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Northanger Abbey

by Jane Austen · English · Gutenberg #121 · 453,326 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Northanger Abbey

Author: Jane Austen


        
Release date: April 1, 1994 [eBook #121]
                Most recently updated: October 7, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/121

Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger. Revised by Richard Tonsing.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTHANGER ABBEY ***

Northanger Abbey


by Jane Austen

(1803)




Contents


 ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY

 CHAPTER 1
 CHAPTER 2
 CHAPTER 3
 CHAPTER 4
 CHAPTER 5
 CHAPTER 6
 CHAPTER 7
 CHAPTER 8
 CHAPTER 9
 CHAPTER 10
 CHAPTER 11
 CHAPTER 12
 CHAPTER 13
 CHAPTER 14
 CHAPTER 15
 CHAPTER 16
 CHAPTER 17
 CHAPTER 18
 CHAPTER 19
 CHAPTER 20
 CHAPTER 21
 CHAPTER 22
 CHAPTER 23
 CHAPTER 24
 CHAPTER 25
 CHAPTER 26
 CHAPTER 27
 CHAPTER 28
 CHAPTER 29
 CHAPTER 30
 CHAPTER 31

 A NOTE ON THE TEXT




ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY


This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for
immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even
advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has
never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it
worth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish
seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public
have any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those
parts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively
obsolete. The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years
have passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and
that during that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have
undergone considerable changes.




CHAPTER 1


No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the
character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition,
were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being
neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was
Richard—and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable
independence besides two good livings—and he was not in the least
addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a
good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and
instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody
might expect, she still lived on—lived to have six children more—to see
them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A
family of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there
are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had
little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain,
and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a
thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and
strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for
heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and greatly
preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic
enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or
watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she
gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief—at
least so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she
was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were
quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything
before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often
inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in
teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her
next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid—by no means; she learnt the fable of “The
Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother
wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it,
for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet;
so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear
it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being
accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave
off. The day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest
of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though
whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or
seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that
way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French
by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she
shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,
unaccountable character!—for with all these symptoms of profligacy at
ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom
stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,
with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,
hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the
world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were
mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes
gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of
dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she
grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father
and mother remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a
good-looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught
her ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! to look
_almost_ pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has
been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty
from her cradle can ever receive.

Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were
inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should
prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of
information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful
lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

“bear about the mockery of woe.”


From Gray, that

“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”


From Thomson, that—

“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”


And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst
the rest, that—

“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”


That

“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”


And that a young woman in love always looks—

“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”


So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came
on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of
her own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance
with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she
had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her
lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she
fell miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not
know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached
the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could
call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,
and without having excited even any admiration but what was very
moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! but strange
things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched
out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a
baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had
reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one
young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the
squire of the parish no children.

But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way.

Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for
the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured
woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will
not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,
invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
and Catherine all happiness.




CHAPTER 2


In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be
stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following
pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just
removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person
pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as
ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand
alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her
in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of
the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew
so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of
their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to
her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the throat, when you come from the Rooms at night; and
I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I
will give you this little book on purpose.”

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of
transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of
every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with
the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first
separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her
father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even
putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten
guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind
her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking
environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy
already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the
reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable—whether by her
imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters,
ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the
world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither
beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a
great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind
were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,
intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted
to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going
everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine;
and our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after
three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and
her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.
Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters
were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into
the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her
clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped
at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it
was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.

Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired
directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.
With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of
her protégée, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the
door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within
her friend’s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along
the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the
crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had
imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find
seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But
this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence
they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the
same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of
the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view; and
by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves
at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the
dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and
she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball:
she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs.
Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly,
every now and then, “I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could
get a partner.” For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for
these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally
ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no
more.

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for
tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed
against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to
interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a
syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in
the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to
join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw
nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more
eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at
which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do
there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.

Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on
having preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very
shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a
delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in
the whole room, I assure you.”

“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single
acquaintance here!”

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very
uncomfortable indeed.”

“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if
they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their
party.”

“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here.”

“I wish we had _any;_—it would be somebody to go to.”

“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”

“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
see.”

“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! but I think we had
better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! how is my
head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”

“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure
there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you
_must_ know somebody.”

“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should
be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! what
an odd gown she has got on! how old-fashioned it is! look at the back.”

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were
discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.

“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an
agreeable ball.”

“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a
great yawn.

“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could
have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if
the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys
had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George
Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!”

“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s
consolation.

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to leave
space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the
time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in
the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five
minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her
charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her
before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding
her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once
called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and
had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have
thought her exceedingly handsome.

She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words
had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
than she had found it before—her humble vanity was contented—she felt
more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a
true quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration
of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and
perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.




CHAPTER 3


Every morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited;
some new part of the town to be looked at; and the Pump-room to be
attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at
everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance
in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after
every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody
at all.

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was
more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced
to her a very gentleman-like young man as a partner; his name was
Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall,
had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if
not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and
Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for
speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found
him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He
talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry
in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her.
After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the
objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto
been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I
have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were
ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the
theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have
been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these
particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”

“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”

“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set
smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering
air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”

“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.

“Really!” with affected astonishment.

“Why should you be surprised, sir?”

“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must
appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,
and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you
never here before, madam?”

“Never, sir.”

“Indeed! have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”

“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”

“Have you been to the theatre?”

“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”

“To the concert?”

“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”

“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”

“Yes—I like it very well.”

“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture
to laugh.

“I see what you think of me,” said he gravely—“I shall make
but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow.”

“My journal!”

“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black
shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a
queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and
distressed me by his nonsense.”

“Indeed I shall say no such thing.”

“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”

“If you please.”

“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary
genius—hope I may know more of him. _That_, madam, is what I _wish_ you
to say.”

“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”

“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you.
These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a
journal! how are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your
life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of
every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every
evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to
be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse
to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways
as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling
which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which
ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of
writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done
something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the
practice of keeping a journal.”

“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! that is—I should not
think the superiority was always on our side.”

“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars.”

“And what are they?”

“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
very frequent ignorance of grammar.”

“Upon my word! i need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.”

“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better
landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation,
excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.”

They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;
I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
it cost but nine shillings a yard.”

“That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr.
Tilney, looking at the muslin.

“Do you understand muslins, sir?”

