บทที่ บทที่ 29 · 第29章

Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no

terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or

feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage,

in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the

walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of

ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was

capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now

travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily

passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles,

every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects

on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every

mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and

when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to

it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and

agitation were excessive.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest

of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the General had

made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so

spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his

actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated

her by his pointed regard—had he even confused her by his too

significant reference! and now—what had she done, or what had she

omitted to do, to merit such a change?

The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been

such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own

heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly

entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.

Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by

any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of

what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and

injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his

indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could

not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification

so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.

Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,

the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more

prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,

and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her

being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every

other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it

sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others

was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.

To the General, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to

Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one

article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose,

the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she

looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from

noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of

Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and

though no object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she

found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by

another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion;

for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the

pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence

such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would

not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own

grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and

perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill

will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt

it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against

them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s

account, it would cut her to the heart.

With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view

of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles

of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger;

but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for

the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great

had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to

distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay

procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could

require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about

eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven

o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.

A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,

in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a

countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several

phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,

behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well

delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author

must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is

widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and

disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.

A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no

attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall

her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups,

and speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus

advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her

biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday

nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her

carriage—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a

rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the

window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to

brighten every eye and occupy every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for

by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four

years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy

the glance that first distinguished Catherine! happy the voice that

proclaimed the discovery! but whether such happiness were the lawful

property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the

door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken

the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as

she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond

anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed,

she was even happy! in the joyfulness of family love everything for a

short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at

first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the

tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor

traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before

any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to

her.

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might

perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her

hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at

all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden

return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any

quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,

when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,

for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any

romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and

lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might

have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what

they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on

such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor

feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,

what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so

suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual

ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as

Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;

and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that “it was a strange

business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all

their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the

sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with

youthful ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless

trouble,” said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not

at all worth understanding.”

“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this

engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?”

“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must

have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;

Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General

Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I

am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all

over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young

people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear

Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but

now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much

changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you

have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.”

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own

amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and

alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s

next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her

ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified

feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,

parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and

though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal

to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being

any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the

parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first

excursion from home, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to

Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her

friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine

reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having

never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough

commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The

strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;

and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing

Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to

her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile

regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment—a

letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of—and, above

all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see,

was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and,

after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that

she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money

therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than

grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate

heart.

“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the

letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens

so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and

you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! poor James! well,

we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will

be better worth keeping.”

Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better

worth keeping than Eleanor.”

“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do

not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in

the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of

meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into

Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting

dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him

with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget

her; and in that case, to meet—! her eyes filled with tears as she

pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her

comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as

another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on

Mrs. Allen.

The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they

walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score

of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but

otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could

not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not

the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without

fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of

her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not

last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life,

for the foolishness of his first choice.”

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could

listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance, and

made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers

swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and

spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not

three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run

backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay,

and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed,

and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it.

Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being

did she return!

She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her

unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally

call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,

on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it

was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.

“Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She

travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till

Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all

of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out

of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd

man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! and it is a great

comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift

very well for herself.”

Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable

resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions

quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His

wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession

hers, with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not

patience with the General”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I

really have not patience with the General,” was uttered twice after Mr.

Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material

digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended

the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately

added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent

in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one

can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath

is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above

half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to

us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.”

“Yes, but _that_ did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes

brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her

existence there.

“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for

nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I

put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you

know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that

evening?”

“Do I! oh! perfectly.”

“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I

always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a

notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my

favourite gown on.”

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,

Mrs. Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the

General! such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! i do not

suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His

lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no

wonder; Milsom Street, you know.”

As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her

daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.

and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or

unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with

her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her

earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but

there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has

very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every

position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very

slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while

Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the

justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting

that _now_ Henry must have arrived at Northanger; _now_ he must have

heard of her departure; and _now_, perhaps, they were all setting off

for Hereford.