
smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of
any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long at leisure,
however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her
face, made it impossible for her to observe anything further, and fixed all
her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet; and she was actually
under the abbey walls, was springing, with Henry’s assistance, from the
carriage, was beneath the shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on
to the hall, where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her,
without feeling one awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one
moment’s suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted within the
solemn edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the
murdered to her; it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and
having given a good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shown into the
common drawing-room, and capable of considering where she was.
An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she
doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her
observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in
all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had
expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was
contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and
ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which she
looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk of his
preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less
what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved—
the form of them was Gothic—they might be even casements—but every
pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for
the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt,
and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.
The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the
smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,
being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering himself,
however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthy her
notice—and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding of one in
Page 133
particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to pronounce it with
surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed the word of separation,
and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss Tilney in such a manner
as convinced her that the strictest punctuality to the family hours would be
expected at Northanger.
Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad
staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many landing-places,
brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it had a range of doors,
and it was lighted on the other by windows which Catherine had only time
to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the way into a
chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would find it comfortable, left
her with an anxious entreaty that she would make as little alteration as
possible in her dress.
surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed the word of separation,
and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss Tilney in such a manner
as convinced her that the strictest punctuality to the family hours would be
expected at Northanger.
Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad
staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many landing-places,
brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it had a range of doors,
and it was lighted on the other by windows which Catherine had only time
to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the way into a
chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would find it comfortable, left
her with an anxious entreaty that she would make as little alteration as
possible in her dress.
Page 134
CHAPTER 21
A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the
description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted;
the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those of the
drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest fashion, was
handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room altogether far from
uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on this point, she resolved to
lose no time in particular examination of anything, as she greatly dreaded
disobliging the general by any delay. Her habit therefore was thrown off
with all possible haste, and she was preparing to unpin the linen package,
which the chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation,
when her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep
recess on one side of the fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and,
forgetting everything else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder,
while these thoughts crossed her:
“This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An immense
heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here? Pushed back
too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into it—cost me what it may, I
will look into it—and directly too—by daylight. If I stay till evening my
candle may go out.” She advanced and examined it closely: it was of cedar,
curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised, about a foot from the
ground, on a carved stand of the same. The lock was silver, though
tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect remains of handles also
of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the
centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent
over it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with
certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last
letter to be a T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was a
A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the
description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted;
the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those of the
drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest fashion, was
handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room altogether far from
uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on this point, she resolved to
lose no time in particular examination of anything, as she greatly dreaded
disobliging the general by any delay. Her habit therefore was thrown off
with all possible haste, and she was preparing to unpin the linen package,
which the chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation,
when her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep
recess on one side of the fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and,
forgetting everything else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder,
while these thoughts crossed her:
“This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An immense
heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here? Pushed back
too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into it—cost me what it may, I
will look into it—and directly too—by daylight. If I stay till evening my
candle may go out.” She advanced and examined it closely: it was of cedar,
curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised, about a foot from the
ground, on a carved stand of the same. The lock was silver, though
tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect remains of handles also
of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the
centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent
over it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with
certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last
letter to be a T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was a
Page 135
circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not originally
theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?
Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,
with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards to
satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for something
seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches; but at that
moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her, starting, quit
her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This ill-timed intruder
was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by her mistress to be of use to Miss Morland;
and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense
of what she ought to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire
to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing without further delay.
Her progress was not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on
the object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared not
waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many paces
from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown,
her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity
might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so
desperate should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by
supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this
spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her. Her
resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view
of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the
chest in undisputed possession!
She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
anxious for her friend’s being ready, entered the room, and to the rising
shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation, was
then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. “That is a curious
old chest, is not it?” said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily closed it and
turned away to the glass. “It is impossible to say how many generations it
has been here. How it came to be first put in this room I know not, but I
have not had it moved, because I thought it might sometimes be of use in
holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult
to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.”
Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her
gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?
Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,
with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards to
satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for something
seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches; but at that
moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her, starting, quit
her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This ill-timed intruder
was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by her mistress to be of use to Miss Morland;
and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it recalled her to the sense
of what she ought to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her anxious desire
to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing without further delay.
Her progress was not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on
the object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared not
waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many paces
from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown,
her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity
might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so
desperate should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by
supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this
spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her. Her
resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view
of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the
chest in undisputed possession!
She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
anxious for her friend’s being ready, entered the room, and to the rising
shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation, was
then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. “That is a curious
old chest, is not it?” said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily closed it and
turned away to the glass. “It is impossible to say how many generations it
has been here. How it came to be first put in this room I know not, but I
have not had it moved, because I thought it might sometimes be of use in
holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult
to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.”
Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her
gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
Page 136
Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they ran
downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General Tilney
was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having, on the
very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered “Dinner
to be on table directly!”
Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale and
breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and
detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he looked
at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for so foolishly
hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from haste, when
there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world: but Catherine could
not at all get over the double distress of having involved her friend in a
lecture and been a great simpleton herself, till they were happily seated at
the dinner-table, when the General’s complacent smiles, and a good appetite
of her own, restored her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room,
suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in
common use, and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was
almost lost on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke
aloud her admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,
acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further
confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he did
look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries of life; he
supposed, however, “that she must have been used to much better-sized
apartments at Mr. Allen’s?”
“No, indeed,” was Catherine’s honest assurance; “Mr. Allen’s dining-
parlour was not more than half as large,” and she had never seen so large a
room as this in her life. The General’s good humour increased. Why, as he
had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not to make use of them;
but, upon his honour, he believed there might be more comfort in rooms of
only half their size. Mr. Allen’s house, he was sure, must be exactly of the
true size for rational happiness.
The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the
occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness. It
was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue from her
journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or restraint, a sense of
downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General Tilney
was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having, on the
very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered “Dinner
to be on table directly!”
Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale and
breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and
detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he looked
at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for so foolishly
hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from haste, when
there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world: but Catherine could
not at all get over the double distress of having involved her friend in a
lecture and been a great simpleton herself, till they were happily seated at
the dinner-table, when the General’s complacent smiles, and a good appetite
of her own, restored her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room,
suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in
common use, and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was
almost lost on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke
aloud her admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,
acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further
confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he did
look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries of life; he
supposed, however, “that she must have been used to much better-sized
apartments at Mr. Allen’s?”
“No, indeed,” was Catherine’s honest assurance; “Mr. Allen’s dining-
parlour was not more than half as large,” and she had never seen so large a
room as this in her life. The General’s good humour increased. Why, as he
had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not to make use of them;
but, upon his honour, he believed there might be more comfort in rooms of
only half their size. Mr. Allen’s house, he was sure, must be exactly of the
true size for rational happiness.
The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the
occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness. It
was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue from her
journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or restraint, a sense of
Page 137
general happiness preponderated, and she could think of her friends in Bath
without one wish of being with them.
The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained violently.
Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest with sensations of
awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building and
close with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that she was
really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds; they brought to her
recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes,
which such buildings had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most
heartily did she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance
within walls so solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins
or drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had
told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could
have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as
securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely
fortifying her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially
on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter her
room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately assisted
by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. “How much better is this,” said she, as
she walked to the fender—“how much better to find a fire ready lit, than to
have to wait shivering in the cold till all the family are in bed, as so many
poor girls have been obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant
frightening one by coming in with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger
is what it is! If it had been like some other places, I do not know that, in
such a night as this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be
sure, there is nothing to alarm one.”
She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the
divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,
and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction of the
wind’s force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from this
examination, was not without its use; she scorned the causeless fears of an
idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for
bed. “She should take her time; she should not hurry herself; she did not
without one wish of being with them.
The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained violently.
Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest with sensations of
awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building and
close with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that she was
really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds; they brought to her
recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes,
which such buildings had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most
heartily did she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance
within walls so solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins
or drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had
told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could
have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as
securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely
fortifying her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially
on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter her
room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately assisted
by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. “How much better is this,” said she, as
she walked to the fender—“how much better to find a fire ready lit, than to
have to wait shivering in the cold till all the family are in bed, as so many
poor girls have been obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant
frightening one by coming in with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger
is what it is! If it had been like some other places, I do not know that, in
such a night as this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be
sure, there is nothing to alarm one.”
She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the
divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,
and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction of the
wind’s force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from this
examination, was not without its use; she scorned the causeless fears of an
idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for
bed. “She should take her time; she should not hurry herself; she did not
Page 138
care if she were the last person up in the house. But she would not make up
her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of
light after she were in bed.” The fire therefore died away, and Catherine,
having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to
think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the
room, she was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black
cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught
her notice before. Henry’s words, his description of the ebony cabinet
which was to escape her observation at first, immediately rushed across her;
and though there could be nothing really in it, there was something
whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her
candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and
gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and
as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key
was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not, however,
with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd,
after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep till she had
examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, she seized
the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her
utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way; a
bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely
mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused a moment in
breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in
torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness
of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point,
would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a
cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore,
she applied herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way for
some instants with the determined celerity of hope’s last effort, the door
suddenly yielded to her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a
victory, and having thrown open each folding door, the second being
secured only by bolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though
in that her eye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small
drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them;
and in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in
all probability a cavity of importance.
her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of
light after she were in bed.” The fire therefore died away, and Catherine,
having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to
think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the
room, she was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black
cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught
her notice before. Henry’s words, his description of the ebony cabinet
which was to escape her observation at first, immediately rushed across her;
and though there could be nothing really in it, there was something
whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her
candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and
gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and
as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key
was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not, however,
with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd,
after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep till she had
examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, she seized
the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her
utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way; a
bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely
mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused a moment in
breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in
torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness
of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point,
would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a
cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore,
she applied herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way for
some instants with the determined celerity of hope’s last effort, the door
suddenly yielded to her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a
victory, and having thrown open each folding door, the second being
secured only by bolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though
in that her eye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small
drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them;
and in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in
all probability a cavity of importance.
Page 139
Catherine’s heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a
cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers
grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.
With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a fourth;
each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not one was
anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility
of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and she felt round each
with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the middle alone remained now
unexplored; and though she had “never from the first had the smallest idea
of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least
disappointed at her ill success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it
thoroughly while she was about it.” It was some time however before she
could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of
this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as
hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper
pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment,
and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her
knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady
hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written
characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking
exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse
every line before she attempted to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with
alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some
hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in
distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion, she
hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp
could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few
moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a
remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.
Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust of
wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine
trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like
receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted
ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat stood on her
forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping her way to the
bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by
cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers
grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.
With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a fourth;
each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not one was
anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility
of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and she felt round each
with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the middle alone remained now
unexplored; and though she had “never from the first had the smallest idea
of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least
disappointed at her ill success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it
thoroughly while she was about it.” It was some time however before she
could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of
this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as
hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper
pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment,
and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her
knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady
hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written
characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking
exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse
every line before she attempted to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with
alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some
hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in
distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion, she
hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp
could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few
moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a
remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.
Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust of
wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine
trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like
receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted
ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat stood on her
forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping her way to the
bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by
Page 140
creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in sleep that night,
she felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity so justly
awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose must be absolutely
impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful! She had not been used to feel
alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful
intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully
accomplishing the morning’s prediction, how was it to be accounted for?
