Henry Tilney's Diary (9781101559024) (25 page)

‘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.

‘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.'

‘No consequence?' I asked, as angry as my father, though from a very different cause. ‘To be sent away with no thought given to her comfort, or the appearance of the thing? To have to travel upwards of sixty miles, nay, nearer seventy, and to be taken by post, at her age, alone, unattended!'

‘She maintained her dignity whilst I was with her, but as soon as the door was closed behind me I heard her break out into weeping. I went to her the following morning and helped her to pack. I begged her to write to me, though I had no right to ask anything of her after the way she had been treated, and she promised she would let me know that she was safe at Fullerton. Even then, I was forced to use subterfuge, for you know how my father is, and how he never lets me receive letters unless he has approved the correspondence. I had to ask her to write to me under cover to my maid. Thank God I thought to ask her if she had any money, and to furnish her with what she needed for the journey, otherwise I dread to think what might have happened to her. But I think the thing that wounded her most was that she did not get to take her leave of you. She asked me very humbly to give her remembrances to you.'

I thought of her sweet nature and I shook my head in disbelief. That anyone could so use her....

‘She must have passed close by Woodston as she travelled,' I said. ‘I wish I had known. I would have stopped the coach and escorted her myself.'

‘And now we are to see no more of her. My father has forbidden me even to think of her! And all because he imagined her an heiress, through no fault of her own. When I think of the way he encouraged her, and encouraged you to think of her, and now he has done to you what he has done to me, banished your beloved—'

‘But I, at least, have my independence, and need take no notice,' I said.

‘But what do you intend to do?' she asked.

‘What I have intended to do for many weeks past. Ask her to marry me.'

‘But our father has expressly forbidden any such thing. You would not dare cross him.'

‘Indeed he would not,' came a voice from behind us. Our father had entered the room. ‘Eleanor, you are not ready. The coach will leave in half an hour. If your things are not packed you will go without them.'

I nodded to Eleanor and she left the room.

‘And you, sir, will do the same,' he said.

‘No, I will not. I will do what I would have done anyway, before many more weeks had passed: offer Miss Morland my hand.'

‘You will do no such thing!' he roared.

‘You cannot stop me,' I said, looking him in the eye. ‘I believe she is in love with me, and I am most certainly in love with her. Do you now expect me, having encouraged her affections, to jilt her? For I am bound to her in honour as well as in affection, as much as if there had been a formal engagement between us.'

‘But there is no engagement, and once you are in Hereford and she is back in Fullerton, there will never be any suggestion of one.'

‘I am not going to Hereford.'

‘You will do as you are told!'

‘No, sir, I will not. You cannot command me. I am my own man. You must go to Hereford without me – though why you still think it necessary to go, since it was an excuse trumped up at a moment's notice, to rid yourself dishonourably of Miss Morland, I cannot imagine. And I am going to Fullerton.'

‘Why, you—'

I left him blustering, and we parted in dreadful disagreement. I was in such an agitation of mind that I returned almost instantly to Woodston to compose myself. But tomorrow I go to Fullerton.

 

 

 

I am now over half-way to my destination. Tomorrow my fate will be decided. Will Catherine forgive me for my father's behaviour? What will her family think? Will her father allow me to pay my addresses to her, after the way she was shamefully used? I can only hope so.

 

This morning found me at Fullerton, a village not unlike Woodston, where I looked about me and saw, at some small distance, the church, and beside it the parsonage. As I made my way to the gate I found myself the object of every eye, for travellers were evidently little seen in the neighbourhood. As I approached the house I found that I was observed by a collection of children, Catherine's brothers and sisters, who had gathered at the window on hearing the telltale sounds of a visitor. I rang the bell and was admitted to the drawing room, where I found Catherine alone. She sprang up and said, startled, ‘Henry!'

And with that one word I knew she was mine.

She blushed and stammered and offered me a seat, which I took, but hardly had I sat down when her mother entered the room, closely followed by sundry brothers and sisters.

I sprang up and Catherine introduced me.

