 CHAPTER 10 The Allens, Thorps, 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 to 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. When your modesty cannot doubt his attachment now, his coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh, what would I not 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 should not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place. Really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous. There was not a single point in which we differed. I would not have had you by for the world. You are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it.' "'No, indeed, I should not.' "'Oh, yes, you would indeed. I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception. My cheeks would have been as red as your roses. I would not have had you by for the world. "'Indeed, you do me injustice. I would not have made so improper a remark upon any account, and besides, I am sure it would never have ended 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 gentleman 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 Moreland, 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 is 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 on frequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length, however, she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room. And though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before under that roof in every bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "'How well your brother dances!' was an artless exclamation of Catherine's towards the close of their conversation, which had 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, but 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 daresay 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 is 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 Catillion Ball to-morrow?' "'Perhaps we—yes, I think we certainly shall.' "'I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.' This civility was duly returned, and they parted, on Miss Tilney's side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation—the future good. What gown and what headdress 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 lecture on the subject only the Christmas before, and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night, debating between her spotted and her tampered 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 maul or the jackanette. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more. No woman will like her the better for it. Peace and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. That 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 centered in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid, and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's agony began. She fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her, pretended not to hear him. The contillions 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. He cased, my dear creature, and come to us. John has 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, forlost. 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 escaped 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. "'Hey, day, Miss Morland,' said he, "'what is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.' "'I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.'" "'That is a good one, by Jove. I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round you were gone. This is a cursed shabby trick. I only came for the sake of dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes, I remember I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room, and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously.'" "'Oh, no! They will never think of me, after such a description as that.' "'By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads. What shab have you there?' Catherine satisfied his curiosity. "'Till me,' he repeated, "'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 mines 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 and less to share against the next season. It is so damned 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 journeyer, 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 complacence 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 one's entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution. That it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with any one 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. What I suppose was the difference of duties which struck you, as rending 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 reasoned 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 any body, it is impossible for me to talk to them, and besides, I do not want to talk to any body. Now you have given me security worth having, and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before? Yes, quite, more so, indeed. More so? Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks. I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months. Bath compared with London has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks I allow Bath as 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 there 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. Oh, yes, I am. I have always lived there, and have always been very happy. But suddenly 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 Verma and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy. James is coming, my eldest brother, is quite delightful. And especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath? Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But Papa's and Mama's and brother's 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 important for 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 vigor of life, and with his eyes 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 O 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 reign, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o'clock they were to call for her in Poultony Street, and— Remember!—twelve o'clock!" was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight's experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them away rather early, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive. She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off and the sun keep out. At about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and—'Oh, dear! I do believe it will be wet,' broke from her in a most desponding tone. "'I thought how it would be,' said Mrs. Allen. "'No walk for me 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. It was such a nice-looking morning. I felt so convinced it would be dry. She 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 great coat when he goes. But I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a great coat. 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 still it 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 Udolfo, or at least in Tuscany in the south of France—the night that poor St. Aubyn died—such beautiful weather!' At half-past twelve, when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather was over, and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprise. She looked round, the clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had always thought it would clear up. But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-room. He accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had surprised her so much a few mornings back. Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare—they are coming for me, perhaps—but I shall not go. I cannot go, indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. May cased, may cased, 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 do you do, Mrs. Allen?" To Bristol? It's 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, it's 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 night's our 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, we go on to King's Weston. I doubt are being able to do so much," said Moreland. You croaking fellow! cried Thorpe. We shall be able to do ten times more. King's Weston! I and Blaise Castle, too, and anything else we can hear of. But here is your sister, so she will not go. Blaise Castle! cried Catherine. What is that? The finest place in England, worth going fifty miles at any time to see. What is it really a castle, an old castle? The oldest in the kingdom. But is it like what one reads of? Exactly. The very same. But now, really, are there towers and long galleries? By dozens. Then I should like to see it, but I cannot. I cannot go. Not go? My beloved creature! What do you mean? I cannot go, because—looking down as she spoke—fearful of Isabella's smile—I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained. But now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon. Not they, indeed, cried Thorpe, for as we turned into Broad Street I saw them. Does he not drive a fate in 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 you not? Yes. Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the land's down-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 know 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 drier, and call by and by. Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tillney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as wick-rocks. Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen? Just as you please, my dear. Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it. Well, my dear," said she, suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine's feelings as she got into the carriage were in a very unsettled state, divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure and the hope of soon enjoying another almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tillneys 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 Udolfo, as her fancy represented Blaise Castle to be, was such a counter-poise of good as might console her for almost anything. They passed briskly down Poultony Street, and through lower place, without the exchange of many words, Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated by turns on broken promises and broken arches, fatens and false hangings, Tillneys and trapped doors. As they entered Argyle buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion. Who was 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 around, and saw Miss Tillney 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 Tillney! 