What could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it
have been so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall
to her lot to discover it! Till she had made herself mistress of its contents,
however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s first
rays she was determined to peruse it. But many were the tedious hours
which must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and
envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were the
noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals on her
startled ear. The very curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion,
and at another the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of
somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and
more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour
after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three
proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.
she felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity so justly
awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose must be absolutely
impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful! She had not been used to feel
alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful
intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully
accomplishing the morning’s prediction, how was it to be accounted for?
What could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it
have been so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall
to her lot to discover it! Till she had made herself mistress of its contents,
however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s first
rays she was determined to peruse it. But many were the tedious hours
which must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and
envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various were the
noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals on her
startled ear. The very curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion,
and at another the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of
somebody to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and
more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour
after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three
proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.
Page 141
CHAPTER 22
The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the
next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her
eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had
succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the consciousness
of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript; and springing
from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s going away, she eagerly
collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its falling to
the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow.
She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal length
with the generality of what she had shuddered over in books, for the roll,
seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of
trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.
Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory of
linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her! If
the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand.
She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation; a
third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats,
and waistcoats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand,
marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder,
shoe-string, and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the
rest, seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s
bill! Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then
suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken
them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of
half her night’s rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure
of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as she
lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now be
The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the
next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her
eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had
succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the consciousness
of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript; and springing
from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s going away, she eagerly
collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its falling to
the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow.
She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal length
with the generality of what she had shuddered over in books, for the roll,
seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of
trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.
Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory of
linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her! If
the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand.
She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation; a
third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats,
and waistcoats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand,
marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder,
shoe-string, and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the
rest, seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s
bill! Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then
suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken
them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of
half her night’s rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure
of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as she
lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now be
Page 142
clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a
manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in
a room such as that, so modern, so habitable!—Or that she should be the
first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open
to all!
How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry
Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his own
doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his
description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get
rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then
scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as
possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within
the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever
bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still
something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.
In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the door’s
having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener, darted into
her head, and cost her another blush.
She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct
produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed to
the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the
evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope of her
having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference to the
character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the
world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet, unequal to an
absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept
her awake a little. “But we have a charming morning after it,” she added,
desiring to get rid of the subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing
when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a
hyacinth.”
“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”
“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains,
year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the
manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in
a room such as that, so modern, so habitable!—Or that she should be the
first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open
to all!
How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry
Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his own
doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his
description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get
rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then
scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as
possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within
the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever
bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still
something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.
In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the door’s
having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener, darted into
her head, and cost her another blush.
She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct
produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed to
the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the
evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope of her
having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference to the
character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the
world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet, unequal to an
absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept
her awake a little. “But we have a charming morning after it,” she added,
desiring to get rid of the subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing
when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a
hyacinth.”
“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”
“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains,
year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the
Page 143
other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”
“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a
new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon
happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in
your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more
frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love of a
hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised,
but you may in time come to love a rose?”
“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure
of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather I
am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within.”
“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a
hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a
teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my
sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”
Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy
state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not
advance her composure.
The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice when
they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the General’s choice. He
was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it to be neat and
simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of his country; and for
his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as well flavoured from the clay
of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden or Sêve. But this was quite an old
set, purchased two years ago. The manufacture was much improved since
that time; he had seen some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had
he not been perfectly without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted
to order a new set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long
occur of selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the
only one of the party who did not understand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business
required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the
hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the
breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
another glimpse of his figure. “This is a somewhat heavy call upon your
“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a
new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon
happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in
your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more
frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love of a
hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised,
but you may in time come to love a rose?”
“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure
of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather I
am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within.”
“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a
hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a
teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my
sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”
Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy
state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not
advance her composure.
The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice when
they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the General’s choice. He
was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it to be neat and
simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of his country; and for
his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as well flavoured from the clay
of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden or Sêve. But this was quite an old
set, purchased two years ago. The manufacture was much improved since
that time; he had seen some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had
he not been perfectly without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted
to order a new set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long
occur of selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the
only one of the party who did not understand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business
required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the
hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the
breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
another glimpse of his figure. “This is a somewhat heavy call upon your
Page 144
brother’s fortitude,” observed the general to Eleanor. “Woodston will make
but a sombre appearance to-day.”
“Is it a pretty place?” asked Catherine.
“What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the
taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be
acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations.
The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an
excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I
built and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It is
a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being chiefly
my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad one. Did
Henry’s income depend solely on this living, he would not be ill-provided
for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger children, I should
think any profession necessary for him; and certainly there are moments
when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But
though I may not exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your
father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give
every young man some employment. The money is nothing, it is not an
object, but employment is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you
see, who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any
private man in the county, has his profession.”
The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The
silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.
Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the
house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though Catherine
had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a proposal
of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be gladly
accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and had
seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth,
was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to attend him in a moment.
“And when they had gone over the house, he promised himself moreover
the pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden.” She
curtsied her acquiescence. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to
make those her first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at
this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which
would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his daughter
but a sombre appearance to-day.”
“Is it a pretty place?” asked Catherine.
“What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the
taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be
acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations.
The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an
excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I
built and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It is
a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being chiefly
my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad one. Did
Henry’s income depend solely on this living, he would not be ill-provided
for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger children, I should
think any profession necessary for him; and certainly there are moments
when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But
though I may not exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your
father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give
every young man some employment. The money is nothing, it is not an
object, but employment is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you
see, who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any
private man in the county, has his profession.”
The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The
silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.
Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the
house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though Catherine
had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a proposal
of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to be gladly
accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and had
seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth,
was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to attend him in a moment.
“And when they had gone over the house, he promised himself moreover
the pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden.” She
curtsied her acquiescence. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to
make those her first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at
this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which
would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his daughter
Page 145
think would most accord with her fair friend’s wishes? But he thought he
could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland’s eyes a judicious
desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But when did she
judge amiss? The abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded
implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.” He left
the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak
of her unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his
own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped
by Miss Tilney’s saying, with a little confusion, “I believe it will be wisest
to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s
account; he always walks out at this time of day.”
Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was
Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the
General’s side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And
was not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her
father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was all
impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about the
grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not
know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her thoughts, but
she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.
She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the
abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole building
enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic
ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was shut off by
knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep woody hills rising
behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of
March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it; and her feelings of
delight were so strong, that without waiting for any better authority, she
boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting
gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited
unfixed till that hour.
The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
across a small portion of the park.
The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine
could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all
Mr. Allen’s, as well as her father’s, including church-yard and orchard. The
could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland’s eyes a judicious
desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But when did she
judge amiss? The abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded
implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.” He left
the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak
of her unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his
own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped
by Miss Tilney’s saying, with a little confusion, “I believe it will be wisest
to take the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father’s
account; he always walks out at this time of day.”
Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was
Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the
General’s side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And
was not it odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her
father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was all
impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about the
grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she should not
know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her thoughts, but
she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent.
She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the
abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole building
enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic
ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was shut off by
knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep woody hills rising
behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of
March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it; and her feelings of
delight were so strong, that without waiting for any better authority, she
boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting
gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited
unfixed till that hour.
The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
across a small portion of the park.
The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine
could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all
Mr. Allen’s, as well as her father’s, including church-yard and orchard. The
Page 146
walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of hot-houses
seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work within the
enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks of surprise, which told
him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him in words, that she
had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before; and he then
modestly owned that, “without any ambition of that sort himself—without
any solicitude about it—he did believe them to be unrivalled in the
kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that. He loved a garden. Though
careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit—or if he did
not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations, however,
attending such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure the
most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last
year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as
himself.”
“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went
into it.”
With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he could
do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some way or
other, by its falling short of his plan.
“How were Mr. Allen’s succession-houses worked?” describing the
nature of his own as they entered them.
“Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use
of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.”
“He is a happy man!” said the general, with a look of very happy
contempt.
Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall, till
she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls at last
to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing his wish to
examine the effect of some recent alterations about the tea-house, proposed
it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not tired.
“But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp
path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best way is across the park.”
“This is so favourite a walk of mine,” said Miss Tilney, “that I always
think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work within the
enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks of surprise, which told
him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him in words, that she
had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before; and he then
modestly owned that, “without any ambition of that sort himself—without
any solicitude about it—he did believe them to be unrivalled in the
kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that. He loved a garden. Though
careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit—or if he did
not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations, however,
attending such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure the
most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last
year. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as
himself.”
“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went
into it.”
With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he could
do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some way or
other, by its falling short of his plan.
“How were Mr. Allen’s succession-houses worked?” describing the
nature of his own as they entered them.
“Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use
of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then.”
“He is a happy man!” said the general, with a look of very happy
contempt.
Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall, till
she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls at last
to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing his wish to
examine the effect of some recent alterations about the tea-house, proposed
it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not tired.
“But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp
path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best way is across the park.”
“This is so favourite a walk of mine,” said Miss Tilney, “that I always
think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
Page 147
It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;
and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, could not,
even by the General’s disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward. He
perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea of health in vain,
was too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself, however,
from attending them: “The rays of the sun were not too cheerful for him,
and he would meet them by another course.” He turned away; and
Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the
separation. The shock, however, being less real than the relief, offered it no
injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy
which such a grove inspired.
“I am particularly fond of this spot,” said her companion, with a sigh. “It
was my mother’s favourite walk.”
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,
and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself directly in
her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with which she waited
for something more.
“I used to walk here so often with her!” added Eleanor; “though I never
loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder
at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
“And ought it not,” reflected Catherine, “to endear it to her husband? Yet
the general would not enter it.” Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured
to say, “Her death must have been a great affliction!”
“A great and increasing one,” replied the other, in a low voice. “I was
only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as
strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know
what a loss it was.” She stopped for a moment, and then added, with great
firmness, “I have no sister, you know—and though Henry—though my
brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am
most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”
“To be sure you must miss him very much.”
“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a
constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”
“Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any
picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove?
and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, could not,
even by the General’s disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward. He
perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea of health in vain,
was too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself, however,
from attending them: “The rays of the sun were not too cheerful for him,
and he would meet them by another course.” He turned away; and
Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the
separation. The shock, however, being less real than the relief, offered it no
injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy
which such a grove inspired.
“I am particularly fond of this spot,” said her companion, with a sigh. “It
was my mother’s favourite walk.”
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before,
and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself directly in
her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with which she waited
for something more.
“I used to walk here so often with her!” added Eleanor; “though I never
loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder
at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
“And ought it not,” reflected Catherine, “to endear it to her husband? Yet
the general would not enter it.” Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured
to say, “Her death must have been a great affliction!”
“A great and increasing one,” replied the other, in a low voice. “I was
only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss perhaps as
strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know
what a loss it was.” She stopped for a moment, and then added, with great
firmness, “I have no sister, you know—and though Henry—though my
brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am
most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”
“To be sure you must miss him very much.”
“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a
constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.”
“Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any
picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove?
Page 148
Was it from dejection of spirits?”—were questions now eagerly poured
forth; the first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were
passed by; and Catherine’s interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented
with every question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in
marriage, she felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind
husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And
besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his
features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
“Her picture, I suppose,” blushing at the consummate art of her own
question, “hangs in your father’s room?”
“No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was
dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after
her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber—where
I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.” Here was another proof. A
portrait—very like—of a departed wife, not valued by the husband! He
must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited; and
what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion. Yes,
aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious to her.
She had often read of such characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been
used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the
contrary.
