Books: Northanger Abbey
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Jane Austen >> Northanger Abbey
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"Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune
on one side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No
matter which has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of
one great fortune looking out for another. And to marry for money
I think the wickedest thing in existence. Good day. We shall
be very glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient."
And away she went. It was not in the power of all his gallantry
to detain her longer. With such news to communicate, and such
a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to be delayed by
anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away, leaving him
to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and her
explicit encouragement.
The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning
her brother's engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable
emotion in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful
event. How great was her disappointment! The important affair,
which many words of preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by
them both ever since her brother's arrival; and all that they felt
on the occasion was comprehended in a wish for the young people's
happiness, with a remark, on the gentleman's side, in favour of
Isabella's beauty, and on the lady's, of her great good luck. It
was to Catherine the most surprising insensibility. The disclosure,
however, of the great secret of James's going to Fullerton the day
before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen
to that with perfect calmness, but repeatedly regretted the necessity
of its concealment, wished she could have known his intention, wished
she could have seen him before he went, as she should certainly
have troubled him with her best regards to his father and mother,
and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.
CHAPTER 16
Catherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street
were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,
though she was most politely received by General Tilney, and
kindly welcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no
one else of the party, she found, on her return, without spending
many hours in the examination of her feelings, that she had gone to
her appointment preparing for happiness which it had not afforded.
Instead of finding herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney,
from the intercourse of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with
her as before; instead of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage
than ever, in the ease of a family party, he had never said so
little, nor been so little agreeable; and, in spite of their father's
great civilities to her -- in spite of his thanks, invitations,
and compliments -- it had been a release to get away from him.
It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not be General
Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and good-natured,
and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a doubt, for
he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father. He could not be
accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for her want of
enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have
been accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her
own stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit,
gave a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride, insufferable
haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be
very high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour
as Miss Tilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the
honours of her house with common good breeding! To behave to her
guest with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!"
"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;
she was very civil."
"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared
so attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings
are incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the
whole day?"
"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits."
"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my
aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you."
"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."
"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!
Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe
John has the most constant heart."
"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible
for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention;
it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy."
"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I
believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very
well of him, and John's judgment -- "
"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall
meet them at the rooms."
"And must I go?"
"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled."
"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing.
But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you
know, will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not
mention it, I beg; that is quite out of the question. Charles
Hodges will plague me to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very
short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly
what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture
to himself."
Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend;
she was sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of
brother or sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in
their hearts. The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by
one with the same kindness, and by the other with the same attention,
as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry
asked her to dance.
Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder
brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was
at no loss for the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome
young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently
belonged to their party. She looked at him with great admiration,
and even supposed it possible that some people might think him
handsomer than his brother, though, in her eyes, his air was more
assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and
manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within her
hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing
himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible.
From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might
be our heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of
a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between
the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the
instigator of the three villains in horsemen's greatcoats, by whom
she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four,
which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile,
undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at
all, except that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed
her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes
to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming
so herself.
At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them
again, and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother
away. They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate
sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact,
that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation
of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his brother, in
the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her partner
conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense
was of full five minutes' duration; and she was beginning to think
it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an
explanation was given, by Henry's requesting to know if she thought
her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as
his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine,
without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did
not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the
other, and he immediately walked away.
"Your brother will not mind it, I know," said she, "because I heard
him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured
in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down,
and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken,
for she would not dance upon any account in the world."
Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you
to understand the motive of other people's actions."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced,
What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's
feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered
-- but, How should I be influenced, What would be my inducement in
acting so and so?"
"I do not understand you."
"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well."
"Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible."
"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language."
"But pray tell me what you mean."
"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware
of the consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment,
and certainly bring on a disagreement between us.
"No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid."
"Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish
of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of
your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the
world."
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions
were verified. There was a something, however, in his words which
repaid her for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied
her mind so much that she drew back for some time, forgetting
to speak or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was; till,
roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with
Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across.
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation
of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given;
but as it was not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she
spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.
"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined
not to dance."
"And did Isabella never change her mind before?"
"Oh! But, because -- And your brother! After what you told him
from me, how could he think of going to ask her?"
"I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be
surprised on your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for
my brother, his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no
more than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your
friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only
be understood by yourself."
"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in
general."
"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must
be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of
judgment; and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss
Thorpe has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour."
The friends were not able to get together for any confidential
discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked
about the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: "I
do not wonder at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death.
He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged;
but I would have given the world to sit still."
"Then why did not you?"
"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know
how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could,
but he would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me.
I begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner -- but no,
not he; after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the room
he could bear to think of; and it was not that he wanted merely to
dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him
he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me; for, of all
things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so
-- and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand
up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take
it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he would
have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so
glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his
nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every
eye was upon us."
"He is very handsome indeed."
"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire
him in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate
a florid complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very
well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down several
times, you know, in my way."
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting
subject to discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received,
and the kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living,
of which Mr. Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about
four hundred pounds yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as
soon as he should be old enough to take it; no trifling deduction
from the family income, no niggardly assignment to one of ten
children. An estate of at least equal value, moreover, was assured
as his future inheritance.
James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude;
and the necessity of waiting between two and three years before
they could marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had
expected, was borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose
expectations had been as unfixed as her ideas of her father's
income, and whose judgment was now entirely led by her brother,
felt equally well satisfied, and heartily congratulated Isabella
on having everything so pleasantly settled.
"It is very charming indeed," said Isabella, with a grave face.
"Mr. Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed," said the gentle
Mrs. Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. "I only wish I
could do as much. One could not expect more from him, you know.
If he finds he can do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am
sure he must be an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is
but a small income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear
Isabella, are so moderate, you do not consider how little you ever
want, my dear."
"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to
be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon
an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of
life. For myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself."
"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward
in the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was
a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you;
and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child -- but do
not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things.
Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard
he was a most excellent man; and you know, my dear, we are not to
suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have
come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most
liberal-minded man."
"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right
to do what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by
these insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father
has promised to do as much as he can afford."
Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine,
there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure
that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of
more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I
hate money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty
pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my
Catherine, you have found me out. There's the sting. The long,
long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your
brother can hold the living."
"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly
see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand
the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for
such a noble honest affection."
Catherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured
to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of
Isabella's regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as
cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had
for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter,
and was received with the most gratifying kindness.
CHAPTER 17
The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath;
and whether it should be the last was for some time a question,
to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her
acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing
could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while
the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was
determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight.
What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the
pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part
of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James's
engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so far
as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity
of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present
was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being
certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance
as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning
which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured
forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial.
No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened
stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father's having just determined
upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow!
The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the
present disappointment. Catherine's countenance fell, and in a
voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney's concluding
words, "By the end of another week!"
"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what
I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends'
arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty
well, is in a hurry to get home."
"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if
I had known this before -- "
"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you
would be so good -- it would make me very happy if -- "
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which
Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their
corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he
turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate
you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?"
"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."
"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in
it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his
daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We
leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A
letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home;
and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown
and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is
nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish
point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can
you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph
and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire?
I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would
certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself.
Modesty such as yours -- but not for the world would I pain it by
open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you
will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you
nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you
neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you
see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting
on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable."
Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up
Catherine's feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful
and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within
the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an
invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything
honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future
hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving
clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation, was eagerly given. "I will
write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object,
as I dare say they will not -- "
General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her
excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction
of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said
he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world."
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities,
and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this
necessary reference to Fullerton would allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they
were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated
to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her
lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland,
relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already
entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of
an acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and sent
therefore by return of post their ready consent to her visit in
Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine
had hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond
every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance
and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By
the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced
into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings,
her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return. Wherever
she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The affection
of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,
they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,
outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen
visitor, she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the
person whose society she mostly prized -- and, in addition to all
the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion
for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry
Tilney -- and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those
reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either
the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other,
had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more than the
visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.
And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of
house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned
up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp
passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her
daily reach, and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some
traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated
nun.
It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by
the possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should
be so meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account
for it. A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride.
Their superiority of abode was no more to them than their superiority
of person.
Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but
so active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered,
she was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having
been a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of
its having fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on
its dissolution, of a large portion of the ancient building still
making a part of the present dwelling although the rest was decayed,
or of its standing low in a valley, sheltered from the north and
east by rising woods of oak.
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