‘I must apologize for my sudden appearance. I have no right to expect a welcome here after what has passed, but I had to be sure that Miss Morland had reached her home in safety. I knew nothing of her sudden departure, being attending to business in my own parish, and I am more sorry than I can say that she was left to endure such a journey alone,' I immediately began.

Mrs Morland was generous in her reception of me, saying, ‘Well, now, if that is not good of you, Mr Tilney. I am sure it was not your fault that Catherine had such a strange journey and there is no harm done, as you see. Besides, it is a great comfort to find that Catherine is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself.'

I began to apologize for my father but she did me the kindness of judging me apart from him and saying that she had long been wanting to thank me for my friendship towards Catherine.

‘She has told us a great deal about you and your sister in her letters. We are always happy to see Catherine's friends here. The future is what matters, and the present, not the past. Pray, do not say another word about it.'

I was not ill-inclined to obey her request, for, although my heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not in my power to say anything at all. Seeing Catherine again, having so much to say to her that could not be said in company, rendered me mute and I sat down again in silence.

Mrs Morland sent one of the younger children for Mr Morland, feeling, no doubt, that he would introduce a new topic of conversation. Whilst we waited, she asked about the weather, my journey, and a dozen other such commonplaces. I made the usual replies whilst watching Catherine, who looked anxious, agitated, happy and feverish. She guessed, of course, why I had called. If I had been merely solicitous over her safety I could have written her a letter. A visit spoke of something more.

At length, no more remarks about the state of the roads and the mildness of the day for the time of year could be made, and we awaited Mr Morland in silence, only to learn some minutes later that he was from home. When the conversation dwindled to nothing I roused myself and asked after the Allens, then saying that I wished to pay them my respects I asked Catherine if she would show me the way.

‘You may see the house from this window, sir,' said her sister Sarah helpfully.

Her mother silenced her with a nod and Catherine and I set out.

‘Miss Morland . . . Catherine,' I said, as soon as we had turned out of the drive. ‘I have that to say to you which . . . I think you can guess . . . that is to say . . . Catherine, I think you know what my feelings are for you.'

She blushed and said, ‘You like me as the friend of your sister.'

I took her hand, which relaxed in mine as she felt the touch of my fingers, for I had removed my gloves on entering the house and neglected to put them on again, whilst she had forgotten hers.

‘As more than that,' I said. ‘Much more. I thought I would have plenty of time to say this . . . I thought you were to stay at the abbey for several weeks more . . . but now I can wait no longer. You have my friendship, my love, my affection, my heart. Tell me, Catherine, do I have yours?'

She looked down, and murmured, ‘You do,' so quietly that I had difficulty hearing it.

I smiled.

‘I know you like my parsonage and I think you like me. If I promise to fit up the drawing room in the way you like, will you come and live there with me? Will you be my wife?'

Her reply was everything I could have wished for. To be sure, she was incoherent, and her sense of obligation and pleasure were so mixed together with an assurance that her heart had long been my own that her words were incomprehensible, but the smile in her eyes told me all I needed to know.

I took advantage of the quietness of the lane to kiss her.

We were disturbed by the clop of hoofs and sprang apart before the horseman turned the corner, then smiled and laughed. I gave her my arm and we walked on together, with the sun shining far more splendidly than usual and the bees buzzing lazily and the birds chirruping in more than usually good voice.

As we turned into the lane I knew I must give her an account of my father's behaviour and although I was ashamed to do it, I told her all. She was startled to find that he had thought her an heiress, but not at all surprised that the mistake had been caused by John Thorpe, whose family had caused hers such distress.

‘So that is why I was invited to Northanger Abbey,' she said.

‘By my father, yes, but not by Eleanor or myself. We wondered why he was making so much of you, but as we knew you to be poor we thought he was being kind to Eleanor at last and securing for her the cheerful company of a valued friend.'

I told her that it was Thorpe again who, on seeing my father in London, and being angry because Catherine's brother refused to have anything more to do with Isabella, had claimed that Catherine had deliberately lied about her fortune in order to mislead everyone.

‘Though how my father could have believed it, when he knew you and knew you to be incapable of such deceit, I cannot imagine. His anger was not really at you, but at himself for being so easily duped.'