The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their
stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for
some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a
beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys
end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.
Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was
in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined
that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight.
What this additional fortnight was to produce to her
beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
made but a small part of Catherine's speculation.
Once or twice indeed, since James's engagement had taught
her what could be done, she had got so far as to indulge
in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being
with him for the present bounded her views: the present
was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness
being certain for that period, the rest of her life was
at such a distance as to excite but little interest.
In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged,
she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings.
It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she
expressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay
than Miss Tilney told her of her father's having just
determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week.
Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had
been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.
Catherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most
sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney's concluding words,
"By the end of another week!"
"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the
waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed
of some friends' arrival whom he expected to meet here,
and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."
"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly;
"if I had known this before--"
"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner,
"you would be so good--it would make me very happy if--"
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility,
which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce
a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her
with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter
and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
successful in your application to your fair friend?"
"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you
came in."
"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much
your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"
he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak,
"has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath,
as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A
letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted
at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing
the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here,
some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain
me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point
with you, we should leave it without a single regret.
Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene
of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your
company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make
the request, though its presumption would certainly
appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself.
Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain
it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us
with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression.
'Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties
of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement
nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see,
is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall
be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not
wholly disagreeable."
Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound
up Catherine's feelings to the highest point of ecstasy.
Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain
its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness.
To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company
so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing,
every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained
in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause
of Papa and Mamma's approbation, was eagerly given.
"I will write home directly," said she, and if they do
not object, as I dare say they will not--"
General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already
waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street,
and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they
can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect
philosophy from all the world."
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her
secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few
minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference
to Fullerton would allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's
feelings through the varieties of suspense, security,
and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged
in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips,
she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland,
relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they
had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt
of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed
under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post
their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire.
This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had
hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured
beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,
circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate
for her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends,
the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where
pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings,
her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.
Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to
create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured
to her in a sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom,
above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,
outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures
by which their intimacy was to be continued. She was
to be their chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks
under the same roof with the person whose society
she mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest,
this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion
for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion
for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made usually
the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill.
To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one,
or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks
a darling wish, though to be more than the visitor
of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.
And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against
her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage,
Northanger turned up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant.
Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel,
were to be within her daily reach, and she could not
entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends,
some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.
It was wonderful that her friends should seem
so little elated by the possession of such a home,
that the consciousness of it should be so meekly borne.
The power of early habit only could account for it.
A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride.
Their superiority of abode was no more to them than their
superiority of person.
Many were the inquiries she was eager to make
of Miss Tilney; but so active were her thoughts,
that when these inquiries were answered, she was hardly
more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been
a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation,
of its having fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the
Tilneys on its dissolution, of a large portion of the ancient
building still making a part of the present dwelling although
the rest was decayed, or of its standing low in a valley,
sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.