Chapter 25

by Jane Austen

　　The visions of romance were over. Catherine wascompletely awakened. Henry's address, short as it had been,had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of herlate fancies than all their several disappointments had done.Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry.It was not only with herself that she was sunk--butwith Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal,was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever.The liberty which her imagination had dared to take withthe character of his father--could he ever forgive it? Theabsurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they everbe forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express.He had--she thought he had, once or twice before thisfatal morning, shown something like affection for her.But now--in short, she made herself as miserable aspossible for about half an hour, went down when the clockstruck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely givean intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well.The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room,and the only difference in his behaviour to her wasthat he paid her rather more attention than usual.Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he lookedas if he was aware of it.

　　The evening wore away with no abatement of thissoothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raisedto a modest tranquillity. She did not learn eitherto forget or defend the past; but she learned to hopethat it would never transpire farther, and that it mightnot cost her Henry's entire regard. Her thoughts beingstill chiefly fixed on what she had with such causelessterror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer thanthat it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,each trifling circumstance receiving importance froman imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forcedto bend to one purpose by a mind which, before sheentered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened.She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for aknowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuationhad been created, the mischief settled, long before herquitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be tracedto the influence of that sort of reading which she hadthere indulged.

　　Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works,and charming even as were the works of all her imitators,it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at leastin the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for.Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests andtheir vices, they might give a faithful delineation;and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might beas fruitful in horrors as they were there represented.Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and evenof that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northernand western extremities. But in the central part ofEngland there was surely some security for the existenceeven of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land,and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated,servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleepingpotions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist.Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were nomixed characters. There, such as were not as spotlessas an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend.But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed,in their hearts and habits, there was a general thoughunequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction,she would not be surprised if even in Henry and EleanorTilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear;and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledgesome actual specks in the character of their father, who,though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions whichshe must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe,upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.

　　Her mind made up on these several points,and her resolution formed, of always judging and actingin future with the greatest good sense, she had nothingto do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever;and the lenient hand of time did much for her byinsensible gradations in the course of another day.Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct,in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner thanshe could have supposed it possible in the beginning ofher distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable,and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement byanything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,under which she believed they must always tremble--themention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she didnot love the sight of japan in any shape: but even shecould allow that an occasional memento of past folly,however painful, might not be without use.

　　The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed tothe alarms of romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabellagrew every day greater. She was quite impatient to knowhow the Bath world went on, and how the rooms were attended;and especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella'shaving matched some fine netting-cotton, on which shehad left her intent; and of her continuing on the bestterms with James. Her only dependence for informationof any kind was on Isabella. James had protested againstwriting to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allenhad given her no hopes of a letter till she had got backto Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again;and when she promised a thing, she was so scrupulousin performing it! This made it so particularly strange!

　　For nine successive mornings, Catherine wonderedover the repetition of a disappointment, which eachmorning became more severe: but, on the tenth, when sheentered the breakfast-room, her first object was a letter,held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked himas heartily as if he had written it himself. "'Tis onlyfrom James, however," as she looked at the direction.She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this purpose:

　　"Dear Catherine,

　　"Though, God knows, with little inclinationfor writing, I think it my duty to tell you thateverything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me.I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see eitheragain. I shall not enter into particulars--theywould only pain you more. You will soon hear enoughfrom another quarter to know where lies the blame;and I hope will acquit your brother of everythingbut the folly of too easily thinking his affectionreturned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! Butit is a heavy blow! After my father's consent hadbeen so kindly given--but no more of this. She hasmade me miserable forever! Let me soon hear fromyou, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; yourlove I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northangermay be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagementknown, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced.Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;his honest heart would feel so much. I have writtento him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me morethan all; till the very last, if I reasoned withher, she declared herself as much attached to me asever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed tothink how long I bore with it; but if ever man hadreason to believe himself loved, I was that man.I cannot understand even now what she would be at,for there could be no need of my being played offto make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last bymutual consent--happy for me had we never met! Ican never expect to know such another woman! DearestCatherine, beware how you give your heart."Believe me," &c.

