%% LyX 1.3 created this file.  For more info, see http://www.lyx.org/.
%% Do not edit unless you really know what you are doing.
\documentclass[12pt,english]{book}
\usepackage{newcent}
\usepackage[T1]{fontenc}
\usepackage[latin1]{inputenc}
\usepackage{geometry}
\geometry{verbose,paperwidth=5.5in,paperheight=8.5in,tmargin=0.75in,bmargin=0.75in,lmargin=1in,rmargin=1in}
\setcounter{secnumdepth}{3}
\setcounter{tocdepth}{3}

\makeatletter
\usepackage{babel}
\makeatother
\begin{document}
\sloppy

\evensidemargin = -0.25in

\oddsidemargin = 0.25in

\raggedbottom

\date{}

\pagestyle{empty}


\title{Northanger Abbey}


\author{Jane Austen}

\maketitle
\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent The preparer of this public-domain (U.S.) text is unknown.
The Project Gutenberg edition ({}``nabby10'') was converted to \LaTeX{}
using \textbf{GutenMark} software and re-edited by Ron Burkey. Various
corrections\mbox{---}such as restoration of italics omitted in the
Project Gutenberg edition\mbox{---}were made by consulting an alternate
on-line edition at etext.lib.virginia.edu. Report problems to info@sandroid.org.
Revision B1 differs from B in that {}``----'' has everywhere been
replaced by {}``---''.

\noindent \begin{center}Revision: B1\\
Date: 01/27/2008\end{center}

\vspace{\stretch{1}}

\frontmatter

\pagestyle{myheadings} {\small \tableofcontents{}}

\newpage

\mainmatter 


\chapter*{ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS}

This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for immediate
publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even advertised,
and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has never been
able to learn.

That any bookseller should think it worth-while to purchase what he
did not think it worth-while to publish seems extraordinary. But with
this, neither the author nor the public have any other concern than
as some observation is necessary upon those parts of the work which
thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete.

The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have
passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that
during that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone
considerable changes.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 1}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 1}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 1}

No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character
of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all
equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected,
or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard\mbox{---}and
he had never been handsome. He had a considerable independence besides
two good livings\mbox{---}and he was not in the least addicted to
locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense,
with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution.
She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying
in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she
still lived on\mbox{---}lived to have six children more\mbox{---}to
see them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself.
A family of ten children will be always called a fine family, where
there are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands
had little other right to the word, for they were in general very
plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any.
She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark
lank hair, and strong features\mbox{---}so much for her person; and
not less unpropiteous for heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of
all boy's plays, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls,
but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse,
feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no
taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly
for the pleasure of mischief\mbox{---}at least so it was conjectured
from her always preferring those which she was forbidden to take.
Such were her propensities\mbox{---}her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught;
and sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally
stupid. Her mother was three months in teaching her only to repeat
the {}``Beggar's Petition''; and after all, her next sister, Sally,
could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine was always stupid\mbox{---}by
no means; she learnt the fable of {}``The Hare and Many Friends''
as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her to learn
music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was very
fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinner; so, at eight
years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and
Mrs.\ Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished
in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The
day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's
life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she
could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon
any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that way,
by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French
by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she
shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable
character!\mbox{---}for with all these symptoms of profligacy at
ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom
stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,
with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,
hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the
world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending;
she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,
her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained
more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt
gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew
smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and
mother remark on her personal improvement. {}``Catherine grows quite
a good-looking girl\mbox{---}she is almost pretty today,'' were
words which caught her ears now and then; and how welcome were the
sounds! To look \emph{almost} pretty is an acquisition of higher delight
to a girl who has been looking plain the first fifteen years of her
life than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.

Mrs.\ Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were
inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should
prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
country at the age of fourteen, to books\mbox{---}or at least books
of information\mbox{---}for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge
could be gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection,
she had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are
so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful
lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

``{}bear about the mockery of woe.''

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} From Gray, that \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

``{}Many a flower is born to blush unseen, \\*

\mbox{``{}And waste its fragrance on the desert air.''}

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} From Thompson, that \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

---``{}It is a delightful task \\*

``{}To teach the young idea how to shoot.''

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information\mbox{---}amongst
the rest, that \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

---``{}Trifles light as air, \\*

``{}Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong, \\*

``{}As proofs of Holy Writ.''

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} That \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

``{}The poor beetle, which we tread upon, \\*

\mbox{``{}In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great} \\*

``{}As when a giant dies.''

\end{verse} \end{flushleft} And that a young woman in love always looks \begin{flushleft} \begin{verse} \footnotesize

---``{}like Patience on a monument \\*

``{}Smiling at Grief.''

\end{verse} \end{flushleft}

So far her improvement was sufficient\mbox{---}and in many other
points she came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write
sonnets, she brought herself to read them; and though there seemed
no chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude
on the pianoforte, of her own composition, she could listen to other
people's performance with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency
was in the pencil\mbox{---}she had no notion of drawing\mbox{---}not
enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's profile, that she might
be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the true
heroic height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she
had no lover to portray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without
having seen one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility,
without having inspired one real passion, and without having excited
even any admiration but what was very moderate and very transient.
This was strange indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted
for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was not one lord
in the neighbourhood; no\mbox{---}not even a baronet. There was not
one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a
boy accidentally found at their door\mbox{---}not one young man whose
origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the
parish no children.

But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way.

Mr.\ Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton,
the village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to
Bath for the benefit of a gouty constitution\mbox{---}and his lady,
a good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that
if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she
must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Morland
were all compliance, and Catherine all happiness.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 2}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 2}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 2}

In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's personal
and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties
and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for
the reader's more certain information, lest the following pages should
otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to
be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and
open, without conceit or affectation of any kind\mbox{---}her manners
just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person
pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty\mbox{---}and her mind about
as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually
is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.\ Morland
will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming
presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific
separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears
for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of the
most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs.\ Morland
knew so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion
of their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger
to her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined
to the following points. {}``I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap
yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms
at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money
you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose.\ ''

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted
on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting
the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting
conversation that Bath might produce. Everything indeed relative to
this important journey was done, on the part of the Morlands, with
a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed rather consistent
with the common feelings of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities,
the tender emotions which the first separation of a heroine from her
family ought always to excite. Her father, instead of giving her an
unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill
into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and promised her more when
she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs.\ Allen's side, of having once left her clogs
behind her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight\mbox{---}her
eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and
striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which
conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt
happy already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs.\ Allen, that
the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable\mbox{---}whether by
her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy\mbox{---}whether by intercepting
her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

Mrs.\ Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society
can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in
the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither
beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman,
a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of
mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,
intelligent man like Mr.\ Allen. In one respect she was admirably
fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going
everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine;
and our heroine's entree into life could not take place till after
three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn,
and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.
Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters
were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into
the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her
clothes put on with care, and both Mrs.\ Allen and her maid declared
she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine
hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration,
it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on
it.

Mrs.\ Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr.\ Allen, he repaired
directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.
With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort
of her protegee, Mrs.\ Allen made her way through the throng of men
by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within
her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along
the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the
crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had
imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily
find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience.
But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence
they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the
same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some
of the ladies. Still they moved on\mbox{---}something better was
yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity
they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench.
Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss
Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and
of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid
sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself
at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in
the room. Mrs.\ Allen did all that she could do in such a case by
saying very placidly, every now and then, {}``I wish you could dance,
my dear\mbox{---}I wish you could get a partner.'' For some time
her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were
repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine
grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for
tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment\mbox{---}she was tired of being continually
pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed
nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted
that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the
exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at
last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of
having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to
assist them. They saw nothing of Mr.\ Allen; and after looking about
them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down
at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed,
without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except
each other.

Mrs.\ Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on
having preserved her gown from injury. {}``It would have been very
shocking to have it torn,'' said she, {}``would not it? It is such
a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so
well in the whole room, I assure you.''

{}``How uncomfortable it is,'' whispered Catherine, {}``not to
have a single acquaintance here!''\ 

{}``Yes, my dear,'' replied Mrs.\ Allen, with perfect serenity,
{}``it is very uncomfortable indeed.''

{}``What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look
as if they wondered why we came here\mbox{---}we seem forcing ourselves
into their party.''

{}``Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here.''

{}``I wish we had \emph{any}---it would be somebody to go to.''

{}``Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
directly. The Skinners were here last year\mbox{---}I wish they were
here now.''

{}``Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for
us, you see.''

{}``No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we
had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How
is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am
afraid.''

{}``No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs.\ Allen, are you
sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think
you \emph{must} know somebody.''

{}``I don't, upon my word\mbox{---}I wish I did. I wish I had a
large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you
a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking
woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look
at the back.''

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours;
it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation
with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody
spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined
by Mr.\ Allen when the dance was over.

{}``Well, Miss Morland,'' said he, directly, {}``I hope you have
had an agreeable ball.''

{}``Very agreeable indeed,'' she replied, vainly endeavouring to
hide a great yawn.

{}``I wish she had been able to dance,'' said his wife; {}``I wish
we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I
should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or
if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced
with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!''\ 

{}``We shall do better another evening I hope,'' was Mr.\ Allen's
consolation.

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over\mbox{---}enough
to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and
now was the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished
part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every
five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings
for her charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been
near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on
beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor
was she once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very
good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before,
they would now have thought her exceedingly handsome.

She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her
own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such
words had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
than she had found it before\mbox{---}her humble vanity was contented\mbox{---}she
felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than
a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration
of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody,
and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 3}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 3}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 3}

Every morning now brought its regular duties\mbox{---}shops were
to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the
pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour,
looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous
acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs.\ Allen, and she
repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought,
of her knowing nobody at all.

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was
more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced
to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.
He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had
a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if
not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine
felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking while
they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable
as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with fluency
and spirit\mbox{---}and there was an archness and pleasantry in his
manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After
chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects
around them, he suddenly addressed her with\mbox{---}{}``I have
hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner
here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether
you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms,
the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether.
I have been very negligent\mbox{---}but are you now at leisure to
satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly.''

{}``You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.''

{}``No trouble, I assure you, madam.'' Then forming his features
into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with
a simpering air, {}``Have you been long in Bath, madam?''\ 

{}``About a week, sir,'' replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.

{}``Really!''\ with affected astonishment.

{}``Why should you be surprised, sir?''\ 

{}``Why, indeed!''\ said he, in his natural tone. {}``But some
emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more
easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us
go on. Were you never here before, madam?''\ 

{}``Never, sir.''

{}``Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.''

{}``Have you been to the theatre?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.''

{}``To the concert?''\ 

{}``Yes, sir, on Wednesday.''

{}``And are you altogether pleased with Bath?''\ 

{}``Yes\mbox{---}I like it very well.''

{}``Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.''
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture
to laugh. {}``I see what you think of me,'' said he gravely\mbox{---}{}``I
shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.''

{}``My journal!''

{}``Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings\mbox{---}plain
black shoes\mbox{---}appeared to much advantage; but was strangely
harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with
him, and distressed me by his nonsense.''

{}``Indeed I shall say no such thing.''

{}``Shall I tell you what you ought to say?''\ 

{}``If you please.''

{}``I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr.\ King;
had a great deal of conversation with him\mbox{---}seems a most extraordinary
genius\mbox{---}hope I may know more of him. \emph{That}, madam,
is what I \emph{wish} you to say.''

{}``But, perhaps, I keep no journal.''

{}``Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting
by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not
keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour
of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments
of every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down
every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair
to be described in all their diversities, without having constant
recourse to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young
ladies' ways as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit
of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of
writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows
that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female.
Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially
assisted by the practice of keeping a journal.''

{}``I have sometimes thought,'' said Catherine, doubtingly, {}``whether
ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is\mbox{---}I
should not think the superiority was always on our side.''

{}``As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me
that the usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except
in three particulars.''

{}``And what are they?''\ 

{}``A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops,
and a very frequent ignorance of grammar.''

{}``Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.''

{}``I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write
better letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw
better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation,
excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.''

They were interrupted by Mrs.\ Allen: {}``My dear Catherine,''
said she, {}``do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has
torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is
a favourite gown, though it cost but nine shillings a yard.''

{}``That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,'' said
Mr.\ Tilney, looking at the muslin.

{}``Do you understand muslins, sir?''\ 

{}``Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed
to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the
choice of a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced
to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five
shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.''

Mrs.\ Allen was quite struck by his genius. {}``Men commonly take
so little notice of those things,'' said she; {}``I can never get
Mr.\ Allen to know one of my gowns from another. You must be a great
comfort to your sister, sir.''

{}``I hope I am, madam.''

{}``And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?''\ 

{}``It is very pretty, madam,'' said he, gravely examining it; {}``but
I do not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.''

{}``How can you,'' said Catherine, laughing, {}``be so\mbox{---}''
She had almost said {}``strange.''

{}``I am quite of your opinion, sir,'' replied Mrs.\ Allen; {}``and
so I told Miss Morland when she bought it.''

{}``But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account
or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief,
or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have
heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant
in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.''

{}``Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here.
We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops
in Salisbury, but it is so far to go\mbox{---}eight miles is a long
way; Mr.\ Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it
cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag\mbox{---}I come back
tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing
in five minutes.''

Mr.\ Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said;
and she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others. {}``What are
you thinking of so earnestly?''\ said he, as they walked back to
the ballroom; {}``not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake
of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.''

Catherine coloured, and said, {}``I was not thinking of anything.''

{}``That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told
at once that you will not tell me.''

{}``Well then, I will not.''

{}``Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized
to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the
world advances intimacy so much.''

They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady's
side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance.
Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine
and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there,
cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight
slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated
writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling
in love before the gentleman's love is declared,%
\footnote{\textit{Vide} \textit{\emph{a letter from Mr.\ Richardson, No.\ 97,
Vol. II}}\textit{, Rambler.}%
} it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman
before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper
Mr.\ Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps
entered Mr.\ Allen's head, but that he was not objectionable as a
common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied;
for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner
was, and had been assured of Mr.\ Tilney's being a clergyman, and
of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 4}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 4}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 4}

With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr.\ Tilney there before
the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no
smile was demanded\mbox{---}Mr.\ Tilney did not appear. Every creature
in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods
of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing
in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about,
and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. {}``What a delightful
place Bath is,'' said Mrs.\ Allen as they sat down near the great
clock, after parading the room till they were tired; {}``and how
pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.''

This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs.\ Allen
had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage
now; but we are told to {}``despair of nothing we would attain,''
as {}``unwearied diligence our point would gain''; and the unwearied
diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was
at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated
ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by
her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes,
addressed her with great complaisance in these words: {}``I think,
madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure
of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?''\ This question answered,
as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and
Mrs.\ Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow
and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages,
and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great,
as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of
each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now
passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they
were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath,
and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to
make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters,
and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to
receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other
said. Mrs.\ Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker,
over Mrs.\ Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated
on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when
she related their different situations and views\mbox{---}that John
was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors', and William at sea\mbox{---}and
all of them more beloved and respected in their different station
than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.\ Allen had no similar
information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling
and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear
to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however,
with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on
Mrs.\ Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.

{}``Here come my dear girls,'' cried Mrs.\ Thorpe, pointing at
three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards
her. {}``My dear Mrs.\ Allen, I long to introduce them; they will
be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is
not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too,
but I believe Isabella is the handsomest.''

The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for
a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to
strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the
eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, {}``How excessively
like her brother Miss Morland is!''\ 

{}``The very picture of him indeed!''\ cried the mother\mbox{---}and
{}``I should have known her anywhere for his sister!''\ was repeated
by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised;
but Mrs.\ Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history
of their acquaintance with Mr.\ James Morland, before she remembered
that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young
man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent
the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London.

The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,
\textit{etc}., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with
all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof
of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss
Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted
with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr.\ Tilney
while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest
balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion
has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two
young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss
Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at
least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in
discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those
of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify
the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;
could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only
smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of
a crowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom
they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired
might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety
of Miss Thorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight
on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe,
and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment
was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room,
but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe
should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr.\ Allen's house;
and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened
shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they
should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers
in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs,
and watched Miss Thorpe's progress down the street from the drawing-room
window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air
of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for
the chance which had procured her such a friend.

Mrs.\ Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a good-humoured,
well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her eldest daughter
had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to
be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in
the same style, did very well.

This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
of a long and minute detail from Mrs.\ Thorpe herself, of her past
adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of
lords and attornies might be set forth, and conversations, which had
passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 5}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 5}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 5}

Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring
eye for Mr.\ Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she
looked in vain. Mr.\ Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room.
She hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for
fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly
felt a doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house
of its inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion
to walk about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room
to discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not
a genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm
in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation;
they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine
disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to
be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful, in morning
lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms,
at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the walkers,
the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name was
not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must
be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be
so short! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming
in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his
person and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him.
From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two
days in Bath before they met with Mrs.\ Allen. It was a subject,
however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom
she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of
him; and his impression on her fancy was not suffered therefore to
weaken. Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man,
and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear
Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him the better
for being a clergyman, {}``for she must confess herself very partial
to the profession''; and something like a sigh escaped her as she
said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of
that gentle emotion\mbox{--}--but she was not experienced enough
in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when
delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should
be forced.

Mrs.\ Allen was now quite happy\mbox{---}quite satisfied with Bath.
She had found some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find
in them the family of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion
of good fortune, had found these friends by no means so expensively
dressed as herself. Her daily expressions were no longer, {}``I wish
we had some acquaintance in Bath!''\ They were changed into, {}``How
glad I am we have met with Mrs.\ Thorpe!''\ and she was as eager
in promoting the intercourse of the two families, as her young charge
and Isabella themselves could be; never satisfied with the day unless
she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs.\ Thorpe, in what they
called conversation, but in which there was scarcely ever any exchange
of opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for Mrs.\ Thorpe
talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs.\ Allen of her gowns.

The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was
quick as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through
every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no
fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They
called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm
when they walked, pinned up each other's train for the dance, and
were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived
them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance
of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.
Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom
so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure
the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves
adding\mbox{---}joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing
the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting
them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take
up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas!
If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another,
from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of
it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy
at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains
of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one
another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded
more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary
corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much
decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as
many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth
abridger of the \emph{History of England}, or of the man who collects
and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior,
with a paper from the \emph{Spectator}, and a chapter from Sterne,
are eulogized by a thousand pens\mbox{---}there seems almost a general
wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist,
and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and
taste to recommend them. {}``I am no novel-reader\mbox{---}I seldom
look into novels\mbox{---}Do not imagine that I often read novels\mbox{---}It
is really very well for a novel.'' Such is the common cant. {}``And
what are you reading, \mbox{Miss\mbox{---}?''} {}``Oh! It is
only a novel!''\ replies the young lady, while she lays down her
book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. {}``It is only
\emph{Cecilia}, or \emph{Camilla}, or \emph{Belinda}''; or, in short,
only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed,
in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest
delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour,
are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the
same young lady been engaged with a volume of the \emph{Spectator},
instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book,
and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied
by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter
or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance
of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances,
unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern
anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to
give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 6}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 6}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 6}

The following conversation, which took place between the two friends
in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine
days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of
the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste
which marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes
before her friend, her first address naturally was, {}``My dearest
creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for
you at least this age!''\ 

{}``Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought
I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been
here long?''\ 

{}``Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this
half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the
room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you.
In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just
as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have
thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can
imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now\mbox{---}very
like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite
longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing
with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with \emph{Udolpho}?''\ 

{}``Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to
the black veil.''

