Henry Tilney's Diary

  ‘If she will have you? I think there is no doubt of that.’

  ‘Not yet, but there is a danger in my waiting for her to see more of the world. She will see more of the men in it, too, and might find one more to her liking.’

  ‘If she does that, then she is lacking in taste and we will think of her no more!’ she said, as we walked along the corridor. ‘I wonder if Papa will agree to inviting her to London when we go there after Easter. I would like her company. We could go to the galleries and the theatre, walk in the park and visit the shops. If she liked Bath, I am sure she will like London even more.’

  ‘A good thought. When the time comes I will suggest it.’

  ‘Papa might suggest it first.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Did you find any evidence of an impressive ancestry?’ she asked.

  ‘No, none at all. I think it must be that he wants you to have a friend, and me to have a compliant wife, for I can see no other reason for it. She talks openly of her family and the Allens, of their small houses and simple ways of going on, and no one could think, from all she says, that she is anything but what she is: a charming girl from the country.’

  ‘Then let us hope for the best, that our father is mellowing.’

  ‘Indeed, and if he is, then there is hope for you, too.’

  She sighed and shook her head.

  ‘I would like to think so, but no, it is impossible,’ she said quietly.

  ‘How can you be so sure? Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes, whilst you were away I had another note.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘It arrived when I was showing Catherine round the abbey, and our father discovered it. He interrupted me, calling me away from Catherine angrily – and that of course contributed to her fear of him and her belief that he was capable of terrible deeds.’

  ‘I am sorry for it. I gave the groom instructions to hand the note to no one but yourself.’

  ‘You must not blame him, it was not his fault.’

  We had reached her room, but she could see that I was curious and she explained, ‘Our father was in the stables, making sure that everything was ready to receive our guests, when he saw the groom arriving from Woodston with a note in his hands, and not unnaturally thought it must be for him. But when he took it, he discovered that it was for me. There was nothing in it that anyone could not have seen but he was angry anyway and called me away from Catherine to answer it. He dictated my reply, of course, and had me say that whilst I was grateful that Mr Morris had enjoyed his stay at the abbey there was no need for further thanks and that any future letters should be addressed to my father or brother, and not to myself. Do you think I have been wrong to write to Thomas? I have, at the least, been underhand.’

  ‘You know my feelings on that score. I think that, having found love, you should hold on to it. I was hoping our father would come round to that way of thinking eventually, but he is more stubborn than I had supposed.’

  ‘Or more ambitious.’

  ‘Yes, that too,’ I said ‘But Thomas will never accept his dismissal. He will know at once that you did not write the note; or, rather, that you wrote it at our father’s dictation.’

  ‘Yes, he will, but it will make it difficult for him to write to me in the future. It is not fair to use your grooms to deliver the notes, nor for you to risk our father’s displeasure.’

  ‘Then what do you intend to do? End the correspondence?’

  ‘No, not that. But I do not see a way forward,’ she said in dismay. She loosed her arm and stood away from me, looking into my eyes. ‘Do you think Thomas and I will ever be together?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure of it. When you are twenty-five, you know, you inherit your fortune from our mother, and if my father has not relented by then, you will be the mistress of your own fate.’

  ‘You are right. I hope it will not come to that. I should not like to be estranged from my family.’

  ‘And you never will be. At least not from me.’

  She took my arm and gave it a grateful squeeze.

  ‘And from Frederick?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not from Frederick either, though I suspect he will only call on you to annoy our father, instead of any nobler reason.’

  ‘Well, if so, it is enough. He has still not forgiven our father for interfering in his life, then? You have talked with him more on the subject than I have.’

  ‘No, he has not forgiven him and I suspect he never will,’ I said. ‘It hurt him too deeply.’

  ‘Then you think Papa was wrong to send him into the library when Miss Orpington was there professing love for his friend, knowing what Frederick would find?’

  ‘My dear Eleanor, that is a question I cannot answer. If Papa had done nothing, then Frederick might have married her before discovering her true nature, and that would have been a tragedy indeed. As it is, that tragedy was avoided, but another one unfolded. Frederick was too much in love with her to see what he saw and not be deeply hurt. If my father had waited a few weeks, a month even, then Frederick might have begun to suspect for himself, and it would not have come as such a terrible shock.’