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 brisk or trot. The Tillneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and at 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 Tillney. 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 approaches, however, were not spared. How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the lands down-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 fayton? Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, to clear he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tillney himself. Her drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very agreeable. Catherine's complacence was no longer what it had been in their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blay's 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 Tillneys, 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 Cainsham, when a hallow from Moreland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know it was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Moreland 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 Pultany 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 around. 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 damn 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 into that cursed, broken-winded jade's pace. Moreland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own. No, he is not, said Catherine warmly, for I am sure he could not afford it. And why cannot he afford it? Because he has not money enough. And whose fault is that? Nobody's that I know of. Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a damn thing to be miserly, and that of 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 Pultany 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, a 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 all 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 Moreland—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. Moreland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well, pray do not let any body hair be such a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well without you. But you men think yourselves of such consequence." One could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting and 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 tillies were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything where a friend is concerned. That is my disposition, and John is just the same. He has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand you have got! Kings I vow! I never was so happy in my life. I would fifty times rather you should have them than myself. And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion, to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears, and lucky may she think herself if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next three months. CHAPTER XII. Mrs. Allen, said Catherine the next morning, will there be any harm in my calling on Miss Tillney today? I shall not be easy till I have explained everything. Go, by all means, my dear, only put on a white gown, Miss Tillney 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 Tillney'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 churchyard 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 Tillney. The man believed Miss Tillney 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 that he had been mistaken, for that Miss Tillney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tillney 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 Tillney herself. She was followed by a gentleman whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they turned up towards Edgar's buildings. Even in deep mortification proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself at such angry incivility, but she checked the resentful sensation. She remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigors 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 Tillneys appeared to plague or please her. She feared that among 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 Tillney 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 Tillney, 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 harbor a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight or flirting with somebody else, she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause. The play concluded, the curtain fell. Henry Tillney 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 rose, spoke with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such calmness was he answered by the latter. Oh, Mr. Tillney, 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. Tillney and his sister were gone out in a fate and together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you. Now had I not, 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 Tillney 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 Tillney 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 frunted. 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 a civility. But perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than that my father—they were just preparing to walk out, and he being hurried for time and not caring to have it put off, made a point of her being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed and meant to make her apology as soon as possible. Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the gentleman. But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose it only to be 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 to the box, you were angry. I angry? I could have no right. Well, nobody would have thought you had no right to saw your face. He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play. He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible, and setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, she was upon the whole left one of the happiest creatures in the world. While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney, and she felt something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance. She found it was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes. How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father? Was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her companion. He knew nothing about it, but his father, like every military man, had a very large acquaintance. When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry, and while they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking in a consequential manner whether she had seen him talking with General Tilney. He is a fine old fellow upon my soul. Stout, active, looks as young as his son, I have a great regard for him, I assure you, a gentleman like a good sort of fellow has 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 for ever at the bed-foot, 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 was ever 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 Siddeye! I am quite of your mind. Dear 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 in treating him to have done. That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very delightful, and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much more for her, than could have been expected. CHAPTER XIII 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 closed 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 of Thorpe's. 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. 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 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 Moreland, miserable at such a side, 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 brothers openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But— No, no, no! was the immediate answer. That could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday. Catherine was sorry, but could do no more, and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, Very well! Then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing. Catherine, you must go! said James. But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I daresay 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, damn 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 pour 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 along 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 to this moment, told her that you would send 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! 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 off to 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 rude a 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 Moreland withheld him. "'Let her go, let her go, if she will go. She is as obstinate as!' Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one. Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued yet determined to persevere. As she walked she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother, but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretense, 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 Blaise 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 Tilney's advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings as she came within view of them, and the servants 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 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 civility carried, that not aware of her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apartment herself. What did William mean by it? He should make a point of inquiring into the matter. And if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the favour of his master for ever, 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 a 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 Pultany 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 spirit 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 destroy, 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 Thorps for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. "'Well,' said he, "'and do you think of going, too?' "'No. I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told me of it, and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?' "'No, certainly not, and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes are not at all the thing—young men and women driving about the country in open carriages. Now and then it is very well, but going to inns and public places together. It is not right, and I wonder Mrs. Thorp should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going. I am sure Mrs. Moorland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are you not of my way of thinking? Do you not 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 hand, your bonnet in every direction. I hate an open carriage myself.' "'I know you do, but that is not the question. Do you not 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 you not tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with Mr. Thorp 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. Moorland 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 sprig muslin, but you would. Young people do not like always to be 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. Thorp 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 Thorp, and explain the interquorum of which she must be as insensible as herself, for she considered that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any such thing. "'You had better leave her alone, my dear. She is old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorp 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 those 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 tilnies have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another? CHAPTER XIV 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 tilnies called for her at the appointed time, and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconsert their measures. My heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfill her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beach and Clif, that noble hill whose beautiful verger and hanging corpus 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, and that I was 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 Udolfo. 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 gentlemen all 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 Udolfo, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again. I remember finishing it in two days, my hair standing on end the whole time." "'Yes,' added Miss Tilney, and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me. And that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the hermitage-walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "'Thank you, Eleanor, a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Moreland, 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 Udolfo myself. But I really thought before young men despise novels amazingly.'" "'It is amazingly. It may well suggest amazement if they do, for they read nearly as many as women. I myself had read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julius and Luisa's. 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 Valencor 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 Udolfo 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 Maul, and 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 I not call it so?' "'Very true,' said Henry. "'And this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh, it is a very nice word, indeed. It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement. People were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.'" "'While in fact,' cried his sister, "'it ought only to be applied to you without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Moreland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults and the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolfo 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 hero's 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 and 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 Carectacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "'You are fond of history. And so are Mr. Allen and my father, and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable. At this rate I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be laboring 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 civilised 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 that in mature time of life. I use the verb to torment, as I observe 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. And 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 panagiric from her on that lady's merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being formed into pictures with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing, nothing of taste, and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance—a misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pan of a sister author, and to her treatment of the subject I will only add, injustice 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, sidescreens and perspectives, light and shades, and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beech and Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of weering 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, wastelands, crownlands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics, and from politics it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which exceeded his short disposition on the State of the Nation was put an end to by Catherine, who, in a rather 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 lady 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 duodecimal volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with the frontest piece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern. Do you understand? And you, Miss Morland, my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London, and instead of instantly conceiving as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men, assembling in St George's fields, the bank attacked, the tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the twelfth light dragoons, the hopes of the nation, called up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brick bat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman, but she is by no means a simpleton in general. Catherine looked grave. And now, Henry, said Miss Tilney, that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself, unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways. I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them. No doubt, but that is no explanation of the present. What am I to do? You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women. Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world, especially of those, whoever they may be, with whom I happen to be in company. That is not enough. Be more serious. Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they never find it necessary to use more than half. We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me. It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must be always 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 from any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, having occasioned 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 that 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 this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Mariah. Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement. Oh, yes! rejoined the other. Mariah 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 pity you could not all go. Thank you, but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed I would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us. Catherine was still unconvinced, but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her. She bade her a deal without much uneasiness and return 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. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Northanger Abbey. Early the next day a note from Isabella speaking peace and tenderness in every line, and in treating 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 Thorpe's were by themselves in the front parlor, 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, and 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 bespoken early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings and purses and spars. Thence adjoined to eat ice at a pastry-cooks, 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 Blaise 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 crossed from being excluded the party. She will never forgive me, I'm sure, but you know how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month, but I am determined I will not be cross. It is not a little matter that puts me out of temper. Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance has 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 wandering 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 at 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 were 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 lurched 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 Mariah. I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my dear Moreland's family than to my own. This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine. You are so like your dear brother, continued Isabella, that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me. The first moment settles everything. The very first day that Moreland 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 wretchily 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 ignorant little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor refused to have been as full of arched 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 is a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavored 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. Maulen says exactly the same, replied Isabella, and yet I dare not expect it. My fortune will be so small, they can never consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody. Here, Catherine again discerned the force of love. Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be nothing to signify. Oh, my sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify nothing, but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice. This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her acquaintance, and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than in uttering the grand idea. I am sure they will consent, was her frequent declaration. I am sure they will be delighted with you. For my own part, said Isabella, my wishes are so moderate that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth. Granger, 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 set on 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. Moreland 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 had hoped at home, his addues 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, Moreland, I must drive you away. Consider how far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven's sake, waste no more time. There! Go! Go! I insist on it! The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable for the day, and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Moreland's consent, to consider Isabella's engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their councils, 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 foreborn pointing out had its inconsistency been less their friend. But Anne and Mariah 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, endeavoring to support her spirits, and wile 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 despondent, 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 have 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 Mariah must immediately be made shares in their felicity, and to Dears, at once, before the name of Isabella were not more than that, beloved child, had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise. The letter, when 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 care to 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 parlor, 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 devices? 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 Bell'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 Bell'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 the same old song. May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home. Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me. Then why do you stay away so long? replied Catherine, finding that he waited for an answer. That is kind of you, however—kind and good-natured. I shall not forget it in a hurry. But you have more good-nature and all that than anybody living, I believe—a monstrous deal of good-nature. And it is not only good-nature, but you have so much—so much of everything—and then you have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you. Oh, dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say—only a great deal better. Good morning to you. But I say, Miss Moorland, 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 Moorland, 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 Moorland. You and I think pretty much alike upon most matters. Perhaps we may, but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most matters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind about. By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and what care I for all the rest. Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my own, and if she had not a penny, why so much the better? Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which has it, so that there is enough, I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence. Good day! We shall be very glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient. And away she went. It was not in the power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to be delayed by anything in his nature to urge, and she hurried away, leaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and her explicit encouragement. The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her brother's engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion in Mr. and Mrs. Allen by the communication of the wonderful event. How great was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since her brother's arrival, and all that they felt on the occasion was comprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark on the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the ladies 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. Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen. CHAPTER XVI 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, unhearing 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 she had never heard of in her life, not to do the honours of her house with common good-breeding, to behave to her guest with such superciliousness, hardly even to speak to her. But it was not so bad as that, Isabella. There was no superciliousness. She was very civil. Oh, don't defend her! And then the brother, he who had appeared so attached to you, good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are incomprehensible, and so he hardly looked once at you the whole day. I do not say so, but he did not seem in good spirits. How contemptible! Of all things in the world, inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear Catherine. Indeed, he is unworthy of you. Unworthy? I do not suppose he ever thinks of me. That is exactly what I say. He never thinks of you. Such fickleness. Oh, how different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the most constant heart. But as for General Tilney, I assure you, it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention. It seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy. Oh! I know no harm of him. I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentlemanlike 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 Tillneys 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 here to four. Miss Tillney 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 Tillney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for the name of a very fashionable looking handsome young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though in her eyes his air was more assuming and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior, for within her hearing he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind, not likely to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of the three villains and horsemen's great-coats, by whom she will hear after be forced into a travelling shez and four, which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine meanwhile, undisturbed by pre-sentiments 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 side without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes duration, and she was beginning to think at a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "'Your brother will not mind it, I know,' said she. Because I heard him say before that he hated dancing, but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner, but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world.' Henry smiled and said, "'How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people's actions.' "'Why? What do you mean?' "'With you it is not—how is such a one likely to be influenced? What is the inducement most likely to act upon a person's feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered? But, how should I be influenced? What would my inducement enacting 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 you are 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 Tillney, preparing to give them hands across. Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given, but as it was not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner. "'I cannot think how it could happen. Isabella was so determined not to dance.' And did Isabella never change her mind before? Oh! but because—and your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?' "'I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised on your friend's account, and therefore I am, but as for my brother, his conduct and 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 any one. 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 really am fatigued to death. He is such a rattle. I am using enough if my mind had been disengaged, but I would have given all 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 the things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments. And so—and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I did not. And, your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over. My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his nonsense. And then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was upon us. He is very handsome indeed. Handsome? Yes, I suppose he may. I daresay 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 Moreland's second letter was then received, and the kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Moreland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he could 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. Moreland 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 Moreland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessities 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 such a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you. And I dare say when Mr. Moreland sees you, my dear child. But do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Moreland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man. And you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had 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. Moreland 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 ever 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 are perfectly seen to 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 endeavored 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, endeavored to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness.