Austen Said:

Patterns of Diction in Jane Austen's Major Novels


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What so natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it?
how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly be received by her.
It was not four and twenty hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little in future, beyond Henry’s going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped her.
“You must write to me, Catherine,”
“you must let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour’s comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.”
“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe.”
“I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a distance from you.”
“Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.”
It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with money enough for the expenses of her journey,
but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home;
“her kind remembrance for her absent friend.”
so near, yet so unconscious,
The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard — had he even confused her by his too significant reference! And now — what had she done, or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a change?
The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained; and equally safe
her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.
How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being gone,
To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor — what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s account, it would cut her to the heart.
“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,”
“but why not do it civilly?”
with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure.
To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment — a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of — and, above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see,
to be very brief
grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.
“No friend can be better worth keeping than Eleanor.”
She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet —!
It was not three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she return!
“Yes, but that did not last long,”
“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”
now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.
“her head did not run upon Bath — much.”
“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what I eat.”
“Mr. Henry Tilney,”
for his appearance there,
after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton,
his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion.
if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton?
the meaning,
his intention of paying his respects to them,
if she would have the goodness to show him the way.
“You may see the house from this window, sir,”
On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of
and ordered
The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be.
Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.
her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton
to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.
The Allens,
had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve.
in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.