{}``Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what
is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?''\ 

{}``Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me\mbox{---}I
would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton,
I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the
book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure
you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from
it for all the world.''

{}``Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have
finished \emph{Udolpho}, we will read the Italian together; and I
have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.''

{}``Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?''\ 

{}``I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
\emph{Castle of Wolfenbach}, \emph{Clermont}, \emph{Mysterious Warnings},
\emph{Necromancer of the Black Forest}, \emph{Midnight Bell}, \emph{Orphan
of the Rhine}, and \emph{Horrid Mysteries}. Those will last us some
time.''

{}``Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they
are all horrid?''\ 

{}``Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews,
a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read
every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted
with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive.
I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men
for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.''

{}``Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?''\ 

{}``Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who
are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves;
it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.
I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he
was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would
allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us
incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show
them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly
of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely,
for \emph{you} are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with
the men.''

{}``Oh, dear!''\ cried Catherine, colouring. {}``How can you say
so?''\ 

{}``I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly
insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted
yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly\mbox{---}I
am sure he is in love with you.'' Catherine coloured, and disclaimed
again. Isabella laughed. {}``It is very true, upon my honour, but
I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody's admiration, except
that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame
you''---speaking more seriously\mbox{---}{}``your feelings are
easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very
well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else.
Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to
the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.''

{}``But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about
Mr.\ Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.''

{}``Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I
am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!''\ 

{}``No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was
not very much pleased with him; but while I have \emph{Udolpho} to
read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful
black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's
skeleton behind it.''

{}``It is so odd to me, that you should never have read \emph{Udolpho}
before; but I suppose Mrs.\ Morland objects to novels.''

{}``No, she does not. She very often reads \emph{Sir Charles Grandison}
herself; but new books do not fall in our way.''

{}``\emph{Sir Charles Grandison}! That is an amazing horrid book,
is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first
volume.''

{}``It is not like \emph{Udolpho} at all; but yet I think it is very
entertaining.''

{}``Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head
tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like
you. The men take notice of \emph{that} sometimes, you know.''

{}``But it does not signify if they do,'' said Catherine, very innocently.

{}``Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they
say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat
them with spirit, and make them keep their distance.''

{}``Are they? Well, I never observed \emph{that}. They always behave
very well to me.''

{}``Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!
By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you
like them best dark or fair?''\ 

{}``I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between
both, I think. Brown\mbox{---}not fair, and\mbox{---}and not very
dark.''

{}``Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr.\ Tilney\mbox{---}`a brown skin, with dark eyes,
and rather dark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light
eyes, and as to complexion\mbox{---}do you know\mbox{---}I like
a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should
ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description.''

{}``Betray you! What do you mean?''\ 

{}``Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let
us drop the subject.''

Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her
at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's
skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, {}``For heaven's
sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there
are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour.
They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at
the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.''

Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names,
it was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men.

{}``They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming.
I am determined I will not look up.''

In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her
that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left
the pump-room.

{}``And which way are they gone?''\ said Isabella, turning hastily
round. {}``One was a very good-looking young man.''

{}``They went towards the church-yard.''

{}``Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what
say you to going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new
hat? You said you should like to see it.''

Catherine readily agreed. {}``Only,'' she added, {}``perhaps we
may overtake the two young men.''

{}``Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them
presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.''

{}``But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of
our seeing them at all.''

{}``I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have
no notion of treating men with such respect. \emph{That} is the way
to spoil them.''

Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,
to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling
the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit
of the two young men.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 7}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 7}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 7}

Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted
with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at
this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately
connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the principal
inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies,
however important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery,
or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not detained on
one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had
been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since
her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it
once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage,
and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the
crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they
were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on
bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence
that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion,
and his horse.

{}``Oh, these odious gigs!''\ said Isabella, looking up. {}``How
I detest them.'' But this detestation, though so just, was of short
duration, for she looked again and exclaimed, {}``Delightful! Mr.\ Morland
and my brother!''\ 

{}``Good heaven! 'Tis James!''\ was uttered at the same moment
by Catherine; and, on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was
immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his
haunches, and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped
out, and the equipage was delivered to his care.

Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his
side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while
the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
and to her his \emph{devoir}s were speedily paid, with a mixture of
joy and embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she
been more expert in the development of other people's feelings, and
less simply engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend
quite as pretty as she could do herself.

John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the
hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short
bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain
face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless
he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless
he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might
be allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: {}``How long do you
think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?''\ 

{}``I do not know the distance.'' Her brother told her that it was
twenty-three miles.

{}``\emph{Three} and twenty!''\ cried Thorpe. {}``Five and twenty
if it is an inch.'' Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of
road-books, innkeepers, and milestones; but his friend disregarded
them all; he had a surer test of distance. {}``I know it must be
five and twenty,'' said he, {}``by the time we have been doing it.
It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury
as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to
make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness; that makes
it exactly twenty-five.''

{}``You have lost an hour,'' said Morland; {}``it was only ten
o'clock when we came from Tetbury.''

{}``Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke.
This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland;
do but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed
in your life?''\ (The servant had just mounted the carriage and
was driving off.) {}``Such true blood! Three hours and and a half
indeed coming only three and twenty miles! Look at that creature,
and suppose it possible if you can.''

{}``He \emph{does} look very hot, to be sure.''

{}``Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church;
but look at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves;
that horse \emph{cannot} go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs
and he will get on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat
one, is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month.
It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good
sort of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient
to have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some
light thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a
curricle too; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he
was driving into Oxford, last term: `Ah! Thorpe,' said he, `do you
happen to want such a little thing as this? It is a capital one of
the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.' `Oh! \mbox{D\mbox{------},'}
said I; `I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you think
he did, Miss Morland?''\ 

{}``I am sure I cannot guess at all.''

{}``Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,
lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good
as new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,
threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.''

{}``And I am sure,'' said Catherine, {}``I know so little of such
things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.''

{}``Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare
say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.''

{}``That was very good-natured of you,'' said Catherine, quite pleased.

{}``Oh! D\mbox{------} it, when one has the means of doing a kind
thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful.''

An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that
the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay
their respects to Mrs.\ Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and
so well satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was
she endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the
double recommendation of being her brother's friend, and her friend's
brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though
they overtook and passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street,
she was so far from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked
back at them only three times.

John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes'
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. {}``You will find,
however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some
people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;
Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
time.''

{}``Yes,'' said Morland, who overheard this; {}``but you forget
that your horse was included.''

{}``My horse! Oh, d\mbox{------} it! I would not sell my horse for
a hundred. Are you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?''\ 

{}``Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one;
but I am particularly fond of it.''

{}``I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.''

{}``Thank you,'' said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt
of the propriety of accepting such an offer.

{}``I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.''

{}``Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?''\ 

{}``Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.
No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
while I am here.''

{}``Shall you indeed!''\ said Catherine very seriously. {}``That
will be forty miles a day.''

{}``Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up
Lansdown tomorrow; mind, I am engaged.''

{}``How delightful that will be!''\ cried Isabella, turning round.
{}``My dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother,
you will not have room for a third.''

{}``A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of
you.''

This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more
than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face
of every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing
as long as she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful
female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition
to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her
own sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a
question which had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, {}``Have
you ever read \emph{Udolpho}, Mr.\ Thorpe?''\ 

{}``\emph{Udolpho}! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have
something else to do.''

Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question,
but he prevented her by saying, {}``Novels are all so full of nonsense
and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since
\emph{Tom Jones}, except \emph{The Monk}; I read that t'other day;
but as for all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation.''

{}``I think you must like \emph{Udolpho}, if you were to read it;
it is so very interesting.''

{}``Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs.\ Radcliffe's;
her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and
nature in \emph{them}.''

{}``\emph{Udolpho} was written by Mrs.\ Radcliffe,'' said Catherine,
with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.

{}``No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of
that other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss
about, she who married the French emigrant.''

{}``I suppose you mean \emph{Camilla}?''\ 

{}``Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing
at see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but
I soon found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff
it must be before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an
emigrant, I was sure I should never be able to get through it.''

{}``I have never read it.''

{}``You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you
can imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's
playing at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.''

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs.\ Thorpe's lodgings, and
the feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of \emph{Camilla}
gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they
met Mrs.\ Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage.
{}``Ah, Mother! How do you do?''\ said he, giving her a hearty
shake of the hand. {}``Where did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes
you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and I come to stay a few
days with you, so you must look out for a couple of good beds somewhere
near.'' And this address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes
of the mother's heart, for she received him with the most delighted
and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters he then bestowed
an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of
them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.

These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James's friend
and Isabella's brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
Isabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that
John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had
she been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but,
where youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness
of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming
girl in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner;
and the consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting
an hour with the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr.\ Allen's,
and James, as the door was closed on them, said, {}``Well, Catherine,
how do you like my friend Thorpe?''\ instead of answering, as she
probably would have done, had there been no friendship and no flattery
in the case, {}``I do not like him at all,'' she directly replied,
{}``I like him very much; he seems very agreeable.''

{}``He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle;
but that will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you
like the rest of the family?''\ 

{}``Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.''

{}``I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young
woman I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense,
and is so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to
know her; and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things
in your praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl
as Miss Thorpe even you, Catherine,'' taking her hand with affection,
{}``may be proud of.''

{}``Indeed I am,'' she replied; {}``I love her exceedingly, and
am delighted to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything
of her when you wrote to me after your visit there.''

{}``Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will
be a great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable
girl; such a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of
her; she is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must
be admired in such a place as this\mbox{---}is not she?''\ 

{}``Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr.\ Allen thinks her the prettiest
girl in Bath.''

{}``I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better
judge of beauty than Mr.\ Allen. I need not ask you whether you are
happy here, my dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as
Isabella Thorpe, it would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and
the Allens, I am sure, are very kind to you?''\ 

{}``Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are
come it will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to
come so far on purpose to see \emph{me}.''

James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience
for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, {}``Indeed,
Catherine, I love you dearly.''

Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters
now passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression
on James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney
Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Allen,
invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter
to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet.
A pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the
invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as
he had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties
uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was
then left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination
over the pages of \emph{Udolpho}, lost from all worldly concerns of
dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs.\ Allen's fears on
the delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in
sixty to bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being
already engaged for the evening.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 8}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 8}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 8}

In spite of \emph{Udolpho} and the dressmaker, however, the party
from Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The
Thorpes and James Morland were there only two minutes before them;
and Isabella having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her
friend with the most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the
set of her gown, and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their
chaperones, arm in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other
whenever a thought occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas
by a squeeze of the hand or a smile of affection.

The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and
James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the
card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should
induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it
too. {}``I assure you,'' said she, {}``I would not stand up without
your dear sister for all the world; for if I did we should certainly
be separated the whole evening.'' Catherine accepted this kindness
with gratitude, and they continued as they were for three minutes
longer, when Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other
side of her, turned again to his sister and whispered, {}``My dear
creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly
impatient to begin; I know you will not mind my going away, and I
dare say John will be back in a moment, and then you may easily find
me out.'' Catherine, though a little disappointed, had too much good
nature to make any opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella
had only time to press her friend's hand and say, {}``Good-bye, my
dear love,'' before they hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being
also dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs.\ Thorpe and
Mrs.\ Allen, between whom she now remained. She could not help being
vexed at the non-appearance of Mr.\ Thorpe, for she not only longed
to be dancing, but was likewise aware that, as the real dignity of
her situation could not be known, she was sharing with the scores
of other young ladies still sitting down all the discredit of wanting
a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance
of infamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence,
and the misconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is
one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's
life, and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character.
Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her
lips.

From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten
minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr.\ Thorpe, but
Mr.\ Tilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed
to be moving that way, but be did not see her, and therefore the smile
and the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine,
passed away without sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome
and as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable
and pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine
immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away
a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being
married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable,
it had never entered her head that Mr.\ Tilney could be married;
he had not behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom
she had been used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged
a sister. From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of
his sister's now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning
of a deathlike paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs.\ Allen's bosom,
Catherine sat erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks
only a little redder than usual.

Mr.\ Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to approach,
were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs.\ Thorpe;
and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to her,
stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr.\ Tilney's eye, instantly
received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She returned
it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke both to
her and Mrs.\ Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. {}``I
am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had
left Bath.'' He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted
it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure
of seeing her.

{}``Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again,
for it is just the place for young people\mbox{---} and indeed for
everybody else too. I tell Mr.\ Allen, when he talks of being sick
of it, that I am sure he should not complain, for it is so very agreeable
a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at this dull
time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his
health.''

{}``And I hope, madam, that Mr.\ Allen will be obliged to like the
place, from finding it of service to him.''

{}``Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of
ours, Dr.\ Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came
away quite stout.''

{}``That circumstance must give great encouragement.''

{}``Yes, sir\mbox{---}and Dr.\ Skinner and his family were here
three months; so I tell Mr.\ Allen he must not be in a hurry to get
away.''

Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs.\ Thorpe to Mrs.\ Allen,
that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs.\ Hughes and Miss
Tilney with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was
accordingly done, Mr.\ Tilney still continuing standing before them;
and after a few minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine to dance
with him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification
to the lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on
the occasion so very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe,
who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might
have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The very easy manner
in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did not by
any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars which
he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and dogs
of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of
terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking
very often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr.\ Tilney.
Of her dear Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out
that gentleman, she could see nothing. They were in different sets.
She was separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance;
one mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced
this useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not
necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady.
From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by
a touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs.\ Hughes
directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. {}``I
beg your pardon, Miss Morland,'' said she, {}``for this liberty\mbox{---}but
I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs.\ Thorpe said she was
sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this young
lady by you.'' Mrs.\ Hughes could not have applied to any creature
in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies
were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense
of such goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous
mind making light of the obligation; and Mrs.\ Hughes, satisfied
with having so respectably settled her young charge, returned to her
party.

Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable
countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,
the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe's, had more real elegance.
Her manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither
shy nor affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive,
and at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near
her, and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable
vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested
at once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr.\ Tilney, was
desirous of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore
whenever she could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure
for saying it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy
intimacy, by the frequent want of one or more of these requisites,
prevented their doing more than going through the first rudiments
of an acquaintance, by informing themselves how well the other liked
Bath, how much she admired its buildings and surrounding country,
whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of
riding on horseback.

The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her
arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,
{}``At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking
for you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when
you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.''

{}``My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I
could not even see where you were.''

{}``So I told your brother all the time\mbox{---}but he would not
believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr.\ Morland, said I\mbox{---}but
all in vain\mbox{---}he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr.\ Morland?
But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him
to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You
know I never stand upon ceremony with such people.''

{}``Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,''
whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. {}``It is Mr.\ Tilney's
sister.''

{}``Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment.
What a delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But
where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him
out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr.\ Morland,
you are not to listen. We are not talking about you.''

{}``But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?''\ 

{}``There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But
be satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.''

{}``And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?''\ 

{}``Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify
to you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you;
therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear
something not very agreeable.''

In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original
subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little
suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire
to see Mr.\ Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James
would have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. {}``I tell
you, Mr.\ Morland,'' she cried, {}``I would not do such a thing
for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear
Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance
with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing,
and entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place,
if we were not to change partners.''

{}``Upon my honour,'' said James, {}``in these public assemblies,
it is as often done as not.''

{}``Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to
carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support
me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would
quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?''\ 

{}``No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better
change.''

{}``There,'' cried Isabella, {}``you hear what your sister says,
and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault,
if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest
Catherine, for heaven's sake, and stand by me.'' And off they went,
to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked
away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr.\ Tilney an opportunity
of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her
once, made her way to Mrs.\ Allen and Mrs.\ Thorpe as fast as she
could, in the hope of finding him still with them\mbox{---}a hope
which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly
unreasonable. {}``Well, my dear,'' said Mrs.\ Thorpe, impatient
for praise of her son, {}``I hope you have had an agreeable partner.''

{}``Very agreeable, madam.''

{}``I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?''\ 

{}``Did you meet Mr.\ Tilney, my dear?''\ said Mrs.\ Allen.

{}``No, where is he?''\ 

{}``He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging
about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps
he would ask you, if he met with you.''

{}``Where can he be?''\ said Catherine, looking round; but she
had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady
to the dance.

{}``Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked \emph{you},''
said Mrs.\ Allen; and after a short silence, she added, {}``he is
a very agreeable young man.''

{}``Indeed he is, Mrs.\ Allen,'' said Mrs.\ Thorpe, smiling complacently;
{}``I must say it, though I \emph{am} his mother, that there is not
a more agreeable young man in the world.''

This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension
of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs.\ Allen, for after only a moment's
consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, {}``I dare say
she thought I was speaking of her son.''

Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by
so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion
did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came
up to her soon afterwards and said, {}``Well, Miss Morland, I suppose
you and I are to stand up and jig it together again.''

{}``Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.''

{}``Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along
with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room;
my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at
them this half hour.''

Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz
his sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull;
Mr.\ Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that
of his partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near
her, and James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together
that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one
smile, one squeeze, and one {}``dearest Catherine.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 9}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 9}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 9}

The progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with
everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home.
This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary
hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing
to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when
there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours,
and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits,
with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was
to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first
resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon.
In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and
that building she had already found so favourable for the discovery
of female excellence, and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably
adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was
most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from within its
walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down
to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place
and the same employment till the clock struck one; and from habitude
very little incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs.\ Allen,
whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking were such, that
as she never talked a great deal, so she could never be entirely silent;
and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if she lost her needle
or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the street, or saw
a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were
anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve,
a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely
had she time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages
at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss
Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling
out, {}``Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting long?
We could not come before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an
eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten
thousand to one but they break down before we are out of the street.
How do you do, Mrs.\ Allen? A famous bag last night, was not it?
Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry
to be off. They want to get their tumble over.''

{}``What do you mean?''\ said Catherine. {}``Where are you all
going to?''

{}``Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we
agree together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have!
We are going up Claverton Down.''

{}``Something was said about it, I remember,'' said Catherine, looking
at Mrs.\ Allen for her opinion; {}``but really I did not expect
you.''

{}``Not expect me! That's a good one! And what a dust you would have
made, if I had not come.''

Catherine's silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
away, for Mrs.\ Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying
any expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever
intended by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss
Tilney again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of
a drive, and who thought there could be no impropriety in her going
with Mr.\ Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the same time with James,
was therefore obliged to speak plainer. {}``Well, ma'am, what do
you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?''\ 

{}``Do just as you please, my dear,'' replied Mrs.\ Allen, with
the most placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off
to get ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely
allowed the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences
in her praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs.\ Allen's admiration
of his gig; and then receiving her friend's parting good wishes, they
both hurried downstairs. {}``My dearest creature,'' cried Isabella,
to whom the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could
get into the carriage, {}``you have been at least three hours getting
ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last
night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste and
get in, for I long to be off.''

Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to
hear her friend exclaim aloud to James, {}``What a sweet girl she
is! I quite dote on her.''

{}``You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,'' said Thorpe, as
he handed her in, {}``if my horse should dance about a little at
first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and
perhaps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon know his master.
He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in
him.''

Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was
too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened;
so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted
knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit
down by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood
at the horse's head was bid in an important voice {}``to let him
go,'' and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without
a plunge or a caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at
so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise;
and her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by
assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious
manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment
and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though
she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his
horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of
its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care
of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued
to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity
towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace
was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up
to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating
kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety.
A silence of several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue;
it was broken by Thorpe's saying very abruptly, {}``Old Allen is
as rich as a Jew\mbox{---}is not he?''\ Catherine did not understand
him\mbox{---}and he repeated his question, adding in explanation,
{}``Old Allen, the man you are with.''

{}``Oh! Mr.\ Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.''

{}``And no children at all?''\ 

{}``No\mbox{---}not any.''

{}``A famous thing for his next heirs. He is \emph{your} godfather,
is not he?''\ 

{}``My godfather! No.''

{}``But you are always very much with them.''

{}``Yes, very much.''

{}``Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow
enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not
gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?''\ 

{}``His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He
is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last
night?''\ 

{}``Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in
liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am
sure of \emph{this}---that if everybody was to drink their bottle
a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are
now. It would be a famous good thing for us all.''

{}``I cannot believe it.''

{}``Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought
to be. Our foggy climate wants help.''

{}``And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk
in Oxford.''

{}``Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody
drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his
four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable
thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared
about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the
common way. \emph{Mine} is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would
not often meet with anything like it in Oxford\mbox{---}and that
may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general
rate of drinking there.''

{}``Yes, it does give a notion,'' said Catherine warmly, {}``and
that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought
you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much.''

This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which
no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting
almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal
of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother's
comparative sobriety.

Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage,
and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which
his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the
excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed
him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond
him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject,
his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that
out of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation,
but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally
settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was
altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage
the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman.
{}``You do not really think, Mr.\ Thorpe,'' said Catherine, venturing
after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to
offer some little variation on the subject, {}``that James's gig
will break down?''\ 

{}``Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy
thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The
wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least\mbox{---}and
as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself
with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever
beheld! Thank God!\ we have got a better. I would not be bound to
go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds.''

{}``Good heavens!''\ cried Catherine, quite frightened. {}``Then
pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if
we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr.\ Thorpe; stop and speak to my
brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is.''

{}``Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a
roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be
excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a
man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will
last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you!
I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again,
without losing a nail.''

Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile
two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not
been brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to
know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess
of vanity will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people
who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being
contented with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not
in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance,
or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next.
She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and
was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr.\ Thorpe a
clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked
herself, because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving
those clearer insights, in making those things plain which he had
before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the consideration that
he would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed
to a danger from which he might easily preserve them, she concluded
at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe,
and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole matter
seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or
rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He
told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible
sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold
the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds
(though without having one good shot) than all his companions together;
and described to her some famous day's sport, with the fox-hounds,
in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired
the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness
of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment,
had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly
concluded had broken the necks of many.

Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed
as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not
entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his
endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It
was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella's brother; and she had been
assured by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex;
but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which
crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued
unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again,
induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority,
and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure.

When they arrived at Mrs.\ Allen's door, the astonishment of Isabella
was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the
day for them to attend her friend into the house: {}``Past three
o'clock!''\ It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she
would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's;
she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality,
till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have
doubted a moment longer \emph{then} would have been equally inconceivable,
incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over
again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before,
as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a
falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery
of her friend's dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her
own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute
on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since
she had had a moment's conversation with her dearest Catherine; and,
though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared
as if they were never to be together again; so, with sniffles of most
exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade
her friend \emph{adieu} and went on.

Catherine found Mrs.\ Allen just returned from all the busy idleness
of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, {}``Well, my dear,
here you are,'' a truth which she had no greater inclination than
power to dispute; {}``and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?''\ 

{}``Yes, ma'am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.''

{}``So Mrs.\ Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.''

{}``You have seen Mrs.\ Thorpe, then?''\ 

{}``Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there
I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there
was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly
scarce.''

{}``Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?''\ 

{}``Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met
Mrs.\ Hughes, and Mr.\ and Miss Tilney walking with her.''

{}``Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?''\ 

{}``Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour.
They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty
spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always
dresses very handsomely. Mrs.\ Hughes talked to me a great deal about
the family.''

{}``And what did she tell you of them?''\ 

{}``Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.''

{}``Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?''\ 

{}``Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good
kind of people, and very rich. Mrs.\ Tilney was a Miss Drummond,
and she and Mrs.\ Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had
a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty
thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs.\ Hughes
saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse.''

{}``And are Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Tilney in Bath?''\ 

{}``Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;
yes, I am sure Mrs.\ Tilney is dead, because Mrs.\ Hughes told me
there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr.\ Drummond gave
his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now,
for they were put by for her when her mother died.''

{}``And is Mr.\ Tilney, my partner, the only son?''\ 

{}``I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea
he is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs.\ Hughes says,
and likely to do very well.''

Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs.\ Allen
had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly
unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother
and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should
have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she
could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost,
till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very
pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 10}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 10}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 10}

The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre;
and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity
for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand things which
had been collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable
length of time which had divided them. {}``Oh, heavens! My beloved
Catherine, have I got you at last?''\ was her address on Catherine's
entering the box and sitting by her. {}``Now, Mr.\ Morland,'' for
he was close to her on the other side, {}``I shall not speak another
word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect
it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I
need not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done
your hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature,
do you want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite
in love with you already; and as for Mr.\ Tilney\mbox{---}but \emph{that}
is a settled thing\mbox{---}even \emph{your} modesty cannot doubt
his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh!
What would not I give to see him! I really am quite wild with impatience.
My mother says he is the most delightful young man in the world; she
saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him to me. Is he
in the house now? Look about, for heaven's sake! I assure you, I can
hardly exist till I see him.''

{}``No,'' said Catherine, {}``he is not here; I cannot see him
anywhere.''

{}``Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you
like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely
my own thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your
brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly
well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions.
We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring
the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly
the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in
which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you
are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark
or other about it.''

{}``No, indeed I should not.''

{}``Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself.
You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some
nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception;
my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had
you by for the world.''

{}``Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper
a remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have
entered my head.''

Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to
James.

Catherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued
in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going
to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention.
But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them,
and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the
ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.\ Allen,
after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over
the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers;
and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and
almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe
family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less
than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual
place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance,
maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the
rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till
Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining
her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share
in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental
discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in
such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter,
that though Catherine's supporting opinion was not unfrequently called
for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not
having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered
to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking
to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room
with Mrs.\ Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination
to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had
she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney
met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill,
and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained
in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was
made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and
used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath
season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth,
and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon.

{}``How well your brother dances!''\ was an artless exclamation
of Catherine's towards the close of their conversation, which at once
surprised and amused her companion.

{}``Henry!''\ she replied with a smile. {}``Yes, he does dance
very well.''

{}``He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged
the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been
engaged the whole day to Mr.\ Thorpe.'' Miss Tilney could only bow.
{}``You cannot think,'' added Catherine after a moment's silence,
{}``how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being
quite gone away.''

{}``When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath
but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.''

{}``\emph{That} never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him
anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced
with on Monday a Miss Smith?''\ 

{}``Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs.\ Hughes.''

{}``I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?''

{}``Not very.''

{}``He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?''

{}``Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.''

Mrs.\ Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready
to go. {}``I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,''
said Catherine. {}``Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?''\ 

{}``Perhaps we\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}on Miss Tilney's side
with some knowledge of her new acquaintance's feelings, and on Catherine's,
without the smallest consciousness of having explained them.

She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes,
and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation,
the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on
the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in
it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude
about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very
well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the
Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night
debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing
but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the
evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not
uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother
rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can
be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would
be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to
understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly
or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of
their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards
the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine
for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no
woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough
for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will
be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections
troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.

She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then
been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious
to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she
could not, dared not expect that Mr.\ Tilney should ask her a third
time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing
less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment,
for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation.
All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in
danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and
all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished
to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine's
agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid
herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her
pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing
beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.

{}``Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,'' whispered Isabella,
{}``but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare
positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed
of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste,
my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he
will be back in a moment.''

Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.
That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she
kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for
her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet
with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her
mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited
to dance, by Mr.\ Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready
motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of
heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape,
and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked,
so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr.\ Tilney, as if he
had sought her on purpose!\mbox{---}it did not appear to her that
life could supply any greater felicity.

Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who
stood behind her. {}``Heyday, Miss Morland!''\ said he. {}``What
is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.''

{}``I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.''

{}``That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into
the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned
round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for
the sake of dancing with \emph{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 \emph{me}, after such a description
as that.''

{}``By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room
for blockheads. What chap have you there?''\ Catherine satisfied
his curiosity. {}``Tilney,'' he repeated. {}``Hum\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}only
forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of
my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one; but it
would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I would
give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best
that ever were backed. I would not take eight hundred guineas for
them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against
the next season. It is so d\mbox{------} uncomfortable, living at
an inn.''

This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's attention,
for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long
string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, {}``That
gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you
half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention
of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness
for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely
to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice
of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance
as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal
duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry
themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours.''

{}``But they are such very different things!''\ 

{}``---That you think they cannot be compared together.''

{}``To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go
and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each
other in a long room for half an hour.''

{}``And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in
that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think
I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man
has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that
in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the
advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively
to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their
duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that
he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest
to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections
of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better
off with anyone else. You will allow all this?''\ 

{}``Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well;
but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all
in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them.''

{}``In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage,
the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman
to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is
to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness,
the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan
and the lavender water. \emph{That}, I suppose, was the difference
of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable
of comparison.''

{}``No, indeed, I never thought of that.''

{}``Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe.
This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow
any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that
your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict
as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the
gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other
gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain
you from conversing with him as long as you chose?''\ 

{}``Mr.\ Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's,
that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly
three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance
with.''

{}``And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!''\ 

{}``Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know
anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I
do not \emph{want} to talk to anybody.''

{}``Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour
of making the inquiry before?''\ 

{}``Yes, quite\mbox{---}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 is pleasant enough;
but beyond \emph{that}, it is the most tiresome place in the world.'
You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly
every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go
away at last because they can afford to stay no longer.''

{}``Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go
to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired
village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a
place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements,
a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can
know nothing of there.''

{}``You are not fond of the country.''

{}``Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy.
But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in
a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another.''

{}``But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.''

{}``Do I?''\ 

{}``Do you not?''\ 

{}``I do not believe there is much difference.''

{}``Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.''

{}``And so I am at home\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}I do like it
so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of
them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James's coming (my eldest
brother) is quite delightful\mbox{--}--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 papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are
a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath\mbox{---}and
the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past
with them.'' Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance
becoming now too importunate for a divided attention.

Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome
man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour
of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him
presently address Mr.\ Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by
his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something
wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did
so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said,
{}``I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman
knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney,
my father.''

Catherine's answer was only {}``Oh!''---but it was an {}``Oh!''\ 
expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect
reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration
did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd,
and {}``How handsome a family they are!''\ was her secret remark.

In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since
her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented
environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might
find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. {}``I shall
like it,'' she cried, {}``beyond anything in the world; and do not
let us put it off\mbox{---}let us go tomorrow.'' This was readily
agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain,
which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o'clock, they were
to call for her in Pulteney Street; and {}``Remember\mbox{---}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 rather early away, and her spirits danced within her,
as she danced in her chair all the way home.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 11}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 11}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{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 today,'' 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!''\ 

{}``Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few
people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr.\ Allen
will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not,
for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat;
I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.''

The rain continued\mbox{---}fast, though not heavy. Catherine went
every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that,
if it still kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up
the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained.
{}``You will not be able to go, my dear.''

{}``I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter
after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and
I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes
after twelve, and now I \emph{shall} give it up entirely. Oh! That
we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany
and the south of France!\mbox{---}the night that poor St.\ Aubin
died!\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}but I shall not go\mbox{---}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. {}``Make haste! Make haste!''\ as he threw open the door.
{}``Put on your hat this moment\mbox{---}there is no time to be
lost\mbox{---}we are going to Bristol. How d'ye do, Mrs.\ Allen?''\ 

{}``To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot
go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every
moment.'' This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason
at all; Mrs.\ Allen was called on to second him, and the two others
walked in, to give their assistance. {}``My sweetest Catherine, is
not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are
to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads
at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should
have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable
rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall
do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms.
We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as
dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston.''

{}``I doubt our being able to do so much,'' said Morland.

{}``You croaking fellow!''\ cried Thorpe. {}``We shall be able
to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and
anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will
not go.''

{}``Blaize Castle!''\ cried Catherine. {}``What is that'?''\ 

{}``The finest place in England\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}the very same.''

{}``But now really\mbox{---}are there towers and long galleries?''\ 

{}``By dozens.''

{}``Then I should like to see it; but I cannot\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}{}``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\mbox{---}does he not drive a phaeton with
bright chestnuts?''\ 

{}``I do not know indeed.''

{}``Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you
danced with last night, are not you?''\ 

{}``Yes.

{}``Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving
a smart-looking girl.''

{}``Did you indeed?''\ 

{}``Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have
got some very pretty cattle too.''

{}``It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty
for a walk.''

{}``And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life.
Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so
dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.''

Isabella corroborated it: {}``My dearest Catherine, you cannot form
an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.''

{}``I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May
we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?''\ 

{}``Yes, yes, every hole and corner.''

{}``But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it
is dryer, and call by and by?''\ 

{}``Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they
were going as far as Wick Rocks.''

{}``Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs.\ Allen?''\ 

{}``Just as you please, my dear.''

{}``Mrs.\ Allen, you must persuade her to go,'' was the general
cry. Mrs.\ Allen was not inattentive to it: {}``Well, my dear,''
said she, {}``suppose you go.'' And in two minutes they were off.

Catherine's feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very
unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal
in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys
had acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour
later than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and,
in spite of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt
in the course of that hour, she could not from her own observation
help thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience.
To feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand,
the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented
Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console
her for almost anything.

They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and
she meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons
and false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
{}``Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?''\ 

{}``Who? Where?''\ 

{}``On the right-hand pavement\mbox{---}she must be almost out of
sight now.'' Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on
her brother's arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both
looking back at her. {}``Stop, stop, Mr.\ Thorpe,'' she impatiently
cried; {}``it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me
they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them.''
But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into
a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her,
were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and
in another moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace. Still,
however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him
to stop. {}``Pray, pray stop, Mr.\ Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will
not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney.'' But Mr.\ Thorpe only
laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises,
and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no
power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.
Her reproaches, however, were not spared. {}``How could you deceive
me so, Mr.\ Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up
the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world.
They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too,
without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have
no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand
times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say
you saw them driving out in a phaeton?''\ Thorpe defended himself
very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in
his life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney
himself.

Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be
very agreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer what it had
been in their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies
were short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards \emph{that},
she still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be
disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought
ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness
which its walls could supply\mbox{---}the happiness of a progress
through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent
furniture, though now for many years deserted\mbox{---}the happiness
of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low,
grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished
by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. In
the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance,
and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland,
who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the
matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland
said, {}``We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on
today; your sister thinks so as well as I.\ We have been exactly
an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles;
and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do.
We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till
another day, and turn round.''

{}``It is all one to me,'' replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

{}``If your brother had not got such a d\mbox{------} beast to drive,''
said he soon afterwards, {}``we might have done it very well. My
horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself,
and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed
broken-winded jade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse
and gig of his own.''

{}``No, he is not,'' said Catherine warmly, {}``for I am sure he
could not afford it.''

{}``And why cannot he afford it?''\ 

{}``Because he has not money enough.''

{}``And whose fault is that?''\ 

{}``Nobody's, that I know of.'' Thorpe then said something in the
loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being
a d\mbox{------} thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled
in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which
Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what
was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she
was less and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find
her companion so; and they returned to Pulteney Street without her
speaking twenty words.

As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and
lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting
off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr.\ Thorpe, the
lady had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his
saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and
went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked
slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr.\ Allen, who,
on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, {}``I am glad
your brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was
a strange, wild scheme.''

They all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed
and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce,
in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland,
a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at
Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was
spoken more than once. {}``How I pity the poor creatures that are
going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether
it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I
would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have
an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very
good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity
everybody that is. But I dare say, Mr.\ Morland, you long to be at
it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here
be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well without you;
but you men think yourselves of such consequence.''

Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in tenderness
towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they appear to
dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered.
{}``Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,'' she whispered. {}``You
will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure;
but the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual?
It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and
I should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything,
where a friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just
the same; he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful
hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life!
I would fifty times rather you should have them than myself.''

And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is
the true heroine's portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet
with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good
night's rest in the course of the next three months.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 12}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 12}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 12}

{}``Mrs.\ Allen,'' said Catherine the next morning, {}``will there
be any harm in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy
till I have explained everything.''

{}``Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
always wears white.''

Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
herself of General Tilneys lodgings, for though she believed they
were in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs.\ Allen's
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street
she was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain
her conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard,
and resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged
to see her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason
to believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without
any impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired
for Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was
not quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave
her card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which
did not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that
Miss Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification,
left the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at
home, and too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down
the street, could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows,
in expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At
the bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then,
not at a window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself.
She was followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her
father, and they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in
deep mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry
herself at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation;
she remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence
as hers might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what
a degree of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what
rigours of rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.

Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with
the others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that
they were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the
first place, that she was without any excuse for staying at home;
and, in the second, that it was a play she wanted very much to see.
To the theatre accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague
or please her; she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the
family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it
was because they were habituated to the finer performances of the
London stage, which she knew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything
else of the kind {}``quite horrid.'' She was not deceived in her
own expectation of pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care
that no one, observing her during the first four acts, would have
supposed she had any wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the
fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.\ Henry Tilney and his father,
joining a party in the opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress.
The stage could no longer excite genuine merriment\mbox{---}no longer
keep her whole attention. Every other look upon an average was directed
towards the opposite box; and, for the space of two entire scenes,
did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without being once able to catch
his eye. No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play;
his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.
At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}instead of proudly
resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards
him who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble
of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by
avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}the curtain fell\mbox{---}Henry Tilney
was no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father
remained, and perhaps he might be now coming round to their box. She
was right; in a few minutes he appeared, and, making his way through
the then thinning rows, spoke with like calm politeness to Mrs.\ Allen
and her friend. Not with such calmness was he answered by the latter:
{}``Oh! Mr.\ Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and
make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it
was not my own fault, was it, Mrs.\ Allen? Did not they tell me that
Mr.\ Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And
then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been
with you; now had not I, Mrs.\ Allen?''\ 

{}``My dear, you tumble my gown,'' was Mrs.\ Allen's reply.

Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away;
it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance,
and he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:
{}``We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant
walk after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to
look back on purpose.''

{}``But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought
of such a thing; but I begged Mr.\ Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I
called out to him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs.\ Allen, did
not\mbox{---}Oh! You were not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr.\ Thorpe
would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you.''

Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a declaration?
Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said everything
that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and dependence
on Catherine's honour. {}``Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not angry,''
cried Catherine, {}``because I know she was; for she would not see
me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the
next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted.
Perhaps you did not know I had been there.''

{}``I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor,
and she has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason
of such incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing
more than that my father\mbox{---}they were just preparing to walk
out, and he being hurried for time, and not caring to have it put
off\mbox{---}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 \emph{you} less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
suppose it to be only a mistake, why should \emph{you} be so ready
to take offence?''\ 

{}``Me! I take offence!''\ 

{}``Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you
were angry.''

{}``I angry! I could have no right.''

{}``Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your
face.'' He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking
of the play.

He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for Catherine
to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however, it
was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon as possible;
and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, she was,
upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the world.

While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes
together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she
felt something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive
herself the object of their attention and discourse. What could they
have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance:
she found it was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter,
rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes. {}``How came Mr.\ Thorpe
to know your father?''\ was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed
them out to her companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father,
like every military man, had a very large acquaintance.

When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which
had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking,
in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General
Tilney: {}``He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active\mbox{---}looks
as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you:
a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.''

{}``But how came you to know him?''\ 

{}``Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not
know. I have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again
today the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players
we have, by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was
almost afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against
me; and, if I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps
ever was made in this world\mbox{---}I took his ball exactly\mbox{---}but
I could not make you understand it without a table; however, I \emph{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\mbox{---}{}``well
done, general, said I; I am quite of your mind.''

Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than
by General Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr.\ Allen.
Thorpe, however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered
it, continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her
entreating him to have done.

That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was
very delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of
the family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more,
much more, for her than could have been expected.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 13}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 13}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 13}

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close
the week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished,
and on the afternoon's crescent of this day, it was brought forward
again. In a private consultation between Isabella and James, the former
of whom had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter
no less anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that,
provided the weather were fair, the party should take place on the
following morning; and they were to set off very early, in order to
be at home in good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's
approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it.
She had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that
interval the plan was completed, and as soon as she came again, her
agreement was demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected
by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not
go. The engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the
former attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany them
now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed
walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any
account, retract. But that she \emph{must} and \emph{should} retract
was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton
tomorrow, 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
a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she
loved. But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right,
and though pained by such tender, such flattering supplication, could
not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another method.
She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though
she had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest
friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards
herself. {}``I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself
slighted for strangers, I, who love you so excessively! When once
my affections are placed, it is not in the power of anything to change
them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody's; I am
sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself supplanted
in your friendship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own. These
Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else.''

Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it
the part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of
others? Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless
of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed
her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had
applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such
a sight, could not help saying, {}``Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot
stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige
such a friend\mbox{---}I shall think you quite unkind, if you still
refuse.''

This was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her,
and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If
they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might
easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them,
and everybody might then be satisfied. But {}``No, no, no!''\ was
the immediate answer; {}``that could not be, for Thorpe did not know
that he might not go to town on Tuesday.'' Catherine was sorry, but
could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by
Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, {}``Very well,
then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot.
I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world,
do so improper a thing.''

{}``Catherine, you must go,'' said James.

{}``But why cannot Mr.\ Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I
dare say either of them would like to go.''

{}``Thank ye,'' cried Thorpe, {}``but I did not come to Bath to
drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go,
d\mbox{------} me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you.''

{}``That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.'' But her words
were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.

The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable
manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes
she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm
was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were at war.
At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed,
but always steady.

{}``I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,'' said
James; {}``you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once
were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.''

{}``I hope I am not less so now,'' she replied, very feelingly;
{}``but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe
to be right.''

{}``I suspect,'' said Isabella, in a low voice, {}``there is no
great struggle.''

Catherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made
no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again
joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, {}``Well,
I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe
conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.''

{}``You have not!''\ cried Catherine.

{}``I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had
sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of
going to Clifton with us tomorrow, 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\mbox{---}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 after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.''

Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry.
When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday
would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to
make any further objection.

{}``I do not care. Mr.\ Thorpe had no business to invent any such
message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken
to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how
do I know that Mr.\ Thorpe has\mbox{---}He may be mistaken again
perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday.
Let me go, Mr.\ Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me.''

Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they
were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them,
and were at home by this time.

{}``Then I will go after them,'' said Catherine; {}``wherever they
are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could
not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be
tricked into it.'' And with these words she broke away and hurried
off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him.
{}``Let her go, let her go, if she will go. She is as obstinate as\mbox{---}''

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 pretence too, must have been wrong.
She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she
had not consulted merely her own gratification; \emph{that} might
have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing
Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to others, and
to her own character in their opinion. Her conviction of being right,
however, was not enough to restore her composure; till she had spoken
to Miss Tilney she could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when
she got clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground
till she gained the top of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements
that in spite of the Tilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but
just turning into their lodgings as she came within view of them;
and the servant still remaining at the open door, she used only the
ceremony of saying that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment,
and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door
before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately found
herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter.
Her explanation, defective only in being\mbox{---}from her irritation
of nerves and shortness of breath\mbox{---}no explanation at all,
was instantly given. {}``I am come in a great hurry\mbox{---}It
was all a mistake\mbox{---}I never promised to go\mbox{---}I told
them from the first I could not go.\mbox{---}I ran away in a great
hurry to explain it.\mbox{---}I did not care what you thought of
me.\mbox{---}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 \emph{had}
given the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself
greatly surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded
her in resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself
as much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of
knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager
declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly
as she could desire.

The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney
to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
politeness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made
her think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To
such anxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not
aware of her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was
quite angry with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open
the door of the apartment herself. {}``What did William mean by it?
He should make a point of inquiring into the matter.'' And if Catherine
had not most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that
William would lose the favour of his master forever, if not his place,
by her rapidity.

After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,
and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney's asking her
if she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the
rest of the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine
was greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr.\ and
Mrs.\ Allen would expect her back every moment. The general declared
he could say no more; the claims of Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Allen were not
to be superseded; but on some other day he trusted, when longer notice
could be given, they would not refuse to spare her to her friend.
{}``Oh, no; Catherine was sure they would not have the least objection,
and she should have great pleasure in coming.'' The general attended
her himself to the street-door, saying everything gallant as they
went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded
exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the
most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.

Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney
Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she
had never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything
more of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant throughout,
had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began (as the
flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been perfectly
right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way to their
entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of a
friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness
to both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and
ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct
had really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr.\ Allen the
half-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following
day. Mr.\ Allen caught at it directly. {}``Well,'' said he, {}``and
do you think of going too?''\ 

{}``No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before
they told me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them,
could I?''\ 

{}``No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These
schemes are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about
the country in open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going
to inns and public places together! It is not right; and I wonder
Mrs.\ Thorpe should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going;
I am sure Mrs.\ Morland would not be pleased. Mrs.\ Allen, are not
you of my way of thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects
objectionable?''\ 

{}``Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A
clean gown is not five minutes' wear in them. You are splashed getting
in and getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in
every direction. I hate an open carriage myself.''

{}``I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think
it has an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about
in them by young men, to whom they are not even related?''\ 

{}``Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to
see it.''

{}``Dear madam,'' cried Catherine, {}``then why did not you tell
me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would
not have gone with Mr.\ Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would
tell me, if you thought I was doing wrong.''

{}``And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told
Mrs.\ Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my
power. But one must not be over particular. Young people \emph{will}
be young people, as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted
you, when we first came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you
would. Young people do not like to be always thwarted.''

{}``But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think
you would have found me hard to persuade.''

{}``As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,'' said
Mr.\ Allen; {}``and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go
out with Mr.\ Thorpe any more.''

{}``That is just what I was going to say,'' added his wife.

Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after
a moment's thought, asked Mr.\ Allen whether it would not be both
proper and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum
of which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered
that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next
day, in spite of what had passed. Mr.\ Allen, however, discouraged
her from doing any such thing. {}``You had better leave her alone,
my dear; she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not,
has a mother to advise her. Mrs.\ Thorpe is too indulgent beyond
a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere. She and your
brother choose to go, and you will be only getting ill will.''

Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should
be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr.\ Allen's approbation
of her own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice
from the danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape
from being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for
what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her
promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had
been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty
of another?


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 14}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 14}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 14}

The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr.\ Allen to support her, she felt
no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for
her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert
their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her
engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined
on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure
and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every
opening in Bath.

{}``I never look at it,'' said Catherine, as they walked along the
side of the river, {}``without thinking of the south of France.''

{}``You have been abroad then?''\ said Henry, a little surprised.

{}``Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me
in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through,
in \emph{The Mysteries of Udolpho}. But you never read novels, I dare
say?''\ 

{}``Why not?''\ 

{}``Because they are not clever enough for you\mbox{---}gentlemen
read better books.''

{}``The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in
a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs.\ Radcliffe's
works, and most of them with great pleasure. \emph{The Mysteries of
Udolpho}, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I
remember finishing it in two days\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}a most honourable testimony. You
see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in
my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my
sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping
her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the
volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own.
I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me
in your good opinion.''

{}``I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed
of liking \emph{Udolpho} myself. But I really thought before, young
men despised novels amazingly.''

{}``It is \emph{amazingly}; it may well suggest \emph{amazement}
if they do\mbox{---}for they read nearly as many as women. I myself
have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope
with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars,
and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of `Have you read this?'\ and
`Have you read that?'\ I shall soon leave you as far behind me as\mbox{---}what
shall I say?\mbox{---}I want an appropriate simile.\mbox{---}as
far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went
with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start
of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good
little girl working your sampler at home!''\ 

{}``Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think
\emph{Udolpho} the nicest book in the world?''\ 

{}``The nicest\mbox{---}by which I suppose you mean the neatest.
That must depend upon the binding.''

{}``Henry,'' said Miss Tilney, {}``you are very impertinent. Miss
Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever
finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now
he is taking the same liberty with you. The word `nicest,' as you
used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as
you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the
rest of the way.''

{}``I am sure,'' cried Catherine, {}``I did not mean to say anything
wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?''\ 

{}``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\mbox{---}people were nice in their dress, in their
sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject
is comprised in that one word.''

{}``While, in fact,'' cried his sister, {}``it ought only to be
applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice
than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our
faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise \emph{Udolpho}
in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You
are fond of that kind of reading?''\ 

{}``To say the truth, I do not much like any other.''

{}``Indeed!''\ 

{}``That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort,
and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot
be interested in. Can you?''\ 

{}``Yes, I am fond of history.''

{}``I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells
me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes
and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so
good for nothing, and hardly any women at all\mbox{---}it is very
tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull,
for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put
into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs\mbox{--}--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\mbox{---}and am very well contented
to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have
sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may
be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually
pass under one's own observation; and as for the little embellishments
you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If
a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever
it may be made\mbox{---}and probably with much greater, if the production
of Mr.\ Hume or Mr.\ Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus,
Agricola, or Alfred the Great.''

{}``You are fond of history! And so are Mr.\ Allen and my father;
and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within
my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not
pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their
books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling
great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever
look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and
girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all
very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage
that could sit down on purpose to do it.''

{}``That little boys and girls should be tormented,'' said Henry,
{}``is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized
state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians,
I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed
to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are
perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason
and mature time of life. I use the verb `to torment,' as I observed
to be your own method, instead of `to instruct,' supposing them to
be now admitted as synonymous.''

{}``You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you
had been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first
learning their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever
seen how stupid they 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 \emph{torment'} and `to \emph{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\mbox{---}if reading
had not been taught, Mrs.\ Radcliffe would have written in vain\mbox{---}or
perhaps might not have written at all.''

Catherine assented\mbox{---}and a very warm panegyric from her on
that lady's merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged
in another on which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the
country with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided
on its capability of being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness
of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of
drawing\mbox{---}nothing of taste: and she listened to them with
an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases
which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could
understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she
had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view
were no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that
a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily
ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to
attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed
mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of
others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman
especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should
conceal it as well as she can.

The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to
the larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females
is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion
of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire
anything more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know
her own advantages\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}side-screens
and perspectives\mbox{---}lights and shades; and Catherine was so
hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff,
she voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make
part of a landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying
her with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline,
and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered
oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests,
the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he
shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was
an easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short
disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine,
who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, {}``I
have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out
in London.''

Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, {}``Indeed! And of what nature?''

{}``That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard
that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.''

{}``Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?''\ 

{}``A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter
from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect
murder and everything of the kind.''

{}``You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's
accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand,
proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent
its coming to effect.''

{}``Government,'' said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, {}``neither
desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder;
and government cares not how much.''

The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, {}``Come, shall I make
you understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation
as you can? No\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}neither vigorous nor
keen. Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire,
genius, and wit.''

{}``Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness
to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.''

{}``Riot! What riot?''\ 

{}``My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with
a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern\mbox{---}do
you understand? And you, Miss Morland\mbox{---}my stupid sister has
mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors
in London\mbox{---}and instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational
creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating
library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand
men assembling in St.\ George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower
threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment
of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up
from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain
Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop,
knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive
her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness
of the woman; but she is by no means a simpleton in general.''

Catherine looked grave. {}``And now, Henry,'' said Miss Tilney,
{}``that you have made us understand each other, you may as well
make Miss Morland understand yourself\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}especially of those\mbox{---}whoever
they may be\mbox{---}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
always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as
ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and
though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends
attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted,
addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs.\ Allen as
to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner
on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs.\ Allen's
side, and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the
excess of her pleasure.

The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her friendship
and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had crossed
her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became amiable
again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs.\ Allen
had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had
heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however,
Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which
must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into the town,
and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering
towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the
world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she
soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. {}``They
set off at eight this morning,'' said Miss Anne, {}``and I am sure
I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off
to be out of the scrape. it must be the dullest thing in the world,
for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went
with your brother, and John drove Maria.''

Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part
of the arrangement.

{}``Oh!\ yes,'' rejoined the other, {}``Maria is gone. She was
quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot
say I admire her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the
first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much.''

Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, {}``I
wish you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.''

{}``Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed,
I would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and
Sophia when you overtook us.''

Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party
had not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily
wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella
to resent her resistance any longer.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 15}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 15}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 15}

Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness
in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend
on a matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. The two youngest
Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne's quitting
it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking the
other for some particulars of their yesterday's party. Maria desired
no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately
learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the
world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that
it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was
the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus
much in detail\mbox{---}that they had driven directly to the York
Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to
the pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses
and spars; thence adjoined to eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurrying
back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being
in the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was
not up, and it rained a little, and Mr.\ Morland's horse was so tired
he could hardly get it along.

Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there
was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria's intelligence concluded
with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented
as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.

{}``She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could
I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive
her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be
in good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be
cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper.''

Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of
such happy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. Maria was
without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus
began: {}``Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration
has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through
everything.''

Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.

{}``Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,'' continued the other, {}``compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down
and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had
my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know
my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most
charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will
your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of
them I am so agitated!''\ 

Catherine's understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,
she cried out, {}``Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean?
Can you\mbox{---}can you really be in love with James?''\ 

This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half
the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually
watched in Isabella's every look and action, had, in the course of
their yesterday's party, received the delightful confession of an
equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never
had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and
joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances,
the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated
it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life
can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could
not express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The
happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the
fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.

Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of
the connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed
her in tender anticipations. {}``You will be so infinitely dearer
to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall
be so much more attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own.''

This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.

{}``You are so like your dear brother,'' continued Isabella, {}``that
I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always
is with me; the first moment settles everything. The very first day
that Morland came to us last Christmas\mbox{---}the very first moment
I beheld him\mbox{---}my heart was irrecoverably gone. I remember
I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done up in braids; and when I
came into the drawing-room, and John introduced him, I thought I never
saw anybody so handsome before.''

Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments,
she had never in her life thought him handsome.

{}``I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening,
and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that
I thought your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could
not sleep a wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the
many sleepless nights I have had on your brother's account! I would
not have you suffer half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin,
I know; but I will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have
seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually\mbox{---}so
unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church! But my secret
I was always sure would be safe with \emph{you}.''

Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of
an ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point,
nor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate
sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found,
was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known
his situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real
agitation to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade
her, as she was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would
never oppose their son's wishes. {}``It is impossible,'' said she,
{}``for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of their children's
happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting immediately.''

{}``Morland says exactly the same,'' replied Isabella; {}``and
yet I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never
can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!''\ 

Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.

{}``Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune
can be nothing to signify.''

{}``Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would
signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in
many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed.
Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world,
your brother would be my only choice.''

This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,
gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of
her acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely
than in uttering the grand idea. {}``I am sure they will consent,''
was her frequent declaration; {}``I am sure they will be delighted
with you.''

{}``For my own part,'' said Isabella, {}``my wishes are so moderate
that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people
are really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest:
I would not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired
village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about
Richmond.''

{}``Richmond!''\ cried Catherine. {}``You must settle near Fullerton.
You must be near us.''

{}``I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be
near \emph{you}, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I
will not allow myself to think of such things, till we have your father's
answer. Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may
have it tomorrow. Tomorrow? 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\mbox{---}and when Isabella spoke
again, it was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.

Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and
her eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight
parts of speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine
them with ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped
at home, his \emph{adieu}s were not long; and they would have been
yet shorter, had he not been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties
of his fair one that he would go. Twice was he called almost from
the door by her eagerness to have him gone. {}``Indeed, Morland,
I must drive you away. Consider how far you have to ride. I cannot
bear to see you linger so. For heaven's sake, waste no more time.
There, go, go\mbox{---}I insist on it.''

The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable
for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along.
Mrs.\ Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and
who seemed only to want Mr.\ Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's
engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their
family, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of
significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure
of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters. To
Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither
kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would
hardly have forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency been less
their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the
sagacity of their {}``I know what''; and the evening was spent in
a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on one side in
the mystery of an affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery,
all equally acute.

Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable
expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more desponding, and
before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a state of real
distress. But when it did come, where could distress be found? {}``I
have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents,
and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to forward
my happiness,'' were the first three lines, and in one moment all
was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over
Isabella's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits
became almost too high for control, and she called herself without
scruple the happiest of mortals.

Mrs.\ Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son,
her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath
with satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was
{}``dear John'' and {}``dear Catherine'' at every word; {}``dear
Anne and dear Maria'' must immediately be made sharers in their felicity;
and two {}``dears'' at once before the name of Isabella were not
more than that beloved child had now well earned. John himself was
no skulker in joy. He not only bestowed on Mr.\ Morland the high
commendation of being one of the finest fellows in the world, but
swore off many sentences in his praise.

The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was
deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella
could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr.\ Morland's
promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what
means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were
to be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her
disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure
of an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took
a rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the
end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance
at Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with
a carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant
exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.

When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who
had only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared
to set off. {}``Well, Miss Morland,'' said he, on finding her alone
in the parlour, {}``I am come to bid you good-bye.'' Catherine wished
him a good journey. Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the
window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.

{}``Shall not you be late at Devizes?''\ said Catherine. He made
no answer; but after a minute's silence burst out with, {}``A famous
good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's
and Belle's. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no
bad notion.''

{}``I am sure I think it a very good one.''

{}``Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy
to matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song `Going to One
Wedding Brings on Another?' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding,
I hope.''

{}``Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.''

{}``And then you know''---twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
laugh\mbox{---}{}``I say, then you know, we may try the truth of
this same old song.''

{}``May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I
dine with Miss Tilney 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\mbox{---}finding
that he waited for an answer.

{}``That is kind of you, however\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}upon my soul, I do
not know anybody like you.''

{}``Oh!\ dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say,
only a great deal better. Good morning to you.''

{}``But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at
Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable.''

{}``Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.''

{}``And I hope\mbox{---}I hope, Miss Morland, \emph{you} will not
be sorry to see me.''

{}``Oh!\ dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry
to see. Company is always cheerful.''

{}``That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful
company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me
only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the
rest, say I.\ And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But
I have a notion, Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much alike upon
most matters.''

{}``Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as
to \emph{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 lady's, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the
most surprising insensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great
secret of James's going to Fullerton the day before, did raise some
emotion in Mrs.\ Allen. She could not listen to that with perfect
calmness, but repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment,
wished she could have known his intention, wished she could have seen
him before he went, as she should certainly have troubled him with
her best regards to his father and mother, and her kind compliments
to all the Skinners.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 16}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 16}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 16}

Catherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street
were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,
though she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly
welcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else
of the party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours
in the examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment
preparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding
herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse
of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead
of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease
of a family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little
agreeable; and, in spite of their father's great civilities to her\mbox{---}in
spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments\mbox{---}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.
\emph{He} could not be accountable for his children's want of spirits,
or for her want of enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped
at last might have been accidental, and the latter she could only
attribute to her own stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars
of the visit, gave a different explanation: {}``It was all pride,
pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected
the family to be very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence
of behaviour as Miss Tilney's she had never heard of in her life!
Not to do the honours of her house with common good breeding! To behave
to her guest with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!''\ 

{}``But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;
she was very civil.''

{}``Oh! Don't defend her! And then the bro\-th\-er, 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 gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and
John's judgment\mbox{---}''

{}``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; \emph{that} is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges
will plague me to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short.
Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want
to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.''

Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she
was sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother
or sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.
The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same
kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore:
Miss Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.

Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss
for the 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. \emph{He} cannot
be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen's greatcoats,
by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four,
which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile,
undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all,
except that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual
happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything
he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself.

At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away.
They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility
did not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain
Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which
he now hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating
them forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight
without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes'
duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of
an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by
Henry's requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe,
would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most
happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied
that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The
cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked
away.

{}``Your brother will not mind it, I know,'' said she, {}``because
I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured
in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and
fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for
she would not dance upon any account in the world.''

Henry smiled, and said, {}``How very little trouble it can give you
to understand the motive of other people's actions.''

{}``Why? What do you mean?''\ 

{}``With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced,
What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings,
age, situation, and probable habits of life considered\mbox{---}but,
How should \emph{I} be influenced, What would be \emph{my} inducement
in acting so and so?''\ 

{}``I do not understand you.''

{}``Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well.''

{}``Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.''

{}``Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.''

{}``But pray tell me what you mean.''

{}``Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware
of the consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment,
and certainly bring on a disagreement between us.''

{}``No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.''

{}``Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish
of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your
being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.''

Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions
were verified. There was a something, however, in his words which
repaid her for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied
her mind so much that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak
or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by
the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney
preparing to give them hands across.

Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of
this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as
it was not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her
astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.

{}``I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined
not to dance.''

{}``And did Isabella never change her mind before?''\ 

{}``Oh! But, because\mbox{---}And your brother! After what you told
him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?''\ 

{}``I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be
surprised on your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for
my brother, his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more
than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend
was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood
by yourself.''

{}``You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in
general.''

{}``It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm
must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial
of judgment; and, without reference to my brother, I really think
Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.''

The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse
till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the
room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: {}``I do not wonder
at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a
rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would
have given the world to sit still.''

{}``Then why did not you?''\ 

{}``Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know
how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could,
but he would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I
begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner\mbox{---}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 \emph{me}. Oh! Such nonsense! I told
him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me; for, of all
things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so\mbox{---}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 dare say people would admire
him in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate
a florid complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well.
Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you
know, in my way.''

When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject
to discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received, and the
kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which
Mr.\ Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred
pounds yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should
be old enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income,
no niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least
equal value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.

James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and
the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was
borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had
been as unfixed as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment
was now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied,
and heartily congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly
settled.

{}``It is very charming indeed,'' said Isabella, with a grave face.
{}``Mr.\ Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,'' said the
gentle Mrs.\ Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. {}``I only
wish I could do as much. One could not expect more from him, you know.
If he finds he \emph{can} do more by and by, I dare say he will, for
I am sure he must be an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is
but a small income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella,
are so moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want, my
dear.''

{}``It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear
to be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon
an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life.
For myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.''

{}``I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward
in the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was
a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and
I dare say when Mr.\ Morland sees you, my dear child\mbox{---}but
do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things.
Mr.\ Morland 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 had a suitable fortune, he would have
come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded
man.''

{}``Nobody can think better of Mr.\ Morland than I do, I am sure.
But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right
to do what they like with their own money.'' 

Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. {}``I am very sure,''
said she, {}``that my father has promised to do as much as he can
afford.''

Isabella recollected herself. {}``As to that, my sweet Catherine,
there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that
a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more
money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate
money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds
a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah!\ my Catherine,
you have found me out. There's the sting. The long, long, endless
two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the
living.''

{}``Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,'' said Mrs.\ Thorpe, {}``we
perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly
understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better
for such a noble honest affection.''

Catherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured
to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella's
regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and
amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought
otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the
most gratifying kindness.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 17}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 17}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 17}

The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath;
and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to
which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance
with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.
Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,
and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should
be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was
to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
made but a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed,
since James's engagement had taught her what \emph{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\mbox{---}''

{}``Perhaps,'' said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, {}``you
would be so good\mbox{---}it would make me very happy if\mbox{---}''

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\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}''

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\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}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.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 18}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 18}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 18}

With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that
two or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for
more than a few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of
this, and to sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room
one morning, by Mrs.\ Allen's side, without anything to say or to
hear; and scarcely had she felt a five minutes' longing of friendship,
before the object of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference,
led the way to a seat. {}``This is my favourite place,'' said she
as they sat down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable
view of everybody entering at either; {}``it is so out of the way.''

Catherine, observing that Isabella's eyes were continually bent towards
one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how
often she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present
a fine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said,
{}``Do not be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.''

{}``Psha! My dear creature,'' she replied, {}``do not think me
such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow.
It would be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest of
the place. And so you are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad
of it. It is one of the finest old places in England, I understand.
I shall depend upon a most particular description of it.''

{}``You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who
are you looking for? Are your sisters coming?''\ 

{}``I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and
you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts
are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the
most absent creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case
with minds of a certain stamp.''

{}``But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell
me?''\ 

{}``Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying.
My poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have
just had a letter from John; you can guess the contents.''

{}``No, indeed, I cannot.''

{}``My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he
write about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love
with you.''

{}``With \emph{me}, dear Isabella!''\ 

{}``Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty,
and all that, is very well in its way, but really a little common
honesty is sometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so
overstrained! It is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such
as a child must have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he
left Bath that you gave him the most positive encouragement. He says
so in this letter, says that he as good as made you an offer, and
that you received his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants
me to urge his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So
it is in vain to affect ignorance.''

Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment
at such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr.\ Thorpe's
being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of her having
ever intended to encourage him. {}``As to any attentions on his side,
I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment\mbox{---}except
just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming. And as to
making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some unaccountable
mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that kind, you
know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest that
no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. The last half
hour before he went away! It must be all and completely a mistake\mbox{---}for
I did not see him once that whole morning.''

{}``But \emph{that} you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning
in Edgar's Buildings\mbox{---}it was the day your father's consent
came\mbox{---}and I am pretty sure that you and John were alone in
the parlour some time before you left the house.''

{}``Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say\mbox{---}but
for the life of me, I cannot recollect it. I \emph{do} remember now
being with you, and seeing him as well as the rest\mbox{---}but that
we were ever alone for five minutes\mbox{---}However, it is not worth
arguing about, for whatever might pass on his side, you must be convinced,
by my having no recollection of it, that I never thought, nor expected,
nor wished for anything of the kind from him. I am excessively concerned
that he should have any regard for me\mbox{---}but indeed it has
been quite unintentional on my side; I never had the smallest idea
of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell him I beg his
pardon\mbox{---}that is\mbox{---}I do not know what I ought to say\mbox{---}but
make him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not
speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure;
but you know very well that if I could think of one man more than
another\mbox{---}\emph{he} is not the person.'' Isabella was silent.
{}``My dear friend, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose
your brother cares so very much about me. And, you know, we shall
still be sisters.''

{}``Yes, yes'' (with a blush), {}``there are more ways than one
of our being sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine,
the case seems to be that you are determined against poor John\mbox{---}is
not it so?''\ 

{}``I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never
meant to encourage it.''

{}``Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.
John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.
But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very foolish,
imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of either;
for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You have
both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will
support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say, there
is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he
could not have received my last.''

{}``You \emph{do} acquit me, then, of anything wrong?\mbox{---}You
are convinced that I never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected
him of liking me till this moment?''\ 

{}``Oh! As to that,'' answered Isabella laughingly, {}``I do not
pretend to determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may
have been. All that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation
or so will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement
than one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the
last person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should
be allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day,
you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions
alter.''

{}``But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always
the same. You are describing what never happened.''

{}``My dearest Catherine,'' continued the other without at all listening
to her, {}``I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying
you into an engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not
think anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your
happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and
who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you,
for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially,
they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why
should a brother's happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You
know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all
things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for
it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live
to repent it. Tilney says there is nothing people are so often deceived
in as the state of their own affections, and I believe he is very
right. Ah! Here he comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.''

Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella, earnestly
fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached
immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited him.
His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she could
distinguish, {}``What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!''\ 

{}``Psha, nonsense!''\ was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper.
{}``Why do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it\mbox{---}my
spirit, you know, is pretty independent.''

{}``I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for
me.''

{}``My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men
have none of you any hearts.''

{}``If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment
enough.''

{}``Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so
disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you''
(turning her back on him); {}``I hope your eyes are not tormented
now.''

{}``Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view\mbox{---}at
once too much and too little.''

Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen
no longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her
brother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs.\ Allen, proposed
their walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was
so amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was
expecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine
must excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could
be stubborn too; and Mrs.\ Allen just then coming up to propose their
returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving
Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did
she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling
in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;
unconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as
certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth
or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not
looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange
that she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give
her a hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain
which her too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him
and her brother.

The compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make amends for
this thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing
as from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he
could mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.
In vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was
in wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself
in love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked
of his attentions; \emph{she} had never been sensible of any; but
Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste,
and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest
altogether for present ease and comfort.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 19}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 19}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 19}

A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself
to suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result
of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered
creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate
friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners
was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed
unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted
absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally
come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, \emph{that} might
only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when
Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions
as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal
share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too
positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct,
what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella
could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree
of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James
was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless
of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart,
to \emph{her} it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too
she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his
name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere
compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what
she had believed herself to overbear in the pump-room, his behaviour
was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's engagement that
she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might
be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more bad seemed implied,
the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a
gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make
her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either
opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest
a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the
intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation;
their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few
days, and Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to
every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention
of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to
continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly
made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's
evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known
her prior engagement.

{}``My brother does know it,'' was Henry's answer.

{}``Does he? Then why does he stay here?''\ 

He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but
she eagerly continued, {}``Why do not you persuade him to go away?
The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise
him for his own sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly.
Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no
hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable.'' Henry smiled
and said, {}``I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.''

{}``Then you will persuade him to go away?''\ 

{}``Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even
endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe
is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.''

{}``No, he does not know what he is about,'' cried Catherine; {}``he
does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has
ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.''

{}``And are you sure it is my brother's doing?''\ 

{}``Yes, very sure.''

{}``Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's
admission of them, that gives the pain?''\ 

{}``Is not it the same thing?''\ 

{}``I think Mr.\ Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man
is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it
is the woman only who can make it a torment.''

Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, {}``Isabella is wrong.
But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached
to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first
met, and while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself
almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him.''

{}``I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.''

{}``Oh!\ no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt
with another.''

{}``It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt
so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give
up a little.''

After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, {}``Then you do not
believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?''\ 

{}``I can have no opinion on that subject.''

{}``But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what
can he mean by his behaviour?''\ 

{}``You are a very close questioner.''

{}``Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.''

{}``But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?''\ 

{}``Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart.''

{}``My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion,
I assure you I can only guess at.''

{}``Well?''\ 

{}``Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves.
To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are
before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless
young man; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend,
and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.''

{}``Well,'' said Catherine, after some moments' consideration, {}``\emph{you}
may be able to guess at your brother's intentions from all this; but
I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it?
Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were
to speak to him, he would go.''

{}``My dear Miss Morland,'' said Henry, {}``in this amiable solicitude
for your brother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are
you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his
own account or Miss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or
at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing
of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant
to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this\mbox{---}and
you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say,
`Do not be uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment;
but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual
attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore,
that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that
no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts
are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know
exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain
that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.''

Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, {}``Though
Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but
a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of
absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And
what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella
Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over
poor Tilney's passion for a month.''

Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted
its approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried
her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the
extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the
subject again.

Her resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in their parting
interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine's stay
in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite
her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in
excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness
for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that
at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat
contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered
Henry's instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The
embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 20}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 20}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 20}

Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose
good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and
in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased.
Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their
wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week
in Bath themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt.
Mr.\ Allen attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast,
and saw her seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends;
but so great was her agitation in finding herself as one of the family,
and so fearful was she of not doing exactly what was right, and of
not being able to preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment
of the first five minutes, she could almost have wished to return
with him to Pulteney Street.

Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did away some of her
unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor
could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure
her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not
have felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her
comfort\mbox{---}his continual solicitations that she would eat,
and his often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste\mbox{---}though
never in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table---made
it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor.
She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply
to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the general's impatience
for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed
at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite
pained by the severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate
to the offence; and much was her concern increased when she found
herself the principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness
was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing
her in a very uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion
for Captain Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.

He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,
which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on
Isabella's account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been
the real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being
decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form
her opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father
remained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits
affected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper
to Eleanor, {}``How glad I shall be when you are all off.''

The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the
trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of
Milsom Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought
for him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which
he was to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not
drawn out, though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's
maid had so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have
room to sit; and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when
he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new
writing-desk from being thrown out into the street. At last, however,
the door was closed upon the three females, and they set off at the
sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman
usually perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of
Northanger from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine's
spirits revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney
she felt no restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new
to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the
last view of Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone
before she expected it. The tediousness of a two hours' wait at Petty
France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being
hungry, and loiter about without anything to see, next followed\mbox{---}and
her admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable
chaise and four\mbox{---}postilions handsomely liveried, rising so
regularly in their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted,
sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience. Had their party
been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but General
Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children's
spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the observation
of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his
angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment
more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four.
At last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine
then surprised by the general's proposal of her taking his place in
his son's curricle for the rest of the journey: {}``the day was fine,
and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.''

The remembrance of Mr.\ Allen's opinion, respecting young men's open
carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference
for General Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything improper
for her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with
Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short
trial convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in
the world; the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to
be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could
not easily forget its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half
the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were
the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen
to have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with
ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong
to the horses; Henry drove so well\mbox{---}so quietly\mbox{---}without
making any disturbance, without parading to her, or swearing at them:
so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power
to compare him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable
capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! To be driven
by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest
happiness in the world. In addition to every other delight, she had
now that of listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least,
on his sister's account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor;
of hearing it ranked as real friendship, and described as creating
real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced\mbox{---}she
had no female companion\mbox{---}and, in the frequent absence of
her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.

{}``But how can that be?''\ said Catherine. {}``Are not you with
her?''\ 

{}``Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment
at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my
father's, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.''

{}``How sorry you must be for that!''\ 

{}``I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.''

{}``Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond
of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.''

He smiled, and said, {}``You have formed a very favourable idea of
the abbey.''

{}``To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what
one reads about?''\ 

{}``And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building
such as `what one reads about' may produce? Have you a stout heart?
Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?''\ 

{}``Oh!\ yes\mbox{---}I do not think I should be easily frightened,
because there would be so many people in the house\mbox{---}and besides,
it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then
the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as
generally happens.''

{}``No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall
dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire\mbox{---}nor
be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows,
doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady
is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she
is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly
repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by
Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along
many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin
or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a
ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself
in this gloomy chamber\mbox{---}too lofty and extensive for you,
with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size\mbox{---}its
walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and
the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal
appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?''\ 

{}``Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.''

{}``How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment!
And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,
but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other
a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace
the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly
strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it.
Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you
in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise
your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part
of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that
you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting
cordial she curtsies off\mbox{---}you listen to the sound of her
receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you\mbox{---}and
when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you
discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock.''

{}``Oh! Mr.\ Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But
it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really
Dorothy. Well, what then?''\ 

{}``Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
surmounting your \emph{unconquerable} horror of the bed, you will
retire to rest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the second,
or at farthest the \emph{third} night after your arrival, you will
probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem
to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring
mountains\mbox{---}and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany
it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished)
one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable
of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for
indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown
around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search,
you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed
as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will
immediately appear\mbox{---}which door, being only secured by massy
bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening\mbox{---}and,
with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted
room.''

