CHAPTER 17

The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and

whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which

Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with

the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.

Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,

and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should

be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to

produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made

but a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since

James's engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so

far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of

being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now

comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for

that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite

but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this

business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her

joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she

expressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay than Miss Tilney

told her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath

by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of

the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.

Catherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she

echoed Miss Tilney's concluding words, "By the end of another week!"

"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I

think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival

whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a

hurry to get home."

"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known

this before--"

"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so

good--it would make me very happy if--"

The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine

was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.

After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his

daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being

successful in your application to your fair friend?"

"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."

"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My

daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his daughter time

to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has

perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells

me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope

of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of

my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And

could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a

single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene

of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in

Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its

presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath

than yourself. Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain

it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit,

you will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you

nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither

by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain

and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make

Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable."

Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine's

feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified

heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of

tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her

company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every

present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her

acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation,

was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they

do not object, as I dare say they will not--"

General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her

excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of

his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may

expect philosophy from all the world."

Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and

the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary

reference to Fullerton would allow.

The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through

the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were

now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,

with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she

hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on

the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their

daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had

been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their

ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though

not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being

favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,

circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her

advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had

been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her.

Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.

Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The

affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,

they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,

outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their

intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she

was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society

she mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to

be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in

degree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made

usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see

and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters

of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more

than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.

And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,

hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,

and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow

cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she

could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some

awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.

It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the

possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so

meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A

distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority

of abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.

Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so

active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she

was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been

a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having

fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,

of a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the

present dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low

in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.