Northanger Abbey
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?”