{}``No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.''

{}``What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there
is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and
the chapel of St.\ Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink
from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small
vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving
anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a
dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains
of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this
out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will
return towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small
vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large,
old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining
the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible
presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors,
and search into every drawer\mbox{---}but for some time without discovering
anything of importance\mbox{---}perhaps nothing but a considerable
hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring,
an inner compartment will open\mbox{---}a roll of paper appears\mbox{---}you
seize it\mbox{---}it contains many sheets of manuscript\mbox{---}you
hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely
have you been able to decipher `Oh! Thou\mbox{---}whomsoever thou
mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may
fall'\mbox{---}when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and
leaves you in total darkness.''

{}``Oh! No, no\mbox{---}do not say so. Well, go on.''

But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be
able to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either
of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own
fancy in the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself,
grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that
her attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of
really meeting with what he related. {}``Miss Tilney, she was sure,
would never put her into such a chamber as he had described! She was
not at all afraid.''

As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight
of the abbey\mbox{---}for some time suspended by his conversation
on subjects very different\mbox{---}returned in full force, and every
bend in the road was expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse
of its massy walls of grey stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient
oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in beautiful splendour
on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the building stand, that
she found herself passing through the great gates of the lodge into
the very grounds of Northanger, without having discerned even an antique
chimney.

She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was
a something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.
To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with
such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly
along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm,
or solemnity of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She
was not long at leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden
scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it impossible for her
to observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare
of her new straw bonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls,
was springing, with Henry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath
the shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall,
where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her, without
feeling one awful foreboding of future misery to herself, or one moment's
suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn
edifice. The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered
to her; it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and
having given a good shake to her habit, she was ready to be shown
into the common drawing-room, and capable of considering where she
was.

An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she
doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her
observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture
was in all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace,
where she had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former
times, was contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome
marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The
windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence, from having
heard the general talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form
with reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed.
To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved\mbox{---}the form of them
was Gothic\mbox{---}they might be even casements\mbox{---}but every
pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had
hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for
painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.

The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of
the smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,
being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, \textit{etc}.; flattering
himself, however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not
unworthy her notice\mbox{---}and was proceeding to mention the costly
gilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped
short to pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five!
This seemed the word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried
away by Miss Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest
punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.

Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad
staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many landing-places,
brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it had a range
of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which Catherine
had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney
led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would
find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she would
make as little alteration as possible in her dress.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 21}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 21}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 21}

A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by
the description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was
carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than
those of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the
latest fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease
on this point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination
of anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any
delay. Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste,
and she was preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat
had conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly
fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one
side of the fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting
everything else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while
these thoughts crossed her:

{}``This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this!
An immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed
here? Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look
into it\mbox{---}cost me what it may, I will look into it\mbox{---}and
directly too\mbox{---}by daylight. If I stay till evening my candle
may go out.'' She advanced and examined it closely: it was of cedar,
curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised, about a foot from
the ground, on a carved stand of the same. The lock was silver, though
tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect remains of handles
also of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence;
and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same
metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but without being able to
distinguish anything with certainty. She could not, in whatever direction
she took it, believe the last letter to be a T; and yet that it should
be anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common
degree of astonishment. If not originally theirs, by what strange
events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?

Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,
with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards
to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for
something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;
but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made
her, starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence.
This ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress
to be of use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed
her, it recalled her to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and
forced her, in spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery,
to proceed in her dressing without further delay. Her progress was
not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object
so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though she dared not
waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many paces
from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into her
gown, her toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of
her curiosity might safely be indulged. One moment surely might be
spared; and, so desperate should be the exertion of her strength,
that, unless secured by supernatural means, the lid in one moment
should be thrown back. With this spirit she sprang forward, and her
confidence did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw back the
lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane,
properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession!

She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
anxious for her friend's being ready, entered the room, and to the
rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation,
was then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. {}``That
is a curious old chest, is not it?''\ said Miss Tilney, as Catherine
hastily closed it and turned away to the glass. {}``It is impossible
to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to be first
put in this room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because
I thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets.
The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In
that corner, however, it is at least out of the way.''

Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying
her gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch.
Miss Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute
they ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for
General Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand,
and having, on the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell
with violence, ordered {}``Dinner to be on table \emph{directly}!''\ 

Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale
and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children,
and detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness
as he looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter
for so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out
of breath from haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry
in the world: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress
of having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton
herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the
general's complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored
her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its
dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use,
and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost
on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she
spoke aloud her admiration; and the general, with a very gracious
countenance, acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room,
and further confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as
most people, he did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one
of the necessaries of life; he supposed, however, {}``that she must
have been used to much better-sized apartments at Mr.\ Allen's?''\ 

{}``No, indeed,'' was Catherine's honest assurance; {}``Mr.\ Allen's
dining-parlour was not more than half as large,'' and she had never
seen so large a room as this in her life. The general's good humour
increased. Why, as he \emph{had} such rooms, he thought it would be
simple not to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed
there might be more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr.\ Allen's
house, he was sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational
happiness.

The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the occasional
absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness. It was
only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue from
her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or restraint,
a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could think of
her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.

The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained
violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest
with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner
of the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door,
felt for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these
were characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless
variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she
rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within
walls so solemn! \emph{She} had nothing to dread from midnight assassins
or drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what
he had told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded,
she could have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her
bedroom as securely as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton.
Thus wisely fortifying her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was
enabled, especially on perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two
doors from her, to enter her room with a tolerably stout heart; and
her spirits were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood
fire. {}``How much better is this,'' said she, as she walked to
the fender\mbox{---}{}``how much better to find a fire ready lit,
than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all the family are
in bed, as so many poor girls have been obliged to do, and then to
have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a faggot!
How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had been like some
other places, I do not know that, in such a night as this, I could
have answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is nothing
to alarm one.''

She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through
the divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare
her, and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest
conviction of the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as she
turned away from this examination, was not without its use; she scorned
the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy
indifference to prepare herself for bed. {}``She should take her
time; she should not hurry herself; she did not care if she were the
last person up in the house. But she would not make up her fire; \emph{that}
would seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light
after she were in bed.'' The fire therefore died away, and Catherine,
having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning
to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round
the room, she was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned
black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had
never caught her notice before. Henry's words, his description of
the ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation at first, immediately
rushed across her; and though there could be nothing really in it,
there was something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable
coincidence! She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet.
It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan, black and
yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she held her candle, the
yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key was in the door,
and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not, however, with the
smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd,
after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep till she
had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair,
she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it;
but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged,
she tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself successful;
but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused
a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the
rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to
speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied
on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with
the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate
vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the key, and after
moving it in every possible way for some instants with the determined
celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand:
her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and having thrown
open each folding door, the second being secured only by bolts of
less wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her eye
could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers
appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and
in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured
in all probability a cavity of importance.

Catherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With
a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her
fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely
empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second,
a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched,
and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing
a treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not
escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain.
The place in the middle alone remained now unexplored; and though
she had {}``never from the first had the smallest idea of finding
anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed
at her ill success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it
thoroughly while she was about it.'' It was some time however before
she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the
management of this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did
open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly
fell on a roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity,
apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable.
Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale.
She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half
a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters; and while she acknowledged
with awful sensations this striking exemplification of what Henry
had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted
to rest.

The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with
alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet
some hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty
in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion,
she hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one.
A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for
a few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely;
not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling
breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent
gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.
Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded,
a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door
struck on her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more.
A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand,
and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought
some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To
close her eyes in sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out
of the question. With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings
in every way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible. The
storm too abroad so dreadful! She had not been used to feel alarm
from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence.
The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing
the morning's prediction, how was it to be accounted for? What could
it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it have been
so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall
to her lot to discover it! Till she had made herself mistress of its
contents, however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and
with the sun's first rays she was determined to peruse it. But many
were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed
about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still
raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even than the wind,
which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very curtains of
her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another the lock of
her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to enter.
Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than once
her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after hour
passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed
by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 22}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 22}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 22}

The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight o'clock
the next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened
her eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects
of cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning
had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the
consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;
and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going
away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst
from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy
the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that
she must not expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality
of what she had shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to
consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of
trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first.

Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.
Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory
of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before
her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill
in her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with
little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing
new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each.
Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely
more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball.
And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first
cramp line, {}``To poultice chestnut mare''---a farrier's bill!
Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then
suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence she had
taken them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed
her of half her night's rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could
not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of
it, catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against
her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her recent
fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could
have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable!\mbox{---}Or
that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet,
the key of which was open to all!

How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven forbid that Henry
Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great measure his
own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with
his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the
smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred.
Impatient to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those
detestable papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly,
and folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before,
returned them to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty
wish that no untoward accident might ever bring them forward again,
to disgrace her even with herself.

Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was
still something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect
ease. In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged
in the flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility
of the door's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself
its fastener, darted into her head, and cost her another blush.

She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct
produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed
to the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss
Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate
hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference
to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.
For the world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet,
unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that
the wind had kept her awake a little. {}``But we have a charming
morning after it,'' she added, desiring to get rid of the subject;
{}``and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over.
What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.''

{}``And how might you learn? By accident or argument?''\ 

{}``Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs.\ Allen used to
take pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could,
till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent
about flowers.''

{}``But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained
a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon
happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable
in your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting
you to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though
the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment
once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?''\ 

{}``But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The
pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and
in fine weather I am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never
within.''

{}``At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love
a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a
teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing.
Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?''\ 

Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy
state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did
not advance her composure.

The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's notice
when they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the general's
choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed
it to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture
of his country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea
was as well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that
of Dresden or Save. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years
ago. The manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen
some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly
without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new
set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur
of selecting one\mbox{---}though not for himself. Catherine was probably
the only one of the party who did not understand him.

Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business
required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in
the hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering
the breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching
another glimpse of his figure. {}``This is a somewhat heavy call
upon your brother's fortitude,'' observed the general to Eleanor.
{}``Woodston will make but a sombre appearance today.''

{}``Is it a pretty place?''\ asked Catherine.

{}``What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best
tell the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think
it would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations.
The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an
excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding
which I built and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit
of my son. It is a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in
the place being chiefly my own, you may believe I take care that it
shall not be a bad one. Did Henry's income depend solely on this living,
he would not be ill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with
only two younger children, I should think any profession necessary
for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all wish him
disengaged from every tie of business. But though I may not exactly
make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland,
would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give every young man
some employment. The money is nothing, it is not an object, but employment
is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps
inherit as considerable a landed property as any private man in the
county, has his profession.''

The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes.
The silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.

Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over
the house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and though
Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter,
it was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances,
not to be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours
in the abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box,
just leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she
was ready to attend him in a moment. {}``And when they had gone over
the house, he promised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying
her into the shrubberies and garden.'' She curtsied her acquiescence.
{}``But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to make those her
first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at this time
of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which
would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his daughter
think would most accord with her fair friend's wishes? But he thought
he could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's eyes a
judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But
when did she judge amiss? The abbey would be always safe and dry.
He yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in
a moment.'' He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed,
anxious face, began to speak of her unwillingness that he should be
taking them out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken
idea of pleasing her; but she was stopped by Miss Tilney's saying,
with a little confusion, {}``I believe it will be wisest to take
the morning while it is so fine; and do not be uneasy on my father's
account; he always walks out at this time of day.''

Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why
was Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the
general's side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own.
And was not it odd that he should \emph{always} take his walk so early?
Neither her father nor Mr.\ Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking.
She was all impatience to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity
about the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed! But now she
should not know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her
thoughts, but she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient
discontent.

She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of
the abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn. The whole
building enclosed a large court; and two sides of the quadrangle,
rich in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder
was shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and
the steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful
even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to
compare with it; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that
without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in
wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting gratitude;
and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed
till that hour.

The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it
across a small portion of the park.

The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine
could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent
of all Mr.\ Allen's, as well her father's, including church-yard
and orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length;
a village of hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish
to be at work within the enclosure. The general was flattered by her
looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced
her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all
equal to them before; and he then modestly owned that, {}``without
any ambition of that sort himself\mbox{---}without any solicitude
about it\mbox{---}he did believe them to be unrivalled in the kingdom.
If he had a hobby-horse, it was \emph{that}. He loved a garden. Though
careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit\mbox{---}or
if he did not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations,
however, attending such a garden as his. The utmost care could not
always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only
one hundred in the last year. Mr.\ Allen, he supposed, must feel
these inconveniences as well as himself.''

{}``No, not at all. Mr.\ Allen did not care about the garden, and
never went into it.''

With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he
could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in
some way or other, by its falling short of his plan.

{}``How were Mr.\ Allen's succession-houses worked?''\ describing
the nature of his own as they entered them.

{}``Mr.\ Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs.\ Allen
had the use of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it
now and then.''

{}``He is a happy man!''\ said the general, with a look of very
happy contempt.

Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall,
till she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the
girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing
his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the
tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if
Miss Morland were not tired. {}``But where are you going, Eleanor?
Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get
wet. Our best way is across the park.''

{}``This is so favourite a walk of mine,'' said Miss Tilney, {}``that
I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be
damp.''

It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;
and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,
could not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping
forward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the
plea of health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition.
He excused himself, however, from attending them: {}``The rays of
the sun were not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another
course.'' He turned away; and Catherine was shocked to find how much
her spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being
less real than the relief, offered it no injury; and she began to
talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a grove
inspired.

{}``I am particularly fond of this spot,'' said her companion, with
a sigh. {}``It was my mother's favourite walk.''

Catherine had never heard Mrs.\ Tilney mentioned in the family before,
and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself
directly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with
which she waited for something more.

{}``I used to walk here so often with her!''\ added Eleanor; {}``though
I never loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed
I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.''

{}``And ought it not,'' reflected Catherine, {}``to endear it to
her husband? Yet the general would not enter it.'' Miss Tilney continuing
silent, she ventured to say, {}``Her death must have been a great
affliction!''\ 

{}``A great and increasing one,'' replied the other, in a low voice.
{}``I was only thirteen when it happened; and though I felt my loss
perhaps as strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could
not, then know what a loss it was.'' She stopped for a moment, and
then added, with great firmness, {}``I have no sister, you know\mbox{---}and
though Henry\mbox{---}though my brothers are very affectionate, and
Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible
for me not to be often solitary.''

{}``To be sure you must miss him very much.''

{}``A mother would have been always present. A mother would have
been a constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other.''

{}``Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any
picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that
grove? Was it from dejection of spirits?''---were questions now eagerly
poured forth; the first three received a ready affirmative, the two
others were passed by; and Catherine's interest in the deceased Mrs.\ Tilney
augmented with every question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness
in marriage, she felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an
unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have
loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something
in the turn of his features which spoke his not having behaved well
to her.

{}``Her picture, I suppose,'' blushing at the consummate art of
her own question, {}``hangs in your father's room?''\ 

{}``No; it was intended for the drawing-room; but my father was dissatisfied
with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her
death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber\mbox{---}-where
I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like.'' Here was another
proof. A portrait\mbox{---}very like\mbox{---}of a departed wife,
not valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!

Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously
excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute
aversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made
him odious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters
which Mr.\ Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but
here was proof positive of the contrary.

She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them
directly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation,
she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and
even to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive
pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with
lassitude; the general perceived it, and with a concern for her health,
which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent
for returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them
in a quarter of an hour. Again they parted\mbox{---}but Eleanor was
called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge against taking
her friend round the abbey till his return. This second instance of
his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck Catherine
as very remarkable.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 23}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 23}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 23}

An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part
of his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character.
{}``This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak
a mind at ease, or a conscience void of reproach.'' At length he
appeared; and, whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations,
he could still smile with \emph{them}. Miss Tilney, understanding
in part her friend's curiosity to see the house, soon revived the
subject; and her father being, contrary to Catherine's expectations,
unprovided with any pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping
five minutes to order refreshments to be in the room by their return,
was at last ready to escort them.

They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step, which
caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine,
he led the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room and
one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both in size and
furniture\mbox{---}the real drawing-room, used only with company
of consequence. It was very noble\mbox{---}very grand\mbox{---}very
charming!\mbox{---}was all that Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating
eye scarcely discerned the colour of the satin; and all minuteness
of praise, all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the general:
the costliness or elegance of any room's fitting-up could be nothing
to her; she cared for no furniture of a more modern date than the
fifteenth century. When the general had satisfied his own curiosity,
in a close examination of every well-known ornament, they proceeded
into the library, an apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence,
exhibiting a collection of books, on which an humble man might have
looked with pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more
genuine feeling than before\mbox{---}-gathered all that she could
from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of half
a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments did not
spring up with her wishes. Large as was the building, she had already
visited the greatest part; though, on being told that, with the addition
of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now seen surrounded
three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it, or overcome
the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was some relief,
however, that they were to return to the rooms in common use, by passing
through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which, with
occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different
sides; and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that
she was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells
pointed out, and observing several doors that were neither opened
nor explained to her\mbox{---}by finding herself successively in
a billiard-room, and in the general's private apartment, without comprehending
their connection, or being able to turn aright when she left them;
and lastly, by passing through a dark little room, owning Henry's
authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.

From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to
be seen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure
of pacing out the length, for the more certain information of Miss
Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded
by quick communication to the kitchen\mbox{---}the ancient kitchen
of the convent, rich in the massy walls and smoke of former days,
and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The general's improving
hand had not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate the
labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre;
and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced
the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at
any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.

With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey;
the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying
state, been removed by the general's father, and the present erected
in its place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building
was not only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for
offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture
had been thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand
which had swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the
rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly
have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen,
had the general allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the
arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind
like Miss Morland's, a view of the accommodations and comforts, by
which the labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying,
he should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey
of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their
multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless
pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton,
were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy.
The number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less
than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened
girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off.
Yet this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic
arrangements from such as she had read about\mbox{---}from abbeys
and castles, in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all
the dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands
at the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed
Mrs.\ Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she
began to be amazed herself.

They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended,
and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be
pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction
from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on
the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown
successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms,
most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and
taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been
bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years,
they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting
in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying
the last, the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished
characters by whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a
smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward
some of their earliest tenants might be {}``our friends from Fullerton.''
She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility
of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and
so full of civility to all her family.

