Austen Said:

nay,

he was even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there.

“Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her 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.”

“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. 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?”

“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”

“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”

“Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. 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?”

“It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”

Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable.

to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken.

“Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.”

“Oh! Because she had been there so long.”

“Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long again.”

his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her,

at least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially painful.

he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly.

it was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say,

“Errand! To me!”

“’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”

“My dear Eleanor,”

“do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part — so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord’s, come to Fullerton?”

“Come when you can, then.”

“Monday — so soon as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of — I shall be able to take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way — and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home.”

“Have I offended the general?”

“I am sure,”

“I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very little consequence.”

“Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.”

Turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance — not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous.

The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.

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.

“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.”

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.

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 —!