She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them
directly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation, she
found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even to
smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive pleasure
from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with lassitude; the
general perceived it, and with a concern for her health, which seemed to
reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent for returning with his
daughter to the house. He would follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again
they parted—but Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict
charge against taking her friend round the abbey till his return. This second
instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck
Catherine as very remarkable.
forth; the first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were
passed by; and Catherine’s interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented
with every question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in
marriage, she felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind
husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And
besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his
features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
“Her picture, I suppose,” blushing at the consummate art of her own
question, “hangs in your father’s room?”
“No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was
dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after
her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber—where
I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.” Here was another proof. A
portrait—very like—of a departed wife, not valued by the husband! He
must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited; and
what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion. Yes,
aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious to her.
She had often read of such characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been
used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the
contrary.
She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them
directly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation, she
found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even to
smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive pleasure
from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with lassitude; the
general perceived it, and with a concern for her health, which seemed to
reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent for returning with his
daughter to the house. He would follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again
they parted—but Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict
charge against taking her friend round the abbey till his return. This second
instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck
Catherine as very remarkable.
Page 149
CHAPTER 23
An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of his
young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character. “This
lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or
a conscience void of reproach.” At length he appeared; and, whatever might
have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them. Miss
Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s curiosity to see the house, soon
revived the subject; and her father being, contrary to Catherine’s
expectations, unprovided with any pretence for further delay, beyond that of
stopping five minutes to order refreshments to be in the room by their
return, was at last ready to escort them.
They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step, which
caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine,
he led the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room and one
useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture—
the real drawing-room, used only with company of consequence. It was
very noble—very grand—very charming!—was all that Catherine had to
say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned the colour of the satin;
and all minuteness of praise, all praise that had much meaning, was
supplied by the general: the costliness or elegance of any room’s fitting-up
could be nothing to her; she cared for no furniture of a more modern date
than the fifteenth century. When the general had satisfied his own curiosity,
in a close examination of every well-known ornament, they proceeded into
the library, an apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a
collection of books, on which an humble man might have looked with
pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling
than before—gathered all that she could from this storehouse of knowledge,
by running over the titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But
suites of apartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the
building, she had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told
An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of his
young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character. “This
lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind at ease, or
a conscience void of reproach.” At length he appeared; and, whatever might
have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them. Miss
Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s curiosity to see the house, soon
revived the subject; and her father being, contrary to Catherine’s
expectations, unprovided with any pretence for further delay, beyond that of
stopping five minutes to order refreshments to be in the room by their
return, was at last ready to escort them.
They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step, which
caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine,
he led the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room and one
useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture—
the real drawing-room, used only with company of consequence. It was
very noble—very grand—very charming!—was all that Catherine had to
say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned the colour of the satin;
and all minuteness of praise, all praise that had much meaning, was
supplied by the general: the costliness or elegance of any room’s fitting-up
could be nothing to her; she cared for no furniture of a more modern date
than the fifteenth century. When the general had satisfied his own curiosity,
in a close examination of every well-known ornament, they proceeded into
the library, an apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence, exhibiting a
collection of books, on which an humble man might have looked with
pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling
than before—gathered all that she could from this storehouse of knowledge,
by running over the titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But
suites of apartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the
building, she had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told
Page 150
that, with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now
seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it, or
overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was
some relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common use,
by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which,
with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different
sides; and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that she
was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed
out, and observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to
her—by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the General’s
private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or being able to
turn aright when she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little
room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns,
and greatcoats.
From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be
seen at five o’clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing out
the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as to what she
neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to
the kitchen—the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls and
smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The
General’s improving hand had not loitered here: every modern invention to
facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their
spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had
often produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone
might at any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the
convent.
With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the
fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state, been
removed by the General’s father, and the present erected in its place. All
that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not only new, but
declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by
stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary.
Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must
have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the purposes of mere
domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared the mortification
of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general allowed it; but if he had
a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced
seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it, or
overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was
some relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common use,
by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which,
with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different
sides; and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that she
was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed
out, and observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to
her—by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the General’s
private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or being able to
turn aright when she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little
room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns,
and greatcoats.
From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be
seen at five o’clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing out
the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as to what she
neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to
the kitchen—the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls and
smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The
General’s improving hand had not loitered here: every modern invention to
facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their
spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had
often produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone
might at any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the
convent.
With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the
fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state, been
removed by the General’s father, and the present erected in its place. All
that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not only new, but
declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by
stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary.
Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must
have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the purposes of mere
domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared the mortification
of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general allowed it; but if he had
a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced
Page 151
that, to a mind like Miss Morland’s, a view of the accommodations and
comforts by which the labours of her inferiors were softened, must always
be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading her on. They took a
slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation,
by their multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few
shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at
Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and
roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less
than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl
stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this was
an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from
such as she had read about—from abbeys and castles, in which, though
certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be
done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through
it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was
necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.
They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended, and
the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out:
having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery
in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but
superior in length and breadth. She was here shown successively into three
large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and
handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste could do, to give
comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and,
being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that
would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to
Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly
naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times
been honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and
ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be
“our friends from Fullerton.” She felt the unexpected compliment, and
deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly
disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family.
The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point
of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of
gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as
comforts by which the labours of her inferiors were softened, must always
be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading her on. They took a
slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation,
by their multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few
shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at
Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and
roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less
than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl
stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this was
an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from
such as she had read about—from abbeys and castles, in which, though
certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be
done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through
it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was
necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.
They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended, and
the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out:
having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery
in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but
superior in length and breadth. She was here shown successively into three
large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and
handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste could do, to give
comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and,
being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that
would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to
Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly
naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times
been honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and
ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be
“our friends from Fullerton.” She felt the unexpected compliment, and
deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly
disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family.
The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point
of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of
gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as
Page 152
Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whither she were going?
—And what was there more to be seen?—Had not Miss Morland already
seen all that could be worth her notice?—And did she not suppose her
friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss
Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the
mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond
them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a
winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something
worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that
she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all
the finery of all the rest. The General’s evident desire of preventing such an
examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be
concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could
not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss
Tilney’s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed
to point out: “I was going to take you into what was my mother’s room—
the room in which she died—” were all her words; but few as they were,
they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the
general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must
contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful
scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the
stings of conscience.
She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being
permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and
Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a
convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched
from home, before that room could be entered. “It remains as it was, I
suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling.
“Yes, entirely.”
“And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”
“She has been dead these nine years.” And nine years, Catherine knew,
was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of
an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.
“You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”
“No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was unfortunately from home. Her
illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.”
—And what was there more to be seen?—Had not Miss Morland already
seen all that could be worth her notice?—And did she not suppose her
friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss
Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the
mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond
them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a
winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something
worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that
she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all
the finery of all the rest. The General’s evident desire of preventing such an
examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be
concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could
not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss
Tilney’s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed
to point out: “I was going to take you into what was my mother’s room—
the room in which she died—” were all her words; but few as they were,
they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the
general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must
contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful
scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the
stings of conscience.
She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being
permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and
Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a
convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched
from home, before that room could be entered. “It remains as it was, I
suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling.
“Yes, entirely.”
“And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”
“She has been dead these nine years.” And nine years, Catherine knew,
was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of
an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.
“You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”
“No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was unfortunately from home. Her
illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.”
Page 153
Catherine’s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally
sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry’s father—?
And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest
suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with
her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent
thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure
from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a
Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind
not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past
scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits directed
her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice.
“My father,” she whispered, “often walks about the room in this way; it is
nothing unusual.”
“So much the worse!” thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a
piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded
nothing good.
After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made her
peculiarly sensible of Henry’s importance among them, she was heartily
glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not designed for
her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would
have lit his master’s candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was not
going to retire. “I have many pamphlets to finish,” said he to Catherine,
“before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be poring over the affairs of
the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly
employed? My eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and yours
preparing by rest for future mischief.”
But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could
win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must occasion
so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family
were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some
deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done only while
the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up
for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a
nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily
followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death
unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be
sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry’s father—?
And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest
suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with
her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent
thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure
from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a
Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind
not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past
scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits directed
her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice.
“My father,” she whispered, “often walks about the room in this way; it is
nothing unusual.”
“So much the worse!” thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a
piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded
nothing good.
After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made her
peculiarly sensible of Henry’s importance among them, she was heartily
glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not designed for
her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would
have lit his master’s candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was not
going to retire. “I have many pamphlets to finish,” said he to Catherine,
“before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be poring over the affairs of
the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly
employed? My eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and yours
preparing by rest for future mischief.”
But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could
win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must occasion
so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family
were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some
deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done only while
the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up
for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a
nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily
followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death
unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be
Page 154
released. The suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter,
and probably of her other children, at the time—all favoured the
supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton
cruelty—was yet to be unravelled.
In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her as
not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very spot of
this unfortunate woman’s confinement—might have been within a few
paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what part of the
abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore the
traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone,
which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she well remembered the
doors of which the general had given no account. To what might not those
doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this conjecture, it further
occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of the
unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as certainly as her memory could guide
her, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the staircase by the side
of those apartments of which she had caught a transient glimpse,
communicating by some secret means with those cells, might well have
favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she
had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!
Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and
sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to be
acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck her
that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the General’s lamp
might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison of his
wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room
to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all
abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The various ascending noises
convinced her that the servants must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed
it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve,
and all was quiet, she would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and
look once more. The clock struck twelve—and Catherine had been half an
hour asleep.
and probably of her other children, at the time—all favoured the
supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton
cruelty—was yet to be unravelled.
In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her as
not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very spot of
this unfortunate woman’s confinement—might have been within a few
paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what part of the
abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore the
traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone,
which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she well remembered the
doors of which the general had given no account. To what might not those
doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this conjecture, it further
occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of the
unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as certainly as her memory could guide
her, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the staircase by the side
of those apartments of which she had caught a transient glimpse,
communicating by some secret means with those cells, might well have
favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she
had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!
Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and
sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene to be
acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own, it struck her
that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the General’s lamp
might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison of his
wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room
to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all
abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The various ascending noises
convinced her that the servants must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed
it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve,
and all was quiet, she would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and
look once more. The clock struck twelve—and Catherine had been half an
hour asleep.
Page 155
CHAPTER 24
The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of
the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between
morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise
abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine’s curiosity,
her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either
by the fading light of the sky between six and seven o’clock, or by the yet
more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp. The day
was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination beyond the
sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which
immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantly caught
and long retained; and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which
every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who must
have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears.
That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face
it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly collected
within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay,
that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not,
however, that many instances of beings equally hardened in guilt might not
be produced. She could remember dozens who had persevered in every
possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they
chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a
religious retirement closed their black career. The erection of the monument
itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s
actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her
ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which
they were said to be enclosed—what could it avail in such a case? Catherine
had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen
figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.
The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of
the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between
morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise
abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine’s curiosity,
her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either
by the fading light of the sky between six and seven o’clock, or by the yet
more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp. The day
was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination beyond the
sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which
immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantly caught
and long retained; and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which
every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who must
have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears.
That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face
it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly collected
within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay,
that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not,
however, that many instances of beings equally hardened in guilt might not
be produced. She could remember dozens who had persevered in every
possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they
chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a
religious retirement closed their black career. The erection of the monument
itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s
actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her
ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which
they were said to be enclosed—what could it avail in such a case? Catherine
had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen
figure might be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.