“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of
a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be
a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five
shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.”

Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little
notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know
one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your
sister, sir.”

“I hope I am, madam.”

“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”

“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do
not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”

“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
“strange.”

“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told
Miss Morland when she bought it.”

“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a
cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my
sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more
than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”

“Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We
are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in
Salisbury, but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen
says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than
eight; and it is such a fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one
can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”

Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and
she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others. “What are you
thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the
ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head,
your meditations are not satisfactory.”

Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”

“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
that you will not tell me.”

“Well then, I will not.”

“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much.”

They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s
side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the
acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her
warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a
slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a
celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified
in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must
be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before
the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr.
Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr.
Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common
acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he
had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and
had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very
respectable family in Gloucestershire.

 [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler.




CHAPTER 4


With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before
the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile
was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except
himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and
out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
wanted to see; and he only was absent. “What a delightful place Bath
is,” said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after
parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be
if we had any acquaintance here.”

This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied
diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady
of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at
her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great
complaisance in these words: “I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it
is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your
name Allen?” This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger
pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the
features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only
once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their
joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had
been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen
years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how
time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they
had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an
old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as
to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far
more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very
little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great
advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and
when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her
daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that
John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and
all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than
any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information
to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving
ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all
these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the
discovery, which her keen eyes soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s
pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.

“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three
smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her.
“My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so
delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a
fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe
Isabella is the handsomest.”

The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a
short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to
strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the
eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her
brother Miss Morland is!”

“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or
three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance
with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother
had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of
the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the
Christmas vacation with his family, near London.

The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their
brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with
all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof
of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss
Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was
delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost
forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is
certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and
quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss
Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided
advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of
Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;
could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of
tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and
lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the
thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from
Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they
naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not
the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her frequent expressions
of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling
of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing
attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the
pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss
Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s
house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and
lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that
they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their
prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran
directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street
from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk,
the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well
she might, for the chance which had procured her such a friend.

Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a
good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her
eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by
pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and
dressing in the same style, did very well.

This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past
adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of
lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had
passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.




CHAPTER 5


Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye
for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked
in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She
hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine
weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a
doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its
inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk
about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a
genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in
arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved
conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was
Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was
nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor
Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor
among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the
morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do
no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his
stay would be so short! this sort of mysteriousness, which is always so
becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s imagination
around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more
of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been
only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a
subject, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend,
from whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to
think of him; and his impression on her fancy was not suffered
therefore to weaken. Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming
young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with
her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him
the better for being a clergyman, “for she must confess herself very
partial to the profession”; and something like a sigh escaped her as
she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of
that gentle emotion—but she was not experienced enough in the finesse
of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery
was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced.

Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had found
some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family
of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,
had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself.
Her daily expressions were no longer, “I wish we had some acquaintance
in Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs.
Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two
families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of
Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was
scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of
subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen
of her gowns.

The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through
every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no
fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They
called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when
they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not
to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other
enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and
dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for
I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with
novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very
performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining
with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such
works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own
heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over
its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be
not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect
protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over
every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which
the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured
body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and
unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the
world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride,
ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And
while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of
England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some
dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the
Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand
pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the
performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
“I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that _I_
often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the
common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss——?” “Oh! it is only a
novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with
affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or
Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the
greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough
knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties,
the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in
the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged
with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly
would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances
must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous
publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a
young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting
in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and
topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their
language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea
of the age that could endure it.




CHAPTER 6


The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days,
is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the
delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest
creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you
at least this age!”

“Have you, indeed! i am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was
in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here
long?”

“Oh! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half
hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and
enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first
place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to
set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into
agonies! do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a
shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours, only with
coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my
dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this
morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?”

“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the
black veil.”

“Are you, indeed? How delightful! oh! i would not tell you what is
behind the black veil for the world! are not you wild to know?”

“Oh! yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told
upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is
Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! i am delighted with the book! i should like
to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been
to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.”

“Dear creature! how much I am obliged to you; and when you have
finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made
out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”

“Have you, indeed! how glad I am! what are they all?”

“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time.”

“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
horrid?”

“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a
sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every
one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with
her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I
think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for
not admiring her! i scold them all amazingly about it.”

“Scold them! do you scold them for not admiring her?”

“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are
really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is
not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told
Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to
tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow
Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable
of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I
should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_
are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”

“Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”

“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something
amazingly insipid about her. Oh! i must tell you, that just after we
parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am
sure he is in love with you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again.
Isabella laughed. “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it
is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one
gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking
more seriously—“your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is
really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with
the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so
uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! i can
perfectly comprehend your feelings.”

“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.
Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”

“Not see him again! my dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure
you would be miserable if you thought so!”

“No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
nobody could make me miserable. Oh! the dreadful black veil! my dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.”

“It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before;
but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.”

“No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
but new books do not fall in our way.”

“Sir Charles Grandison! that is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.”

“It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very
entertaining.”

“Do you indeed! you surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.
But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head
to-night? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.
The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know.”

“But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently.

“Signify! oh, heavens! i make it a rule never to mind what they say.
They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
spirit, and make them keep their distance.”

“Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well
to me.”

“Oh! they give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! by
the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you
like them best dark or fair?”

“I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both,
I think. Brown—not fair, and—and not very dark.”

“Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr. Tilney—‘a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather
dark hair.’ Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to
complexion—do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. You must
not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance
answering that description.”

“Betray you! what do you mean?”

“Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop
the subject.”

Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at
that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s
skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake!
Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two
odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They
really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the
arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”

Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men.

“They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up.”

In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that
she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the
pump-room.

“And which way are they gone?” said Isabella, turning hastily round.
“One was a very good-looking young man.”

“They went towards the church-yard.”

“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! and now, what say
you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat?
You said you should like to see it.”

Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake
the two young men.”

“Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them
presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.”

“But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our
seeing them at all.”

“I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil
them.”

Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,
to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling
the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in
pursuit of the two young men.




CHAPTER 7


Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody
acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap
Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature,
so unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and
the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties
of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of
pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are
not detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts.
This evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by
Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and
lament it once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union
Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding
through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting
alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven
along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the
vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his
companion, and his horse.

“Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest
them.” But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for
she looked again and exclaimed, “Delightful! mr. Morland and my
brother!”

“Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;
and, on catching the young men’s eyes, the horse was immediately
checked with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the
servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the
equipage was delivered to his care.

Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his
side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while
the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and
embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more
expert in the development of other people’s feelings, and less simply
engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as
pretty as she could do herself.

John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the
hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short
bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain
face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless
he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he
were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be
allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: “How long do you think we
have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”

“I do not know the distance.” Her brother told her that it was
twenty-three miles.

“_Three_-and-twenty!” cried Thorpe, “five-and-twenty if it is an inch.”
Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,
and milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer
test of distance. “I know it must be five-and-twenty,” said he, “by the
time we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of
the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any
man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in
harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.”

“You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we
came from Tetbury.”

“Ten o’clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! i counted every stroke. This
brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do
but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in
your life?” (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving
off.) “Such true blood! three hours and and a half indeed coming only
three and twenty miles! look at that creature, and suppose it possible
if you can.”

“He _does_ look very hot, to be sure.”

“Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse
_cannot_ go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get
on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?
Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a
Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran
it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with
it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the
kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I
chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford,
last term: ‘Ah! thorpe,’ said he, ‘do you happen to want such a little
thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired
of it.’ ‘Oh! d—,’ said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’ And how
much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”

“I am sure I cannot guess at all.”

“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,
lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as
new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,
threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.”

“And I am sure,” said Catherine, “I know so little of such things that
I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.”

“Neither one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but
I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.”

“That was very good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased.

“Oh! d—— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
I hate to be pitiful.”

An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that
the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their
respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well
satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she
endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double
recommendation of being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s brother,
so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook
and passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far
from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only
three times.

John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes’
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. “You will find,
however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some
people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;
Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
time.”

“Yes,” said Morland, who overheard this; “but you forget that your
horse was included.”

“My horse! oh, d—— it! i would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are you
fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”

“Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
particularly fond of it.”

“I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”

“Thank you,” said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
propriety of accepting such an offer.

“I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.”

“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”

“Rest! he has only come three and twenty miles to-day; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.
No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
while I am here.”

“Shall you indeed!” said Catherine very seriously. “That will be forty
miles a day.”

“Forty! aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown
to-morrow; mind, I am engaged.”

“How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella, turning round. “My
dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will
not have room for a third.”

“A third indeed! no, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about; that would be a good joke, faith! morland must take care of
you.”

This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more
than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of
every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as
long as she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful
female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition
to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own
sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question
which had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever
read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?”

“Udolpho! oh, Lord! not I; I never read novels; I have something else
to do.”

Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her
question, but he prevented her by saying, “Novels are all so full of
nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out
since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for
all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation.”

“I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
interesting.”

“Not I, faith! no, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her
novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature
in _them_.”

“Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.

“No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that
other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,
she who married the French emigrant.”

“I suppose you mean Camilla?”

“Yes, that’s the book; such unnatural stuff! an old man playing at
see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon
found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be
before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was
sure I should never be able to get through it.”

“I have never read it.”

“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing
at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. “Ah, Mother!
How do you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where
did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.
Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must
look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near.” And this address
seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she
received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two
younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal
tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that
they both looked very ugly.

These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and
Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
Isabella’s assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that
John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John’s
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she
been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where
youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of
reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the
door was closed on them, said, “Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, “I do not
like him at all,” she directly replied, “I like him very much; he seems
very agreeable.”

“He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle;
but that will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like
the rest of the family?”

“Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman
I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is
so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;
and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your
praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss
Thorpe even you, Catherine,” taking her hand with affection, “may be
proud of.”

“Indeed I am,” she replied; “I love her exceedingly, and am delighted
to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her
when you wrote to me after your visit there.”

“Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a
great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;
such a superior understanding! how fond all the family are of her; she
is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in
such a place as this—is not she?”

“Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest
girl in Bath.”

“I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of
beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here,
my dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe,
it would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am
sure, are very kind to you?”

“Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far
on purpose to see _me_.”

James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience
for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, “Indeed,
Catherine, I love you dearly.”

Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression on
James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney
Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs.
Allen, invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the
latter to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and
tippet. A pre-engagement in Edgar’s Buildings prevented his accepting
the invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as
he had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties
uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was
then left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened
imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns
of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on the
delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already
engaged for the evening.




CHAPTER 8


In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from
Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes
and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the
most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown,
and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperons, arm
in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought
occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the
hand or a smile of affection.

The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and
James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the
card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should
induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too.
“I assure you,” said she, “I would not stand up without your dear
sister for all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated
the whole evening.” Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
and they continued as they were for three minutes longer, when
Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of her,
turned again to his sister and whispered, “My dear creature, I am
afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to
begin; I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will
be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out.” Catherine,
though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any
opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella had only time to press
her friend’s hand and say, “Good-bye, my dear love,” before they
hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was
left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now
remained. She could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr.
Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware
that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be known, she was
sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting down all
the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the
world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity,
her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true
source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which
peculiarly belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it
what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too;
she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips.

From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten
minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr.
Tilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be
moving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and
the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed
away without sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and
as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and
pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine
immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a
fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being
married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it
had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not
behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been
used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister.
From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister’s
now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike
paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen’s bosom, Catherine sat
erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little
redder than usual.

Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to
approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to
her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye,
instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She
returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke
both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged.
“I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had
left Bath.” He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted
it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure of
seeing her.

“Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it
is just the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I
tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he
should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is
much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell
him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health.”

“And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,
from finding it of service to him.”

“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours, Dr.
Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite
stout.”

“That circumstance must give great encouragement.”

“Yes, sir—and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I
tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.”

Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,
that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney
with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was
accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and
after a few minutes’ consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with
him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe
mortification to the lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her
sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she really felt it, that had
Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he
might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The very easy
manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did not
by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars
which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and
dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of
terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking
very often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney.
Of her dear Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that
gentleman, she could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was
separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one
mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this
useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not
necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady.
From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by a
touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes
directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. “I beg
your pardon, Miss Morland,” said she, “for this liberty—but I cannot
anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would
not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you.”
Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the room more
happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to
each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness,
Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of
the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably
settled her young charge, returned to her party.

Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable
countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,
the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her
manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor
affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and
at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her,
and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable
vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at
once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous
of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she
could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying
it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by
the frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their
doing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance,
by informing themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she
admired its buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or
played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.

