My father did not have it all his own way, however, for just as he talked relentlessly of improvements to the rectory, so did I talk relentlessly of anything else – her journey, her activities over the last few days – until a tray of refreshments was brought in.
The tray was piled high with good things, but although I doubt if anyone has ever seen a greater range of delicacies in a country parsonage, my father apologized for them as well.
The tea over, my father led the way out of the room with Catherine on his arm, determined to show her the rest of the parsonage and eke what compliments he could from her. I was left to walk behind with Eleanor.
‘I have all the pain of loving where our father disapproves, and you have all the pain of loving where he approves,’ said Eleanor. ‘Neither is desirable, but, of the two, I believe you are the most fortunate.’
I could not argue, but I wish he had been less eager to sing Woodston’s praises, for he frightened Catherine into silence. He was determined to show her into every corner of the house, and my own room was the next to be inspected; suitably tidied, and cleaner than it had been for a long time, with no specks of mud on the floor brought in by the dogs or by one of my boots. From there we went to the drawing room, and I smiled to see how it charmed Catherine and gave her the courage to suggest that I should fit it up, ‘for it is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!’ she said.
Any other woman would have said it with a knowing smile, but Catherine thought no further than the room, not even when my father dropped hints as large as the abbey about its wanting only a lady’s taste to make it complete.
‘Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else,’ said Catherine artlessly. ‘Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is among the trees – apple trees, too!’
And at once I imagined her sitting in an apple tree, eating an apple and reading a book. The picture charmed me.
My father, who has spent the last few years wanting to pull the cottage down, was now effusive in his praise of it, saying that if Catherine approved it, it stayed – which had the effect of silencing her again; and, though pointedly applied to by my father for her choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her.
I extricated her from his attentions by the simple expedient of offering her my arm, and together we strolled round the grounds. I pointed out the improvements I had made and the future improvements I intended and she was interested in all my plans. She was delighted with the gardens and the meadows, thinking them prettier than any pleasure garden she had been in before, and I found it easier and easier to think of her being their mistress.
We walked into the village, which delighted her quite as much as the parsonage, and ended with a visit to the stables, where we played with a litter of puppies just able to roll about. Our hands met as we petted the pups, and our eyes met, and although she looked away and blushed I thought she had never been happier. If we had been alone, I would have proposed to her then and there, but alas! my father intruded with some outrageous compliment and the moment was broken.
She stood up, surprised to find it was four o’clock already, and we went inside to dine. The dinner passed muster with my father, for which I was truly thankful, and although he looked at the side table for cold meat which was not there, he ate heartily and was not unduly disconcerted by the melted butter’s being oiled.
At six o’clock my guests took their leave, but not before Eleanor had said to me, in an aside, ‘I see that Catherine is a lover of puppies. Was there ever anything that marked her out more clearly as a heroine?’
I laughed, and thought how fortunate I had been in finding my destiny in Bath, instead of having all the inconvenience of travelling to the Pyrenees.
Thursday 18 April
I was up with the lark so that I could finish my business here and return to the abbey, where Catherine awaited me. Once there, I found that events had moved on, for Catherine had had a letter from Isabella.
‘I am ashamed that I ever loved Isabella, for it was such a letter . . . well, you shall hear,’ said she, taking it up and reading it. ‘“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 trifle or other.” ’ Catherine’s face showed what she thought of such an empty protestation. ‘“I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding.” Was there ever such falsehood? “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, 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 coxcomb I ever saw, and . . .”’
She stopped, remembering to whom she read, blushed, and said, ‘There is more of the same. And she thinks that I will try and mend things between her and James, after such treatment, and after such a letter as this. She says she will wear nothing but purple from now on, because it is James’s favourite colour, but I am sure he does not care what colour any young lady should wear, only that she be good-natured and honest. She asks me to write to James on her behalf, but James shall never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by me again. So much for Isabella, 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. 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,’ I reassured her.
‘There is but one thing that I cannot understand,’ she went on, puzzled. ‘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?’ she asked.
‘I am persuaded that he never did,’ I said.
‘And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?’
I bowed my assent.
‘Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all, though it has turned out so well for us. 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,’ I said.