Page 156
The succeeding morning promised something better. The General’s early
walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and when
she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney
the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and
Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their first visit in
consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very
lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, justifying, so far, the
expectations of its new observer; but they were not in every respect
answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, hair,
complexion, that should be the very counterpart, the very image, if not of
Henry’s, of Eleanor’s—the only portraits of which she had been in the habit
of thinking, bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A
face once taken was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look
and consider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in
spite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger
interest, would have left it unwillingly.
Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor’s
countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured
to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed
through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock, and
Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with
fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himself at
the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of “Eleanor” at
the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building,
giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine
terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive
movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped
his eye; and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily
by her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own
room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have courage
to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the greatest
agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a
summons herself from the angry general to attend him in his own
apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage
drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under
the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and
walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; and when
she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney
the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and
Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their first visit in
consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very
lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, justifying, so far, the
expectations of its new observer; but they were not in every respect
answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, hair,
complexion, that should be the very counterpart, the very image, if not of
Henry’s, of Eleanor’s—the only portraits of which she had been in the habit
of thinking, bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A
face once taken was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look
and consider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in
spite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger
interest, would have left it unwillingly.
Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor’s
countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured
to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed
through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock, and
Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with
fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himself at
the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of “Eleanor” at
the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building,
giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine
terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive
movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped
his eye; and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily
by her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own
room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have courage
to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the greatest
agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a
summons herself from the angry general to attend him in his own
apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage
drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under
the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and
Page 157
she was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in a
complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make
her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor, with a command
of countenance which did honour to her concern for his character, taking an
early occasion of saying to her, “My father only wanted me to answer a
note,” she began to hope that she had either been unseen by the general, or
that from some consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose
herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the
company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it.
In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution of
making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much
better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To
involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into an
apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend.
The General’s utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a
daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself would be more
satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to
explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other had, in all
likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in her
presence, search for those proofs of the General’s cruelty, which however
they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere
drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the
last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and
as she wished to get it over before Henry’s return, who was expected on the
morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high;
at four o’clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would
be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.
It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the
clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried on,
slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without
stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock
yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a
human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room was before her; but it was
some minutes before she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed
her to the spot and agitated every feature. She saw a large, well-
proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied
with an housemaid’s care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and
complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make
her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor, with a command
of countenance which did honour to her concern for his character, taking an
early occasion of saying to her, “My father only wanted me to answer a
note,” she began to hope that she had either been unseen by the general, or
that from some consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose
herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the
company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it.
In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution of
making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much
better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To
involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into an
apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend.
The General’s utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a
daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself would be more
satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to
explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other had, in all
likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore, in her
presence, search for those proofs of the General’s cruelty, which however
they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt confident of somewhere
drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the
last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and
as she wished to get it over before Henry’s return, who was expected on the
morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high;
at four o’clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would
be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.
It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the
clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried on,
slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without
stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock
yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a
human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room was before her; but it was
some minutes before she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed
her to the spot and agitated every feature. She saw a large, well-
proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied
with an housemaid’s care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and
Page 158
neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily
poured through two sash windows! Catherine had expected to have her
feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first
seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some
bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room; but
how grossly mistaken in everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her
own calculation! This apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a
position so awful, proved to be one end of what the General’s father had
built. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into
dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in
which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last
read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No:
whatever might have been the General’s crimes, he had certainly too much
wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but
to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and
she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the
sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and
tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by
the general (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much
worse! She listened—the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a
moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door
underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend
the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the
gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very
definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave
Henry to her view. “Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than
common astonishment. He looked astonished too. “Good God!” she
continued, not attending to his address. “How came you here? How came
you up that staircase?”
“How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because it
is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why
should I not come up it?”
Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He
seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips
did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. “And may I not, in my
turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask how you came
poured through two sash windows! Catherine had expected to have her
feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first
seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some
bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room; but
how grossly mistaken in everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her
own calculation! This apartment, to which she had given a date so ancient, a
position so awful, proved to be one end of what the General’s father had
built. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into
dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in
which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last
read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No:
whatever might have been the General’s crimes, he had certainly too much
wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but
to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and
she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the
sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and
tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by
the general (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much
worse! She listened—the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a
moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door
underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend
the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the
gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very
definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave
Henry to her view. “Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than
common astonishment. He looked astonished too. “Good God!” she
continued, not attending to his address. “How came you here? How came
you up that staircase?”
“How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because it
is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why
should I not come up it?”
Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He
seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips
did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. “And may I not, in my
turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask how you came
Page 159
here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast-
parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.”
“I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s
room.”
“My mother’s room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?”
“No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till to-
morrow.”
“I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but three
hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale.
I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you
did not know—you were not aware of their leading from the offices in
common use?”
“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”
“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in
the house by yourself?”
“Oh no! she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were
coming here to these rooms—but only,” dropping her voice, “your father
was with us.”
“And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have
you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”
“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”
“It is only a quarter past four,” showing his watch; “and you are not now
in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger
must be enough.”
She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained,
though her dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their
acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. “Have
you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”
“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to
write directly.”
“Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have
heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of
promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive
and pain you. My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and
parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.”
“I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s
room.”
“My mother’s room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?”
“No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till to-
morrow.”
“I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but three
hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale.
I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you
did not know—you were not aware of their leading from the offices in
common use?”
“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”
“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in
the house by yourself?”
“Oh no! she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were
coming here to these rooms—but only,” dropping her voice, “your father
was with us.”
“And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have
you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”
“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”
“It is only a quarter past four,” showing his watch; “and you are not now
in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger
must be enough.”
She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained,
though her dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their
acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. “Have
you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”
“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to
write directly.”
“Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have
heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of
promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive
and pain you. My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and
Page 160
cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always
strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather
wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at
it, I suppose?”
“No.”
“It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. After a
short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, “As there
is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded
from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character, as described by
Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw
a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as
this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not
often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt
a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”
“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very
interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation it was
spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I thought
—perhaps had not been very fond of her.”
“And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers),
“you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence—some”—
(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of something still less
pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever
done before. “My mother’s illness,” he continued, “the seizure which ended
in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often
suffered, a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third
day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her,
a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great
confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the
next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty
hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder,
Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our
own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible
attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which
her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a
distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.”
“But your father,” said Catherine, “was he afflicted?”
strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather
wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at
it, I suppose?”
“No.”
“It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. After a
short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, “As there
is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded
from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character, as described by
Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw
a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as
this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not
often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt
a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”
“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very
interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation it was
spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I thought
—perhaps had not been very fond of her.”
“And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers),
“you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence—some”—
(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of something still less
pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever
done before. “My mother’s illness,” he continued, “the seizure which ended
in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often
suffered, a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third
day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her,
a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great
confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the
next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty
hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder,
Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our
own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible
attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which
her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a
distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.”
“But your father,” said Catherine, “was he afflicted?”
Page 161
“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to
her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we
have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not
pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to
bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value
of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her
death.”
“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very
shocking!”
“If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I
have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of
the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?
Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are
English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own
sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you.
Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at
them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like
this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every
man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads
and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas
have you been admitting?”
They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran
off to her own room.
her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we
have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not
pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to
bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value
of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her
death.”
“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very
shocking!”
“If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I
have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of
the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?
Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are
English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own
sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you.
Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at
them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like
this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every
man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads
and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas
have you been admitting?”
They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran
off to her own room.
Page 162
CHAPTER 25
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes
to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments
had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It
was not only with herself that she was sunk—but with Henry. Her folly,
which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must
despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take
with the character of his father—could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of
her curiosity and her fears—could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself
more than she could express. He had—she thought he had, once or twice
before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now
—in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour,
went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could
scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention
than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if
he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;
and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not
learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it
would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry’s entire
regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such
causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it
had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance
receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and
everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she
entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with
what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes
to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments
had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It
was not only with herself that she was sunk—but with Henry. Her folly,
which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must
despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take
with the character of his father—could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of
her curiosity and her fears—could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself
more than she could express. He had—she thought he had, once or twice
before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now
—in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour,
went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could
scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention
than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if
he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;
and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not
learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it
would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry’s entire
regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such
causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it
had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance
receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and
everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she
entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with
what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that
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the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before her
quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence
of that sort of reading which she had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were
the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature,
at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the
Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might give a
faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might
be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not
doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would
have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of
England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not
beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was
not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping
potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps
and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were
not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in
England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and
habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon
this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this
conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the
character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious
suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe,
upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she had
nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the lenient
hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of
another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in
never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the greatest
assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the
beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and
capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything he said. There
were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must
always tremble—the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she
did not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she could allow that
quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence
of that sort of reading which she had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were
the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature,
at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the
Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might give a
faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might
be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not
doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would
have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of
England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not
beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was
not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping
potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps
and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were
not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in
England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and
habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon
this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this
conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the
character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious
suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe,
upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she had
nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the lenient
hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of
another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in
never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the greatest
assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the
beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and
capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything he said. There
were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must
always tremble—the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she
did not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she could allow that
Page 164
an occasional memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without
use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She
was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had left
her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only
dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had
protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had
given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to Fullerton. But Isabella
had promised and promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was
so scrupulous in performing it! This made it so particularly strange!
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of
a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the
tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter,
held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had
written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as she looked at the
direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:
“Dear Catherine,
“Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I
think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end
between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday,
never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars—
they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough
from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I
hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of
too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am
undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father’s
consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She
has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you,
dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build
upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before
Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be
uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I
dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much.
use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She
was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had left
her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only
dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had
protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had
given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to Fullerton. But Isabella
had promised and promised again; and when she promised a thing, she was
so scrupulous in performing it! This made it so particularly strange!
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of
a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the
tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter,
held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had
written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as she looked at the
direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:
“Dear Catherine,
“Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I
think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end
between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday,
never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars—
they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough
from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I
hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of
too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am
undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father’s
consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She
has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you,
dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build
upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before
Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be
uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I
dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much.
Page 165
I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me
more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she
declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed
at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;
but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was
that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be
at, for there could be no need of my being played off to
make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual
consent—happy for me had we never met! I can never
expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine,
beware how you give your heart.
“Believe me,” &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to
be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through
the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He was
prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father’s entrance.
They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly eat anything.
Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat. The letter
was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and
she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general, between his cocoa
and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to the other
two her distress was equally visible. As soon as she dared leave the table
she hurried away to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and
she was obliged to come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for
privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at
that moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg
their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the others
withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use
or comfort to her.
After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt
equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her distress
known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly
questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly hint at it—but not
more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her—and
more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she
declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed
at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;
but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was
that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be
at, for there could be no need of my being played off to
make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual
consent—happy for me had we never met! I can never
expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine,
beware how you give your heart.
“Believe me,” &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to
be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through
the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He was
prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father’s entrance.
They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly eat anything.
Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat. The letter
was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and
she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general, between his cocoa
and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to the other
two her distress was equally visible. As soon as she dared leave the table
she hurried away to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and
she was obliged to come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for
privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at
that moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg
their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the others
withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use
or comfort to her.
After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine felt
equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her distress
known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly
questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly hint at it—but not
more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her—and
Page 166
then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she must
waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselves in the
breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it, looked at her anxiously.
