Northanger Abbey — EN

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 today,” 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?”

“To Bris­tol! Is not that a great way off? But, how­ev­er, I can­not go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment.” This was of course vehe­ment­ly talked down as no rea­son at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to sec­ond him, and the two oth­ers walked in, to give their assis­tance. “My sweet­est Cather­ine, is not this delight­ful? We shall have a most heav­en­ly dri­ve. You are to thank your broth­er and me for the scheme; it dart­ed into our heads at break­fast-time, I ver­i­ly believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not sig­ni­fy, the nights are moon­light, and we shall do delight­ful­ly. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a lit­tle coun­try air and qui­et! So much bet­ter than going to the Low­er Rooms. We shall dri­ve direct­ly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as din­ner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingswe­st­on.”

“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland.

“You croak­ing fel­low!” cried Thor­pe. “We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingswe­st­on! Aye, and Blaize Cas­tle too, and any­thing else we can hear of; but here is your sis­ter says she will not go.”

“Blaize Cas­tle!” cried Cather­ine. “What is that?”

“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to see.”

“What, is it real­ly a cas­tle, an old castle?”

“The old­est in the kingdom.”

“But is it like what one reads of?”

“Exactly—the very same.”

“But now really—are there tow­ers and long galleries?”

“By dozens.”

“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I can­not go.

“Not go! My beloved crea­ture, what do you mean’?”

“I can­not go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fear­ful of Isabella’s smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her broth­er to call on me to take a coun­try walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”

“Not they indeed,” cried Thor­pe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them—does he not dri­ve a phaeton with bright chest­nuts?”

“I do not know indeed.”

“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talk­ing of the man you danced with last night, are not you?”

“Yes.

“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lans­down Road, dri­ving a smart-look­ing girl.”

“Did you indeed?”

“Did upon my soul; knew him again direct­ly, and he seemed to have got some very pret­ty cat­tle too.”

“It is very odd! But I sup­pose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk.”

“And well they might, for I nev­er saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole win­ter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”

Isabel­la cor­rob­o­rat­ed it: “My dear­est Cather­ine, you can­not form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you can­not refuse going now.”

“I should like to see the cas­tle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every stair­case, and into every suite of rooms?”

“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”

“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dry­er, and call by and by?”

“Make your­self easy, there is no dan­ger of that, for I heard Tilney hal­loo­ing to a man who was just pass­ing by on horse­back, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks.”

“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”

“Just as you please, my dear.”

“Mrs. Allen, you must per­suade her to go,” was the gen­er­al cry. Mrs. Allen was not inat­ten­tive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “sup­pose you go.” And in two min­utes they were off.

Catherine’s feel­ings, as she got into the car­riage, were in a very unset­tled state; divid­ed between regret for the loss of one great plea­sure, and the hope of soon enjoy­ing anoth­er, almost its equal in degree, how­ev­er unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had act­ed quite well by her, in so read­i­ly giv­ing up their engage­ment, with­out send­ing her any mes­sage of excuse. It was now but an hour lat­er than the time fixed on for the begin­ning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the prodi­gious accu­mu­la­tion of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not from her own obser­va­tion help think­ing that they might have gone with very lit­tle incon­ve­nience. To feel her­self slight­ed by them was very painful. On the oth­er hand, the delight of explor­ing an edi­fice like Udolpho, as her fan­cy rep­re­sent­ed Blaize Cas­tle to be, was such a coun­ter­poise of good as might con­sole her for almost anything.

They passed briskly down Pul­teney Street, and through Lau­ra Place, with­out the exchange of many words. Thor­pe talked to his horse, and she med­i­tat­ed, by turns, on bro­ken promis­es and bro­ken arch­es, phaetons and false hang­ings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Build­ings, how­ev­er, she was roused by this address from her com­pan­ion, “Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”

“Who? Where?”

“On the right-hand pave­ment—she must be almost out of sight now.” Cather­ine looked round and saw Miss Tilney lean­ing on her brother’s arm, walk­ing slow­ly down the street. She saw them both look­ing back at her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thor­pe,” she impa­tient­ly cried; “it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them.” But to what pur­pose did she speak? Thor­pe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the cor­ner of Lau­ra Place, and in anoth­er moment she was her­self whisked into the mar­ket­place. Still, how­ev­er, and dur­ing the length of anoth­er street, she entreat­ed him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thor­pe. I can­not go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney.” But Mr. Thor­pe only laughed, smacked his whip, encour­aged his horse, made odd nois­es, and drove on; and Cather­ine, angry and vexed as she was, hav­ing no pow­er of get­ting away, was oblig­ed to give up the point and sub­mit. Her reproach­es, how­ev­er, were not spared. “How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thor­pe? How could you say that you saw them dri­ving up the Lans­down Road? I would not have had it hap­pen so for the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, with­out say­ing a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no plea­sure at Clifton, nor in any­thing else. I had rather, ten thou­sand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw them dri­ving out in a phaeton?” Thor­pe defend­ed him­self very stout­ly, declared he had nev­er seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hard­ly give up the point of its hav­ing been Tilney himself.

