Chapter 29

Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The j ourney in itself had no

terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one com er of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was convey ed som e m iles bey ond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground within the park was alm ost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her ey es towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the sam e which only ten day s ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen m iles, every bitter feeling was rendered m ore severe by the review of obj ects on which she had first looked under im pressions so different. Every m ile, 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, y et 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 m ade use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the m ost positive conviction of his actually wishing their m arriage. Yes, only ten day s ago had he elated her by his pointed regard, had he even confused her by his too significant reference! And now , what had she done, or what had she om itted to do, to m erit 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 betray ed her. If, indeed, by any strange m ischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and inj urious exam inations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a m urderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a j ustification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.

Anxious as were all her conj ectures on this point, it was not, however,

the one on which she dwelt m ost. There was a thought y et nearer, a m ore prevailing, m ore im petuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the m orrow 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 som etim es suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentm ent. To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor... what m ight he not say to Eleanor about her?

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article

of which her m ind was incapable of m ore than m om entary repose, the hours passed away, and her j ourney advanced m uch faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing any thing before her, when once bey ond the neighbourhood of Woodston, saved her at the sam e tim e from watching her progress; and though no obj ect on the road could engage a m om ent’s attention, she found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her j ourney ’s conclusion; for to return in such a m anner to Fullerton was alm ost to destroy the pleasure of a m eeting with those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers – an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would not hum ble herself and pain her fam ily, that would not increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentm ent, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do j ustice to Henry and Eleanor’s m erit; 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 m iles of hom e. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-m asters for the nam es of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route. She m et with nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her y outh, civil m anners, 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 trium ph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-m aids in a travelling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver m ay well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author m ust share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But m y affair is widely different; I bring back m y heroine to her hom e in solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead m e into m inuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentim ent, as no attem pt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, am id the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, whatever m ight be the distress of Catherine’s m ind, as she thus

advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the hum iliation of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing enj oy m ent of no every day nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage – and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole fam ily were im m ediately at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every ey e and occupy every fancy – a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two y oungest children, a boy and girl of six and four y ears old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaim ed the discovery ! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.

Her father, m other, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assem bled at the

door to welcom e her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the em brace of each, as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed bey ond any thing that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy ! In the j oy fulness of fam ily love every thing for a short tim e 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 com fort of the poor traveller, whose pale and j aded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to dem and a positive answer was addressed to her.

Reluctantly, and with m uch hesitation, did she then begin what m ight

perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be term ed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that tim e, 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 rom antic alarm , in the consideration of their daughter’s long and lonely j ourney, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it m ight have been productive of m uch unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a m easure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly – neither as a gentlem an 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 m atter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any m eans so long; and, after a due course of useless conj ecture, that “it was a strange business, and that he m ust be a very strange m an,” grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incom prehensibility, exclaim ing and conj ecturing with y outhful ardour. “My dear, y ou give y ourself a great deal of needless trouble,” said her m other at last; “depend upon it, it is som ething not at all worth understanding.”

“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this

engagem ent,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly ?”

“I am sorry for the y oung people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they m ust

have a sad tim e of it; but as for any thing else, it is no m atter now; Catherine is safe at hom e, and our com fort does not depend upon General Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic m other, “I am glad I did not know of y our j ourney at the tim e; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is alway s good for y oung people to be put upon exerting them selves; and y ou know, m y dear Catherine, y ou alway s were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now y ou m ust have been forced to have y our wits about y ou, with so m uch changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that y ou have not left any thing behind y ou in any of the pockets.”

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own

am endm ent, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becom ing soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her m other’s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of m ortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a j ourney, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away ; and though, when they all m et the next m orning, 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 y oung lady of seventeen, j ust returned from her first excursion from hom e, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her prom ise to Miss

Tilney, whose trust in the effect of tim e and distance on her friend’s disposition was already j ustified, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her m erits or kindness, and never enough com m iserated her for what she had been y esterday 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 com pose a letter which m ight at once do j ustice to her sentim ents and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentm ent – a letter which Eleanor m ight not be pained by the perusal of – and, above all, which she m ight not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of perform ance; and, after long thought and m uch perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could determ ine on with any confidence of safety. The m oney therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little m ore than grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a m ost affectionate heart.

“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the

letter was finished; “soon m ade and soon ended. I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of y oung people; and y ou were sadly out of luck too in y our Isabella. Ah! Poor Jam es! Well, we m ust live and learn; and the next new friends y ou m ake I hope will be better worth keeping.”

Catherine coloured as she warm ly answered, “No friend can be better

worth keeping than Eleanor.”

“If so, m y dear, I dare say y ou will m eet again som e tim e or other; do

not be uneasy. It is ten to one but y ou are thrown together again in the course of a few y ears; and then what a pleasure it will be!”

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attem pt at consolation. The hope of

m eeting again in the course of a few y ears could only put into Catherine’s head what m ight happen within that tim e to m ake a m eeting dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that m om ent; but he m ight forget her; and in that case, to m eet – ! Her ey es filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her m other, perceiving her com fortable 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 m ile apart; and, as they

walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of Jam es’s disappointm ent. “We are sorry for him ,” said she; “but otherwise there is no harm done in the m atch going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the sm allest 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 com es hard to poor Jam es; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter m an all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice.”

This was j ust such a sum m ary view of the affair as Catherine could

listen to; another sentence m ight have endangered her com plaisance, and m ade 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 m onths ago since, wild with j oy ful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards som e ten tim es a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloy ed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three m onths 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 – though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite by surprise y esterday evening,” said she. “She travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of com ing till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from som e odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and alm ost turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly ; and he m ust be a very odd m an; but we are so glad to have her am ongst us again! And it is a great com fort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself.”

Mr. Allen expressed him self on the occasion with the reasonable

resentm ent of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions quite good enough to be im m ediately m ade use of again by herself. His wonder, his conj ectures, and his explanations becam e in succession hers, with the addition of this single rem ark – “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 m aterial digression of thought. A m ore considerable degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after com pleting the fourth, she im m ediately added, “Only think, m y dear, of m y having got that frightful great rent in m y best Mechlin so charm ingly m ended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I m ust show it y ou som e day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure y ou I did not above half like com ing away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a com fort to us, was not it? You know, y ou and I were quite forlorn at first.”

“Yes, but that did not last long,” said Catherine, her ey es brightening at

the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence there.

“Very true: we soon m et with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for

nothing. My dear, do not y ou think these silk gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first tim e of our going to the Lower Room s, y ou know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do y ou rem em ber that evening?”

“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”

“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I

alway s thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion y ou danced with him , but am not quite sure. I rem em ber I had m y favourite gown on.”

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subj ects,

Mrs. Allen again returned to – “I really have not patience with the general! Such an agreeable, worthy m an as he seem ed to be! I do not suppose, Mrs. Morland, y ou ever saw a better-bred m an in y our life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them , Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom Street, y ou know.”

As they walked hom e again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to im press on

her daughter’s m ind 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 Tilney s 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 som e situations of the hum an m ind in which good sense has very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted alm ost every position her m other advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirm ing her own opinions by the j ustness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that now Henry m ust have arrived at Northanger; now he m ust have heard of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.