CHAPTER 25
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened
her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their
several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled.
Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that
she was sunk -- but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even
criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever.
The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the
character of his father -- could he ever forgive it? The absurdity
of her curiosity and her fears -- could they ever be forgotten? She
hated herself more than she could express. He had -- she thought
he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something
like affection for her. But now -- in short, she made herself as
miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the
clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give
an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The
formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only
difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more
attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more,
and he looked as if he was aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;
and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She
did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned
to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not
cost her Henry's entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly
fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing
could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary,
self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving
importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything
forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered
the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with
what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She
saw that the 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.