  ‘And the shock, being less, might have been sooner recovered from,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘But who are we to say what might or might not have happened? And anyway, what does it matter? It is done. It cannot be changed.’

  ‘No, that is the pity of it, for it dealt Frederick a terrible blow and I cannot say that he has ever full recovered,’ said Eleanor. ‘I remember Frederick as he was when we were children. He was not as he is now. I wish he could go back to being like that again, for although he was always in trouble it was no more than boyish mischief, and he was never morose.’

  There was time for no more. We had to dress for dinner.

  ‘Be kind to Catherine tonight,’ I said to Eleanor as we parted. ‘She was very upset when she left me, ashamed of her thoughts, which cast our father in such a tyrannical light. Yes, I know he can be a tyrant, but fortunately he has not yet taken to murdering anyone!’

  She smiled and promised to do everything in her power to make Catherine comfortable.

  Half an hour more and I was dressed and ready to go into dinner. Catherine looked up hesitantly as I entered the room. She looked sick and pale. I took pains to set her at her ease, complimenting her dress and diverting her thoughts with an account of my time at Woodston. She smiled at my anecdotes, particularly at the story of the runaway cow, and laughed when she learnt it had tried to eat the silk flowers on Mrs Abercrombie’s hat, so that by the end of the evening, her spirits were raised to a modest tranquillity.

  The longer she is here, the better she will come to understand the abbey and my family, and I would very much like to take her to Woodston and show her where I live, so that she might come to know it and like it as much as I do. With a father and brother in the church she is well used to parsonages and I believe that, in time, she will come to appreciate the ease and convenience of its newly fitted state, rather than regret its lack of antiquity. Until then, the catacombs beneath the church should be able to satisfy even a lover of Udolpho with their dark and dreary passages. I must remember to show them to Catherine!

  Wednesday 27 March

  The morning being fine, I persuaded Catherine and Eleanor to walk with me. I saw that there was still some anxiety on Catherine’s part, as if she feared I would raise the subject of her misunderstanding, but I scrupulously avoided any mention of anything that could have called it to mind and talked instead of Bath.

  ‘Have you had a letter from your brother since you came to the abbey?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but I did not expect one,’ she said. ‘James said that he would not reply until his return to Oxford, and Mrs Allen said she would not reply until they had returned to Fullerton. But I am surprised I have not heard from Isabella.’

  ‘Have you written to her? You know there is paper in the drawing room, with ink and pens and everything you might need? You have onl
y to leave your letters on the table in the hall when you have finished them, and they will be taken to the post with the rest of the mail.’

  She thanked me, and said that she had written to Isabella but still not received a reply.

  ‘It really is unaccountable,’ she said. ‘She promised to write to me and let me know how things went on with James, and when she promises a thing, she is scrupulous in performing it, she told me so herself! I cannot think what has happened unless her letter has gone astray.’

  ‘I have never known a letter go astray before, but it is certainly possible, and if you have Isabella’s word for her faithfulness as a correspondent you can surely not need anything else,’ I said.

  She looked at me doubtfully but I said no more. I leave it to time and experience to teach her the value of the protestations of an Isabella Thorpe.

  APRIL

  Saturday 6 April

  This morning brought a letter from Oxford for Catherine. Knowing how she longed for one, I was happy to hand it to her. She took it eagerly, and sat down to read it. She had not read three lines, however, before her countenance suddenly changed and she let out a cry of sorrowing wonder, showing the letter to contain unpleasant news. Watching her earnestly as she finished, I saw plainly that it had ended no better than it had begun. I was prevented from saying anything by my father’s entrance and we went to breakfast directly, but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her 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 knew not what she did. My father, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to Eleanor and myself her distress was equally visible. As soon as she could, Catherine hurried away to her own room. Eleanor half-rose to follow her, but then thought better of it and sat down again.

  ‘I will give her a little time to compose herself,’ she said, ‘but then I will go to her.’

  We went into the drawing room. Hardly had we begun to speculate on the nature of the news which Catherine had received when, driven from her room by the housemaids, who were making the bed, Catherine opened the door. She hesitated, having evidently sought out the drawing-room for privacy. She drew back, begging our pardon, but such was her distress that I could not bear to leave her to wander the corridors in search of a quiet corner in which to give way to her feelings. I was on my feet at once, and taking her gently by the shoulders I guided her into the room and into a chair.