She was not satisfied, but said, ‘It is very right that you should stand by your brother.’
‘And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind 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,’ I said.
She laughed, for she knew that if she were a character in The Italian or some other such tale, she would think of nothing but revenge. Being, however, a young lady in England, she had better things to do, and was soon complimented out of further bitterness by Eleanor and myself. She resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, after which we were very comfor
table.
Our talk soon reverted to our day out and she had nothing but praise for the parsonage and Woodston, and talked a great deal about her family: of her father’s livings and of her brother’s expectations on entering the church. She was momentarily indignant as she remembered her father’s generosity in being prepared to make one of his livings over to her brother, and Isabella’s scorn at such generosity, but the moment soon passed, for to encourage indignation is beyond her.
I like the sound of Catherine’s family and I look forward to meeting them before very long.
Monday 22 April
After breakfast I found myself alone with my father and he told me that he had some business to attend to in London. He said that he would be setting out tomorrow and not returning to the abbey for a week. On saying that he had a mind to rent a house there for the season, I remarked that Miss Morland had never seen London and he seized on the idea at once, saying, ‘Once I have managed to secure suitable lodgings, Eleanor must invite her. An excellent thought, Henry!’ and was then in a good humour for the rest of the day; as was I, for Catherine will lend charm to London and I am already looking forward to seeing her there.
Tuesday 23 April
Despite our father’s good humour yesterday, and despite – or rather, perhaps, because of – his excessive compliments to Catherine before he departed, it is still a relief to have the abbey to ourselves. His presence always damps our spirits but today we did exactly as we pleased and laughed as loud and long as we liked. We were entirely at ease and did not worry about anything at all, not even being five minutes late for dinner.
‘This is how it will be when we are married,’ I said to Eleanor, when Catherine had retired for the night. ‘I am sorry for it, but there it is. My wife will not secretly resent you, as you believed when we were children. She will not slowly poison you, or lock you in the attic.’
Eleanor gave a sigh.
‘We must all bear our disappointments in life, dear brother, and it seems that having a good and charming sister, who loves me as much as I love her, is destined to be one of mine.’
Friday 26 April
I believe there has never been so much laughter at the abbey. Eleanor is lighter of spirits than she has been for a long time, and, as she has persuaded Catherine to stay for some weeks more, I am looking forward to the weeks to come. The better weather is here, we are out of doors all day, and Catherine is as energetic as we could wish, matching us on every walk. And when Eleanor is tired – or says she is tired – Catherine and I walk together and talk nonsense which nevertheless amuses us both. With her I can be myself and she is fast losing most of her shyness and, with me, showing more of herself every day.
Saturday 27 April
Alas, duty calls and I am spending today and tomorrow at Woodston, attending to the duties that I have most shamefully neglected during the week. But I will be returning to the abbey on Monday and that must be my reward.
Monday 29 April
What a difference a week makes! I can scarcely believe it. How could my father do such a thing? It is only a few days ago that he was eager to take Catherine to London, and to use her so shamefully . . . When I returned to the abbey and found him in the stables, giving instructions for the coach to be readied for a journey to Hereford, I was astonished.
‘Ah, Henry, so you are here,’ he said, looking up and seeing me. ‘Pray ready yourself immediately for a journey. We are going to Lord Longtown’s for a fortnight,’ he said.
I was even more astounded, and asked why, at such short notice, we were to travel so far but, instead of enlightening me, he became angry and ordered me to do as he said. I, of course, told him that it was impossible as I had left my parish business in Woodston half-finished and that there was Miss Morland to be considered, too.
‘Miss Morland!’ he exploded, going red in the face. ‘Never mention her name to me again. That deceitful, scheming, bragging—’
I was shocked at his outburst, for I had often seen him angry, but never with so little cause.
‘You are never to think of her again,’ he went on. ‘Now pack your things at once, we are to leave after dinner.’
‘An excellent time for starting a journey!’ I remarked, thinking he must have run mad.
‘Enough of your impertinence, I have been lenient with you for too long. I command you to be here in an hour’s time, ready to go with your father – your father, mark you, who has the right to command you – on a long-standing engagement.’
‘So long-standing that I have heard nothing of it until today,’ I returned in astonishment.
