Northanger Abbey — EN

Mon­day, Tues­day, Wednes­day, Thurs­day, Fri­day, and Sat­ur­day have now passed in review before the read­er; the events of each day, its hopes and fears, mor­ti­fi­ca­tions and plea­sures, have been sep­a­rate­ly stat­ed, and the pangs of Sun­day only now remain to be described, and close the week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relin­quished, and on the afternoon’s cres­cent of this day, it was brought for­ward again. In a pri­vate con­sul­ta­tion between Isabel­la and James, the for­mer of whom had par­tic­u­lar­ly set her heart upon going, and the lat­ter no less anx­ious­ly placed his upon pleas­ing her, it was agreed that, pro­vid­ed the weath­er were fair, the par­ty should take place on the fol­low­ing morn­ing; and they were to set off very ear­ly, in order to be at home in good time. The affair thus deter­mined, and Thorpe’s appro­ba­tion secured, Cather­ine only remained to be apprised of it. She had left them for a few min­utes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that inter­val the plan was com­plet­ed, and as soon as she came again, her agree­ment was demand­ed; but instead of the gay acqui­es­cence expect­ed by Isabel­la, Cather­ine looked grave, was very sor­ry, but could not go. The engage­ment which ought to have kept her from join­ing in the for­mer attempt would make it impos­si­ble for her to accom­pa­ny them now. She had that moment set­tled with Miss Tilney to take their pro­posed walk tomor­row; it was quite deter­mined, and she would not, upon any account, retract. But that she must and should retract was instant­ly the eager cry of both the Thor­pes; they must go to Clifton tomor­row, they would not go with­out her, it would be noth­ing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Cather­ine was dis­tressed, but not sub­dued. “Do not urge me, Isabel­la. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I can­not go.” This availed noth­ing. The same argu­ments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not hear of a refusal. “It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just been remind­ed of a pri­or engage­ment, and must only beg to put off the walk till Tuesday.”

“No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no pri­or engage­ment.” But Isabel­la became only more and more urgent, call­ing on her in the most affec­tion­ate man­ner, address­ing her by the most endear­ing names. She was sure her dear­est, sweet­est Cather­ine would not seri­ous­ly refuse such a tri­fling request to a friend who loved her so dear­ly. She knew her beloved Cather­ine to have so feel­ing a heart, so sweet a tem­per, to be so eas­i­ly per­suad­ed by those she loved. But all in vain; Cather­ine felt her­self to be in the right, and though pained by such ten­der, such flat­ter­ing sup­pli­ca­tion, could not allow it to influ­ence her. Isabel­la then tried anoth­er method. She reproached her with hav­ing more affec­tion for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so lit­tle a while, than for her best and old­est friends, with being grown cold and indif­fer­ent, in short, towards her­self. “I can­not help being jeal­ous, Cather­ine, when I see myself slight­ed for strangers, I, who love you so exces­sive­ly! When once my affec­tions are placed, it is not in the pow­er of any­thing to change them. But I believe my feel­ings are stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself sup­plant­ed in your friend­ship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swal­low up every­thing else.”

Cather­ine thought this reproach equal­ly strange and unkind. Was it the part of a friend thus to expose her feel­ings to the notice of oth­ers? Isabel­la appeared to her ungen­er­ous and self­ish, regard­less of every­thing but her own grat­i­fi­ca­tion. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said noth­ing. Isabel­la, in the mean­while, had applied her hand­ker­chief to her eyes; and Mor­land, mis­er­able at such a sight, could not help say­ing, “Nay, Cather­ine. I think you can­not stand out any longer now. The sac­ri­fice is not much; and to oblige such a friend—I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.”

This was the first time of her brother’s open­ly sid­ing against her, and anx­ious to avoid his dis­plea­sure, she pro­posed a com­pro­mise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tues­day, which they might eas­i­ly do, as it depend­ed only on them­selves, she could go with them, and every­body might then be sat­is­fied. But “No, no, no!” was the imme­di­ate answer; “that could not be, for Thor­pe did not know that he might not go to town on Tues­day.” Cather­ine was sor­ry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was bro­ken by Isabel­la, who in a voice of cold resent­ment said, “Very well, then there is an end of the par­ty. If Cather­ine does not go, I can­not. I can­not be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improp­er a thing.”

“Cather­ine, you must go,” said James.

“But why can­not Mr. Thor­pe dri­ve one of his oth­er sis­ters? I dare say either of them would like to go.”

“Thank ye,” cried Thor­pe, “but I did not come to Bath to dri­ve my sis­ters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d— me if I do. I only go for the sake of dri­ving you.”

“That is a com­pli­ment which gives me no plea­sure.” But her words were lost on Thor­pe, who had turned abrupt­ly away.

The three oth­ers still con­tin­ued togeth­er, walk­ing in a most uncom­fort­able man­ner to poor Cather­ine; some­times not a word was said, some­times she was again attacked with sup­pli­ca­tions or reproach­es^, and her arm was still linked with­in Isabella’s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was soft­ened, at anoth­er irri­tat­ed; always dis­tressed^, but always steady.

