CHAPTER 25
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened hereyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their severaldisappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterlydid she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but withHenry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed tohim, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imaginationhad dared to take with the character of his father--could he everforgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could theyever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. Hehad--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shownsomething like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself asmiserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when theclock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give anintelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidableHenry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in hisbehaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he wasaware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; andher spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did notlearn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope thatit would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry'sentire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she hadwith such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly beclearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imaginationresolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose bya mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to befrightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for aknowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as ifthe whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading whichshe had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as werethe works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that humannature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be lookedfor. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, andthe south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were thererepresented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and evenof that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and westernextremities. But in the central part of England there was surely somesecurity for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws ofthe land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servantswere 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 asan angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it wasnot so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon thisconviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and EleanorTilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon thisconviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks inthe character of their father, who, though cleared from the grosslyinjurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, shedid believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, ofalways judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, shehad nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; andthe lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations inthe course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and noblenessof conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could havesupposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spiritsbecame absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continualimprovement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,under which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of achest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight ofjapan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional mementoof past folly, however painful, might not be without use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms ofromance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how therooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured ofIsabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she hadleft her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Heronly dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James hadprotested 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 toFullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when shepromised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made itso particularly strange!
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetitionof a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, onthe tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was aletter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartilyas if he had written it himself. ”'Tis only from James, however,” as shelooked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to thispurpose:
”Dear Catherine,
”Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it myduty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe andme. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shallnot enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soonhear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and Ihope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easilythinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time!But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindlygiven--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let mesoon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your loveI do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over beforeCaptain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortablycircumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; hishonest 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 reasonedwith her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, andlaughed 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. Icannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be noneed of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We partedat last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can neverexpect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how yougive your heart.
”Believe me,” &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change ofcountenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her tobe receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her throughthe whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. Hewas prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father'sentrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardlyeat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as shesat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then inher 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 noticingher; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soonas she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but thehousemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor hadlikewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultationabout her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, withgentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, afterEleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfortto her.
After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherinefelt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should makeher distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, ifparticularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantlyhint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabellahad been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanorwere 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, Ihope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they arenone of them ill?”
”No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); ”they are all very well. Myletter was from my brother at Oxford.”
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking throughher tears, she added, ”I do not think I shall ever wish for a letteragain!”
”I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; ”if Ihad suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should havegiven it with very different feelings.”
”It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James isso unhappy! You will soon know why.”
”To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henrywarmly, ”must be a comfort to him under any distress.”
”I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in anagitated manner, ”that, if your brother should be coming here, you willgive 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, butsomething has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be inthe same house with Captain Tilney.”
Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasingastonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, inwhich 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 itsending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabellahas deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believedthere had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that isbad in the world?”
”I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hopehe has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland'sdisappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think youmust be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry thatanyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater atFrederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story.”
”It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.Stay--There is one part--” recollecting with a blush the last line.
”Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concernmy brother?”
”No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts wereclearer. ”I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that shehad blushed before); ”James only means to give me good advice.”
He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with closeattention, returned it saying, ”Well, if it is to be so, I can onlysay that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who haschosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envyhis 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 inquireinto 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: butthat 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 topromote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister lookedat each other. ”But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, ”would it be topromote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must bean unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And howstrange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Isnot it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart soproudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!”
”That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumptionagainst him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence tosuppose that she would part with one gentleman before the otherwas secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceasedman--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 asmile.
”But perhaps,” observed Catherine, ”though she has behaved so ill by ourfamily, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the manshe likes, she may be constant.”
”Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; ”I am afraid she willbe very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that isFrederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over thearrivals.”
”You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there aresome things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she firstknew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointedthat it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character inmy 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 poorJames, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”
”Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but wemust not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel avoid in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becomingirksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share atBath, 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 nolonger any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regardyou can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you couldrely on. You feel all this?”
”No,” said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, ”I do not--oughtI? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot stilllove her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see heragain, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would havethought.”
”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 muchrelieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being ledon, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which hadproduced it.