Chapter 12

“Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next m orning, “will there be any harm

in m y calling on Miss Tilney today ? I shall not be easy till I have explained every thing.”

“Go, by all m eans, m y dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney

alway s wears white.”

Catherine cheerfully com plied, and being properly equipped, was m ore

im patient than ever to be at the pum p-room , that she m ight inform herself of General Tilney ’s lodgings, for though she believed they were in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen’s wavering convictions only m ade it m ore doubtful. To Milsom Street she was directed, and having m ade herself perfect in the num ber, hastened away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-y ard, and resolutely turning away her ey es, that she m ight not be obliged to see her beloved Isabella and her dear fam ily, who, she had reason to believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any im pedim ent, looked at the num ber, knocked at the door, and inquired for Miss Tilney. The m an believed Miss Tilney to be at hom e, but was not quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her nam e? She gave her card. In a few m inutes the servant returned, and with a look which did not quite confirm his words, said he had been m istaken, for that Miss Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of m ortification, left the house. She felt alm ost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at hom e, and too m uch offended to adm it 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 gentlem an, whom Catherine believed to be her father, and they turned up towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep m ortification, proceeded on her way. She could alm ost be angry herself at such angry incivility ; but she checked the resentful sensation; she rem em bered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers m ight be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of unforgivingness it m ight with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of rudeness in return it m ight j ustly m ake her am enable.

Dej ected and hum bled, she had even som e thoughts of not going with

the others to the theatre that night; but it m ust be confessed that they were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first place, that she was without any excuse for stay ing at hom e; and, in the second, that it was a play she wanted very m uch to see. To the theatre accordingly they all went; no Tilney s appeared to plague or please her; she feared that, am ongst the m any perfections of the fam ily, a fondness for play s was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were habituated to the finer perform ances of the London stage, which she knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered every thing else of the kind “quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure; the com edy 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, j oining a party in the opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite genuine m errim ent – 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 ey e. No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play ; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed – but such a bow! No sm ile, no continued observance attended it; his ey es were im m ediately returned to their form er direction. Catherine was restlessly m iserable; she could alm ost 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 inj ured by this ready condem nation – instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentm ent 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 som ebody else – she took to herself all the sham e of m isconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.

The play concluded – the curtain fell – Henry Tilney was no longer to

be seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father rem ained, and perhaps he m ight be now com ing round to their box. She was right; in a few m inutes he appeared, and, m aking his way through the then thinning rows, spoke with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such calm ness was he answered by the latter: “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to y ou, and m ake m y apologies. You m ust have thought m e so rude; but indeed it was not m y own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell m e that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand tim es rather have been with y ou; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”

“My dear, y ou tum ble m y gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply. Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away ; it

brought a m ore cordial, m ore natural sm ile into his countenance, and he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We were m uch obliged to y ou at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing y ou in Argy le Street: y ou were so kind as to look back on purpose.”

“But indeed I did not wish y ou 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 y ou; now, Mrs. Allen, did not – Oh! You were not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have j um ped out and run after y ou.”

Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a

declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a y et sweeter sm ile, he said every thing 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 m e this m orning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next m inute after m y leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps y ou did not know I had been there.”

“I was not within at the tim e; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she has

been wishing ever since to see y ou, to explain the reason of such incivility ; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing m ore than that m y father – they were j ust preparing to walk out, and he being hurried for tim e, and not caring to have it put off – m ade a point of her being denied. That was all, I do assure y ou. She was very m uch vexed, and m eant to m ake her apology as soon as possible.”

Catherine’s m ind was greatly eased by this inform ation, y et a

som ething of solicitude rem ained, from which sprang the following question, thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the gentlem an: “But, Mr. Tilney, why were y ou less generous than y our sister? If she felt such confidence in m y good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a m istake, why should y ou be so ready to take offence?”

“Me! I take offence!”

“Nay, I am sure by y our look, when y ou cam e into the box, y ou were

angry.”

“I angry ! I could have no right.”

“Well, nobody would have thought y ou had no right who saw y our

face.” He replied by asking her to m ake room for him , and talking of the play.

He rem ained with them som e tim e, and was only too agreeable for

Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however, it was agreed that the proj ected walk should be taken as soon as possible; and, setting aside the m isery 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 som e surprise that

John Thorpe, who was never in the sam e part of the house for ten m inutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney ; and she felt som ething m ore than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself the obj ect 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 im plied in his preventing her adm ittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few m inutes. “How cam e Mr. Thorpe to know y our father?” was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her com panion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every m ilitary m an, had a very large acquaintance.

When the entertainm ent was over, Thorpe cam e to assist them in

getting out. Catherine was the im m ediate obj ect of his gallantry ; and, while they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had travelled from her heart alm ost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in a consequential m anner, whether she had seen him talking with General Tilney : “He is a fine old fellow, upon m y soul! Stout, active – looks as y oung as his son. I have a great regard for him , I assure y ou: a gentlem an-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.”

“But how cam e y ou to know him ?”

“Know him ! There are few people m uch about town that I do not know.

I have m et him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the m om ent he cam e into the billiard-room . One of the best play ers we have, by the by ; and we had a little touch together, though I was alm ost afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against m e; and, if I had not m ade one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was m ade in this world – I took his ball exactly – but I could not m ake y ou understand it without a table; however, I did beat him . A very fine fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like to dine with him ; I dare say he gives fam ous dinners. But what do y ou think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks y ou the finest girl in Bath.”

“Oh! Nonsense! How can y ou say so?”

“And what do y ou think I said?” – lowering his voice – “well done,

general, said I; I am quite of y our m ind.”

Here Catherine, who was m uch less gratified by his adm iration 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 sam e kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to have done.

That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should adm ire her, was very

delightful; and she j oy fully thought that there was not one of the fam ily whom she need now fear to m eet. The evening had done m ore, m uch m ore, for her than could have been expected.