The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney, advancing,
had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point of doing
the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery,
when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Catherine
thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going?\mbox{---}And
what was there more to be seen?\mbox{---}Had not Miss Morland already
seen all that could be worth her notice?\mbox{---}And did she not
suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much
exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were
closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary
glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and
symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the
reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly
paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine
that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The
general's evident desire of preventing such an examination was an
additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her
fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead
her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney's,
as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to
point out: {}``I was going to take you into what was my mother's
room\mbox{---}the room in which she died\mbox{---}'' were all her
words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to
Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the
sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability
never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released
his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.

She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of
being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of
the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they
should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general
must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. {}``It
remains as it was, I suppose?''\ said she, in a tone of feeling.

{}``Yes, entirely.''

{}``And how long ago may it be that your mother died?''\ 

{}``She has been dead these nine years.'' And nine years, Catherine
knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after
the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.

{}``You were with her, I suppose, to the last?''\ 

{}``No,'' said Miss Tilney, sighing; {}``I was unfortunately from
home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was
all over.''

Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally
sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father\mbox{---}?
And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions!
And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend,
slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness,
with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility
of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What could
more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to
every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt?
Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes
towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney's notice.
{}``My father,'' she whispered, {}``often walks about the room
in this way; it is nothing unusual.''

{}``So much the worse!''\ thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise
was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks,
and boded nothing good.

After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made
her peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was
heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general
not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell.
When the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was
forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. {}``I have many pamphlets
to finish,'' said he to Catherine, {}``before I can close my eyes,
and perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours
after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? \emph{My}
eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and \emph{yours} preparing
by rest for future mischief.''

But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment,
could win Catherine from thinking that some very different object
must occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for
hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very
likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done
which could be done only while the household slept; and the probability
that Mrs.\ Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving
from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse
food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was
the idea, it was at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as,
in the natural course of things, she must ere long be released. The
suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and
probably of her other children, at the time\mbox{---}all favoured
the supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin\mbox{---}jealousy
perhaps, or wanton cruelty\mbox{---}was yet to be unravelled.

In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck
her as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the
very spot of this unfortunate woman's confinement\mbox{---}might
have been within a few paces of the cell in which she languished out
her days; for what part of the abbey could be more fitted for the
purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic division?
In the high-arched passage, paved with stone, which already she had
trodden with peculiar awe, she well remembered the doors of which
the general had given no account. To what might not those doors lead?
In support of the plausibility of this conjecture, it further occurred
to her that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of
the unfortunate Mrs.\ Tilney, must be, as certainly as her memory
could guide her, exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the
staircase by the side of those apartments of which she had caught
a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those
cells, might well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband.
Down that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared
insensibility!

Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and
sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were
supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.

The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty scene
to be acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite her own,
it struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from
the general's lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he
passed to the prison of his wife; and, twice before she stepped into
bed, she stole gently from her room to the corresponding window in
the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it
must yet be too early. The various ascending noises convinced her
that the servants must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed it
would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve,
and all was quiet, she would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal
out and look once more. The clock struck twelve\mbox{---}and Catherine
had been half an hour asleep.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 24}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 24}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 24}

The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination
of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between
morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise
abroad or eating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity,
her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner,
either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock,
or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous
lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination
beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs.\ Tilney,
which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantly
caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph,
in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband,
who must have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her
even to tears.

That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to
face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so
boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look
so fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed
wonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings
equally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could remember
dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime
to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of
humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement
closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could
not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs.\ Tilney's actual
decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her
ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which
they were said to be enclosed\mbox{---}what could it avail in such
a case? Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the
ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititious
funeral carried on.

The succeeding morning promised something better. The general's early
walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here;
and when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed
to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready
to oblige her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another
promise, their first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her
bed-chamber. It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive
countenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer;
but they were not in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended
upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very
counterpart, the very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's\mbox{---}the
only portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing
always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken
was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider
and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of
this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest,
would have left it unwillingly.

Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor's
countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her
inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again
she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the
important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning
to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded
figure of the general himself at the further end of the gallery, stood
before her! The name of {}``Eleanor'' at the same moment, in his
loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter
the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon
terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement
on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his
eye; and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily
by her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to
her own room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never
have courage to go down again. She remained there at least an hour,
in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor
friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry general to
attend him in his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived; and
at last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened
to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room
was gay with company; and she was named to them by the general as
the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well
concealed his resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least of
life for the present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which
did honour to her concern for his character, taking an early occasion
of saying to her, {}``My father only wanted me to answer a note,''
she began to hope that she had either been unseen by the general,
or that from some consideration of policy she should be allowed to
suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his
presence, after the company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb
it.

In the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a resolution
of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be
much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the
matter. To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court
her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the
office of a friend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself
what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination
itself would be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It
would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which
the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor
could she therefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the
general's cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery,
she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some
fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the
apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get
it over before Henry's return, who was expected on the morrow, there
was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high; at four
o'clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would
be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.

It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before
the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried
on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors,
and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one
in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen
sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room
was before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance another
step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature.
She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed,
arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove,
mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams
of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine
had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment
and doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common
sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken
as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!\mbox{---}in
Miss Tilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, to
which she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved
to be one end of what the general's father had built. There were two
other doors in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets;
but she had no inclination to open either. Would the veil in which
Mrs.\ Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last
read, remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No:
whatever might have been the general's crimes, he had certainly too
much wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring,
and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only
privy to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly
as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly
tell where, made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by
a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the general (and he seemed
always at hand when least wanted), much worse! She listened\mbox{---}the
sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through
and closed the door. At that instant a door underneath was hastily
opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the
head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery.
She bad no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable,
she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave
Henry to her view. {}``Mr.\ Tilney!''\ she exclaimed in a voice
of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. {}``Good
God!''\ she continued, not attending to his address. {}``How came
you here? How came you up that staircase?''\ 

{}``How came I up that staircase!''\ he replied, greatly surprised.
{}``Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber;
and why should I not come up it?''\ 

Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more.
He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which
her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. {}``And
may I not, in my turn,'' said he, as be pushed back the folding doors,
{}``ask how \emph{you} came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary
a road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase
can be from the stables to mine.''

{}``I have been,'' said Catherine, looking down, {}``to see your
mother's room.''

{}``My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen
there?''\ 

{}``No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till
tomorrow.''

{}``I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away;
but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain
me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up
those stairs. Perhaps you did not know\mbox{---}you were not aware
of their leading from the offices in common use?''\ 

{}``No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.''

{}``Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into an the
rooms in the house by yourself?''\ 

{}``Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday\mbox{---}and
we were coming here to these rooms\mbox{---}but only''---dropping
her voice\mbox{---}{}``your father was with us.''

{}``And that prevented you,'' said Henry, earnestly regarding her.
{}``Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?''\ 

{}``No, I only wanted to see\mbox{---}Is not it very late? I must
go and dress.''

{}``It is only a quarter past four'' showing his watch\mbox{---}{}``and
you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half
an hour at Northanger must be enough.''

She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be
detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the
first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly
up the gallery. {}``Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw
you?''\ 

{}``No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully
to write directly.''

{}``Promised so faithfully! A faithful pro\-mise! That puzzles me.
I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise\mbox{---}the
fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however,
since it can deceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious,
is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so
well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment
in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it
for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?''\ 

{}``No.''

{}``It has been your own doing entirely?''\ Catherine said nothing.
After a short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he
added, {}``As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity,
this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's
character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory.
The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often
that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending
merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent,
venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor,
I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?''\ 

{}``Yes, a great deal. That is\mbox{---}no, not much, but what she
did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly'' (slowly, and
with hesitation it was spoken), {}``and you\mbox{---}none of you
being at home\mbox{---}and your father, I thought\mbox{---}perhaps
had not been very fond of her.''

{}``And from these circumstances,'' he replied (his quick eye fixed
on hers), {}``you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence\mbox{---}some''---(involuntarily
she shook her head)\mbox{---}{}``or it may be\mbox{---}of something
still less pardonable.'' She raised her eyes towards him more fully
than she had ever done before. {}``My mother's illness,'' he continued,
{}``the seizure which ended in her death \emph{was} sudden. The malady
itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever\mbox{---}its
cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon
as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable
man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon
his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day,
and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours.
On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick
and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own
observation can bear witness to her having received every possible
attention which could spring from the affection of those about her,
or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor \emph{was}
absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother
in her coffin.''

{}``But your father,'' said Catherine, {}``was \emph{he} afflicted?''\ 

{}``For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached
to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for
him to\mbox{---}we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of
disposition\mbox{---}and I will not pretend to say that while she
lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper
injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere;
and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.''

{}``I am very glad of it,'' said Catherine; {}``it would have been
very shocking!''\ 

{}``If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such
horror as I have hardly words to\mbox{---}Dear Miss Morland, consider
the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have
you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we
live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult
your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation
of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such
atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated
without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary
intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by
a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers
lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been
admitting?''\ 

They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she
ran off to her own room.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 25}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 25}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{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\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}could
he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears\mbox{---}could
they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.
He had\mbox{---}she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal
morning, shown something like affection for her. But now\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}the mention
of a chest or a cabinet, for instance\mbox{---}and she did not love
the sight of japan in any shape: but even \emph{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:

\begin{quotation}
\noindent {}``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\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}but no more of this. She
has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine;
you are my only friend; \emph{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\mbox{---}happy
for me had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman!
Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.

\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``Believe me,'' \&c. 
\end{quotation}
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\mbox{---}just
distantly hint at it\mbox{---}but not more. To expose a friend, such
a friend as Isabella had been to her\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}your
brothers and sisters\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}no wonder \emph{now}
I have not heard from her\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}There is one part\mbox{---}'' 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\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}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.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 26}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 26}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 26}

From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three
young people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two
young friends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella's want
of consequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in
the way of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the general
would, upon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might
be raised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her
feelings moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant,
and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney
property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point
of interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very
painful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed
by a dependence on the effect of that particular partiality, which,
as she was given to understand by his words as well as his actions,
she had from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general;
and by a recollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments
on the subject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter,
and which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood
by his children.

They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not
have the courage to apply in person for his father's consent, and
so repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less
likely to come to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered
her mind to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of
her own. But as it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever
he made his application, would give his father any just idea of Isabella's
conduct, it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should
lay the whole business before him as it really was, enabling the general
by that means to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his
objections on a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed
it to him accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly
as she had expected. {}``No,'' said he, {}``my father's hands need
not be strengthened, and Frederick's confession of folly need not
be forestalled. He must tell his own story.''

{}``But he will tell only half of it.''

{}``A quarter would be enough.''

A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney.
His brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared
to them as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected
engagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.
The general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick's
remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and
had no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's
time at Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness
on this head, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments
would disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been
in the country, talked every now and then of having a large party
to dinner, and once or twice began even to calculate the number of
young dancing people in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a
dead time of year, no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were
not in the country. And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry
one morning that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him
by surprise there some day or other, and eat their mutton with him.
Henry was greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite
delighted with the scheme. {}``And when do you think, sir, I may
look forward to this pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to
attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be obliged to stay two
or three days.''

{}``Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There
is no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your
way. Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough.
I think I can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor's
table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not
come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my
surveyor from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards
I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face
my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in
the country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule
with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours,
if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are
a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice
a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we
may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry,
you may expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may have
time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us
to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about
a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for us.''

A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this
little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston;
and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour
afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she and
Eleanor were sitting, and said, {}``I am come, young ladies, in a
very moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world
are always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great
disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on
the future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present
hour. Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston
on Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent,
I must go away directly, two days before I intended it.''

{}``Go away!''\ said Catherine, with a very long face. {}``And
why?''\ 

{}``Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost
in frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must
go and prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.''

{}``Oh! Not seriously!''\ 

{}``Aye, and sadly too\mbox{---}for I had much rather stay.''

{}``But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general
said? When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any
trouble, because \emph{anything} would do.'' Henry only smiled. {}``I
am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's account and mine.
You must know it to be so; and the general made such a point of your
providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not said half
so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home,
that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify.''

{}``I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye.
As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.''

He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine
to doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon obliged
to give him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his
going. But the inexplicability of the general's conduct dwelt much
on her thoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had,
by her own unassisted observation, already discovered; but why he
should say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while,
was most unaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood?
Who but Henry could have been aware of what his father was at?

From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.
This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney's
letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was
very sure would be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally
in gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great;
and Eleanor's spirits always affected by Henry's absence! What was
there to interest or amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the
shrubberies\mbox{---}always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey in
itself was no more to her now than any other house. The painful remembrance
of the folly it had helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion
which could spring from a consideration of the building. What a revolution
in her ideas! She, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there
was nothing so charming to her imagination as the unpretending comfort
of a well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better:
Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday
should ever come!

It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
came\mbox{---}it was fine\mbox{---}and Catherine trod on air. By
ten o'clock, the chaise and four conveyed the two from the abbey;
and, after an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they entered
Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant.
Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it, as the general
seemed to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the country,
and the size of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to
any place she had ever been at, and looked with great admiration at
every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the little
chandler's shops which they passed. At the further end of the village,
and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood the parsonage,
a new-built substantial stone house, with its semicircular sweep and
green gates; and, as they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends
of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers,
was ready to receive and make much of them.

Catherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either
to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general
for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which
she was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment
that it was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too
guarded to say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.

{}``We are not calling it a good house,'' said he. {}``We are not
comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger\mbox{---}we are considering
it as a mere parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent,
perhaps, and habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality;
or, in other words, I believe there are few country parsonages in
England half so good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be
it from me to say otherwise; and anything in reason\mbox{---}a bow
thrown out, perhaps\mbox{---}though, between ourselves, if there
is one thing more than another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow.''

Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported
by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was introduced
by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his complacency,
and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.

The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size,
and handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting
it to walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller
apartment, belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made
unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be
the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,
Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was
a prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the
view from them pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed
her admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which
she felt it. {}``Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr.\ Tilney?
What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever
saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!''\ 

{}``I trust,'' said the general, with a most satisfied smile, {}``that
it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!''\ 

{}``Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh!
What a sweet little cottage there is among the trees\mbox{---}apple
trees, too! It is the prettiest cottage!''\ 

{}``You like it\mbox{---}you approve it as an object\mbox{---}it
is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The
cottage remains.''

Such a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced
her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for
her choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing
like an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence
of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating
these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental
part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow,
on which Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she
was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground
she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher
than the green bench in the corner.

A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with
a visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming
game of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought
them to four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be
three. At four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return.
Never had any day passed so quickly!

She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not
seem to create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that
he was even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not
there. His son and daughter's observations were of a different kind.
They had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own,
and never before known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter's
being oiled.

At six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage
again received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct
throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject
of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of
the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with
little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 27}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 27}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 27}

The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:

\begin{quotation}
\hspace{\stretch{1}}Bath, April

\noindent My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with
the greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not
answering them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but
in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had my
pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since you
left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler or
other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God,
we leave this vile place tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had
no pleasure in it\mbox{---}the dust is beyond anything; and everybody
one cares for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind
the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am
quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since
he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind
offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could
love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions
are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine.
I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think
of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with,
because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem;
but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never
know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the young
man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You
will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who,
as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me,
before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my
shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions;
but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two
days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He
is the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The
last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied
his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in
Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak
to me; I would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards;
but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a contrast
between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter\mbox{---}I
am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went
away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would
write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted
above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain
everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt,
a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town,
might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor
to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic,
at half price: they teased me into it; and I was determined they should
not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit
by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see
me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to
me, but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to
be taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own.
Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it
the week before at the concert, but made wretched work of it\mbox{---}it
happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me
so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last
man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know
I look hideous in it, but no matter\mbox{---}it is your dear brother's
favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in
writing to him and to me,

\hspace{\stretch{1}}Who ever am, \textit{etc}. 
\end{quotation}
Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from
the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having
ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting
as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. {}``Write to
James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned
by her again.''

On Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it,
and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she had finished it\mbox{---}{}``So much for Isabella,''
she cried, {}``and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot,
or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make
her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she
has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered.
I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me,
and I wish I had never known her.''

{}``It will soon be as if you never had,'' said Henry.

{}``There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she
has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I
do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time.
Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with
my brother, and then fly off himself?''

{}``I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I
believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe,
and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have
not yet injured himself. If the \emph{effect} of his behaviour does
not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause.''

{}``Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?''

{}``I am persuaded that he never did.''

{}``And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?''

Henry bowed his assent.

{}``Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though
it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it
happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella
has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love
with him?''\


{}``But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose\mbox{---}consequently
to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would
have met with very different treatment.''

{}``It is very right that you should stand by your brother.''

{}``And if you would stand by \emph{yours}, you would not be much
distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is
warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore
not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire
of revenge.''

Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable.
She resolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and tried to think
no more of it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 28}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 28}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 28}

Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London
for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously
recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children
as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine
the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain.
The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,
every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour,
walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,
and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of
the restraint which the general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully
feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made
her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had
it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the
one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other,
she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but
she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came
home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an
intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration
whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her
mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once,
propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in
which her proposal might be taken.

Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult
to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity
of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the
middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth
her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared
herself much concerned. She had {}``hoped for the pleasure of her
company for a much longer time\mbox{---}had been misled (perhaps
by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised\mbox{---}and
could not but think that if Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Morland were aware of
the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous
to hasten her return.'' 

Catherine explained: {}``Oh!\ as to \emph{that}, Papa and Mamma
were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always
be satisfied.''

{}``Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?''\


{}``Oh! Because she had been there so long.''

{}``Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If
you think it long\mbox{---}''

{}``Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with
you as long again.'' And it was directly settled that, till she had,
her leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause
of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise
weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing
her to stay, and Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay
was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them,
as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never
do comfortably without. She did\mbox{---}almost always\mbox{---}believe
that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father and sister
loved and even wished her to belong to them; and believing so far,
her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations.

Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining wholly
at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London,
the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them
on Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had
been while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but
did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation,
and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for
the time to themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather a late
hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day
of Henry's departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs
when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them
to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the door, and the next
moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After
the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, in a {}``Good
heaven! What can be the matter?''\ it was quickly decided by Eleanor
to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden, if not
quite so unseasonable, and accordingly she hurried down to welcome
him.

Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as
she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting
herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her,
and the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve
of her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances
as would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would
never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be
ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it;
and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought
she could behave to him very civilly. In such considerations time
passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should
be so glad to see him, and have so much to say, for half an hour was
almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.