　　Catherine had not read three lines before her suddenchange of countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowingwonder, declared her to be receiving unpleasant news;and Henry, earnestly watching her through the whole letter,saw plainly that it ended no better than it began.He was prevented, however, from even looking his surpriseby his father's entrance. They went to breakfast directly;but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filledher eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat.The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap,and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knewnot what she did. The general, between his cocoa andhis newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her;but to the other two her distress was equally visible.As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried awayto her own room; but the housemaids were busy in it,and she was obliged to come down again. She turnedinto the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanorhad likewise retreated thither, and were at that momentdeep in consultation about her. She drew back,trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence,forced to return; and the others withdrew, after Eleanor hadaffectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfortto her.

　　After half an hour's free indulgence of grief andreflection, Catherine felt equal to encountering her friends;but whether she should make her distress known to them wasanother consideration. Perhaps, if particularly questioned,she might just give an idea--just distantly hint atit--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friendas Isabella had been to her--and then their own brotherso closely concerned in it! She believed she must waivethe subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor were by themselvesin the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place atthe table, and, after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No badnews from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--yourbrothers and sisters--I hope they are none of them ill?"

　　"No, I thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "they areall very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford."

　　Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and thenspeaking through her tears, she added, "I do not thinkI shall ever wish for a letter again!"

　　"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he hadjust opened; "if I had suspected the letter of containinganything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings."

　　"It contained something worse than anybody couldsuppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know why."

　　"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,"replied Henry warmly, "must be a comfort to him underany distress."

　　"I have one favour to beg," said Catherine,shortly afterwards, in an agitated manner, "that, ifyour brother should be coming here, you will giveme notice of it, that I may go away."

　　"Our brother! Frederick!"

　　"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave youso soon, but something has happened that would make it verydreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney."

　　Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed withincreasing astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth,and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included,passed his lips.

　　"How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you haveguessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked aboutit in Bath, you little thought of its ending so.Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabellahas deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Couldyou have believed there had been such inconstancyand fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?"

　　"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed.I hope he has not had any material share in bringing onMr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpeis not probable. I think you must be deceived so far.I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that anyone youlove should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greaterat Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."

　　"It is very true, however; you shall readJames's letter yourself. Stay-- There is one part--"recollecting with a blush the last line.

　　"Will you take the trouble of reading to usthe passages which concern my brother?"

　　"No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose secondthoughts were clearer. "I do not know what I wasthinking of" (blushing again that she had blushed before);"James only means to give me good advice."

　　He gladly received the letter, and, having readit through, with close attention, returned it saying,"Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorryfor it. Frederick will not be the first man who haschosen a wife with less sense than his family expected.I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son."

　　Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now readthe letter likewise, and, having expressed also herconcern and surprise, began to inquire into Miss Thorpe'sconnections and fortune.

　　"Her mother is a very good sort of woman,"was Catherine's answer.

　　"What was her father?"

　　"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."

　　"Are they a wealthy family?"

　　"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has anyfortune at all: but that will not signify in your family.Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other daythat he only valued money as it allowed him to promote thehappiness of his children." The brother and sister lookedat each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause,"would it be to promote his happiness, to enable himto marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one,or she could not have used your brother so. And howstrange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who,before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarilyentered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable,Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly!Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"

　　"That is the most unpromising circumstance,the strongest presumption against him. When I thinkof his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I havetoo good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to supposethat she would part with one gentleman before the otherwas secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He isa deceased man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for yoursister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you mustdelight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affectionsstrong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise."

　　"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in,"said Eleanor with a smile.

　　"But perhaps," observed Catherine, "though she hasbehaved so ill by our family, she may behave betterby yours. Now she has really got the man she likes,she may be constant."

　　"Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry;"I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronetshould come in her way; that is Frederick's only chance.I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals."

　　"You think it is all for ambition, then? And,upon my word, there are some things that seem very like it.I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my fatherwould do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that itwas not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's characterin my life before."

　　"Among all the great variety that you have knownand studied."

　　"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great;but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly everrecover it."

　　"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitiedat present; but we must not, in our concern forhis sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose,that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feela void in your heart which nothing else can occupy.Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusementsin which you were wont to share at Bath, the very ideaof them without her is abhorrent. You would not,for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feelthat you have no longer any friend to whom you can speakwith unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence,or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on.You feel all this?"

　　"No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection,"I do not--ought I? To say the truth, though I am hurtand grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I amnever to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again,I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have thought."

　　"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the creditof human nature. Such feelings ought to be investigated,that they may know themselves."

　　Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spiritsso very much relieved by this conversation that she couldnot regret her being led on, though so unaccountably,to mention the circumstance which had produced it.