The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm
gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,
“At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for
you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you
knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”

“My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could
not even see where you were.”

“So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go
and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I—but all in vain—he would not stir
an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so
immoderately lazy! i have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear
Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon
ceremony with such people.”

“Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,”
whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr.
Tilney’s sister.”

“Oh! heavens! you don’t say so! let me look at her this moment. What a
delightful girl! i never saw anything half so beautiful! but where is
her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this
instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to
listen. We are not talking about you.”

“But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?”

“There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
curiosity! talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! ’Tis nothing. But be
satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.”

“And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”

“Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to
you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you;
therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear
something not very agreeable.”

In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original
subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little
suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to
see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would
have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. “I tell you, Mr.
Morland,” she cried, “I would not do such a thing for all the world.
How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your
brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I
tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the
rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change
partners.”

“Upon my honour,” said James, “in these public assemblies, it is as
often done as not.”

“Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,
you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me;
persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would
quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”

“No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better
change.”

“There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you
will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set
all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest
Catherine, for heaven’s sake, and stand by me.” And off they went, to
regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked
away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of
repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once,
made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the
hope of finding him still with them—a hope which, when it proved to be
fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. “Well, my dear,”
said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, “I hope you have had
an agreeable partner.”

“Very agreeable, madam.”

“I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”

“Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?” said Mrs. Allen.

“No, where is he?”

“He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,
that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask
you, if he met with you.”

“Where can he be?” said Catherine, looking round; but she had not
looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.

“Ah! he has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_,” said Mrs. Allen;
and after a short silence, she added, “he is a very agreeable young
man.”

“Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,” said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; “I
must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more
agreeable young man in the world.”

This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension
of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment’s
consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, “I dare say she
thought I was speaking of her son.”

Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so
little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not
incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her
soon afterwards and said, “Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are
to stand up and jig it together again.”

“Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”

“Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with
me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two
younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this
half hour.”

Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.
Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his
partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and
James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the
latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one
squeeze, and one “dearest Catherine.”




CHAPTER 9


The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with
everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home.
This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of
extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an
earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her
distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which
lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in
excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish
of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and
almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the
pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must
be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable for
the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female
intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited
confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another
friend from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled,
she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain
in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one;
and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks and
ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for
thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could
never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if
she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the
street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud,
whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about
half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the
window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there being
two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her
brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came
running upstairs, calling out, “Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you
been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a
coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,
and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out
of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was
not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a
confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.”

“What do you mean?” said Catherine. “Where are you all going to?”

“Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! did not we agree
together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! we are
going up Claverton Down.”

“Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at
Mrs. Allen for her opinion; “but really I did not expect you.”

“Not expect me! that’s a good one! and what a dust you would have made,
if I had not come.”

Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any
expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended
by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney
again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and
who thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe,
as Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore
obliged to speak plainer. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you
spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?”

“Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get
ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed
the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig;
and then receiving her friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried
downstairs. “My dearest creature,” cried Isabella, to whom the duty of
friendship immediately called her before she could get into the
carriage, “you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was
afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a
thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to
be off.”

Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear
her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! i quite
dote on her.”

“You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,” said Thorpe, as he handed
her in, “if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.
He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest
for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,
playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.”

Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was
too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened;
so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted
knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down
by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the
horse’s head was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off
they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a
caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an
escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her
companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her
that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which
he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity
with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not
help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should
think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent
a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the
same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any
unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles
an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the
enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine
mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of
several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by
Thorpe’s saying very abruptly, “Old Allen is as rich as a Jew—is not
he?” Catherine did not understand him—and he repeated his question,
adding in explanation, “Old Allen, the man you are with.”

“Oh! mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”

“And no children at all?”

“No—not any.”

“A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?”

“My godfather! no.”

“But you are always very much with them.”

“Yes, very much.”

“Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for
nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?”

“His bottle a day! no. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?”

“Lord help you! you women are always thinking of men’s being in liquor.
Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
_this_—that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would
not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a
famous good thing for us all.”

“I cannot believe it.”

“Oh! lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to
be. Our foggy climate wants help.”

“And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in
Oxford.”

“Oxford! there is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody
drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four
pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable
thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared
about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the
common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not
often meet with anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it.
But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking
there.”

“Yes, it does give a notion,” said Catherine warmly, “and that is, that
you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I
am sure James does not drink so much.”

This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no
part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting
almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of
wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother’s
comparative sobriety.

Thorpe’s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse
moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of
the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all
his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was
impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his
rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of
her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she
readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled
between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether
the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his
horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. “You do not really
think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine, venturing after some time to
consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little
variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break down?”

“Break down! oh, lord! did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have
been fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! upon
my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the
most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! thank God! we have
got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
thousand pounds.”

“Good heavens!” cried Catherine, quite frightened. “Then pray let us
turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do
let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell
him how very unsafe it is.”

“Unsafe! oh, lord! what is there in that? They will only get a roll if
it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent
falling. Oh, curse it! the carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how
to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty
years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! i would undertake
for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a
nail.”

Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two
such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been
brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to
how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity
will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom
aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented
with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit
therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting
at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the
affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the
point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real
opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to
her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making
those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to
this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and
his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily
preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to
be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer.
By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of
his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his
own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle
and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment
had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he
had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all
his companions together; and described to her some famous day’s sport,
with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the
dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in
which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his
own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into
difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many.

Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and
unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could
not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his
endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a
bold surmise, for he was Isabella’s brother; and she had been assured
by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in
spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over
her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly
to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in
some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his
powers of giving universal pleasure.

When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella
was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day
for them to attend her friend into the house: “Past three o’clock!” It
was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! and she would neither
believe her own watch, nor her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would
believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland
produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment
longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and
impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no
two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine
was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to
please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend’s
dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings
entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding
herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a
moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had
such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were
never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery,
and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu
and went on.

Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of
the morning, and was immediately greeted with, “Well, my dear, here you
are,” a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to
dispute; “and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?”

“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”

“So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”

“You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?”

“Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was
hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly
scarce.”

“Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?”

“Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.”

“Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”

“Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem
very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin,
and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very
handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.”

“And what did she tell you of them?”

“Oh! a vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.”

“Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?”

“Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind
of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and
Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large
fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand
pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all
the clothes after they came from the warehouse.”