At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery,
and listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,
had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something
moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was
touching the very doorway\mbox{---}and in another moment a slight
motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled
a little at the idea of anyone's approaching so cautiously; but resolving
not to be again overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled
by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the
door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits,
however, were tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks
were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending
to come in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater
to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain
Tilney's account, could only express her concern by silent attention,
obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water,
and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. {}``My dear Catherine,
you must not\mbox{---}you must not indeed\mbox{---}'' were Eleanor's
first connected words. {}``I am quite well. This kindness distracts
me\mbox{---}I cannot bear it\mbox{---}I come to you on such an errand!''\


{}``Errand! To me!''\


{}``How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!''\


A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale as
her friend, she exclaimed, {}``'Tis a messenger from Woodston!''\


{}``You are mistaken, indeed,'' returned Eleanor, looking at her
most compassionately; {}``it is no one from Woodston. It is my father
himself.'' Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground
as she mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself
to make Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed
there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with
eyes still cast down, soon went on. {}``You are too good, I am sure,
to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am
indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed,
so lately been settled between us\mbox{---}how joyfully, how thankfully
on my side!\mbox{---}as to your continuing here as I hoped for many,
many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to
be accepted\mbox{---}and that the happiness your company has hitherto
given us is to be repaid by\mbox{---} But I must not trust myself
with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected
an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going
to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and
apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt either.''

{}``My dear Eleanor,'' cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings
as well as she could, {}``do not be so distressed. A second engagement
must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part\mbox{---}so
soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not.
I can finish my visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will
come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?''

{}``It will not be in my power, Catherine.''

{}``Come when you can, then.''

Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something
more directly interesting, she added, thinkng aloud, {}``Monday\mbox{---}so
soon as Monday; and you \emph{all} go. Well, I am certain of\mbox{---}I
shall be able to take leave, however. I need not go till just before
you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday
very well. My father and mother's having no notice of it is of very
little consequence. The general will send a servant with me, I dare
say, half the way\mbox{---}and then I shall soon be at Salisbury,
and then I am only nine miles from home.''

{}``Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
but half what you ought. But\mbox{---}how can I tell you?\mbox{---}tomorrow
morning is fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left
to your choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at
seven o'clock, and no servant will be offered you.''

Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. {}``I could hardly
believe my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment
that you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more
than I myself\mbox{---}but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That
I could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your
father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of real
friends to this\mbox{---}almost double distance from your home, to
have you driven out of the house, without the considerations even
of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such
a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you
will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house to
see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is
nothing.''

{}``Have I offended the general?''\ said Catherine in a faltering
voice.

{}``Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that
I answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence.
He certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen
him more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred
to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,
which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly
suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?''\ 

It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all; and it was only
for Eleanor's sake that she attempted it. {}``I am sure,'' said
she, {}``I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the last
thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor.
An engagement, you know, must be kept. I am only sorry it was not
recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very
little consequence.''

{}``I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be
of none; but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence:
to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were
your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with
comparative ease; a few hours would take you there; but a journey
of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!''\ 

{}``Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we
are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference.
I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.'' Eleanor saw
that she wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that
they should avoid any further conversation, now left her with, {}``I
shall see you in the morning.''

Catherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence friendship
and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she
gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and
in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology
that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence
of it. Henry at a distance\mbox{---}not able even to bid him farewell.
Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who
could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And
all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred,
and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible
as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where
it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The
manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away
without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even
the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling;
of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest
hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the
morning, that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could
all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other she
must have had the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to
spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe
it possible that any injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill
will against a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to
be connected with it.

Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name
of sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the
scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different
now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then\mbox{---}how
mournfully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation
in fact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in
the contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her
situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building,
were felt and considered without the smallest emotion; and though
the wind was high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout
the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without
curiosity or terror.

Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or
give assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to
be done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her
packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message
from the general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so
natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it?
And she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology
might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been
useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity
was put to the trial\mbox{---}Eleanor brought no message. Very little
passed between them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in
silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged while they
remained upstairs, Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress,
and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon filling
the trunk. When everything was done they left the room, Catherine
lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting
glance on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the
breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat,
as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as to make her
friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not swallow
many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast in
that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for
everything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since
they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different!
With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she
then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little
in future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy
breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped
her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address
from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the
appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall
them to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of
it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that
instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time
sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution
and speech.

{}``You \emph{must} write to me, Catherine,'' she cried; {}``you
\emph{must} let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know
you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour's comfort. For \emph{one}
letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the
satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found
your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence
as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown's,
and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.''

{}``No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from
me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my
getting home safe.''

Eleanor only replied, {}``I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will
not importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when
I am at a distance from you.'' But this, with the look of sorrow
accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment,
and she instantly said, {}``Oh, Eleanor, I \emph{will} write to you
indeed.''

There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her
that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided
with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting
it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved
to be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject
till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that
but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from
the house without even the means of getting home; and the distress
in which she must have been thereby involved filling the minds of
both, scarcely another word was said by either during the time of
their remaining together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage
was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a
long and affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding
each other \emph{adieu}; and, as they entered the hall, unable to
leave the house without some mention of one whose name had not yet
been spoken by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips
just made it intelligible that she left {}``her kind remembrance
for her absent friend.'' But with this approach to his name ended
all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face
as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the
hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the
door.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 29}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 29}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 29}

Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had
no terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length
or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one comer of the carriage,
in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the
walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point
of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she
was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road
she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so
happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen
miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review
of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different.
Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings,
and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which
led to it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her
grief and agitation were excessive.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had
made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had
so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction
of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had
he elated her by his pointed regard\mbox{---}had he even confused
her by his too significant reference! And now\mbox{---}what had she
done, or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a change?

The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had
been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and
her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she
had so idly entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret
with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her.
If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained
intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless
fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree
of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer,
she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a
justification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not
be in his power.

Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,
the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a
more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and
feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard
of her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over
every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing;
it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at
others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.
To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor\mbox{---}what
might he not say to Eleanor about her?

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article
of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the
hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked
for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,
saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though
no object on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found
no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another
cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to
return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure
of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence such
as hers\mbox{---}an eleven weeks' absence. What had she to say that
would not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase
her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment,
and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing
ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor's merit;
she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken
against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father's
account, it would cut her to the heart.

With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first
view of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty
miles of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving
Northanger; but after the first stage she had been indebted to the
post-masters for the names of the places which were then to conduct
her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route. She met with
nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners,
and liberal pay procured her all the attention that a traveller like
herself could require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled
on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six
and seven o'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.

A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,
in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of
a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several
phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author
must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude
and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as
no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore
shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday
groups, and speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind, as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her
carriage\mbox{---}and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller
being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately
at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure
to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy\mbox{---}a pleasure
quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children, a boy and
girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or sister in
every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine!
Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness
were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly
understood.

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the
door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken
the best feelings of Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each,
as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond
anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed,
she was even happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for
a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving
them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated
round the tea-table, which Mrs.\ Morland had hurried for the comfort
of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her
notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer
was addressed to her.

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of
her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could
they at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her
sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from
any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but
here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked,
nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering
any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's long
and lonely journey, Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Morland could not but feel that
it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that
it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that,
in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither
honourably nor feelingly\mbox{---}neither as a gentleman nor as a
parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a
breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard
for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were
at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not
oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless
conjecture, that {}``it was a strange business, and that he must
be a very strange man,'' grew enough for all their indignation and
wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility,
exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. 

{}``My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,''
said her mother at last; {}``depend upon it, it is something not
at all worth understanding.''

{}``I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected
this engagement,'' said Sarah, {}``but why not do it civilly?''\


{}``I am sorry for the young people,'' returned Mrs.\ Morland;
{}``they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it
is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does
not depend upon General Tilney.'' Catherine sighed. {}``Well,''
continued her philosophic mother, {}``I am glad I did not know of
your journey at the time; but now it is an over, perhaps there is
no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon
exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were
a sad little shatter-brained creature; but now you must have been
forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises
and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything
behind you in any of the pockets.''

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment,
but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone
becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's next
counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her
ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings,
and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted
from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though,
when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to
their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for
the parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first
excursion from home, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise
to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on
her friend's disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having
never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated
her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of
these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and never
had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney.
To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her sentiments
and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded
without coldness, and honest without resentment\mbox{---}a letter
which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of\mbox{---}and,
above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance
to see, was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance;
and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was
all that she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The
money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little
more than grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most
affectionate heart.

{}``This has been a strange acquaintance,'' observed Mrs.\ Morland,
as the letter was finished; {}``soon made and soon ended. I am sorry
it happens so, for Mrs.\ Allen thought them very pretty kind of young
people; and you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor
James! Well, we must live and learn; and the next new friends you
make I hope will be better worth keeping.''

Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, {}``No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor.''

{}``If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other;
do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again
in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!''\


Mrs.\ Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope
of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into
Catherine's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting
dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of
him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might
forget her; and in that case, to meet\mbox{---}! Her eyes filled
with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother,
perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect,
proposed, as another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they
should call on Mrs.\ Allen.

The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,
Mrs.\ Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of
James's disappointment. {}``We are sorry for him,'' said she; {}``but
otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could
not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had
not the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without
fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well
of her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will
not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his
life, for the foolishness of his first choice.''

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,
and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits
since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three
months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run
backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light,
gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed,
and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it.
Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being
did she return!

She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for
appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally call forth;
and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing
how she had been treated\mbox{---}though Mrs.\ Morland's account
of it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.
{}``Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,'' said
she. {}``She travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing
of coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy
or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost
turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must
be a very odd man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again!
And it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless
creature, but can shift very well for herself.''

Mr.\ Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs.\ Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself.
His wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession
hers, with the addition of this single remark\mbox{---}{}``I really
have not patience with the general''---to fill up every accidental
pause. And, {}``I really have not patience with the general,'' was
uttered twice after Mr.\ Allen left the room, without any relaxation
of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more considerable
degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after completing
the fourth, she immediately added, {}``Only think, my dear, of my
having got that frightful great rent in my best Mechlin so charmingly
mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was.
I must show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine,
after all. I assure you I did not above half like coming away. Mrs.\ Thorpe's
being there was such a comfort to us, was not it? You know, you and
I were quite forlorn at first.''

{}``Yes, but \emph{that} did not last long,'' said Catherine, her
eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit
to her existence there.

{}``Very true: we soon met with Mrs.\ Thorpe, and then we wanted
for nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very
well? I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms,
you know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember
that evening?''\ 

{}``Do I! Oh! Perfectly.''

{}``It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr.\ Tilney drank tea with
us, and I always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable.
I have a notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember
I had my favourite gown on.''

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
Mrs.\ Allen again returned to\mbox{---}{}``I really have not patience
with the general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be!
I do not suppose, Mrs.\ Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in
your life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them,
Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know.''

As they walked home again, Mrs.\ Morland endeavoured to impress on
her daughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers
as Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Allen, and the very little consideration which
the neglect or unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys
ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion
and affection of her earliest friends. There was a great deal of good
sense in all this; but there are some situations of the human mind
in which good sense has very little power; and Catherine's feelings
contradicted almost every position her mother advanced. It was upon
the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her present
happiness depended; and while Mrs.\ Morland was successfully confirming
her own opinions by the justness of her own representations, Catherine
was silently reflecting that \emph{now} Henry must have arrived at
Northanger; \emph{now} he must have heard of her departure; and \emph{now},
perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 30}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 30}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 30}

Catherine's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor had her habits
been ever very industrious; but whatever might hitherto have been
her defects of that sort, her mother could not but perceive them now
to be greatly increased. She could neither sit still nor employ herself
for ten minutes together, walking round the garden and orchard again
and again, as if nothing but motion was voluntary; and it seemed as
if she could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for
any time in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration.
In her rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of
herself; but in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of
all that she had been before.

For two days Mrs.\ Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint;
but when a third night's rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,
improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination
for needlework, she could no longer refrain from the gentle reproof
of, {}``My dear Catherine, I am afraid you are growing quite a fine
lady. I do not know when poor Richard's cravats would be done, if
he had no friend but you. Your head runs too much upon Bath; but there
is a time for everything\mbox{---}a time for balls and plays, and
a time for work. You have had a long run of amusement, and now you
must try to be useful.''

Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a dejected voice,
that {}``her head did not run upon Bath\mbox{---}much.''

{}``Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very
simple of you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You
should never fret about trifles.'' After a short silence\mbox{---}{}``I
hope, my Catherine, you are not getting out of humour with home because
it is not so grand as Northanger. That would be turning your visit
into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should always be contented,
but especially at home, because there you must spend the most of your
time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much
about the French bread at Northanger.''

{}``I am sure I do not care about the bread. it is all the same to
me what I eat.''

{}``There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon
much such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home
by great acquaintance\mbox{---}\emph{The Mirror}, I think. I will
look it out for you some day or other, because I am sure it will do
you good.''

Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied
to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing
it herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her
needle. Mrs.\ Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
in her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of
that repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want
of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was
some time before she could find what she looked for; and other family
matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed
ere she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was
hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she
created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the
last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she
beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look
of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her
by her conscious daughter as {}``Mr.\ Henry Tilney,'' with the
embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance
there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right
to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be
assured of Miss Morland's having reached her home in safety, as the
cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid
judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister
in their father's misconduct, Mrs.\ Morland had been always kindly
disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received
him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking
him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends
of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say
not another word of the past.

He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart
was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just
at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning
in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
civilly answering all Mrs.\ Morland's common remarks about the weather
and roads. Catherine meanwhile\mbox{---}the anxious, agitated, happy,
feverish Catherine\mbox{---}said not a word; but her glowing cheek
and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit
would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore
did she lay aside the first volume of \emph{The Mirror} for a future
hour.

Desirous of Mr.\ Morland's assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
father's account she earnestly pitied, Mrs.\ Morland had very early
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr.\ Morland was
from home\mbox{---}and being thus without any support, at the end
of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of
minutes' unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first
time since her mother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity,
if Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing,
from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which
one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention
of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her
if she would have the goodness to show him the way. {}``You may see
the house from this window, sir,'' was information on Sarah's side,
which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and
a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs.\ Morland, thinking it probable,
as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy
neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father's
behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only
to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him.
They began their walk, and Mrs.\ Morland was not entirely mistaken
in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father's account
he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and
before they reached Mr.\ Allen's grounds he had done it so well that
Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was
assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited,
which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his
own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he
felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly
loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in
nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion
of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a
serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge,
and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's dignity; but if it be as
new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least
be all my own.

A very short visit to Mrs.\ Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation
of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed
them to the ecstasies of another \emph{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te};
and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how
far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application.
On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near
the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms
of Miss Morland's departure, and ordered to think of her no more.

Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand.
The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as
she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution
with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious
rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject;
and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives
of his father's conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant
delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to
lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object
of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better
pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being
less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion
of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in
Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his
daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house
seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his
resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.

John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son
one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss
Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her
than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man
of General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative;
and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland's
engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying
Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family
as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe
them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own
consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his
intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune.
The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first
overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually
increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of
the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr.\ Morland's
preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and
sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family
to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however,
the peculiar object of the general's curiosity, and his own speculations,
he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand
pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition
to Mr.\ Allen's estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously
determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak
of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton
naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded;
for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe's
interest in the family, by his sister's approaching connection with
one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of
which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers
for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens
being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland's being under their care,
and\mbox{---}as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge\mbox{---}of
their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon
formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in
the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr.\ Thorpe's communication,
he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his
boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself
could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children.
Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage
their father's particular respect, had seen with astonishment the
suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly,
from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to
his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was
convinced of his father's believing it to be an advantageous connection,
it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the
smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on.
That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person
who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to
meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite
feelings, irritated by Catherine's refusal, and yet more by the failure
of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between
Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever,
and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened
to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the
Morlands\mbox{---}confessed himself to have been totally mistaken
in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the
rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance
and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks
proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the
first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal
proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness
of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable
of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact,
a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no
means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular
opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their
fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy
connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.

The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed,
had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the
Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged
with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next
day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen.

I leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how much of all this
it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine,
how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points
his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain
to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their case what
they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to
feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting
up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified
his cruelty.

Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as
pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded
counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them
at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's indignation
on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father's
views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold.
The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law
in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing
desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook
the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the
dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger,
though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained
in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound
as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that
heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy
retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable
anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.

He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an
engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her
his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in
dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary
hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,
and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey
to Fullerton.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 31}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 31}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{CHAPTER 31}

Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Morland's surprise on being applied to by Mr.\ Tilney
for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment
on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than
Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only
the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone
were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing
manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having
never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil
could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character
needed no attestation. {}``Catherine would make a sad, heedless young
housekeeper to be sure,'' was her mother's foreboding remark; but
quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice.

There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that
one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.
Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while
his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow
themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to
solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve
it, they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation;
but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once
obtained\mbox{---}and their own hearts made them trust that it could
not be very long denied\mbox{---}their willing approbation was instantly
to follow. His \emph{consent} was all that they wished for. They were
no more inclined than entitled to demand his \emph{money}. Of a very
considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually
secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort,
and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of
their daughter.

The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They
felt and they deplored\mbox{---}but they could not resent it; and
they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general,
as each believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to
unite them again in the fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned
to what was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations,
and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he
looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry.
Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence,
let us not inquire. Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Morland never did\mbox{---}they
had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received
a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked
another way.

The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion
of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final
event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who
will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that
we are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which
their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable
circumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The circumstance
which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man
of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the
summer\mbox{---}an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit
of good humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had
obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him {}``to
be a fool if he liked it!''\


The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of
such a home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to
the home of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which
I expect to give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance.
My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled,
by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to
receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was
not of recent origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority
of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession to title
and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never had the general
loved his daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility,
and patient endurance as when he first hailed her {}``Your Ladyship!''\ 
Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage,
his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming
young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must
be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly
before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question,
therefore, I have only to add\mbox{---}aware that the rules of composition
forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable\mbox{---}that
this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him
that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger,
by which my heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.

The influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf
was assisted by that right understanding of Mr.\ Morland's circumstances
which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed,
they were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely
more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his
subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word
were they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three
thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations
that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and
by no means without its effect was the private intelligence, which
he was at some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being
entirely at the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently
open to every greedy speculation.

On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,
permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the
bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty
professions to Mr.\ Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:
Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled;
and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of
their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned
by the general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To
begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen
is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that
the general's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious
to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving
their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,
I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the
tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny,
or reward filial disobedience.


\chapter*{\raggedright A NOTE ON THE TEXT}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{A NOTE ON THE TEXT}

\markboth{NORTHANGER ABBEY}{A NOTE ON THE TEXT}

Northanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title. The
manuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher,
Crosbie \& Co., who sold it back in 1816. The Signet Classic text
is based on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in
1818\mbox{---}the year following Miss Austen's death. Spelling and
punctuation have been largely brought into conformity with modern
British usage. 
\end{document}