‘You are growing insolent,’ he said, becoming ever more angry. ‘It is the way with young people nowadays, I see insolence all around me.’ He broke off to shout at the grooms, who scurried away from him, affrighted, to do his bidding. Then he began to shout at me again, but having my independence I took no notice of his roars and said that if he was determined to go, I would make my apologies to Miss Morland for this sudden departure and offer to escort her home.
‘I have already sent her packing. She left yesterday morning on the first coach.’
I could not believe it.
‘But that must mean she was forced out of the house at daybreak!’ I said, appalled.
‘And not a moment too soon. We have been duped, led to believe that she was an heiress, when she was nothing of the sort. A young lady of great expectations was how she represented herself, with a dowry of ten or fifteen thousand pounds, and the heir to Mr Allen’s estate as well – the future heiress of Fullerton! Pah!’
‘How can you have come by such a strange fancy! She never said anything of a fortune or expectations!’
‘No, she was too clever for that, but I had it all from Mr Thorpe, who, being intimate with the family, knew it all. The Morlands imposed on him just as they imposed on us. James Morland was engaged to Thorpe’s sister, on the understanding that he was a man of fortune, and Thorpe himself had hopes of Miss Morland. Well, he may have her now and welcome to her!’
‘You surely did not place any reliance on the word of a man like Thorpe?’ I asked.
‘And why should I not, when he was so intimate with the family, and when the Allens were there for all to see, childless, and taking a great interest in Miss Morland.’
‘So that is why you invited her to the abbey,’ I said grimly. ‘I wondered, but thought it impossible you should think she was rich, when everything she said and did gave the lie to such a belief. Her clothes alone should have told you as much.’
‘The Morlands have deceived everyone,’ said my father, lost to reason. ‘The Thorpes have been cruelly used. Having pretended to be able to give his son a generous allowance on his marriage, when brought to the point, Miss Morland’s father had to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. The whole family are tricksters: a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood; aiming at a style of life which their fortune does not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.’
‘Enough!’ I said, ashamed of him, and of the avarice and folly that had led to him courting Catherine, making much of her, and then turning her out of the house; proving himself, in short, to be little less a villain than she had dreamt him. ‘I will not go to Hereford with you. I will not go anywhere until I know that Miss Morland is safe.’
And with that I went into the house, where Eleanor greeted me with tears, so that I could hardly comfort her.
‘Oh Henry! I am glad you are home! I have had such a terrible time,’ she said. ‘You will never guess – our father – lost to all reason – to turn her out of doors. . . ’
It was some minutes before I could get anything more from her, but having persuaded her to tell me all, she gathered her thoughts, and what she said did nothing to soften the picture I had acquired of events. Quite the opposite, for it had been even worse than I supposed.
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‘My father returned to the abbey on Saturday night in a towering rage and told me to send Miss Morland packing at once. I tried to reason with him, but to no avail. He frightened me with his raging and at last I had to do his bidding. As you can imagine, I was a most unwilling messenger. After what had so lately passed, when I had persuaded her to remain with us for many, many weeks longer, I had to tell her that she was no longer welcome. In short, I had to tell her a tale of such obvious fabrication that I blushed to utter it: that our father had recollected a prior engagement and that she had to leave. I was made to tell her that we must leave on Monday, and that it would not be in my power to see her again. She, dear innocent, was surprised and dismayed, but showed her true worth by summoning a smile and saying that she could go on Monday very well, and that her father and mother’s having no notice of it was of very little consequence, for she was sure my father would send a servant with her half the way, and then she would soon be at Salisbury, and then only nine miles from home.’
‘I cannot believe it of him. To ask her to leave without giving her parents any notice of it was bad enough; to deny her even the protection of a servant was monstrous,’ I said.
‘She was not even allowed to stay until Monday. My father ordered the carriage for her on Sunday morning, at seven o’clock, and she was sent packing like an adventuress. What will her father and mother say! After courting her from the protection of real friends to this – almost double the distance from her home – to then drive her out of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! The dear creature thought she must have offended our father, to be treated thus, and I could do nothing but reassure her that she had given him no just cause of offence. She was generous to the last, saying it was of no consequence.’