‘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.
Tuesday 30 April
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.
MAY
Wednesday 1 May
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.’
‘And the visit to Hereford?’ she asked.
‘I am ashamed to say there had been no prior engagement, he simply arranged to leave the abbey at once so that he could request you to leave – nay, throw you out of the house. I thought your suspicions of him foolish when you first arrived at the abbey, but you were not so far wrong in your estimation of him: in driving you out of the Abbey at a moment’s notice he behaved like a veritable Marquis of Montoni.’
A few minutes more brought us to the Allens’ door, where we knocked and were admitted, to find the Allens at home. I said very little to any purpose, and Catherine said nothing at all, but the Allens I hope will forgive us when they know all.
We strolled back to the parsonage through the spring sunshine and I had to tell her that my father had forbidden me to think of her ever again, whereupon she said she was glad she had not known of his disapproval before I had proposed, otherwise she might have felt compelled to refuse.
‘Then it is a good thing I forgot to mention it,’ I said.
She smiled, and we finished our walk in perfect happiness.
Such happiness cannot last, and when we returned to the house it was to find that Catherine’s father had returned also, and that he was in the sitting room with her mother. The younger children being outside I made the most of the moment and, leaving Catherine to wander the garden, I asked to speak to them.
Their surprise on being applied to for their consent to my marrying Catherine was, for a few minutes, considerable.
‘It never entered our heads there might be an attachment,’ said Mr Morland, and I could see that it was so. ‘She never said anything of it.’
‘But was very downcast when she returned home, and now I know why,’ said Mrs Morland. ‘I thought it was on account of leaving her fine way of living behind. Now I know it was something far more to her credit; on account of leaving loved ones.’
‘I should not wonder at it,’ said Mr Morland. ‘There is nothing more natural than Catherine being loved. We love her very much ourselves.’
‘Then I may have your consent?’ I asked.
‘Aye, and gladly. Mr and Mrs Allen speak well of you, and you seem just the sort of young man to make Catherine happy.’
‘She will make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure,’ said Mrs Morland, ‘but there is nothing like practice for curing any deficiencies.’
‘Luckily I have an independent fortune as well as my living, and Catherine will not need to learn economy. But there is something I should mention,’ I said, for it was impossible to conceal it; and indeed I would not conceal something of such importance. ‘Although I am of independent means, and I have a home to offer Catherine, my father is set against the match.’
They were troubled at that.
‘How set against it?’ asked Mr Morland.
‘He has forbidden it.’
‘Well, that is set against it indeed!’ said Mr Morland.
‘That is bad. That is very bad. But what can he have against our Catherine?’ asked Mrs Morland.
‘Nothing at all, save that he wished me to marry an heiress,’ I explained.
‘Well, that must be changed before you can marry,’ said Mrs Morland, to my dismay. ‘I will not send Catherine into a family where she is not welcome, for it will only make her unhappy. Will he come round, do you think?’
‘I hope so,’ I said.
‘We must all hope so, for whilst your father expressly forbids the connection, we cannot allow ourselves to encourage it,’ said Mr Morland. ‘There must be his consent, or else how is Catherine to be happy if he will not recognize her?’
I could say no more, and so I thanked them for hearing me and went outside, where I found Catherine, and made her acquainted with everything her parents had said.
‘I am sure my father will come round eventually,’ I said. ‘He cannot fail to love you, once the first shock has passed.’
‘And if he does?’
‘Then I will have to carry you off in a chaise and four, for I mean to marry you, with or without our parents’ approval.’
Friday 3 May
Catherine has promised to write to me, and only that makes it tolerable for me to return to Woodston, where I must tend my plantations, preach my sermons and work upon my father until he gives his consent to the match.
Monday 6 May
At home again, and already writing to Catherine. Eleanor is delighted for me, and we commiserate with each other on our father’s nature, which is keeping us both from happiness. Though my case seems the more hopeful of the two, I fear that neither Eleanor nor I will be happy very soon.
Wednesday 15 May
Although my father has banned me from Northanger, and although I am resolved never to spend a night beneath his roof, I nevertheless drove over there today to attempt to reason with him once again. I found him in the stables but when I tried to speak to him he would only roar, ‘If I cannot prevent it, I will not condone it. You will not taint the abbey with such a one as Miss . . .’ He ended in a splutter as he could not even bring himself to say her name.
‘She will not live here, but at Woodston,’ I said.
‘And if your brother dies, what then? Am I to leave all this’ – his arm swept wide – ‘to a penniless girl with an enormous family of needy mouths to feed? To have the name of Tilney defiled by such a creature?’
I mastered my temper and explained that Catherine’s family were neither needy nor so very numerous as he supposed, but he would not listen, and repeating that I was no longer welcome at the abbey, he mounted his horse and very nearly rode me down as he galloped from the stable yard.
Eleanor was my consolation. As I walked with her, I said, ‘How do you bear it? You may come and live with me at Woodston any time, you know.’
‘It is not so bad,’ she said. ‘Now that Margaret and Charles have returned to the neighbourhood I have more opportunities to escape, at least for awhile, and the Lady Frasers are here again. You know how much our father has always liked titles and he encourages me to visit them, as well as to invite them here. And I have Catherine’s and Th
omas’s letters.’
‘What we need is a deus ex machina,’ I said to her. ‘If this were a play, then a platform would lower itself from the heavens and the gods would step forth and solve our problems with a wave of their hands. Some unforeseen and unexpected conclusion would present itself to speed a happy ending.’
She smiled, and said, ‘I dread to think what Papa would say if one of the gods descended from the heavens and landed here.’
‘He would probably take Zeus by the hand and lead him round the kitchen garden, pointing out the improvements he has made,’ I remarked.
She gave a wry smile and said, ‘Alas, such things only happen in novels.’
We were interrupted at that moment by Alice, my sister’s maid, who looked about her furtively then said, ‘A letter for you, miss.’
Thinking it must be from Catherine, I drew closer, but on seeing the first few words I realized it was not from Catherine at all.
‘So Alice now brings you Thomas’s notes as well?’
‘After our father intercepted his second note, it seemed the only way.’
I wandered away to let her read it in private, but after only a minute she called me back in great excitement, smiling and then bursting into laughter.
‘Oh, Henry!’ she said, and then, laughing too much to speak, she handed me the letter. I took it, mystified, and read:My Dearest, Darling Eleanor,
I am on my way to Northanger Abbey and I hope to reach you just after this letter, if not before. Something wonderful has happened, though of course it is terrible as well, and I am not at all pleased, but sadly grieved. Only you will not believe it, my uncle and cousins are all dead, killed in a freak accident! They were staying at their castle in Spain, for you know my uncle has property everywhere. The four of them were out hunting sweet, fluffy animals at the time – for they were evil men and could never limit themselves to shooting things only for food – when a storm blew up, and they were all of them struck by lightning. According to the peasant who witnessed the whole, the lightning jumped from one to another of them, so that the same bolt finished them all. So now I am a Viscount and the proud possessor of a house in town, a house in Bath, a vast country estate and of course a castle in Spain. I am fabulously wealthy, so wealthy that I cannot begin to count my fortune, but I can tell you that I have an income of a clear thirty thousand pounds a year. Dear Eleanor, you who loved me before I inherited my riches, you who are my own dear heart, say you will make me the happiest of men. I have written to your father, explaining the change in my circumstances and telling him I will wait upon him on Wednesday.
Henry Tilney's Diary Page 19
