Books: Northanger Abbey
J >>
Jane Austen >> Northanger Abbey
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 | 15 |
16 |
17 |
18
"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye.
As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return."
He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to
Catherine to doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon
obliged to give him credit for being right, however disagreeable
to her his going. But the inexplicability of the general's
conduct dwelt much on her thoughts. That he was very particular
in his eating, she had, by her own unassisted observation, already
discovered; but why he should say one thing so positively, and mean
another all the while, was most unaccountable! How were people, at
that rate, to be understood? Who but Henry could have been aware
of what his father was at?
From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without
Henry. This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain
Tilney's letter would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday
she was very sure would be wet. The past, present, and future
were all equally in gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and her loss
in Isabella so great; and Eleanor's spirits always affected by
Henry's absence! What was there to interest or amuse her? She was
tired of the woods and the shrubberies -- always so smooth and so
dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than any other
house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped to
nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from
a consideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas!
She, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing
so charming to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of
a well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better:
Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If
Wednesday should ever come!
It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
came -- it was fine -- and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock,
the chaise and four conveyed the two from the abbey; and, after
an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston,
a large and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine
was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it, as the general seemed
to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the country,
and the size of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to
any place she had ever been at, and looked with great admiration
at every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the
little chandler's shops which they passed. At the further end of
the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest of it, stood
the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with its
semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the
door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland
puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much
of them.
Catherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her
either to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by
the general for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the
room in which she was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she
perceived in a moment that it was the most comfortable room in the
world; but she was too guarded to say so, and the coldness of her
praise disappointed him.
"We are not calling it a good house," said he. "We are not comparing
it with Fullerton and Northanger -- we are considering it as a mere
parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and
habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in
other words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England
half so good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it
from me to say otherwise; and anything in reason -- a bow thrown
out, perhaps -- though, between ourselves, if there is one thing
more than another my aversion, it is a patched-on bow."
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be
pained by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward
and supported by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of
refreshments was introduced by his servant, the general was shortly
restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease
of spirits.
The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size,
and handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting
it to walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller
apartment, belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made
unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be
the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,
Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general. It
was a prettily shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground,
and the view from them pleasant, though only over green meadows;
and she expressed her admiration at the moment with all the honest
simplicity with which she felt it. "Oh! Why do not you fit up
this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It
is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the
world!"
"I trust," said the general, with a most satisfied smile, "that it
will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!"
"Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh!
What a sweet little cottage there is among the trees -- apple trees,
too! It is the prettiest cottage!"
"You like it -- you approve it as an object -- it is enough. Henry,
remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains."
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced
her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for
her choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings,
nothing like an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her.
The influence of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great
use in dissipating these embarrassing associations; and, having
reached the ornamental part of the premises, consisting of a walk
round two sides of a meadow, on which Henry's genius had begun to
act about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to think
it prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been in before,
though there was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench in
the corner.
A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with
a visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming
game of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about,
brought them to four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it
could be three. At four they were to dine, and at six to set off
on their return. Never had any day passed so quickly!
She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not
seem to create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that
he was even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not
there. His son and daughter's observations were of a different
kind. They had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but
his own, and never before known him so little disconcerted by the
melted butter's being oiled.
At six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage
again received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his
conduct throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on
the subject of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally
confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted
Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might
return to it.
CHAPTER 27
The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:
Bath, April
My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the
greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not
answering them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness;
but in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had
my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since
you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler
or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank
God, we leave this vile place tomorrow. Since you went away,
I have had no pleasure in it -- the dust is beyond anything; and
everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I could see you
I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody
can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not
having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of
some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he
is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will
convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the
hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your
time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me. I will not
say all that I could of the family you are with, because I would
not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it
is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know
their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the young
man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You
will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who,
as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me,
before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my
shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for never were such
attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to
his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with
him again. He is the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly
disagreeable. The last two days he was always by the side of
Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him.
The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly
into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even look at
him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have
followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and
your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter -- I am quite
unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away,
with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write
to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted
above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray
explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours
any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next
in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this
age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges,
for a frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was
determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was
gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to
be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time
they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but
I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have
a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on
a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert,
but made wretched work of it -- it happened to become my odd face,
I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every
eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take.
