“What is that?”

“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to
see.”

“What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”

“The oldest in the kingdom.”

“But is it like what one reads of?”

“Exactly—the very same.”

“But now really—are there towers and long galleries?”

“By dozens.”

“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.”

“Not go! my beloved creature, what do you mean?”

“I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”

“Not they indeed,” cried Thorpe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street,
I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”

“I do not know indeed.”

“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
smart-looking girl.”

“Did you indeed?”

“Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too.”

“It is very odd! but I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
walk.”

“And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! it has not been so dirty the
whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”

Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an
idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”

“I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go
up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”

“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”

“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is
dryer, and call by and by?”

“Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks.”

“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”

“Just as you please, my dear.”

“Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,” was the general cry. Mrs.
Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose
you go.” And in two minutes they were off. Catherine’s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very
unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in
degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had
acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later
than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite
of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the
course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help
thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To
feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the
delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented
Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console
her for almost anything. They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
“Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”

“Who? Where?”

“On the right-hand pavement—she must be almost out of sight now.”
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s
arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at
her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss
Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop,
I will get out this moment and go to them.” But to what purpose did she
speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys,
who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight
round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself
whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of
another street, she entreated him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr.
Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss
Tilney.” But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his
horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as
she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the
point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How could
you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them
driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the
world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! to go by them,
too, without saying a word! you do not know how vexed I am; I shall
have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten
thousand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could
you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?” Thorpe defended himself
very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his
life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney
himself. Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in
their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were
short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she
still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be
disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be
thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all
the happiness which its walls could supply—the happiness of a progress
through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of
magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the happiness
of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low,
grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total
darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any
mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo
from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know
what was the matter. The others then came close enough for
conversation, and Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is
too late to go on to-day; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have
been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than
seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will
never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it
off till another day, and turn round.”

“It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.