The visions of romance were over. Catherine was
completely awakened. Henry's address, short as it had been,
had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her
late fancies than all their several disappointments had done.
Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry.
It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but
with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal,
was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever.
The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with
the character of his father--could he ever forgive it? The
absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they ever
be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.
He had--she thought he had, once or twice before this
fatal morning, shown something like affection for her.
But now--in short, she made herself as miserable as
possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock
struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give
an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room,
and the only difference in his behaviour to her was
that he paid her rather more attention than usual.
Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked
as if he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this
soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised
to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either
to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope
that it would never transpire farther, and that it might
not cost her Henry's entire regard. Her thoughts being
still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless
terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than
that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,
each trifling circumstance receiving importance from
an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced
to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she
entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened.
She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation
had been created, the mischief settled, long before her
quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced
to the influence of that sort of reading which she had
there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works,
and charming even as were the works of all her imitators,
it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least
in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for.
Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and
their vices, they might give a faithful delineation;
and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be
as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented.
Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern
and western extremities. But in the central part of
England there was surely some security for the existence
even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land,
and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated,
servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping
potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist.
Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no
mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless
as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend.
But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed,
in their hearts and habits, there was a general though
unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction,
she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear;
and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge
some actual specks in the character of their father, who,
though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which
she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe,
upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points,
and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting
in future with the greatest good sense, she had nothing
to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever;
and the lenient hand of time did much for her by
insensible gradations in the course of another day.
Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct,
in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than
she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of
her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable,
and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by
anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,
under which she believed they must always tremble--the
mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did
not love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she
could allow that an occasional memento of past folly,
however painful, might not be without use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to
the alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella
grew every day greater. She was quite impatient to know
how the Bath world went on, and how the rooms were attended;
and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella's
having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she
had left her intent; and of her continuing on the best
terms with James. Her only dependence for information
of any kind was on Isabella. James had protested against
writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen
had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back
to Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again;
and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulous
in performing it! This made it so particularly strange!
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered
over the repetition of a disappointment, which each
morning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when she
entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter,
held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him
as heartily as if he had written it himself. "'Tis only
from James, however," as she looked at the direction.
She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:
"Dear Catherine,
"Though, God knows, with little inclination
for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that
everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me.
I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either
again. I shall not enter into particulars--they
would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough
from another quarter to know where lies the blame;
and I hope will acquit your brother of everything
but the folly of too easily thinking his affection
returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! But
it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had
been so kindly given--but no more of this. She has
made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from
you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your
love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger
may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement
known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced.
Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;
his honest heart would feel so much. I have written
to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more
than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with
her, she declared herself as much attached to me as
ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to
think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had
reason to believe himself loved, I was that man.
I cannot understand even now what she would be at,
for there could be no need of my being played off
to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by
mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I
can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest
Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
"Believe me," &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden
change of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing
wonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news;
and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter,
saw plainly that it ended no better than it began.
He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise
by his father's entrance. They went to breakfast directly;
but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled
her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat.
The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap,
and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew
not what she did. The general, between his cocoa and
his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her;
but to the other two her distress was equally visible.
As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away
to her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it,
and she was obliged to come down again. She turned
into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor
had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment
deep in consultation about her. She drew back,
trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence,
forced to return; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor had
affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort
to her.
After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and
reflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends;
but whether she should make her distress known to them was
another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly questioned,
she might just give an idea--just distantly hint at
it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend
as Isabella had been to her--and then their own brother
so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive
the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselves
in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at
the table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad
news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your
brothers and sisters--I hope they are none of them ill?"
"No, I thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "they are
all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford."
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then
speaking through her tears, she added, "I do not think
I shall ever wish for a letter again!"
"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had
just opened; "if I had suspected the letter of containing
anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings."
"It contained something worse than anybody could
suppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know why."
"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,"
replied Henry warmly, "must be a comfort to him under
any distress."
"I have one favour to beg," said Catherine,
shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, "that, if
your brother should be coming here, you will give
me notice of it, that I may go away."
"Our brother! Frederick!"
"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you
so soon, but something has happened that would make it very
dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney."
Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with
increasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth,
and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included,
passed his lips.
"How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you have
guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about
it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so.
Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella
has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could
you have believed there had been such inconstancy
and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?"
"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed.
I hope he has not had any material share in bringing on
Mr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe
is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far.
I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that anyone you
love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater
at Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."
"It is very true, however; you shall read
James's letter yourself. Stay-- There is one part--"
recollecting with a blush the last line.
"Will you take the trouble of reading to us
the passages which concern my brother?"
"No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second
thoughts were clearer. "I do not know what I was
thinking of" (blushing again that she had blushed before);
"James only means to give me good advice."
He gladly received the letter, and, having read
it through, with close attention, returned it saying,
"Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry
for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has
chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected.
I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son."
Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read
the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her
concern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe's
connections and fortune.
"Her mother is a very good sort of woman,"
was Catherine's answer.
"What was her father?"
"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."
"Are they a wealthy family?"
"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any
fortune at all: but that will not signify in your family.
Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day
that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the
happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked
at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause,
"would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him
to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one,
or she could not have used your brother so. And how
strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who,
before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily
entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable,
Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly!
Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"
"That is the most unpromising circumstance,
the strongest presumption against him. When I think
of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have
too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to suppose
that she would part with one gentleman before the other
was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is
a deceased man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your
sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must
delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections
strong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise."
"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,"
said Eleanor with a smile.
"But perhaps," observed Catherine, "though she has
behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better
by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes,
she may be constant."
"Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry;
"I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet
should come in her way; that is Frederick's only chance.
I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals."
"You think it is all for ambition, then? And,
upon my word, there are some things that seem very like it.
I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my father
would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it
was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character
in my life before."
"Among all the great variety that you have known
and studied."
"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great;
but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever
recover it."
"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied
at present; but we must not, in our concern for
his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose,
that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel
a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy.
Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements
in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea
of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,
for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel
that you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak
with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence,
or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on.
You feel all this?"
"No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection,
"I do not--ought I? To say the truth, though I am hurt
and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am
never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again,
I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have thought."
"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit
of human nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated,
that they may know themselves."
Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits
so very much relieved by this conversation that she could
not regret her being led on, though so unaccountably,
to mention the circumstance which had produced it.