I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but
no matter -- it is your dear brother's favourite colour. Lose no
time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me,
Who ever am, etc.
Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon
Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood
struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and
ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment
were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands
impudent. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never
hear Isabella's name mentioned by her again."
On Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it,
and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she had finished it -- "So much for Isabella,"
she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot,
or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to
make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see
what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks
have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either
for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her."
"It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.
"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she
has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but
I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this
time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel
with my brother, and then fly off himself?"
"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as
I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss
Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head,
they have not yet injured himself. If the effect of his behaviour
does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the
cause."
"Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?"
"I am persuaded that he never did."
"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?"
Henry bowed his assent.
"Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it
has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it
happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella
has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in
love with him?"
"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose --
consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
case, she would have met with very different treatment."
"It is very right that you should stand by your brother."
"And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed
by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by
an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible
to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."
Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick
could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so
agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and
tried to think no more of it.
CHAPTER 28
Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London
for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any
necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company,
and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement
to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure
gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be
sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed,
every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene
of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they
liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command,
made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general's
presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release
from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and
the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread
of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension
of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment
of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth
week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week
would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she
stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it
occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she
very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose
going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which
her proposal might be taken.
Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult
to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first
opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's
being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to
start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked
and declared herself much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure
of her company for a much longer time -- had been misled (perhaps
by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised
-- 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 Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was
happy, they would always be satisfied."
"Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?"
"Oh! Because she had been there so long."
"Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If
you think it long -- "
"Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with
you 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 removed, the force of the
other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of
Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry's gratified
look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet
proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so much
solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She
did -- almost always -- believe that Henry loved her, and quite
always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to
belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were
merely sportive irritations.
Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining
wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence
in London, the engagements 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 home; it lessened
their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls
agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves
so well sufficient for the time to themselves, 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 just reached
the head of the stairs when it seemed, as far as the thickness of
the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was driving
up to the door, and the next moment confirmed 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 matter?" 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 welcome him.
Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well
as she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and
comforting herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct
had given her, and the persuasion of his being by far too fine
a gentleman to approve of her, that at least they should not meet
under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially
painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed,
as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had acted, there
could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath scenes
were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In
such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly in his
favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much
to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival, and
Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment 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
something moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as
if someone was touching the very doorway -- and in another moment
a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it. She
trembled a little at the idea of anyone's approaching so cautiously;
but resolving not to be again overcome by trivial appearances
of alarm, or misled by a raised imagination, 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 manner greatly
agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it seemed an
effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when there.
Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account,
could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to
be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over
her with affectionate solicitude. "My dear Catherine, you must not
-- you must not indeed -- " were Eleanor's first connected words.
"I am quite well. This kindness distracts me -- I cannot bear it
-- I come to you on such an errand!"
"Errand! To me!"
"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!"
A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale
as her friend, she exclaimed, "'Tis a messenger from Woodston!"
"You are mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking at her most
compassionately; "it is no one from Woodston. It is my father
himself." Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground
as she mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in
itself to make Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she
hardly supposed there were anything worse to be told. She said
nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect herself and speak
with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon went on. "You
are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part
I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger.
After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us
-- how joyfully, how thankfully on my side! -- as to your continuing
here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell you
that your kindness is not to be accepted -- and that the happiness
your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by -- But I must
not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part.
My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family
away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford,
for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible.
I cannot attempt either."
"My dear Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as
well as she could, "do not be so distressed. A second engagement
must 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 my visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope
you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord's,
come to Fullerton?"
"It will not be in my power, Catherine."
"Come when you can, then."
Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to
something more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud,
"Monday -- so soon as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain
of -- I shall be able to take leave, however. I need not go till
just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can
go on Monday very well. My father and mother's having no notice of
it is of very little consequence. The general will send a servant
with me, I dare say, half the way -- and then I shall soon be at
Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home."
"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
but half what you ought. But -- how can I tell you? -- tomorrow
morning is fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left
to your choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at
seven o'clock, and no servant will be offered you."
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. "I could hardly
believe my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment
that you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more
than I myself -- but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I
could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your
father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of
real friends to this -- almost double distance from your home, to
have you driven out of the house, without the considerations even
of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer
of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet,
I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in
this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my
real power is nothing."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 | 15 |
16 |
17 |
18