Bab Bab 25 · 第25章

The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.

Henry’s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her

eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several

disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most

bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was

sunk—but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all

exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her

imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—could he

ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears—could

they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.

He had—she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning,

shown something like affection for her. But now—in short, she made

herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when

the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an

intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well. The

formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only

difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more

attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he

looked as if he was aware of it.

The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;

and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did

not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope

that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her

Henry’s entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what

she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly

be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created

delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an

imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one

purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving

to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared

for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been

created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it

seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of

reading which she had there indulged.

Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and charming even as were

the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human

nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked

for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,

they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the

south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there

represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even

of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western

extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some

security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of

the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated,

servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be

procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and

Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were

not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But

in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their

hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good

and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in

Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter

appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some

actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared

from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have

entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not

perfectly amiable.

Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of

always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she

had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and

the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in

the course of another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness

of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,

was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have

supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits

became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual

improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects,

indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention

of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she did not love the sight of

japan in any shape: but even _she_ could allow that an occasional

memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use.

The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of

romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.

She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the

rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of

Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had

left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James.

Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James

had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and

Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to

Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she

promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! this made it

so particularly strange!

For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of

a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the

tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a

letter, held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily

as if he had written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as

she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to

this purpose:

“Dear Catherine,

“Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it

my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss

Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either

again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you

more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where

lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything

but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank

God! i am undeceived in time! but it is a heavy blow! after my

father’s consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She

has made me miserable forever! let me soon hear from you, dear

Catherine; you are my only friend; _your_ love I do build upon. I

wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney

makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably

circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;

his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my

father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last,

if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me

as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I

bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved,

I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at,

for there could be no need of my being played off to make her

secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me

had we never met! i can never expect to know such another woman!

Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.

“Believe me,” &c.

Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of

countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her

to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her

through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it

began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his

father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could

hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her

cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her

lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she

did. The General, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no

leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally

visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her

own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to

come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but

Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that

moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg

their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the

others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of

being of use or comfort to her.

After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine

felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her

distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if

particularly questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly

hint at it—but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella

had been to her—and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!

She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor

were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,

looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,

after a short silence, Eleanor said, “No bad news from Fullerton, I

hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are

none of them ill?”

“No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well. My

letter was from my brother at Oxford.”

Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through

her tears, she added, “I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter

again!”

“I am sorry,” said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; “if I

had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should

have given it with very different feelings.”

“It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! poor James is

so unhappy! you will soon know why.”

“To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,” replied Henry

warmly, “must be a comfort to him under any distress.”

“I have one favour to beg,” said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an

agitated manner, “that, if your brother should be coming here, you will

give me notice of it, that I may go away.”

“Our brother! frederick!”

“Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but

something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in

the same house with Captain Tilney.”

Eleanor’s work was suspended while she gazed with increasing

astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in

which Miss Thorpe’s name was included, passed his lips.

“How quick you are!” cried Catherine: “you have guessed it, I declare!

And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its

ending so. Isabella—no wonder _now_ I have not heard from her—Isabella

has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! could you have believed

there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is

bad in the world?”

“I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope he

has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland’s

disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you

must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that

anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at

Frederick’s marrying her than at any other part of the story.”

“It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself.

Stay—There is one part—” recollecting with a blush the last line.

“Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern

my brother?”

“No, read it yourself,” cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were

clearer. “I do not know what I was thinking of” (blushing again that

she had blushed before); “James only means to give me good advice.”

He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close

attention, returned it saying, “Well, if it is to be so, I can only say

that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has

chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy

his situation, either as a lover or a son.”

Miss Tilney, at Catherine’s invitation, now read the letter likewise,

and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire

into Miss Thorpe’s connections and fortune.

“Her mother is a very good sort of woman,” was Catherine’s answer.

“What was her father?”

“A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney.”

“Are they a wealthy family?”

“No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but

that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!

He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to

promote the happiness of his children.” The brother and sister looked

at each other. “But,” said Eleanor, after a short pause, “would it be

to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must

be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And

how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! a girl who, before his

eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another

man! is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his

heart so proudly! who found no woman good enough to be loved!”

“That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption

against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.

Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to

suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was

secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! he is a deceased

man—defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,

and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! open, candid, artless,

guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,

and knowing no disguise.”

“Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,” said Eleanor with a

smile.

“But perhaps,” observed Catherine, “though she has behaved so ill by

our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the

man she likes, she may be constant.”

“Indeed I am afraid she will,” replied Henry; “I am afraid she will be

very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is

Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the

arrivals.”

“You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are

some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she

first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite

disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s

character in my life before.”

“Among all the great variety that you have known and studied.”

“My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor

James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it.”

“Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we

must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You

feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you

feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is

becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to

share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You

would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that

you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on

whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any

difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?”

“No,” said Catherine, after a few moments’ reflection, “I do not—ought

I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still

love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her

again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have

thought.”

“You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human

nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know

themselves.”

Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much

relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led

on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had

produced it.