“I did not think you had been so obsti­nate, Cather­ine,” said James; “you were not used to be so hard to per­suade; you once were the kind­est, best-tem­pered of my sisters.”

“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feel­ing­ly; “but indeed I can­not go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”

“I sus­pect,” said Isabel­la, in a low voice, “there is no great struggle.”

Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabel­la made no oppo­si­tion. Thus passed a long ten min­utes, till they were again joined by Thor­pe, who, com­ing to them with a gay­er look, said, “Well, I have set­tled the mat­ter, and now we may all go tomor­row with a safe con­science. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”

“You have not!” cried Catherine.

“I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, hav­ing just rec­ol­lect­ed a pri­or engage­ment of going to Clifton with us tomor­row, you could not have the plea­sure of walk­ing with her till Tues­day. She said very well, Tues­day was just as con­ve­nient to her; so there is an end of all our dif­fi­cul­ties. A pret­ty good thought of mine—hey?”

Isabella’s coun­te­nance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked hap­py again.

“A most heav­en­ly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Cather­ine, all our dis­tress­es are over; you are hon­ourably acquit­ted, and we shall have a most delight­ful party.”

“This will not do,” said Cather­ine; “I can­not sub­mit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney direct­ly and set her right.”

Isabel­la, how­ev­er, caught hold of one hand, Thor­pe of the oth­er, and remon­strances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When every­thing was set­tled, when Miss Tilney her­self said that Tues­day would suit her as well, it was quite ridicu­lous, quite absurd, to make any fur­ther objec­tion.

“I do not care. Mr. Thor­pe had no busi­ness to invent any such mes­sage. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spo­ken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a rud­er way; and how do I know that Mr. Thor­pe has—He may be mis­tak­en again per­haps; he led me into one act of rude­ness by his mis­take on Fri­day. Let me go, Mr. Thor­pe; Isabel­la, do not hold me.

Thor­pe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turn­ing the cor­ner into Brock Street, when he had over­tak­en them, and were at home by this time.

“Then I will go after them,” said Cather­ine; “wher­ev­er they are I will go after them. It does not sig­ni­fy talk­ing. If I could not be per­suad­ed into doing what I thought wrong, I nev­er will be tricked into it.” And with these words she broke away and hur­ried off. Thor­pe would have dart­ed after her, but Mor­land with­held him. “Let her go, let her go, if she will go. She is as obsti­nate as—“

Thor­pe nev­er fin­ished the sim­i­le, for it could hard­ly have been a prop­er one.

Away walked Cather­ine in great agi­ta­tion, as fast as the crowd would per­mit her, fear­ful of being pur­sued, yet deter­mined to per­se­vere. As she walked, she reflect­ed on what had passed. It was painful to her to dis­ap­point and dis­please them, par­tic­u­lar­ly to dis­please her broth­er; but she could not repent her resis­tance. Set­ting her own incli­na­tion apart, to have failed a sec­ond time in her engage­ment to Miss Tilney, to have retract­ed a promise vol­un­tar­i­ly made only five min­utes before, and on a false pre­tence too, must have been wrong. She had not been with­stand­ing them on self­ish prin­ci­ples alone, she had not con­sult­ed mere­ly her own grat­i­fi­ca­tion; that might have been ensured in some degree by the excur­sion itself, by see­ing Blaize Cas­tle; no, she had attend­ed to what was due to oth­ers, and to her own char­ac­ter in their opin­ion. Her con­vic­tion of being right, how­ev­er, was not enough to restore her com­po­sure; till she had spo­ken to Miss Tilney she could not be at ease; and quick­en­ing her pace when she got clear of the Cres­cent, she almost ran over the remain­ing ground till she gained the top of Mil­som Street. So rapid had been her move­ments that in spite of the Tilneys’ advan­tage in the out­set, they were but just fum­ing into their lodg­ings as she came with­in view of them; and the ser­vant still remain­ing at the open door, she used only the cer­e­mo­ny of say­ing that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hur­ry­ing by him pro­ceed­ed upstairs. Then, open­ing the first door before her, which hap­pened to be the right, she imme­di­ate­ly found her­self in the draw­ing-room with Gen­er­al Tilney, his son, and daugh­ter. Her expla­na­tion, defec­tive only in being—from her irri­ta­tion of nerves and short­ness of breath—no expla­na­tion at all, was instant­ly giv­en. “I am come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I nev­er promised to go—I told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a great hur­ry to explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would not stay for the servant.”

The busi­ness, how­ev­er, though not per­fect­ly elu­ci­dat­ed by this speech, soon ceased to be a puz­zle. Cather­ine found that John Thor­pe had giv­en the mes­sage; and Miss Tilney had no scru­ple in own­ing her­self great­ly sur­prised by it. But whether her broth­er had still exceed­ed her in resent­ment, Cather­ine, though she instinc­tive­ly addressed her­self as much to one as to the oth­er in her vin­di­ca­tion, had no means of know­ing. What­ev­er might have been felt before her arrival, her eager dec­la­ra­tions imme­di­ate­ly made every look and sen­tence as friend­ly as she could desire.

