The Annotated Northanger Abbey

by Jane Austen

  Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was introduced38 by his servant, the General was shortly restored to his complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.

  A contemporary picture of a Newfoundland dog; it looks different from a modern-day Newfoundland due to changes since that time in the nature and definition of the breed.

  [From George Williamson, George Morland: His Life and Works (London, 1907), p. 18]

  [List of Illustrations]

  The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was shewn, first into a smaller apartment, belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished,39 Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the General. It was a prettily-shaped room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them pleasant,40 though only over green meadows;41 and she expressed her admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity42 with which she felt it. “Oh! why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw;—it is the prettiest room in the world!”

  “I trust,” said the General, with a most satisfied smile, “that it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”43

  “Well, if it was my house, I should never sit any where else. Oh! what a sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees too!44 It is the prettiest cottage!”—

  “You like it—you approve it as an object;45—it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”46

  Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness, and silenced her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the General for her choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings,47 nothing like an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on which Henry’s genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than the green bench in the corner.48

  A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had any day passed so quickly!

  She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem to create the smallest astonishment in the General;49 nay, that he was even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there.50 His son and daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own; and never before known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter’s being oiled.51

  At six o’clock, the General having taken his coffee, the carriage again received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.

  A picturesque cottage amid trees.

  [From Humphrey Repton, The Art of Landscape Gardening (Boston, 1907; reprint edition), p. 182]

  [List of Illustrations]

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella:—

  Bath, April—

  My dearest Catherine,

  I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God! we leave this vile place to-morrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust is beyond any thing;1 and every body one cares for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than any body can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right:—he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down;2 and the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say, that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in,3 for never were such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest coxcomb4 I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath-street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me;5—I would not even look at him. He went into the Pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother!—pray send me some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him, he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain every thing to his satisfaction;6 or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town,7 might set all to rights. I have not been to the Rooms this age, nor to the Play, except going in last night with the Hodges’s, for a frolic,8 at half-price:9 they teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite:—at one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit10 of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the Concert,11 but made wretched work of it—it happened to become my odd face I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me,

  Who ever am, &c.

  Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood, struck her from the very first.12 She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent.13 “Write to James on her behalf!—No, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”

  On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, sh
e made known to him and Eleanor their brother’s safety,14 congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it,—“So much for Isabella,” she cried, “and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered.15 I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.”

  “It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.

  “There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?”

  “I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause.”

  “Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”

  “I am persuaded that he never did.”

  “And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”

  Henry bowed his assent.

  “Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all.16 As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?”

  “But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose,—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment.”

  “It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”

  “And if you would stand by your’s, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind17 is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”18

  Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter; and tried to think no more of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Soon after this, the General found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland’s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction1 that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good-humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the General’s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the General came home, the fourth week would be turned,2 and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she staid much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken.

  Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor’s being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth3 her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time—had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised4—and could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return.”—Catherine explained.—“Oh! as to that, papa and mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.”

  “Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?”

  “Oh! because she had been there so long.”

  “Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it long—”

  “Oh! no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long again.”—And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She did—almost always—believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive5 irritations.

  Henry was not able to obey his father’s injunction of remaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London;6 the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights.7 His loss was not now what it had been while the General was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well-sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at the Abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s departure.8 They had just reached the head of the stairs, when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge,9 that a carriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell.10 After the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, in a “Good Heaven! what can be the matter?” it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable,11 and accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.

  Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and the persuasion of his being by far too fine12 a gentleman to approve of her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.

  At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however, had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving close to her door made her start; it seemed as if some one was touching the very doorway—and in another moment a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it.13 She trembled a little at the idea of any one’s approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again overcome
by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised14 imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits however were tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account, could only express her concern by silent attention; obliged her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water,15 and hung over her with affectionate solicitude. “My dear Catherine, you must not—you must not indeed——” were Eleanor’s first connected16 words. “I am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such an errand!”

  “Errand!—to me!”

  “How shall I tell you!—Oh! how shall I tell you!”

  A new idea now darted into Catherine’s mind, and turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, “ ’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”

  “You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately—“it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.” Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed there were any thing worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still cast down, soon went on. “You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted—and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—but I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford,17 for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt either.”