Their dri­ve, even when this sub­ject was over, was not like­ly to be very agree­able. Catherine’s com­plai­sance was no longer what it had been in their for­mer air­ing. She lis­tened reluc­tant­ly, and her replies were short. Blaize Cas­tle remained her only com­fort; towards that, she still looked at inter­vals with plea­sure; though rather than be dis­ap­point­ed of the promised walk, and espe­cial­ly rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would will­ing­ly have giv­en up all the hap­pi­ness which its walls could supply—the hap­pi­ness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibit­ing the remains of mag­nif­i­cent fur­ni­ture, though now for many years deserted—the hap­pi­ness of being stopped in their way along nar­row, wind­ing vaults, by a low, grat­ed door; or even of hav­ing their lamp, their only lamp, extin­guished by a sud­den gust of wind, and of being left in total dark­ness. In the mean­while, they pro­ceed­ed on their jour­ney with­out any mis­chance, and were with­in view of the town of Keyn­sham, when a hal­loo from Mor­land, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the mat­ter. The oth­ers then came close enough for con­ver­sa­tion, and Mor­land said, “We had bet­ter go back, Thor­pe; it is too late to go on today; your sis­ter thinks so as well as I. We have been exact­ly an hour com­ing from Pul­teney Street, very lit­tle more than sev­en miles; and, I sup­pose, we have at least eight more to go. It will nev­er do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much bet­ter put it off till anoth­er day, and turn round.”

“It is all one to me,” replied Thor­pe rather angri­ly; and instant­ly turn­ing his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

“If your broth­er had not got such a d— beast to dri­ve,” said he soon after­wards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have trot­ted to Clifton with­in the hour, if left to him­self, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed bro­ken-wind­ed jade’s pace. Mor­land is a fool for not keep­ing a horse and gig of his own.”

“No, he is not,” said Cather­ine warm­ly, “for I am sure he could not afford it.”

“And why can­not he afford it?”

“Because he has not mon­ey enough.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thor­pe then said some­thing in the loud, inco­her­ent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d—^121 thing to be miser­ly; and that if peo­ple who rolled in mon­ey could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Cather­ine did not even endeav­our to under­stand. Dis­ap­point­ed of what was to have been the con­so­la­tion for her first dis­ap­point­ment, she was less and less dis­posed either to be agree­able her­self or to find her com­pan­ion so; and they returned to Pul­teney Street with­out her speak­ing twen­ty words.

As she entered the house, the foot­man told her that a gen­tle­man and lady had called and inquired for her a few min­utes after her set­ting off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thor­pe, the lady had asked whether any mes­sage had been left for her; and on his say­ing no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pon­der­ing over these heart-rend­ing tid­ings, Cather­ine walked slow­ly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hear­ing the rea­son of their speedy return, said, “I am glad your broth­er had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.”

They all spent the evening togeth­er at Thorpe’s. Cather­ine was dis­turbed and out of spir­its; but Isabel­la seemed to find a pool of com­merce, in the fate of which she shared, by pri­vate part­ner­ship with Mor­land, a very good equiv­a­lent for the qui­et and coun­try air of an inn at Clifton. Her sat­is­fac­tion, too, in not being at the Low­er Rooms was spo­ken more than once. “How I pity the poor crea­tures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I won­der whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun danc­ing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delight­ful to have an evening now and then to one­self. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity every­body that is. But I dare say, Mr. Mor­land, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well, pray do not let any­body here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well with­out you; but you men think your­selves of such con­se­quence.”

Cather­ine could almost have accused Isabel­la of being want­i­ng in ten­der­ness towards her­self and her sor­rows, so very lit­tle did they appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inad­e­quate was the com­fort she offered. “Do not be so dull, my dear­est crea­ture,” she whis­pered. “You will quite break my heart. It was amaz­ing­ly shock­ing, to be sure; but the Tilneys were entire­ly to blame. Why were not they more punc­tu­al? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that sig­ni­fy? I am sure John and I should not have mind­ed it. I nev­er mind going through any­thing, where a friend is con­cerned; that is my dis­po­si­tion, and John is just the same; he has amaz­ing strong feel­ings. Good heav­ens! What a delight­ful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I nev­er was so hap­py in my life! I would fifty times rather you should have them than myself.”

And now I may dis­miss my hero­ine to the sleep­less couch, which is the true heroine’s por­tion; to a pil­low strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think her­self, if she get anoth­er good night’s rest in the course of the next three months.