  ‘If there is anything I can do to comfort you, then pray let me know,’ said Eleanor tenderly, taking her hand with sympathy. ‘You have had some bad news, I fear.’

  But Catherine was too affected to speak.

  We withdrew, to give her the privacy she needed, and retired to the breakfast-room, where she joined us half an hour later. After a short silence, Eleanor said, ‘No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr and Mrs Morland – your brothers and sisters – I hope they are none of them ill?’

  ‘No, I thank you,’ she said with a sigh. ‘They are all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford.’ Then speaking through her tears, she added, ‘I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said, closing the book I had just opened. ‘If I had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings.’

  ‘It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is so unhappy!’

  I wondered if James was still engaged to Isabella, or if Frederick’s attentions had brought about a breach. If the former, I pitied Morland, and if the latter, I was ashamed of Frederick, but whatever the case, I thought that Morland was lucky to have such a sister. I was tempted to reach out a hand to her but I had to be content with letting Eleanor comfort her instead.

  ‘To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister,’ I said, ‘must be a comfort to him under any distress.’

  She was agitated and did not at once reply, but then she said. ‘I have one favour to beg; that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go away.’

  ‘Our brother! Frederick!’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney.’

  Eleanor was surprised but I realized my suspicions were true and murmured, ‘Miss Thorpe.’

  ‘How quick you are!’ cried Catherine, ‘you have guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella – no wonder now I have not heard from her – Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours!’

  I frowned, for I could not believe it. He was capable of making mischief, but not, I was sure, capable of marrying an Isabella Thorpe.

  I said as much, but she replied, ‘It is very true, however; you shall read James’s letter yourself. Stay; there is one part—’

  She blushed.

  ‘Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern my brother?’ I asked.

  ‘No, read it yourself,’ cried Catherine, and blushed again. ‘James only means to give me good advice.’

  She handed me the letter, and I read it with a mixture of compassion and curiosity, particularly the part she seemed to find embarrassing. Her brother said that all was over between him and Miss Thorpe; that he relied upon his sister’s friendship and love to sustain him; that he hoped her visit to Northanger Abbey would be over before the engagement between Isabella and Frederick was announced, so that she would not be placed in an uncomfortable position; that he had believed that Isabella loved him, because she had said so many times; and that he could not understand why she had led him on, unless it was to attract Frederick the more. But even that reason did not satisfy him, for he could not think it had been necessary, and that he wished now he had never met her, particularly as his father had kindly given his consent to the match.

  The last line gave the key to her blushes, for he ended the letter by advising his sister to be careful how she gave her heart.

  I was grieved for him, and grieved for Catherine. I was also grieved for Frederick, for whatever his faults, he deserved better than Isabella Thorpe.

  I returned the letter, saying, ‘Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son.’

  Eleanor was looking perplexed, and Catherine handed her the letter.

  ‘My dear Catherine, I am more sorry than I can say,’ said Eleanor, when she had read it. ‘I can scarcely believe it. I know very little of Isabella, and so I do not know what to think. I saw her once or twice in Bath, but not to speak to, except to exchange the usual pleasantries. I find it hard to believe that Frederick intends to marry her. What are her connections? And what is her fortune? For although I think Frederick would be capable of marrying a woman without either of those things to recommend her, I believe she would have to have a number of personal qualities which Isabella, from my acquaintance with her, would seem to lack. I cannot imagine Frederick risking our father’s displeasure for anything less than love, and I have seen nothing in him lately to suggest that condition.’

  ‘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,’ said Catherine. ‘I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his children.’

  Eleanor and I glanced at each other. My father might say that nothing else mattered but unless he had changed even more than we suspected, he wa
s very far from believing it.

  ‘But,’ said Eleanor, after a short pause, ‘would it be to promote Frederick’s happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick’s side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered 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 think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe’s prudence to suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man – defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong 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, being so lacking in self-consequence, vanity and artifice, that she did not know what Eleanor meant, ‘though she has behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant.’

  ‘Indeed I am afraid she will,’ I replied; ‘I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet should 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 father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone’s character in my life before.’