Northanger Abbey
strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four
and twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but
in circumstances how different! with what cheerful ease, what happy,
though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying
everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going
to Woodston for a day! happy, happy breakfast! for Henry had been
there; Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections were long
indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep
in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first
thing to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine’s
colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was
treated, striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made
her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
impelled into resolution and speech.
“You _must_ write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you _must_ let me hear
from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I
shall not have an hour’s comfort. For _one_ letter, at all risks, all
hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that
you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then,
till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not
expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under
cover to Alice.”
“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home
safe.”
Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at
a distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying
it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly
said, “Oh, Eleanor, I _will_ write to you indeed.”
There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided
with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting
it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to
be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till
that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for
this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house
without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon
announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each
other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by
either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent
friend.” But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of
restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could
with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the
chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.
CHAPTER 29
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