“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”

“Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;
yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there
was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter
on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put
by for her when her mother died.”

“And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?”

“I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he
is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and
likely to do very well.”

Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs.
Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most
particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with
both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it
was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had
lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very
pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.




CHAPTER 10


The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the
theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an
opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand
things which had been collecting within her for communication in the
immeasurable length of time which had divided them. “Oh, heavens! my
beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?” was her address on
Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by her. “Now, Mr. Morland,”
for he was close to her on the other side, “I shall not speak another
word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect
it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need
not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair
in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you
want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love
with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney—but _that_ is a settled
thing—even _your_ modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming
back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! what would not I give to see him!
I really am quite wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most
delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning, you know;
you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for
heaven’s sake! i assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him.”

“No,” said Catherine, “he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.”

“Oh, horrid! am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my
gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother
and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be
here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon
found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country
to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it
was quite ridiculous! there was not a single point in which we
differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly
thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about
it.”

“No, indeed I should not.”

“Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself.
You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some
nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond
conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not
have had you by for the world.”

“Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark
upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my
head.”

Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to
James.

Catherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of
going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to
delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,
where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.
Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk
over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their
newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new
face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the
Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in
less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her
usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant
attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves
from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time,
till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,
confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little
share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was
conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so
much laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion was not
unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give
any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she
was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed
necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just
entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had
courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the
day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her
advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as
long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all
probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by
either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before,
under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being
spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might
be something uncommon.

“How well your brother dances!” was an artless exclamation of
Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation, which at once
surprised and amused her companion.

“Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”

“He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the
other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been
engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.” Miss Tilney could only bow. “You
cannot think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised
I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”

“When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but
for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.”

“_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on
Monday a Miss Smith?”

“Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.”

“I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?”

“Not very.”

“He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”

“Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”

Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
go. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” said
Catherine. “Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?”

“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”

“I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.” This civility was duly
returned; and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of
her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the
smallest consciousness of having explained them.

She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the
future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress
is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about
it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas
before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating
between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the
shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.
This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,
from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather
than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of
the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to
the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how
little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their
attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how
unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the
better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a
something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the
latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the
tranquillity of Catherine.

She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could
not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every
young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every
young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have
been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from
the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been
anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As
soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she
fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as
possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear
him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she
saw nothing of the Tilneys.

“Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I
am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively
it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but
you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature,
and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a
moment.”

Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.
That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept
her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her
folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with
the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,
when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,
by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went
with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she
believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so
immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
sought her on purpose!—it did not appear to her that life could supply
any greater felicity.

Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who
stood behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning
of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”

“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”

“That is a good one, by Jove! i asked you as soon as I came into the
room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,
you were gone! this is a cursed shabby trick! i only came for the sake
of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever
since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in
the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my
acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the
room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will
quiz me famously.”

“Oh, no; they will never think of _me_, after such a description as
that.”

“By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for
blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his
curiosity. “Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure
of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of
mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A
famous clever animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds
to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse
when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not
do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have
three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight
hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in
Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d—— uncomfortable,
living at an inn.”

This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s
attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of
a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,
“That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with
you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention
of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual
agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness
belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten
themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the
other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity
and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do
not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the
partners or wives of their neighbours.”

“But they are such very different things!”

“—That you think they cannot be compared together.”

“To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a
long room for half an hour.”

“And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that
light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could
place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the
advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it
is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of
each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each
other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each
to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had
bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their
own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their
neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with
anyone else. You will allow all this?”

“Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still
they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same
light, nor think the same duties belong to them.”

“In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man
is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make
the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.
But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness,
the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and
the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties
which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.”

“No, indeed, I never thought of that.”

“Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your
notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your
partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who
spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to
address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing
with him as long as you chose?”

“Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if
he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three
young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.”

“And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”

“Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,
it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_
to talk to anybody.”

“Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
making the inquiry before?”

“Yes, quite—more so, indeed.”

“More so! take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper
time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.”

“I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.”

“Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds
out every year. ‘For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but
beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world.’ You would
be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every
winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at
last because they can afford to stay no longer.”

“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to
London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired
village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place
as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a
variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know
nothing of there.”

“You are not fond of the country.”

“Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath
life. One day in the country is exactly like another.”

“But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”

“Do I?”

“Do you not?”

“I do not believe there is much difference.”

“Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”

“And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every
street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.”

Mr. Tilney was very much amused.

“Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!” he repeated. “What a picture of
intellectual poverty! however, when you sink into this abyss again, you
will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all
that you did here.”

“Oh! yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to
Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking
of Bath, when I am at home again—I _do_ like it so very much. If I
could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I
should be too happy! james’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite
delightful—and especially as it turns out that the very family we are
just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! who can
ever be tired of Bath?”

“Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do.
But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good
deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath—and the honest relish
of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.”

Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now
too importunate for a divided attention.

Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of
life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him
presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his
notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something
wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did
so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, “I
see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows
your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my
father.”

Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing
everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on
their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now
follow the General, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a
family they are!” was her secret remark.

In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her
arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented
environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might
find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. “I shall like
it,” she cried, “beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it
off—let us go to-morrow.” This was readily agreed to, with only a
proviso of Miss Tilney’s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was
sure it would not. At twelve o’clock, they were to call for her in
Pulteney Street; and “Remember—twelve o’clock,” was her parting speech
to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established
friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a
fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening.
Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she
cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather
early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her
chair all the way home.




CHAPTER 11


The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a
few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she
allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for
confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and
barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.
She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen’s opinion was more positive.
“She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the
clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.”

At about eleven o’clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
windows caught Catherine’s watchful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it
will be wet,” broke from her in a most desponding tone.

“I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen.

“No walk for me to-day,” sighed Catherine; “but perhaps it may come to
nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”

“Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”

“Oh! that will not signify; I never mind dirt.”

“No,” replied her friend very placidly, “I know you never mind dirt.”

After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Catherine,
as she stood watching at a window.

“So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”

“There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
umbrella!”

“They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a
chair at any time.”

“It was such a nice-looking morning! i felt so convinced it would be
dry!”

“Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in
the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put
on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder
he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.”

The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five
minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept
on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as
hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not
be able to go, my dear.”

“I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter
after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do
think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after
twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! that we had such
weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the
south of France!—the night that poor St. Aubin died!—such beautiful
weather!”