Catherine took her place at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said,
“No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your
brothers and sisters—I hope they are none of them ill?”
“No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My
letter was from my brother at Oxford.”
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
her tears, she added, “I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!”
“I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; “if I had
suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given
it with very different feelings.”
“It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James
is so unhappy! You will soon know why.”
“To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry warmly,
“must be a comfort to him under any distress.”
“I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give
me notice of it, that I may go away.”
“Our brother! Frederick!”
“Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
the same house with Captain Tilney.”
Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips.
“How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare!
And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so.
Isabella—no wonder now I have not heard from her—Isabella has deserted
my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed there had been
such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?”
“I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he
has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s
disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselves in the
breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it, looked at her anxiously.
Catherine took her place at the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said,
“No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your
brothers and sisters—I hope they are none of them ill?”
“No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My
letter was from my brother at Oxford.”
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
her tears, she added, “I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!”
“I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; “if I had
suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given
it with very different feelings.”
“It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James
is so unhappy! You will soon know why.”
“To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry warmly,
“must be a comfort to him under any distress.”
“I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give
me notice of it, that I may go away.”
“Our brother! Frederick!”
“Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
the same house with Captain Tilney.”
Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips.
“How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare!
And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so.
Isabella—no wonder now I have not heard from her—Isabella has deserted
my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed there had been
such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?”
“I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he
has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s
disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
Page 167
must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that
anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at
Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.”
“It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay—
There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line.
“Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern
my brother?”
“No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were
clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that she had
blushed before); “James only means to give me good advice.”
He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close
attention, returned it saying, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am
sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with
less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a
lover or a son.”
Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise, and,
having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss
Thorpe’s connections and fortune.
“Her mother is a very good sort of woman,” was Catherine’s answer.
“What was her father?”
“A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.”
“Are they a wealthy family?”
“No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that will
not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the
other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the
happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked at each other.
“But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be to promote his
happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled
one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an
infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an
engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it
inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so
proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!”
“That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover,
anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at
Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.”
“It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay—
There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line.
“Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern
my brother?”
“No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were
clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that she had
blushed before); “James only means to give me good advice.”
He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close
attention, returned it saying, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am
sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with
less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a
lover or a son.”
Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise, and,
having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss
Thorpe’s connections and fortune.
“Her mother is a very good sort of woman,” was Catherine’s answer.
“What was her father?”
“A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.”
“Are they a wealthy family?”
“No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that will
not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the
other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the
happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked at each other.
“But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be to promote his
happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled
one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an
infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an
engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it
inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so
proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!”
“That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover,
Page 168
I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to suppose that she
would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over
with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man—defunct in understanding.
Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must
delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but
simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.”
“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a
smile.
“But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by our
family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she
likes, she may be constant.”
“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will be
very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is Frederick’s
only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals.”
“You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first knew
what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it
was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s character in my life
before.”
“Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.”
“My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”
“Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we must
not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose,
that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart
which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the
amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them
without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for
the world. You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can
speak with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose
counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?”
“No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her,
that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not
feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have thought.”
would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over
with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man—defunct in understanding.
Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must
delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but
simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.”
“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a
smile.
“But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by our
family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she
likes, she may be constant.”
“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will be
very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is Frederick’s
only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals.”
“You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first knew
what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it
was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s character in my life
before.”
“Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.”
“My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”
“Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we must
not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose,
that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart
which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the
amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them
without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for
the world. You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can
speak with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose
counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?”
“No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her,
that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not
feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have thought.”
Page 169
“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.
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.
Page 170
CHAPTER 26
From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young friends
were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella’s want of consequence and
fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way of her marrying their
brother. Their persuasion that the general would, upon this ground alone,
independent of the objection that might be raised against her character,
oppose the connection, turned her feelings moreover with some alarm
towards herself. She was as insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as
Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth
enough in himself, at what point of interest were the demands of his
younger brother to rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought
led could only be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that particular
partiality, which, as she was given to understand by his words as well as his
actions, she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general;
and by a recollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments
on the subject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and
which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood by
his children.
They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not have
the courage to apply in person for his father’s consent, and so repeatedly
assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to come to
Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind to be at ease
as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But as it was not to
be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his application, would
give his father any just idea of Isabella’s conduct, it occurred to her as
highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole business before him as it
really was, enabling the general by that means to form a cool and impartial
opinion, and prepare his objections on a fairer ground than inequality of
situations. She proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the
From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young friends
were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella’s want of consequence and
fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way of her marrying their
brother. Their persuasion that the general would, upon this ground alone,
independent of the objection that might be raised against her character,
oppose the connection, turned her feelings moreover with some alarm
towards herself. She was as insignificant, and perhaps as portionless, as
Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney property had not grandeur and wealth
enough in himself, at what point of interest were the demands of his
younger brother to rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought
led could only be dispersed by a dependence on the effect of that particular
partiality, which, as she was given to understand by his words as well as his
actions, she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general;
and by a recollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments
on the subject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and
which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood by
his children.
They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not have
the courage to apply in person for his father’s consent, and so repeatedly
assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to come to
Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind to be at ease
as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But as it was not to
be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his application, would
give his father any just idea of Isabella’s conduct, it occurred to her as
highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole business before him as it
really was, enabling the general by that means to form a cool and impartial
opinion, and prepare his objections on a fairer ground than inequality of
situations. She proposed it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the
Page 171
measure so eagerly as she had expected. “No,” said he, “my father’s hands
need not be strengthened, and Frederick’s confession of folly need not be
forestalled. He must tell his own story.”
“But he will tell only half of it.”
“A quarter would be enough.”
A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His
brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to them as
if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected engagement, and
at others that it was wholly incompatible with it. The general, meanwhile,
though offended every morning by Frederick’s remissness in writing, was
free from any real anxiety about him, and had no more pressing solicitude
than that of making Miss Morland’s time at Northanger pass pleasantly. He
often expressed his uneasiness on this head, feared the sameness of every
day’s society and employments would disgust her with the place, wished
the Lady Frasers had been in the country, talked every now and then of
having a large party to dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate the
number of young dancing people in the neighbourhood. But then it was
such a dead time of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were
not in the country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning
that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there
some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly
honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the
scheme. “And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I
must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall
probably be obliged to stay two or three days.”
“Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is no
need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you
may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer for
the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s table. Let me see;
Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday; and
Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from Brockham
with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in decency fail
attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed away
now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would be taken exceedingly
amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any
of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it.
need not be strengthened, and Frederick’s confession of folly need not be
forestalled. He must tell his own story.”
“But he will tell only half of it.”
“A quarter would be enough.”
A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His
brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to them as
if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected engagement, and
at others that it was wholly incompatible with it. The general, meanwhile,
though offended every morning by Frederick’s remissness in writing, was
free from any real anxiety about him, and had no more pressing solicitude
than that of making Miss Morland’s time at Northanger pass pleasantly. He
often expressed his uneasiness on this head, feared the sameness of every
day’s society and employments would disgust her with the place, wished
the Lady Frasers had been in the country, talked every now and then of
having a large party to dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate the
number of young dancing people in the neighbourhood. But then it was
such a dead time of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were
not in the country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning
that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there
some day or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly
honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the
scheme. “And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I
must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall
probably be obliged to stay two or three days.”
“Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is no
need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you
may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer for
the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s table. Let me see;
Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday; and
Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from Brockham
with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in decency fail
attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed away
now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would be taken exceedingly
amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any
of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it.
Page 172
They are a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger
twice a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we
may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may
expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look
about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I
suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one
on Wednesday, you may look for us.”
A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this
little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston;
and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour
afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she and
Eleanor were sitting, and said, “I am come, young ladies, in a very
moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always to
be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great disadvantage, giving
ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the future, that may not be
honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour. Because I am to hope for the
satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather,
or twenty other causes, may prevent, I must go away directly, two days
before I intended it.”
“Go away!” said Catherine, with a very long face. “And why?”
“Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in
frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and
prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.”
“Oh! Not seriously!”
“Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.”
“But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?
When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,
because anything would do.”
Henry only smiled. “I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister’s
account and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such a
point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not said
half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home, that
sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify.”
“I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As
to-morrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.”
twice a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we
may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may
expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look
about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I
suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one
on Wednesday, you may look for us.”
A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this
little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston;
and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour
afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she and
Eleanor were sitting, and said, “I am come, young ladies, in a very
moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always to
be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great disadvantage, giving
ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the future, that may not be
honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour. Because I am to hope for the
satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather,
or twenty other causes, may prevent, I must go away directly, two days
before I intended it.”
“Go away!” said Catherine, with a very long face. “And why?”
“Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in
frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and
prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.”
“Oh! Not seriously!”
“Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.”
“But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?
When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,
because anything would do.”
Henry only smiled. “I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister’s
account and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such a
point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not said
half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home, that
sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify.”
“I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As
to-morrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.”
Page 173
He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine
to doubt her own judgment than Henry’s, she was very soon obliged to give
him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his going. But the
inexplicability of the General’s conduct dwelt much on her thoughts. That
he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own unassisted
observation, already discovered; but why he should say one thing so
positively, and mean another all the while, was most unaccountable! How
were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but Henry could have been
aware of what his father was at?
From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without
Henry. This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney’s
letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very
sure would be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.
Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor’s
spirits always affected by Henry’s absence! What was there to interest or
amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies—always so
smooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than any
other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped to nourish
and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a consideration
of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who had so longed to
be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming to her imagination as
the unpretending comfort of a well-connected parsonage, something like
Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had
none. If Wednesday should ever come!
It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It came
—it was fine—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise and
four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive of
almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village,
in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she
thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology necessary for the
flatness of the country, and the size of the village; but in her heart she
preferred it to any place she had ever been at, and looked with great
admiration at every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the
little chandler’s shops which they passed. At the further end of the village,
and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-
built substantial stone house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates;
and, as they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a
to doubt her own judgment than Henry’s, she was very soon obliged to give
him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his going. But the
inexplicability of the General’s conduct dwelt much on her thoughts. That
he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own unassisted
observation, already discovered; but why he should say one thing so
positively, and mean another all the while, was most unaccountable! How
were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but Henry could have been
aware of what his father was at?
From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without
Henry. This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney’s
letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very
sure would be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.
Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor’s
spirits always affected by Henry’s absence! What was there to interest or
amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies—always so
smooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than any
other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped to nourish
and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a consideration
of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who had so longed to
be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming to her imagination as
the unpretending comfort of a well-connected parsonage, something like
Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had
none. If Wednesday should ever come!
It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It came
—it was fine—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise and
four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive of
almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village,
in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she
thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology necessary for the
flatness of the country, and the size of the village; but in her heart she
preferred it to any place she had ever been at, and looked with great
admiration at every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the
little chandler’s shops which they passed. At the further end of the village,
and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a new-
built substantial stone house, with its semicircular sweep and green gates;
and, as they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a
Page 174
large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive
and make much of them.
Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either to
observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general for her
opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she was sitting.
Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that it was the most
comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded to say so, and the
coldness of her praise disappointed him.
“We are not calling it a good house,” said he. “We are not comparing it
with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere parsonage,
small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and
altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other words, I believe there
are few country parsonages in England half so good. It may admit of
improvement, however. Far be it from me to say otherwise; and anything in
reason—a bow thrown out, perhaps—though, between ourselves, if there is
one thing more than another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow.”
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported by
Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was introduced by
his servant, the general was shortly restored to his complacency, and
Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.
