Northanger Abbey
“Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.
John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.
But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very
foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of
either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together?
You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that
will support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say,
there is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it;
he could not have received my last.”
“You _do_ acquit me, then, of anything wrong?—You are convinced that I
never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
till this moment?”
“Oh! as to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been.
All that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so
will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than
one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last
person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should be
allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you
know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
“But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the
same. You are describing what never happened.”
“My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into
an engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think
anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your
happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and
who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you,
for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially,
they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why
should a brother’s happiness be dearer to me than a friend’s? You know
I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my
dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you
are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney
says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of
their own affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! here he
comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.”
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,
earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice.
He approached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements
invited him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low,
she could distinguish, “What! always to be watched, in person or by
proxy!”
“Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit,
you know, is pretty independent.”
“I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.”
“My heart, indeed! what can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
“Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so
disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you”
(turning her back on him); “I hope your eyes are not tormented now.”
“Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at
once too much and too little.”
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no
longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her
brother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed
their walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so
amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was
expecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must
excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be
stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their
returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving
Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did
she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling
in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;
unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to James was as
certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or
good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not
looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that
she should not perceive his admiration! catherine longed to give her a
hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her
too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her
brother.
The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as
from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could
mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In
vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in
wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in
love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of
his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had
said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would
never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for
present ease and comfort.
CHAPTER 19
A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of
her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered
creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate
friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners
was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed
unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted
absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would
occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_
might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But
when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions
as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share
with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive
to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what
her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could
not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of
wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was
the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his
present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to
_her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was
greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a
passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of
his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed
herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible
with a knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not, upon
reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother
as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in
her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind
Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double
unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension
was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never
understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney
family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire
was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s removal would
at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney
had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party
to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this,
her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the
subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe,
and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.
“My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.
“Does he? Then why does he stay here?”
He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his
own sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence
will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here,
and it is only staying to be miserable.”
Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do
that.”
“Then you will persuade him to go away?”
“Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even
endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is
engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”
“No, he does not know what he is about,” cried Catherine; “he does not
know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me
so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s
admission of them, that gives the pain?”
“Is not it the same thing?”
“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended
by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only
who can make it a torment.”
Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I
am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and
while my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost
into a fever. You know she must be attached to him.”
“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
“Oh no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
another.”
“It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well,
as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a
little.”
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe
Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”
“I can have no opinion on that subject.”
“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can
he mean by his behaviour?”
“You are a very close questioner.”
“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”
“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”
“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”
“My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure
you I can only guess at.”
“Well?”
“Well! nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves.
To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are
before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless
young man; he has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and
he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.”
“Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “_you_ may
be able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am
sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not