At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather
was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment,
the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite
by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she
instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy
appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon
would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always
thought it would clear up.” But whether Catherine might still expect
her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney
to venture, must yet be a question.

It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the
pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely
watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach
of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that
had surprised her so much a few mornings back.

“Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! they are coming for
me perhaps—but I shall not go—I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss
Tilney may still call.” Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon
with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he
was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. “Make haste! make haste!”
as he threw open the door. “Put on your hat this moment—there is no
time to be lost—we are going to Bristol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”

“To Bristol! is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go
with you to-day, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every
moment.” This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all;
Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in,
to give their assistance. “My sweetest Catherine, is not this
delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your
brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at
breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should
have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable
rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall
do delightfully. Oh! i am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
country air and quiet! so much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We
shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner
is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston.”

“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland.

“You croaking fellow!” cried Thorpe. “We shall be able to do ten times
more. Kingsweston! aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.”

“Blaize Castle!” cried Catherine. “What is that?”

“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to
see.”

“What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”

“The oldest in the kingdom.”

“But is it like what one reads of?”

“Exactly—the very same.”

“But now really—are there towers and long galleries?”

“By dozens.”

“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.”

“Not go! my beloved creature, what do you mean?”

“I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”

“Not they indeed,” cried Thorpe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street,
I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”

“I do not know indeed.”

“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
smart-looking girl.”

“Did you indeed?”

“Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too.”

“It is very odd! but I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
walk.”

“And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk!
You could no more walk than you could fly! it has not been so dirty the
whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”

Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an
idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”

“I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go
up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”

“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”

“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is
dryer, and call by and by?”

“Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks.”

“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”

“Just as you please, my dear.”

“Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,” was the general cry. Mrs.
Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose
you go.” And in two minutes they were off.

Catherine’s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very
unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in
degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had
acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later
than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite
of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the
course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help
thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To
feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the
delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented
Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console
her for almost anything.

They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
“Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”

“Who? Where?”

“On the right-hand pavement—she must be almost out of sight now.”
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s
arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at
her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss
Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop,
I will get out this moment and go to them.” But to what purpose did she
speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys,
who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight
round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself
whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of
another street, she entreated him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr.
Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss
Tilney.” But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his
horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as
she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the
point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How could
you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them
driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the
world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! to go by them,
too, without saying a word! you do not know how vexed I am; I shall
have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten
thousand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could
you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?” Thorpe defended himself
very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his
life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney
himself.

Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in
their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were
short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she
still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be
disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be
thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all
the happiness which its walls could supply—the happiness of a progress
through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of
magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the happiness
of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low,
grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total
darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any
mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo
from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know
what was the matter. The others then came close enough for
conversation, and Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is
too late to go on to-day; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have
been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than
seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will
never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it
off till another day, and turn round.”

“It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

“If your brother had not got such a d—— beast to drive,” said he soon
afterwards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have
trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have
almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded
jade’s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his
own.”

“No, he is not,” said Catherine warmly, “for I am sure he could not
afford it.”

“And why cannot he afford it?”

“Because he has not money enough.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud,
incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a
d—— thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not
afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less
disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so;
and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.

As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and
lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting
off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady
had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying
no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went
away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked
slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on
hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, “I am glad your
brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a
strange, wild scheme.”

They all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was
disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of
commerce, in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with
Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn
at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was
spoken more than once. “How I pity the poor creatures that are going
there! how glad I am that I am not amongst them! i wonder whether it
will be a full ball or not! they have not begun dancing yet. I would
not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening
now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I
know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that
is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am
sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you.
I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men think
yourselves of such consequence.”

Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they
appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she
offered. “Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,” she whispered. “You
will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but
the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It
was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I
should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a
friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;
he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! what a delightful hand
you have got! kings, I vow! i never was so happy in my life! i would
fifty times rather you should have them than myself.”

And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
true heroine’s portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with
tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night’s
rest in the course of the next three months.




CHAPTER 12


“Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm
in my calling on Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not be easy till I have
explained everything.”

“Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
always wears white.”

Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
herself of General Tilney’s lodgings, for though she believed they were
in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen’s
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she
was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her
conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and
resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see
her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to
believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for
Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her
card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did
not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney _was_ at home,
and too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,
could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at
a window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She
was followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
and they turned up towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep
mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself
at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she
remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers
might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of
unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of
rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.

Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first
place, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the
second, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre
accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;
she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were
habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she
knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered everything else of the kind
“quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own expectation of
pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing
her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any
wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the
sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the
opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no
longer excite genuine merriment—no longer keep her whole attention.
Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite box;
and, for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry
Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be
suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn
from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look
towards her, and he bowed—but such a bow! no smile, no continued
observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their
former direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost
have run round to the box in which he sat and forced him to hear her
explanation. Feelings rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead
of considering her own dignity injured by this ready
condemnation—instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to
show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to
leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with
somebody else—she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at
least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of
explaining its cause.

The play concluded—the curtain fell—Henry Tilney was no longer to be
seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes
he appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke
with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such
calmness was he answered by the latter: “Oh! mr. Tilney, I have been
quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have
thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs.
Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone
out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten
thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”

“My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply.

Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away;
it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and
he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We
were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk
after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look
back on purpose.”

“But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such
a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to
him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not—Oh! you were
not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have
stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you.”

Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile,
he said everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret,
and dependence on Catherine’s honour. “Oh, do not say Miss Tilney was
not angry,” cried Catherine, “because I know she was; for she would not
see me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the
next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted.
Perhaps you did not know I had been there.”

“I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she
has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such
incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
that my father—they were just preparing to walk out, and he being
hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off—made a point of her
being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,
and meant to make her apology as soon as possible.”

Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
gentleman: “But, Mr. Tilney, why were _you_ less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
suppose it to be only a mistake, why should _you_ be so ready to take
offence?”

“Me! i take offence!”

“Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
angry.”

“I angry! i could have no right.”

“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”
He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.

He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,
however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon
as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,
she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the
world.

While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten
minutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and
she felt something more than surprise when she thought she could
perceive herself the object of their attention and discourse. What
could they have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like
her appearance: she found it was implied in his preventing her
admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few
minutes. “How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father?” was her anxious
inquiry, as she pointed them out to her companion. He knew nothing
about it; but his father, like every military man, had a very large
acquaintance.

