Chapter 28

Soon after this, the general found him self obliged to go to London for a

week; and he left Northanger earnestly regret-ting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s com pany, and anxiously recom m ending the study of her com fort and am usem ent to his children as their chief obj ect in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experim ental conviction that a loss m ay be som etim es a gain. The happiness with which their tim e now passed, every em ploy m ent voluntary, every laugh indulged, every m eal a scene of ease and good hum our, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own com m and, m ade her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general’s presence had im posed, and m ost thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights m ade her love the place and the people m ore and m ore every day ; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becom ing expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each m om ent of each day have been perfectly happy ; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general cam e hom e, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it m ight seem an intrusion if she stay ed m uch longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her m ind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the m anner in which her proposal m ight be taken.

Aware that if she gave herself m uch tim e, she m ight feel it difficult to

bring forward so unpleasant a subj ect, she took the first oppor-tunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the m iddle of a speech about som ething very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself m uch concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her com pany for a m uch longer tim e, had been m isled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a m uch longer visit had been prom ised, 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 that, Papa and Mam m a were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would alway s be satisfied.”

“Then why, m ight she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them ?”

“Oh! Because she had been there so long.”

“Nay, if y ou can use such a word, I can urge y ou no farther. If y ou

think it long...”

“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For m y own pleasure, I could stay with y ou

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 rem oved, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s m anner in pressing her to stay, and Henry ’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determ ined, were such sweet proofs of her im portance with them , as left her only j ust so m uch solicitude as the hum an m ind can never do com fortably without. She did – alm ost alway s – believe that Henry loved her, and quite alway s that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them ; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were m erely sportive irritations.

Henry was not able to obey his father’s inj unction of rem aining wholly

at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagem ents 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 hom e; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their com fort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and im proving in intim acy, found them selves so well sufficient for the tim e to them selves, 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 j ust reached the head of the stairs when it seem ed, as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to j udge, that a carriage was driving up to the door, and the next m om ent confirm ed 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 m atter?” 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 welcom e him .

Catherine walked on to her cham ber, m aking up her m ind as well as she

could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and com forting herself under the unpleasant im pression his conduct had given her, and the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentlem an to approve of her, that at least they should not m eet under such circum stances as would m ake their m eeting m aterially painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he m ust by this tim e be asham ed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all m ention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In such considerations tim e passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him , and have so m uch to say, for half an hour was alm ost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not com e up.

At that m om ent 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 som ething m oving close to her door m ade her start; it seem ed as if som eone was touching the very doorway – and in another m om ent a slight m otion of the lock proved that som e hand m ust be on it. She trem bled a little at the idea of any one’s approaching so cautiously ; but resolving not to be again overcom e by trivial appearances of alarm , or m isled by a raised im agination, 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 m anner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to com e in, it seem ed an effort to enter the room , and a still greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing som e uneasiness on Captain Tilney ’s account, could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be seated, rubbed her tem ples with lavender-water, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, y ou m ust not – y ou m ust not indeed – “ were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite well. This kindness distracts m e – I cannot bear it – I com e to y ou on such an errand!”

“Errand! To m e!”

“How shall I tell y ou! Oh! How shall I tell y ou!” A new idea now darted into Catherine’s m ind, and turning as pale as her

friend, she exclaim ed, “’Tis a m essenger from Woodston!”

“You are m istaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her m ost

com pas-sionately ; “it is no one from Woodston. It is m y father him self.” Her voice faltered, and her ey es were turned to the ground as she m entioned his nam e. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to m ake Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few m om ents she hardly supposed there were any thing worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firm ness, but with ey es still cast down, soon went on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of m e for the part I am obliged to perform . I am indeed a m ost unwilling m essenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us – how j oy fully, how thankfully on m y side! – as to y our continuing here as I hoped for m any, m any weeks longer, how can I tell y ou that y our kindness is not to be accepted – and that the happiness y our com pany has hitherto given us is to be repaid by – But I m ust not trust m y self with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagem ent that takes our whole fam ily away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally im possible. I cannot attem pt either.”

“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as

she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagem ent m ust give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part – so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish m y visit here, y ou know, at any tim e; or I hope y ou will com e to m e. Can y ou, when y ou return from this lord’s, com e to Fullerton?”

“It will not be in m y power, Catherine.”

“Com e when y ou can, then.”

Eleanor m ade no answer; and Catherine’s thoughts recurring to

som ething m ore directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, “Monday, so soon as Monday ; and y ou all go. Well, I am certain of – I shall be able to take leave, however. I need not go till j ust before y ou do, y ou know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and m other’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general will send a servant with m e, I dare say, half the way – and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine m iles from hom e.”

“Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be som ewhat less

intolerable, though in such com m on attentions y ou would have received but half what y ou ought. But – how can I tell y ou? – tom orrow m orning is fixed for y our leaving us, and not even the hour is left to y our choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered y ou.”

Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. “I could hardly believe

m y senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentm ent that y ou can feel at this m om ent, however j ustly great, can be m ore than I m y self – but I m ust not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest any thing in extenuation! Good God! What will y our father and m other say ! After courting y ou from the protection of real friends to this – alm ost double distance from y our hom e, to have y ou driven out of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility ! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a m essage, I seem guilty m y self of all its insult; y et, I trust y ou will acquit m e, for y ou m ust have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nom inal m istress of it, that m y real power is nothing.”

“Have I offended the general?” said Catherine in a faltering voice. “Alas! For m y feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I answer

for, is that y ou can have given him no j ust cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly discom posed; I have seldom seen him m ore so. His tem per is not happy, and som ething has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncom m on degree; som e disappointm ent, som e vexation, which j ust at this m om ent seem s im portant, but which I can hardly suppose y ou 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 attem pted 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 engagem ent, y ou know, m ust be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I m ight have written hom e. But it is of very little consequence.”

“I hope, I earnestly hope, that to y our real safety it will be of none; but

to every thing else it is of the greatest consequence: to com fort, appearance, propriety, to y our fam ily, to the world. Were y our friends, the Allens, still in Bath, y ou m ight go to them with com parative ease; a few hours would take y ou there; but a j ourney of seventy m iles, to be taken post by y ou, at y our age, alone, unattended!”

“Oh, the j ourney is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to

part, a few hours sooner or later, y ou know, m akes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let m e be called in tim e.” 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 y ou in the m orning.”

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 j ustify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance – 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 m ight m eet again? And all this by such a m an as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as incom prehensible as it was m ortify ing and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm . The m anner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurry ing her away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the tim e or m ode of her travelling; of two day s, the earliest fixed on, and of that alm ost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the m orning, that he m ight not be obliged even to see her. What could all this m ean but an intentional affront? By som e m eans or other she m ust have had the m isfortune to offend him . Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any inj ury or any m isfortune 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 nam e of

sleep, was out of the question. That room , in which her disturbed im agination had torm ented her on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slum bers. Yet how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then – how m ournfully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in probability ; and with a m ind so occupied in the contem plation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation, the darkness of her cham ber, the antiquity of the building, were felt and considered without the sm allest em otion; 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 rem ained to be done. Catherine had not loitered; she was alm ost dressed, and her packing alm ost finished. The possibility of som e conciliatory m essage 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 m ight properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here; it was not called for; neither clem ency nor dignity was put to the trial – Eleanor brought no m essage. Very little passed between them on m eeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged while they rem ained upstairs, Catherine in busy agitation com pleting her dress, and Eleanor with m ore goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk. When every thing was done they left the room , Catherine lingering only half a m inute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished obj ect, 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 m ake her friend com fortable; but she had no appetite, and could not swallow m any m outhfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh m isery, and strengthened her distaste for every thing before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they had m et there to the sam e repast, but in circum stances how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she then looked around her, enj oy ing every thing present, and fearing little in future, bey ond 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 com panion, 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 m om ent. Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant on her m ind with peculiar force, m ade her for a short tim e sensible only of resentm ent. Eleanor seem ed now im pelled into resolution and speech.

“You m ust write to m e, Catherine,” she cried; “y ou m ust let m e hear

from y ou as soon as possible. Till I know y ou to be safe at hom e, I shall not have an hour’s com fort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I m ust entreat. Let m e have the satisfaction of knowing that y ou are safe at Fullerton, and have found y our fam ily well, and then, till I can ask for y our correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect m ore. Direct to m e at Lord Longtown’s, and, I m ust ask it, under cover to Alice.”

“No, Eleanor, if y ou are not allowed to receive a letter from m e, I am

sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of m y getting hom e safe.”

Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at y our feelings. I will not

im portune y ou. I will trust to y our own kindness of heart when I am at a distance from y ou.” But this, with the look of sorrow accom pany ing it, was enough to m elt Catherine’s pride in a m om ent, and she instantly said, “Oh, Eleanor, I will write to y ou indeed.”

There was y et another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,

though som ewhat em barrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from hom e, Catherine m ight not be provided with m oney enough for the expenses of her j ourney, and, upon suggesting it to her with m ost affectionate offers of accom m odation, it proved to be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subj ect till that m om ent, but, upon exam ining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she m ight have been turned from the house without even the m eans of getting hom e; and the distress in which she m ust have been thereby involved filling the m inds of both, scarcely another word was said by either during the tim e of their rem aining together. Short, however, was that tim e. The carriage was soon announced to be ready ; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate em brace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without som e m ention of one whose nam e had not y et been spoken by either, she paused a m om ent, and with quivering lips j ust m ade it intelligible that she left “her kind rem em brance for her absent friend.” But with this approach to his nam e ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, j um ped into the chaise, and in a m om ent was driven from the door.