The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and
handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk
round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment, belonging
peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy on the
occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room, with the
appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was delighted enough
even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily shaped room, the windows
reaching to the ground, and the view from them pleasant, though only over
green meadows; and she expressed her admiration at the moment with all
the honest simplicity with which she felt it. “Oh! Why do not you fit up this
room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest
room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!”
“I trust,” said the general, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will very
speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”
and make much of them.
Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either to
observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general for her
opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she was sitting.
Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that it was the most
comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded to say so, and the
coldness of her praise disappointed him.
“We are not calling it a good house,” said he. “We are not comparing it
with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere parsonage,
small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable; and
altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other words, I believe there
are few country parsonages in England half so good. It may admit of
improvement, however. Far be it from me to say otherwise; and anything in
reason—a bow thrown out, perhaps—though, between ourselves, if there is
one thing more than another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow.”
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported by
Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was introduced by
his servant, the general was shortly restored to his complacency, and
Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.
The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and
handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk
round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment, belonging
peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy on the
occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room, with the
appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was delighted enough
even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily shaped room, the windows
reaching to the ground, and the view from them pleasant, though only over
green meadows; and she expressed her admiration at the moment with all
the honest simplicity with which she felt it. “Oh! Why do not you fit up this
room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest
room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!”
“I trust,” said the general, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will very
speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”
Page 175
“Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a
sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! It is the
prettiest cottage!”
“You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember
that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced
her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her choice
of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion
on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and
fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassing
associations; and, having reached the ornamental part of the premises,
consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on which Henry’s genius
had begun to act about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to
think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been in before,
though there was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench in the corner.
A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a visit
to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game of play
with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four o’clock,
when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At four they were to
dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had any day passed so
quickly!
She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem
to create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was even
looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His son and
daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen him
eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never before known him so
little disconcerted by the melted butter’s being oiled.
At six o’clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again
received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct
throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject of
his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of
his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the
How or the When she might return to it.
sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! It is the
prettiest cottage!”
“You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember
that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced
her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her choice
of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion
on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and
fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassing
associations; and, having reached the ornamental part of the premises,
consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on which Henry’s genius
had begun to act about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to
think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been in before,
though there was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench in the corner.
A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a visit
to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game of play
with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four o’clock,
when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At four they were to
dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had any day passed so
quickly!
She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem
to create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was even
looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His son and
daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen him
eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never before known him so
little disconcerted by the melted butter’s being oiled.
At six o’clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again
received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct
throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject of
his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of
his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the
How or the When she might return to it.
Page 176
CHAPTER 27
The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:
Bath, April
My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight,
and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering
them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but
in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had
my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day
since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some
silly trifler or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my
own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place to-morrow.
Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust
is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I
believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you
are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am quite
uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him
since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some
misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is
the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will
convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and
the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you
spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of
me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with,
because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those
you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust,
and young men never know their minds two days together. I
rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all others, I
The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:
Bath, April
My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight,
and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering
them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but
in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had
my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day
since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some
silly trifler or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my
own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place to-morrow.
Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust
is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I
believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you
are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am quite
uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him
since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some
misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is
the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will
convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and
the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you
spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of
me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with,
because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those
you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust,
and young men never know their minds two days together. I
rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all others, I
Page 177
particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this
description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may
remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me,
before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became
quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for
never were such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too
well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust
I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last
two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I
pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we
met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that
he might not speak to me; I would not even look at him. He
went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have
followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him
and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter—I
am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable
when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected
his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his
direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took
something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to
his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from
himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might
set all to rights. I have not been to the Rooms this age, nor to
the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a
frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was
determined they should not say I shut myself up because
Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and
they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew
their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but now
they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be
taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my
own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as
I wore it the week before at the Concert, but made wretched
work of it—it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at
least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was
upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I
description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may
remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me,
before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became
quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for
never were such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too
well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust
I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last
two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I
pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we
met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that
he might not speak to me; I would not even look at him. He
went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have
followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him
and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter—I
am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable
when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected
his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his
direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took
something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to
his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from
himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might
set all to rights. I have not been to the Rooms this age, nor to
the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a
frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was
determined they should not say I shut myself up because
Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and
they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew
their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but now
they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be
taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my
own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as
I wore it the week before at the Concert, but made wretched
work of it—it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at
least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was
upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I
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wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it,
but no matter—it is your dear brother’s favourite colour.
Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to
him and to me,
Who ever am, etc.
Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very
first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her.
Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were
empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her behalf! No,
James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”
On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading
aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When
she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she cried, “and for all our
intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but
perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine
is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her
tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for
James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.”
“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.
“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had
designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he
pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly
off himself?”
“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe them
to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief
difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself.
If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better
not seek after the cause.”
“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”
“I am persuaded that he never did.”
“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”
but no matter—it is your dear brother’s favourite colour.
Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to
him and to me,
Who ever am, etc.
Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very
first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her.
Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were
empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her behalf! No,
James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”
On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading
aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When
she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she cried, “and for all our
intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but
perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine
is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her
tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for
James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.”
“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.
“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had
designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he
pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly
off himself?”
“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe them
to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief
difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself.
If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better
not seek after the cause.”
“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”
“I am persuaded that he never did.”
“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”
Page 179
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.
“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.
Page 180
CHAPTER 28
Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a
week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should
rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and anxiously
recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as
their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first
experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness
with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every
laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking
where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at
their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which
the General’s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present
release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the
people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon
becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being
equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have
been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit;
before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and
perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a
painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a
weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at
once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in
which her proposal might be taken.
Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to
bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of
being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the middle of
a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of
going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much
concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much
longer time—had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a
Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a
week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should
rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and anxiously
recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as
their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first
experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness
with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every
laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking
where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at
their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which
the General’s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present
release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the
people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon
becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being
equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have
been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit;
before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and
perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a
painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a
weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at
once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in
which her proposal might be taken.
Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to
bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of
being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the middle of
a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of
going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much
concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much
longer time—had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a
Page 181
much longer visit had been promised—and could not but think that if Mr.
and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her
there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.” Catherine
explained: “Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As
long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.”
“Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?”
“Oh! Because she had been there so long.”
“Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think
it long—”
“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
long again.” And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them
was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so
pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The
kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay, and
Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were
such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so
much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She
did—almost always—believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that
his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and
believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations.
Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly at
Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the
engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on
Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been
while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their
comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in
intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves,
that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they
quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s departure. They had just
reached the head of the stairs when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the
walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the door,
and the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell.
After the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven!
What can be the matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest
brother, whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable,
and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.
and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her
there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.” Catherine
explained: “Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As
long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.”
“Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?”
“Oh! Because she had been there so long.”
“Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think
it long—”
“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
long again.” And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them
was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so
pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The
kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay, and
Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were
such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so
much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She
did—almost always—believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that
his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and
believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations.
Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly at
Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the
engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on
Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been
while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their
comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in
intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves,
that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they
quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s departure. They had just
reached the head of the stairs when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the
walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the door,
and the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell.
After the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, in a “Good heaven!
What can be the matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest
brother, whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable,
and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.
Page 182
Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she
could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself
under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and the
persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her, that at
least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their
meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss
Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had
acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath
scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In
such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that
Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say, for half an
hour was almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she
convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving close to
her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching the very
doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the lock proved that
some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s
approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again overcome by trivial
appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly
forward, and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine’s spirits, however, were tranquillized but for an instant, for
Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. Though
evidently intending to come in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a
still greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on
Captain Tilney’s account, could only express her concern by silent
attention, obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender water,
and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you
must not—you must not indeed—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I
am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you
on such an errand!”
“Errand! To me!”
“How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!”
A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her
friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”
could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself
under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and the
persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her, that at
least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their
meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss
Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had
acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath
scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In
such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that
Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say, for half an
hour was almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she
convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving close to
her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching the very
doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the lock proved that
some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s
approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again overcome by trivial
appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly
forward, and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine’s spirits, however, were tranquillized but for an instant, for
Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. Though
evidently intending to come in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a
still greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on
Captain Tilney’s account, could only express her concern by silent
attention, obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender water,
and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you
must not—you must not indeed—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I
am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you
on such an errand!”
“Errand! To me!”
“How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!”
A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her
friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”
Page 183
“You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most
compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.” Her
voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his
name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s
heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything
worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect
herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon went
on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am
obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has
so lately passed, so lately been settled between us—how joyfully, how
thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many,
many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be
accepted—and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to
be repaid by—But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine,
we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our
whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near
Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I
cannot attempt either.”
“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as
she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to
a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too;
but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know,
at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from
this lord’s, come to Fullerton?”
“It will not be in my power, Catherine.”
“Come when you can, then.”
Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to
something more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday—
so soon as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to
take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not
be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and
mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general
will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way—and then I shall soon
be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.”
“Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable,
though in such common attentions you would have received but half what
compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.” Her
voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his
name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s
heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything
worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect
herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon went
on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am
obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has
so lately passed, so lately been settled between us—how joyfully, how
thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many,
many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be
accepted—and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to
be repaid by—But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine,
we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our
whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near
Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I
cannot attempt either.”
“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as
she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to
a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too;
but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know,
at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from
this lord’s, come to Fullerton?”
“It will not be in my power, Catherine.”
“Come when you can, then.”
Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to
something more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday—
so soon as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to
take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not
be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and
mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general
will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way—and then I shall soon
be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.”
“Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable,
though in such common attentions you would have received but half what
Page 184
you ought. But—how can I tell you?—to-morrow morning is fixed for your
leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice; the very carriage is
ordered, and will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered
you.”
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe
my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you can
feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I myself—but I
must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest anything in
extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After
courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double
distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the
considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the
bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust
you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house to see
that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.”
“Have I offended the general?” said Catherine in a faltering voice.
“Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I answer for,
is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He certainly is
greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His
temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to ruffle it in an
uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation, which just at this
moment seems important, but which I can hardly suppose you to have any
concern in, for how is it possible?”
It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for
Eleanor’s sake that she attempted it. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very sorry
if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done.
But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I
am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home.
But it is of very little consequence.”
“I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none; but to
everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance,
propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in
Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours would take
you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your
age, alone, unattended!”
leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice; the very carriage is
ordered, and will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered
you.”
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe
my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that you can
feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I myself—but I
must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest anything in
extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After
courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double
distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the
considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the
bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust
you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house to see
that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing.”
“Have I offended the general?” said Catherine in a faltering voice.
“Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I answer for,
is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He certainly is
greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His
temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to ruffle it in an
uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation, which just at this
moment seems important, but which I can hardly suppose you to have any
concern in, for how is it possible?”
It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only for
Eleanor’s sake that she attempted it. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very sorry
if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done.
But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I
am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home.
But it is of very little consequence.”
“I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none; but to
everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance,
propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in
Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours would take
you there; but a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your
age, alone, unattended!”
Page 185
“Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to
part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can be
ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Eleanor saw that she wished to
be alone; and believing it better for each that they should avoid any further
conversation, now left her with, “I shall see you in the morning.”
Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence friendship
and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than
they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way!
Without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the
abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not
able even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him
suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who could say when they
might meet again? And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite,
so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as
incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could
arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and
alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her
away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even
the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two
days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be
obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an intentional affront?
By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him.
Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine
could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could
provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not
supposed to be connected with it.
Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of
sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene of
agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the source of
her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully superior in
reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in
probability; and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and
natural evil, the solitude of her situation, the darkness of her chamber, the
antiquity of the building, were felt and considered without the smallest
emotion; and though the wind was high, and often produced strange and
part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can be
ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Eleanor saw that she wished to
be alone; and believing it better for each that they should avoid any further
conversation, now left her with, “I shall see you in the morning.”
Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence friendship
and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than
they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way!
Without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the
abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not
able even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him
suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who could say when they
might meet again? And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite,
so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as
incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could
arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and
alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her
away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even
the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two
days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be
obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an intentional affront?
By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him.
Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine
could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could
provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not
supposed to be connected with it.
Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of
sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene of
agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the source of
her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully superior in
reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in
probability; and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and
natural evil, the solitude of her situation, the darkness of her chamber, the
antiquity of the building, were felt and considered without the smallest
emotion; and though the wind was high, and often produced strange and
Page 186
sudden noises throughout the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour
after hour, without curiosity or terror.
Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give
assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.
Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost
finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the general
occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger
should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know
how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly be received by
her. But the knowledge would have been useless here; it was not called for;
neither clemency nor dignity was put to the trial—Eleanor brought no
message. Very little passed between them on meeting; each found her
greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged
while they remained upstairs, Catherine in busy agitation completing her
dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon filling
the trunk. When everything was done they left the room, Catherine
lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on
every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-
parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save
herself from the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but
she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast
between this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and
strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four and
twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in
circumstances how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though
false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying everything present,
and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going to Woodston for a day!
Happy, happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her
and helped her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any
address from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the
appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall them to
the present moment. Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it; and the
indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant on her mind
with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only of resentment.
Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.
“You must write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you must let me hear from
you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have
after hour, without curiosity or terror.
Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give
assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.
Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost
finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the general
occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger
should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know
how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly be received by
her. But the knowledge would have been useless here; it was not called for;
neither clemency nor dignity was put to the trial—Eleanor brought no
message. Very little passed between them on meeting; each found her
greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged
while they remained upstairs, Catherine in busy agitation completing her
dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon filling
the trunk. When everything was done they left the room, Catherine
lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on
every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-
parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save
herself from the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but
she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast
between this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and
strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four and
twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in
circumstances how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though
false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying everything present,
and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going to Woodston for a day!
Happy, happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her
and helped her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any
address from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the
appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall them to
the present moment. Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it; and the
indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant on her mind
with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only of resentment.
Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.
“You must write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you must let me hear from
you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have
Page 187
an hour’s comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let
me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have
found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I
ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I
must ask it, under cover to Alice.”
“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe.”
Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a
distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was
enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly said, “Oh,
Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.”
There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with
money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to
her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly
the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but,
upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her
friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means
of getting home; and the distress in which she must have been thereby
involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either
during the time of their remaining together. Short, however, was that time.
The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly
rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in
bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the
house without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken
by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.” But
with this approach to his name ended all possibility of restraining her
feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief,
she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was
driven from the door.
me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have
found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I
ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I
must ask it, under cover to Alice.”
“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe.”
Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a
distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was
enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly said, “Oh,
Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.”
There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with
money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to
her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly
the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but,
upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her
friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means
of getting home; and the distress in which she must have been thereby
involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either
during the time of their remaining together. Short, however, was that time.
The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly
rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in
bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the
house without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken
by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.” But
with this approach to his name ended all possibility of restraining her
feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief,
she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was
driven from the door.
Page 188
CHAPTER 29
Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling
its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst
of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before
she raised her head; and the highest point of ground within the park was
almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes
towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the same which
only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from
Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more
severe by the review of objects on which she had first looked under
impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston,
added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five, she passed the
turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious,
her grief and agitation were excessive.
The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of
her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made use of
such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so
looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing
their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed
regard—had he even confused her by his too significant reference! And
now—what had she done, or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a
change?
The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own
heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.
Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any
strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she
had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious
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
Page 189
examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If
aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his
even turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to
herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the
one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and
look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being
gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be
never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested
the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the
sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the general, of course,
he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he not say to
Eleanor about her?
In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of
which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours
passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.
The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,
saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no
object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found no stage of
it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no
eagerness for her journey’s conclusion; for to return in such a manner to
Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she
loved best, even after an absence such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence.
What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, that
would not increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless
resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in
undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s
merit; she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken
against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s
account, it would cut her to the heart.
With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view of
that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of
home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but
after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the names
aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his
even turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to
herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the
one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and
look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being
gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be
never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested
the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the
sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the general, of course,
he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he not say to
Eleanor about her?
In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of
which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours
passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.
The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,
saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no
object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found no stage of
it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no
eagerness for her journey’s conclusion; for to return in such a manner to
Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she
loved best, even after an absence such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence.
What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, that
would not increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless
resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in
undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s
merit; she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken
against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s
account, it would cut her to the heart.
With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view of
that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of
home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but
after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the names
Page 190
of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great had been her
ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress or
frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured her all the
attention that a traveller like herself could require; and stopping only to
change horses, she travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or
alarm, and between six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself
entering Fullerton.
A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, in all
the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a
long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-
maids in a travelling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the
pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every
conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows.
But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in
solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into
minuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment,
as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall
her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and
speedy shall be her descent from it.
But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage
—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in
Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the window; and to have it
stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy
every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest
children, a boy and girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or
sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine!
Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness
were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly
understood.
Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door
to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best
feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped
from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had
ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress or
frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured her all the
attention that a traveller like herself could require; and stopping only to
change horses, she travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or
alarm, and between six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself
entering Fullerton.
A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, in all
the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a
long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-
maids in a travelling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the
pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every
conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows.
But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in
solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into
minuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment,
as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall
her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and
speedy shall be her descent from it.
But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage
—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in
Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the window; and to have it
stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy
every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest
children, a boy and girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or
sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine!
Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness
were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly
understood.
Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door
to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best
feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped
from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had
Page 191
believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! In the
joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the
pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity,
they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried
for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon
caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive
answer was addressed to her.
Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all
discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They
were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or
bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded,
was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily
pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of
their daughter’s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not
but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her;
that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in
forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably
nor feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will,
was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine
herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due
course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange business, and that he
must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all their indignation and
wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of
incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour.
“My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,” said her
mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not at all worth
understanding.”
“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?”
“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must
have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine
is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney.”
joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the
pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity,
they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried
for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon
caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive
answer was addressed to her.
Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all
discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They
were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or
bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded,
was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily
pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of
their daughter’s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not
but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her;
that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in
forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably
nor feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will,
was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine
herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due
course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange business, and that he
must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all their indignation and
wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of
incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour.
“My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,” said her
mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not at all worth
understanding.”
“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?”
“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must
have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine
is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney.”
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Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I am glad I
did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps
there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put
upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always
were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been
forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and
so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind
you in any of the pockets.”
Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s next
counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks
and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the
unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any
doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the
next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still
perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once
thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen,
just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough!
As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss
Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend’s
disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself
with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued
her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for what she
had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however,
was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been harder for her to write
than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once
do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without
servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment
—a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above
all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was
an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after
long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could
determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore which
Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks,
and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.
did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps
there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put
upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always
were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been
forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and
so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind
you in any of the pockets.”
Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s next
counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks
and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the
unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any
doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the
next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still
perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once
thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen,
just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough!
As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss
Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend’s
disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself
with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued
her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for what she
had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however,
was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been harder for her to write
than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once
do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without
servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment
—a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above
all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was
an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after
long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could
determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore which
Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks,
and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.
Page 193
“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the
letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens so,
for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you
were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we must
live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better
worth keeping.”
Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor.”
“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not
be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of
a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”
Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of
meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine’s
head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her.
She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness
than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to
meet—! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so
renewed; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have
had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient for restoring her spirits,
that they should call on Mrs. Allen.
The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,
Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of James’s
disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but otherwise there is no
harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to
have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest acquaintance
with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now, after such
behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at present it comes hard to
poor James; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a
discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice.”
This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could listen
to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and made
her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed up
in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits since last she had
trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago since, wild with
joyful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards some ten
times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to
letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens so,
for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you
were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we must
live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better
worth keeping.”
Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor.”
“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not
be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of
a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”
Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of
meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine’s
head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her.
She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness
than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to
meet—! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so
renewed; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have
had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient for restoring her spirits,
that they should call on Mrs. Allen.
The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,
Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of James’s
disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but otherwise there is no
harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to
have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest acquaintance
with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now, after such
behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at present it comes hard to
poor James; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a
discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice.”
This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could listen
to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and made
her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed up
in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits since last she had
trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago since, wild with
joyful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards some ten
times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to
Page 194
pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as
from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now,
how altered a being did she return!
She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-
for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally call forth; and
great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she
had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated
representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite
by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She travelled all the way post by
herself, and knew nothing of coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney,
from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her
there, and almost turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly;
and he must be a very odd man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us
again! And it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless
creature, but can shift very well for herself.”
Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,
with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not patience with the
general”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really have not patience
with the general,” was uttered twice after Mr. Allen left the room, without
any relaxation of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more
considerable degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after
completing the fourth, she immediately added, “Only think, my dear, of my
having got that frightful great rent in my best Mechlin so charmingly
mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I must
show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I
assure you I did not above half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there
was such a comfort to us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite
forlorn at first.”
“Yes, but that did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes brightening at
the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence there.
“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I put
from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now,
how altered a being did she return!
She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-
for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally call forth; and
great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she
had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated
representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite
by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She travelled all the way post by
herself, and knew nothing of coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney,
from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her
there, and almost turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly;
and he must be a very odd man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us
again! And it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless
creature, but can shift very well for herself.”
Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,
with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not patience with the
general”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really have not patience
with the general,” was uttered twice after Mr. Allen left the room, without
any relaxation of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more
considerable degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after
completing the fourth, she immediately added, “Only think, my dear, of my
having got that frightful great rent in my best Mechlin so charmingly
mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I must
show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I
assure you I did not above half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there
was such a comfort to us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite
forlorn at first.”
“Yes, but that did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes brightening at
the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence there.
“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I put
Page 195
them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and
I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that evening?”
“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”
“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion
you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite
gown on.”
Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs.
Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the general! Such
an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not suppose, Mrs.
Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings were
taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom
Street, you know.”
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on
her daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her,
while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her earliest
friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but there are some
situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power; and
Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every position her mother
advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that
all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs. Morland was
successfully confirming her own opinions by the justness of her own
representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that now Henry must have
arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now,
perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.
I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that evening?”
“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”
“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion
you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite
gown on.”
Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs.
Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the general! Such
an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not suppose, Mrs.
Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings were
taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom
Street, you know.”
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on
her daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her,
while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her earliest
friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but there are some
situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power; and
Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every position her mother
advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that
all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs. Morland was
successfully confirming her own opinions by the justness of her own
representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that now Henry must have
arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now,
perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.
Page 196
CHAPTER 30
Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits
been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her
defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be
greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for ten
minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and again, as
if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she could even
walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time in the parlour.
Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her rambling and her
idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but in her silence and
sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had been before.
For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but
when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness, improved her
in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for needlework, she
could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, “My dear Catherine, I
am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not know when poor
Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend but you. Your head
runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for everything—a time for
balls and plays, and a time for work. You have had a long run of
amusement, and now you must try to be useful.”
Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that “her
head did not run upon Bath—much.”
“Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of
you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never fret
about trifles.” After a short silence—“I hope, my Catherine, you are not
getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as Northanger.
That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you
should always be contented, but especially at home, because there you must
spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you
talk so much about the French bread at Northanger.”
Catherine’s disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits
been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been her
defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now to be
greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself for ten
minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again and again, as
if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as if she could even
walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time in the parlour.
Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her rambling and her
idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but in her silence and
sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had been before.
For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint; but
when a third night’s rest had neither restored her cheerfulness, improved her
in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for needlework, she
could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof of, “My dear Catherine, I
am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not know when poor
Richard’s cravats would be done, if he had no friend but you. Your head
runs too much upon Bath; but there is a time for everything—a time for
balls and plays, and a time for work. You have had a long run of
amusement, and now you must try to be useful.”
Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice, that “her
head did not run upon Bath—much.”
“Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of
you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never fret
about trifles.” After a short silence—“I hope, my Catherine, you are not
getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as Northanger.
That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you
should always be contented, but especially at home, because there you must
spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you
talk so much about the French bread at Northanger.”
Page 197
“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what I
eat.”
“There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by great
acquaintance—The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some day or
other, because I am sure it will do you good.”
Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to
her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it herself,
into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair, from the irritation
of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Morland
watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing, in her daughter’s absent
and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that repining spirit to which she had
now begun to attribute her want of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to
fetch the book in question, anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a
malady. It was some time before she could find what she looked for; and
other family matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had
elapsed ere she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much
was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she
created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few
minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young
man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he
immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as
“Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to
apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had
passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his
impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home in
safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an
uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his
sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly
disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received
him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him
for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her
children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another
word of the past.
He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was
greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that
eat.”
“There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by great
acquaintance—The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some day or
other, because I am sure it will do you good.”
Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to
her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it herself,
into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair, from the irritation
of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Morland
watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing, in her daughter’s absent
and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that repining spirit to which she had
now begun to attribute her want of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to
fetch the book in question, anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a
malady. It was some time before she could find what she looked for; and
other family matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had
elapsed ere she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much
was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she
created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few
minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young
man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he
immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as
“Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to
apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had
passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his
impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home in
safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an
uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his
sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly
disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received
him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him
for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her
children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another
word of the past.
He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was
greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that
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moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to
his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all
Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine
meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine—said not a
word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that
this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and
gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future
hour.
Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home—and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an
hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken silence,
Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother’s entrance,
asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at
Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in
reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately
expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising
colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way.
“You may see the house from this window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s
side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman,
and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it
probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their
worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his
father’s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate
only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying
him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in
his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father’s account he had to
give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it
could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that
heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was
already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to
her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and
truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in
nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her
his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all
Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine
meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine—said not a
word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that
this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and
gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future
hour.
Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home—and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an
hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken silence,
Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother’s entrance,
asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at
Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in
reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately
expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising
colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way.
“You may see the house from this window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s
side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman,
and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it
probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their
worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his
father’s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate
only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying
him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in
his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father’s account he had to
give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it
could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that
heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was
already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to
her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and
truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in
nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her
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partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It
is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully
derogatory of an heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the
credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own.
A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt in the contemplation of
her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to
the ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was suffered to close, she
was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his
present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had
been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry
terms of Miss Morland’s departure, and ordered to think of her no more.
Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand.
The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she
listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which
Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by
engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to
give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father’s conduct, her
feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had
nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the
involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not
pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was
guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a
mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her
acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed
her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the
house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his
resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.
John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one
night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland,
had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name.
Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney’s
importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at
that time not only in daily expectation of Morland’s engaging Isabella, but
likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity
induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and
is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully
derogatory of an heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the
credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own.
A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt in the contemplation of
her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to
the ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was suffered to close, she
was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his
present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had
been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry
terms of Miss Morland’s departure, and ordered to think of her no more.
Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand.
The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she
listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which
Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by
engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to
give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father’s conduct, her
feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had
nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the
involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not
pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was
guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a
mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her
acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed
her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the
house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his
resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.
John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one
night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland,
had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name.
Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney’s
importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at
that time not only in daily expectation of Morland’s engaging Isabella, but
likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity
induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and
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avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was
likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs
should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so
regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland,
therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to
Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for
the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount
of Mr. Morland’s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich
aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole
family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however,
the peculiar object of the General’s curiosity, and his own speculations, he
had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds
which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen’s
estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being
handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost
acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such
intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to
doubt its authority. Thorpe’s interest in the family, by his sister’s
approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on
another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness),
seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the
absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland’s
being under their care, and—as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to
judge—of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon
formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the
countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe’s communication, he
almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted
interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more
ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor,
perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father’s particular
respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and
extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had
accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in
his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father’s believing it to
be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at
Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which
had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the
likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs
should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so
regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland,
therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to
Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for
the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount
of Mr. Morland’s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich
aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole
family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however,
the peculiar object of the General’s curiosity, and his own speculations, he
had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds
which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen’s
estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being
handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost
acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such
intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to
doubt its authority. Thorpe’s interest in the family, by his sister’s
approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on
another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness),
seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the
absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland’s
being under their care, and—as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to
judge—of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon
formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the
countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe’s communication, he
almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted
interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more
ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor,
perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father’s particular
respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and
extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had
accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in
his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father’s believing it to
be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at
Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which
had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the
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very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had
chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly
opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine’s refusal, and yet more by the
failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between
Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and
spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to
contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands—
confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their
circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to
believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of
the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming
eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families,
with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the
shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself
incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in
fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no
means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular
opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune
could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a
forward, bragging, scheming race.
The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had
lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the
Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with
almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the
abbey, where his performances have been seen.
I leave it to my reader’s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was
possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of
it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures
might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter
from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine.
Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General
Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned
against his character, or magnified his cruelty.
Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable
as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded
chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly
opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine’s refusal, and yet more by the
failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between
Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and
spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to
contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands—
confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their
circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to
believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of
the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming
eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families,
with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the
shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself
incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in
fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no
means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular
opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune
could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a
forward, bragging, scheming race.
The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had
lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the
Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with
almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the
abbey, where his performances have been seen.
I leave it to my reader’s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was
possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of
it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures
might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter
from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine.
Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General
Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned
against his character, or magnified his cruelty.
Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable
as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded
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counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at
Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry’s indignation on
hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father’s
views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The
general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his
family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that
should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his
son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could
make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not
intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its
justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss
Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed
to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of
unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it
prompted.
He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an
engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand.
The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours
were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and,
on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton.
Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry’s indignation on
hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father’s
views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The
general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his
family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that
should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his
son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could
make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not
intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its
justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss
Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed
to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of
unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it
prompted.
He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an
engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand.
The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours
were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and,
on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton.
Page 203
CHAPTER 31
Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for
their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment
on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than
Catherine’s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the
happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned,
had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense
were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it
was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the
place of experience, his character needed no attestation. “Catherine would
make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure,” was her mother’s
foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing
like practice.
There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one
was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.
Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his
parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves
to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance,
or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined
enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of
consent must be yielded, and that once obtained—and their own hearts
made them trust that it could not be very long denied—their willing
approbation was instantly to follow. His consent was all that they wished
for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his money. Of a
very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually
secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort,
and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their
daughter.
Mr. and Mrs. Morland’s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for
their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment
on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than
Catherine’s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the
happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned,
had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense
were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it
was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the
place of experience, his character needed no attestation. “Catherine would
make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure,” was her mother’s
foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing
like practice.
There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one
was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.
Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his
parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves
to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance,
or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined
enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of
consent must be yielded, and that once obtained—and their own hearts
made them trust that it could not be very long denied—their willing
approbation was instantly to follow. His consent was all that they wished
for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his money. Of a
very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually
secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort,
and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their
daughter.
Page 204
The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They felt
and they deplored—but they could not resent it; and they parted,
endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed
almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in the
fulness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only
home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his improvements
for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and
Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the torments of absence
were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and
Mrs. Morland never did—they had been too kind to exact any promise; and
whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often,
they always looked another way.
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of
Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can
hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-
tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening
together to perfect felicity. The means by which their early marriage was
effected can be the only doubt: what probable circumstance could work
upon a temper like the General’s? The circumstance which chiefly availed
was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence,
which took place in the course of the summer—an accession of dignity that
threw him into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover till after
Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him
“to be a fool if he liked it!”
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a
home as Northanger had been made by Henry’s banishment, to the home of
her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give
general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the
occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity.
Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and he had been
long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His
unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties;
and never had the general loved his daughter so well in all her hours of
companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed her
“Your Ladyship!” Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of
his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most
and they deplored—but they could not resent it; and they parted,
endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed
almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in the
fulness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only
home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his improvements
for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and
Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the torments of absence
were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and
Mrs. Morland never did—they had been too kind to exact any promise; and
whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often,
they always looked another way.
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of
Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can
hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-
tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening
together to perfect felicity. The means by which their early marriage was
effected can be the only doubt: what probable circumstance could work
upon a temper like the General’s? The circumstance which chiefly availed
was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence,
which took place in the course of the summer—an accession of dignity that
threw him into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover till after
Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him
“to be a fool if he liked it!”
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a
home as Northanger had been made by Henry’s banishment, to the home of
her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give
general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the
occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity.
Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and he had been
long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His
unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties;
and never had the general loved his daughter so well in all her hours of
companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed her
“Your Ladyship!” Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of
his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most
Page 205
charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must
be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I
have only to add—aware that the rules of composition forbid the
introduction of a character not connected with my fable—that this was the
very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of
washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my
heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their brother’s behalf
was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances
which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they
were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely more misled
by Thorpe’s first boast of the family wealth than by his subsequent
malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were they
necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds.
This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that it greatly
contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no means without its
effect was the private intelligence, which he was at some pains to procure,
that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal of its present
proprietor, was consequently open to every greedy speculation.
On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor’s marriage,
permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the bearer
of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty professions
to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed: Henry and
Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled; and, as this
took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will
not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the General’s cruelty,
that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the
respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and
professing myself moreover convinced that the General’s unjust
interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps
rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and
adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever
it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to
recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I
have only to add—aware that the rules of composition forbid the
introduction of a character not connected with my fable—that this was the
very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of
washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my
heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their brother’s behalf
was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances
which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they
were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely more misled
by Thorpe’s first boast of the family wealth than by his subsequent
malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were they
necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds.
This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that it greatly
contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no means without its
effect was the private intelligence, which he was at some pains to procure,
that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal of its present
proprietor, was consequently open to every greedy speculation.
On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor’s marriage,
permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the bearer
of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty professions
to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed: Henry and
Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled; and, as this
took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will
not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the General’s cruelty,
that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the
respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and
professing myself moreover convinced that the General’s unjust
interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps
rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and
adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever
it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to
recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
Page 206
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
Northanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title. The
manuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher,
Crosbie & Co., who sold it back in 1816. The Signet Classic text is based
on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in 1818—the year
following Miss Austen’s death. Spelling and punctuation have been largely
brought into conformity with modern British usage.
Northanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title. The
manuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher,
Crosbie & Co., who sold it back in 1816. The Signet Classic text is based
on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in 1818—the year
following Miss Austen’s death. Spelling and punctuation have been largely
brought into conformity with modern British usage.
Page 207
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