When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which
had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by
asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking
with General Tilney: “He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! stout,
active—looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I
assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.”

“But how came you to know him?”

“Know him! there are few people much about town that I do not know. I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again to-day
the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we
have, by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was
almost afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me;
and, if I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever
was made in this world—I took his ball exactly—but I could not make you
understand it without a table; however, I _did_ beat him. A very fine
fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he
gives famous dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of?
You. Yes, by heavens! and the General thinks you the finest girl in
Bath.”

“Oh! nonsense! how can you say so?”

“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done, General,
said I; I am quite of your mind.”

Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it,
continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her
entreating him to have done.

That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the
family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much
more, for her than could have been expected.




CHAPTER 13


Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the
week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on
the afternoon’s Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In
a private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom
had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less
anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided
the weather were fair, the party should take place on the following
morning; and they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in
good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s approbation
secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it. She had left
them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the
plan was completed, and as soon as she came again, her agreement was
demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella,
Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The
engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the former
attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had
that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk
to-morrow; it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any account,
retract. But that she _must_ and _should_ retract, was instantly the
eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton to-morrow, they
would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk
for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Catherine was
distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to
Miss Tilney. I cannot go.” This availed nothing. The same arguments
assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not hear
of a refusal. “It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had
just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off
the walk till Tuesday.”

“No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
engagement.” But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on
her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most
endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so
dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all
in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained
by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to
influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so
little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. “I cannot help being
jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
love you so excessively! when once my affections are placed, it is not
in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my own
peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers
does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up
everything else.”

Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?
Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of
everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, “Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out
any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a
friend—I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.”

This was the first time of her brother’s openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they
would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and
everybody might then be satisfied. But “No, no, no!” was the immediate
answer; “that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not
go to town on Tuesday.” Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and
a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of
cold resentment said, “Very well, then there is an end of the party. If
Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.”

“Catherine, you must go,” said James.

“But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go.”

“Thank ye,” cried Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my
sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I
do. I only go for the sake of driving you.”

“That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.

The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and
her arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at
war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
distressed, but always steady.

“I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,” said James;
“you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the
kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.”

“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feelingly; “but indeed
I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”

“I suspect,” said Isabella, in a low voice, “there is no great
struggle.”

Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined
by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have
settled the matter, and now we may all go to-morrow with a safe
conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”

“You have not!” cried Catherine.

“I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me
to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to
Clifton with us to-morrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking
with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as
convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty
good thought of mine—hey?”

Isabella’s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and
James too looked happy again.

“A most heavenly thought indeed! now, my sweet Catherine, all our
distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a
most delightful party.”

“This will not do,” said Catherine; “I cannot submit to this. I must
run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.”

Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry.
When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday
would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make
any further objection.

“I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.
If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss
Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know
that Mr. Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into
one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;
Isabella, do not hold me.”

Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and
were at home by this time.

“Then I will go after them,” said Catherine; “wherever they are I will
go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.” And
with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have
darted after her, but Morland withheld him. “Let her go, let her go, if
she will go.”

“She is as obstinate as—”

Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a
proper one.

Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As
she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to
disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney,
to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
merely her own gratification; _that_ might have been ensured in some
degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their
opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to
restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not
be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,
she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of
Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their
lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that
she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him
proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which
happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the
drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her
explanation, defective only in being—from her irritation of nerves and
shortness of breath—no explanation at all, was instantly given. “I am
come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I never promised to go—I
told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a great hurry to
explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would not stay for
the servant.”

The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe _had_
given the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself
greatly surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her
in resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as
much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of
knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager
declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as
she could desire.

The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to
her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
politeness as recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her
think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
anxious attention was the General’s civility carried, that not aware of
her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
apartment herself. “What did William mean by it? He should make a point
of inquiring into the matter.” And if Catherine had not most warmly
asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.

After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,
and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if
she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest of
the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was
greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
would expect her back every moment. The General declared he could say
no more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded;
but on some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given,
they would not refuse to spare her to her friend. “Oh, no; Catherine
was sure they would not have the least objection, and she should have
great pleasure in coming.” The General attended her himself to the
street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs,
admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded exactly with
the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most graceful bows
she had ever beheld, when they parted.

Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to
Pulteney Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity,
though she had never thought of it before. She reached home without
seeing anything more of the offended party; and now that she had been
triumphant throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her
walk, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt
whether she had been perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and
if she had given way to their entreaties, she should have been spared
the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a
scheme of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps through her means.
To ease her mind, and ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced
person what her own conduct had really been, she took occasion to
mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother and the
Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. “Well,”
said he, “and do you think of going too?”

“No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they
told me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could
I?”

“No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country
in open carriages! now and then it is very well; but going to inns and
public places together! it is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe
should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs.
Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of
thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects objectionable?”

“Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You are splashed getting in and
getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every
direction. I hate an open carriage myself.”

“I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has
an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them
by young men, to whom they are not even related?”

“Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”

“Dear madam,” cried Catherine, “then why did not you tell me so before?
I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with
Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
I was doing wrong.”

“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people _will_ be young people,
as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first
came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do
not like to be always thwarted.”

“But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
would have found me hard to persuade.”

“As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,” said Mr.
Allen; “and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr.
Thorpe any more.”

“That is just what I was going to say,” added his wife.

Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
moment’s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper
and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of
which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that
Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in
spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from
doing any such thing. “You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is
old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to
advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however,
you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and
you will be only getting ill will.”

Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her
own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the
danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one
of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the
Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in
order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one
breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?




CHAPTER 14


The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no
dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her
at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They
determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose
beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
from almost every opening in Bath.

“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
the river, “without thinking of the south of France.”

“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.

“Oh! no, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The
Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”

“Why not?”

“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better
books.”

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s
works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember
finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”

“Yes,” added Miss Tilney, “and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.”

“Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get
on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the
promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at
a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you
are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I
reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”

“I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
novels amazingly.”

“It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do—for they
read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.
Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ and ‘Have you read that?’ I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say?—I want an appropriate
simile.—as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when
she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had
the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were
a good little girl working your sampler at home!”

“Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?”

“The nicest—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
upon the binding.”

“Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding
fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking
the same liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not
suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall
be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”

“I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong;
but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?”

“Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are
taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! it
is a very nice word indeed! it does for everything. Originally perhaps
it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or
refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or
their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised
in that one word.”