The affair thus hap­pi­ly set­tled, she was intro­duced by Miss Tilney to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solic­i­tous polite­ness as recalled Thorpe’s infor­ma­tion to her mind, and made her think with plea­sure that he might be some­times depend­ed on. To such anx­ious atten­tion was the general’s civil­i­ty car­ried, that not aware of her extra­or­di­nary swift­ness in enter­ing the house, he was quite angry with the ser­vant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apart­ment her­self. “What did William mean by it? He should make a point of inquir­ing into the mat­ter.” And if Cather­ine had not most warm­ly assert­ed his inno­cence, it seemed like­ly that William would lose the favour of his mas­ter for­ev­er, if not his place, by her rapidity.

After sit­ting with them a quar­ter of an hour, she rose to take leave, and was then most agree­ably sur­prised by Gen­er­al Tilney’s ask­ing her if she would do his daugh­ter the hon­our of din­ing and spend­ing the rest of the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wish­es. Cather­ine was great­ly oblig­ed; but it was quite out of her pow­er. Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back every moment. The gen­er­al declared he could say no more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be super­seded; but on some oth­er day he trust­ed, when longer notice could be giv­en, they would not refuse to spare her to her friend. “Oh, no; Cather­ine was sure they would not have the least objec­tion, and she should have great plea­sure in com­ing.” The gen­er­al attend­ed her him­self to the street-door, say­ing every­thing gal­lant as they went down­stairs, admir­ing the elas­tic­i­ty of her walk, which cor­re­spond­ed exact­ly with the spir­it of her danc­ing, and mak­ing her one of the most grace­ful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.

Cather­ine, delight­ed by all that had passed, pro­ceed­ed gai­ly to Pul­teney Street, walk­ing, as she con­clud­ed, with great elas­tic­i­ty, though she had nev­er thought of it before. She reached home with­out see­ing any­thing more of the offend­ed par­ty; and now that she had been tri­umphant through­out, had car­ried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began (as the flut­ter of her spir­its sub­sided) to doubt whether she had been per­fect­ly right. A sac­ri­fice was always noble; and if she had giv­en way to their entreaties, she should have been spared the dis­tress­ing idea of a friend dis­pleased, a broth­er angry, and a scheme of great hap­pi­ness to both destroyed, per­haps through her means. To ease her mind, and ascer­tain by the opin­ion of an unprej­u­diced per­son what her own con­duct had real­ly been, she took occa­sion to men­tion before Mr. Allen the half-set­tled scheme of her broth­er and the Thor­pes for the fol­low­ing day. Mr. Allen caught at it direct­ly. “Well,” said he, “and do you think of going too?”

“No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told me of it; and there­fore you know I could not go with them, could I?”

“No, cer­tain­ly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes are not at all the thing. Young men and women dri­ving about the coun­try in open car­riages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and pub­lic places togeth­er! It is not right; and I won­der Mrs. Thor­pe should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Mor­land would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of think­ing? Do not you think these kind of projects objec­tion­able?”

“Yes, very much so indeed. Open car­riages are nasty things. A clean gown is not five min­utes’ wear in them. You are splashed get­ting in and get­ting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bon­net in every direc­tion. I hate an open car­riage myself.”

“I know you do; but that is not the ques­tion. Do not you think it has an odd appear­ance, if young ladies are fre­quent­ly dri­ven about in them by young men, to whom they are not even related?”

“Yes, my dear, a very odd appear­ance indeed. I can­not bear to see it.”

“Dear madam,” cried Cather­ine, “then why did not you tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improp­er, I would not have gone with Mr. Thor­pe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought I was doing wrong.”

“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs. Mor­land at part­ing, I would always do the best for you in my pow­er. But one must not be over par­tic­u­lar. Young peo­ple will be young peo­ple, as your good moth­er says her­self. You know I want­ed you, when we first came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young peo­ple do not like to be always thwart­ed.”

“But this was some­thing of real con­se­quence; and I do not think you would have found me hard to persuade.”

“As far as it has gone hith­er­to, there is no harm done,” said Mr. Allen; “and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thor­pe any more.”

“That is just what I was going to say,” added his wife.

Cather­ine, relieved for her­self, felt uneasy for Isabel­la, and after a moment’s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both prop­er and kind in her to write to Miss Thor­pe, and explain the indeco­rum of which she must be as insen­si­ble as her­self; for she con­sid­ered that Isabel­la might oth­er­wise per­haps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, how­ev­er, dis­cour­aged her from doing any such thing. “You had bet­ter leave her alone, my dear; she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a moth­er to advise her. Mrs. Thor­pe is too indul­gent beyond a doubt; but, how­ev­er, you had bet­ter not inter­fere. She and your broth­er choose to go, and you will be only get­ting ill will.”

Cather­ine sub­mit­ted, and though sor­ry to think that Isabel­la should be doing wrong, felt great­ly relieved by Mr. Allen’s appro­ba­tion of her own con­duct, and tru­ly rejoiced to be pre­served by his advice from the dan­ger of falling into such an error her­self. Her escape from being one of the par­ty to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had bro­ken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of pro­pri­ety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?