Chapter 25

The visions of rom ance were over. Catherine was com pletely

awakened. Henry ’s address, short as it had been, had m ore thoroughly opened her ey es to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointm ents had done. Most grievously was she hum bled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk – but with Henry. Her folly, which now seem ed even crim inal, was all exposed to him , and he m ust despise her forever. The liberty which her im agination had dared to take with the character of his father – could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears – could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself m ore than she could express. He had – she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal m orning, shown som ething like affection for her. But now – in short, she m ade herself as m iserable 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 form idable Henry soon followed her into the room , and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather m ore attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted com fort m ore, and he looked as if he was aware of it.

The evening wore away with no abatem ent of this soothing politeness;

and her spirits were gradually raised to a m odest 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 m ight 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 circum stance receiving im portance from an im agination resolved on alarm , and every thing forced to bend to one purpose by a m ind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She rem em bered with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the m ischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seem ed as if the whole m ight be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged.

Charm ing as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charm ing even as

were the works of all her im itators, it was not in them perhaps that hum an nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Py renees, with their pine forests and their vices, they m ight give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France m ight be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not doubt bey ond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have y ielded the northern and western extrem ities. But in the central part of England there was surely som e security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the m anners 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. Am ong the Alps and Py renees, perhaps, there were no m ixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an angel m ight have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was not so; am ong the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal m ixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney, som e slight im perfection m ight hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge som e actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly inj urious suspicions which she m ust ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly am iable.

Her m ind m ade up on these several points, and her resolution form ed,

of alway s j udging 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 tim e did m uch 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 becam e absolutely com fortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual im provem ent by any thing he said. There were still som e subj ects, indeed, under which she believed they m ust alway s trem ble – the m ention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance – and she did not love the sight of j apan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional m em ento of past folly, however painful, m ight not be without use.

The anxieties of com m on life began soon to succeed to the alarm s of

rom ance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite im patient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the room s were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella’s having m atched som e fine netting-cotton, on which she had left her intent; and of her continuing on the best term s with Jam es. Her only dependence for inform ation of any kind was on Isabella. Jam es 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 prom ised and prom ised again; and when she prom ised a thing, she was so scrupulous in perform ing it! This m ade it so particularly strange!

For nine successive m ornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition

of a disappointm ent, which each m orning becam e m ore severe: but, on the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room , her first obj ect was a letter, held out by Henry ’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily as if he had written it him self. “’Tis only from Jam es, however,” as she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:

 

Dear Catherine,

 

Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to

tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and

Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars – they

would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father’s consent had been so kindly given – but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear

Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or

you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight

of him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe

himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We

parted at last by mutual consent – happy for me had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give

your heart. “Believe me,” &c.

 

Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of

countenance, and short exclam ations 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 any thing. Tears filled her ey es, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat. The letter was one m om ent 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 housem aids were busy in it, and she was obliged to com e down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that m om ent deep in consultation about her. She drew back, try ing 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 com fort to her.

After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine

felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should m ake her distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if particularly questioned, she m ight j ust give an idea – j ust distantly hint at it – but not m ore. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella had been to her – and then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she m ust waive the subj ect altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by them selves 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 – y our brothers and sisters – I hope they are none of them ill?”

“No, I thank y ou” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My

letter was from m y brother at Oxford.”

Nothing further was said for a few m inutes; 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 j ust opened; “if I had

suspected the letter of containing any thing unwelcom e, I should have given it with very different feelings.”

“It contained som ething worse than any body could suppose! Poor

Jam es is so unhappy ! You will soon know why.”

“To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry

warm ly, “m ust be a com fort to him under any distress.”

“I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an

agitated m anner, “that, if y our brother should be com ing here, y ou will give m e notice of it, that I m ay go away.”

“Our brother! Frederick!”

“Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave y ou so soon, but

som ething has happen-ed that would m ake it very dreadful for m e to be in the sam e house with Captain Tilney.”

Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing

astonishm ent; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and som ething, in which Miss Thorpe’s nam e was included, passed his lips.

“How quick y ou are!” cried Catherine: “y ou have guessed it, I declare!

And y et, when we talked about it in Bath, y ou little thought of its ending so. Isabella – no wonder now I have not heard from her – Isabella has deserted m y brother, and is to m arry y ours! Could y ou have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and every thing that is bad in the world?”

“I hope, so far as concerns m y brother, y ou are m isinform ed. I hope

he has not had any m aterial share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s disappointm ent. His m arry ing Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think y ou m ust be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland – sorry that any one y ou love should be unhappy ; but m y surprise would be greater at Frederick’s m arry ing her than at any other part of the story.”

“It is very true, however; y ou shall read Jam es’s letter y ourself. Stay –

There is one part – “ recollecting with a blush the last line.

“Will y ou take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern

m y brother?”

“No, read it y ourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were

clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that she had blushed before); “Jam es only m eans to give m e good advice.”

He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close

attention, returned it say ing, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first m an who has chosen a wife with less sense than his fam ily 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 m other is a very good sort of wom an,” was Catherine’s answer. “What was her father?”

“A lawy er, I believe. They live at Putney.”

“Are they a wealthy fam ily ?”

“No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that

will not signify in y our fam ily. Your father is so very liberal! He told m e the other day that he only valued m oney as it allowed him to prom ote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked at each other. “But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be to prom ote his happiness, to enable him to m arry such a girl? She m ust be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used y our brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his ey es, is violating an engagem ent voluntarily entered into with another m an! Is not it inconceivable, Henry ? Frederick too, who alway s wore his heart so proudly ! Who found no wom an good enough to be loved!”

“That is the m ost unprom ising circum stance, the strongest presum ption

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 gentlem an before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased m an – defunct in understanding. Prepare for y our sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as y ou m ust delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but sim ple, form ing no pretensions, and knowing no disguise.”

“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a

sm ile.

“But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by

our fam ily, she m ay behave better by y ours. Now she has really got the m an she likes, she m ay be constant.”

“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry ; “I am afraid she will be

very constant, unless a baronet should com e 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 am bition, then? And, upon m y word, there are

som e things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first knew what m y father would do for them , she seem ed quite disap-pointed that it was not m ore. I never was so deceived in any one’s character in m y life before.”

“Am ong all the great variety that y ou have known and studied.”

“My own disappointm ent and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor

Jam es, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”

“Your brother is certainly very m uch to be pitied at present; but we

m ust not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue y ours. You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, y ou lose half y ourself: y ou feel a void in y our heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becom ing irksom e; and as for the am usem ents in which y ou 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 y ou have no longer any friend to whom y ou can speak with unreserve, on whose regard y ou can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, y ou could rely on. You feel all this?”

“No,” said Catherine, after a few m om ents’ reflection, “I do not – ought

I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very, very m uch afflicted as one would have thought.”

“You feel, as y ou alway s do, what is m ost to the credit of hum an

nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they m ay know them selves.”

Catherine, by som e chance or other, found her spirits so very m uch

relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led on, though so unaccount-ably, to m ention the circum stance which had produced it.