“While, in fact,” cried his sister, “it ought only to be applied to
you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise.
Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the
utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms
we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind
of reading?”

“To say the truth, I do not much like any other.”

“Indeed!”

“That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do
not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be
interested in. Can you?”

“Yes, I am fond of history.”

“I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and
kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I
often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it
must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes’ mouths,
their thoughts and designs—the chief of all this must be invention, and
invention is what delights me in other books.”

“Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their
flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
am fond of history—and am very well contented to take the false with
the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in
former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I
conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one’s own
observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they
are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn
up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made—and probably
with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than
if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.”

“You are fond of history! and so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I
have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my
small circle of friends is remarkable! at this rate, I shall not pity
the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books,
it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great
volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look
into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls,
always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right
and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s courage that could
sit down on purpose to do it.”

“That little boys and girls should be tormented,” said Henry, “is what
no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can
deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must
observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no
higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well
qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
time of life. I use the verb ‘to torment,’ as I observed to be your own
method, instead of ‘to instruct,’ supposing them to be now admitted as
synonymous.”

“You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had
been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning
their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how
stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor
mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every
day of my life at home, you would allow that to _torment_ and to
_instruct_ might sometimes be used as synonymous words.”

“Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty
of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may
perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to
be tormented for two or three years of one’s life, for the sake of
being able to read all the rest of it. Consider—if reading had not been
taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain—or perhaps might not
have written at all.”

Catherine assented—and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady’s
merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the
eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of
being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing—nothing of taste:
and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little
profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to
her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to
contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter
before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the
top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of
a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced
shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To
come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would
always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of
knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a
great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them
too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more
in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own
advantages—did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever
young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the
present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge,
declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw;
and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he
became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.
He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens
and perspectives—lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a
scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a
landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her
with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline,
and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the
withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general,
to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and
government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from
politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which
succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an
end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered
these words, “I have heard that something very shocking indeed will
soon come out in London.”

Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, “Indeed! and of what nature?”

“That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it
is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.”

“Good heaven! where could you hear of such a thing?”

“A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from
London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect
murder and everything of the kind.”

“You speak with astonishing composure! but I hope your friend’s
accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known
beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to
prevent its coming to effect.”

“Government,” said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires
nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
government cares not how much.”

The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, “Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you
can? No—I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither
sound nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want
observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.”

“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”

“Riot! what riot?”

“My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a
frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you
understand? And you, Miss Morland—my stupid sister has mistaken all
your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London—and
instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have
done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling
in St. George’s Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light
Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment
of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means
a simpleton in general.”

Catherine looked grave. “And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in
general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”

“I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.”

“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”

“What am I to do?”

“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of
women.”

“Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the
women in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I
happen to be in company.”

“That is not enough. Be more serious.”

“Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
never find it necessary to use more than half.”

“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely
misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any
woman at all, or an unkind one of me.”

It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never
be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must
always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as
ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and
though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her
friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they
parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen
as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner
on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen’s side,
and the only difficulty on Catherine’s was in concealing the excess of
her pleasure.

The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James
had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she
became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little
effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her
anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the
morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable
yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment’s delay, walked
out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe
as she was loitering towards Edgar’s Buildings between two of the
sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the
morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken
place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said Miss Anne, “and I am
sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well
off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world,
for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went
with your brother, and John drove Maria.”

Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of
the arrangement.

“Oh! yes,” rejoined the other, “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to
go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire
her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go,
if they pressed me ever so much.”

Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, “I wish
you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.”

“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I
would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia
when you overtook us.”

Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had
not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily
wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella
to resent her resistance any longer.




CHAPTER 15


Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness
in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a
matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings. The two
youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne’s
quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of
asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday’s party. Maria
desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine
immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful
scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had
been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive.
Such was the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded
thus much in detail—that they had driven directly to the York Hotel,
ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the
pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and
spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook’s, and hurrying
back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in
the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not
up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he
could hardly get it along.

Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was
nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria’s intelligence concluded
with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she
represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.

“She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help
it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because
she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour
again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a
little matter that puts me out of temper.”

Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such
happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began:
“Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not
deceived you. Oh, that arch eye of yours! it sees through everything.”

Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.

“Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, “compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and
talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my
note? Sly creature! oh! my dear Catherine, you alone, who know my
heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most
charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will
your excellent father and mother say? Oh! heavens! when I think of them
I am so agitated!”

Catherine’s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,
she cried out, “Good heaven! my dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can
you—can you really be in love with James?”

This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having
continually watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the
course of their yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession
of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James.
Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder,
and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! new to such circumstances,
the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated
it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life
can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not
express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The
happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the
fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.

Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the prospect of the
connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my
Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much
more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”

This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.

“You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland
came to us last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart
was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair
done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John
introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.”

Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she
had never in her life thought him handsome.

“I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought
your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a
wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! catherine, the many sleepless
nights I have had on your brother’s account! i would not have you
suffer half what I have done! i am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I
will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it.
I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking
of my partiality for the church! but my secret I was always sure would
be safe with _you_.”

Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor
refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate
sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was
preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his
situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation
to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
their son’s wishes. “It is impossible,” said she, “for parents to be
more kind, or more desirous of their children’s happiness; I have no
doubt of their consenting immediately.”

“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.
Your brother, who might marry anybody!”

Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.

“Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify.”

“Oh! my sweet Catherine, in _your_ generous heart I know it would
signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many.
As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had
I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your
brother would be my only choice.”

This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave
Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than
in uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her
frequent declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.”

“For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are
really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would
not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired
village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about
Richmond.”

“Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
be near us.”

“I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near
_you_, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! i will not allow
myself to think of such things, till we have your father’s answer.
Morland says that by sending it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it
to-morrow. To-morrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the
letter. I know it will be the death of me.”

A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.

Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not
been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that
he would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness
to have him gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how
far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven’s
sake, waste no more time. There, go, go—I insist on it.”

The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were
inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours
flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with
everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to
consider Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance
imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and
add their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill
up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger
sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve
seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her
heart at ease by the sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening
was spent in a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on
one side in the mystery of an affected secret, on the other of
undefined discovery, all equally acute.

Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of
reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more
desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a
state of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress be
found? “I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind
parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done
to forward my happiness,” were the first three lines, a

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