Chương Chương 15 · 第15章

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, and in one moment

all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over

Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits

became almost too high for control, and she called herself without

scruple the happiest of mortals.

Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her

visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with

satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was “dear

John” and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria”

must immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two “dears” at

once before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child

had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only

bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the

finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his

praise.

The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing

little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was

deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella

could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s

promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what

means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to be

resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her

disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of

an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a

rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end

of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at

Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a

carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant

exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.

When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had

only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set

off. “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the

parlour, “I am come to bid you good-bye.” Catherine wished him a good

journey. Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window,

fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.

“Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said Catherine. He made no answer;

but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this

marrying scheme, upon my soul! a clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s.

What do you think of it, Miss Morland? _I_ say it is no bad notion.”

“I am sure I think it a very good one.”

“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! i am glad you are no enemy to

matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song, ‘Going to One

Wedding Brings on Another?’ I say, you will come to Belle’s wedding, I

hope.”

“Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.”

“And then you know”—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish

laugh—“I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old

song.”

“May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with

Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be going home.”

“Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be

together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a

fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”

“Then why do you stay away so long?” replied Catherine—finding that he

waited for an answer.

“That is kind of you, however—kind and good-natured. I shall not forget

it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody

living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only

good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you

have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”

“Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a

great deal better. Good morning to you.”

“But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton

before it is long, if not disagreeable.”

“Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.”

“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, _you_ will not be sorry to see me.”

“Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.

Company is always cheerful.”

“That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful

company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only

be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say