But
in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their
hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good
and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in
Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter
appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some
actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared
from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have
entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not
perfectly amiable. Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she
had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and
the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
the course of another day. Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness
of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects,
indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention
of a chest or a cabinet, for instance—and she did not love the sight of
japan in any shape: but even _she_ could allow that an occasional
memento of past folly, however painful, might not be without use. The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater. She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella’s having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James
had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and
Mrs. Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! this made it
so particularly strange! For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition of
a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on the
tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
letter, held out by Henry’s willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
as if he had written it himself. “’Tis only from James, however,” as
she looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to
this purpose:

“Dear Catherine,
    “Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it
    my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss
    Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either
    again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you
    more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where
    lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything
    but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank
    God! i am undeceived in time! but it is a heavy blow! after my
    father’s consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She
    has made me miserable forever! let me soon hear from you, dear
    Catherine; you are my only friend; _your_ love I do build upon. I
    wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney
    makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
    circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him;
    his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my
    father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last,
    if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me
    as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I
    bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved,
    I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at,
    for there could be no need of my being played off to make her
    secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me
    had we never met! i can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart. “Believe me,” &c.


Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her
to be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her
through the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it
began. He was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his
father’s entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could
hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her
cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her
lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she
did. The General, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no
leisure for noticing her; but to the other two her distress was equally
visible. As soon as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her
own room; but the housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to
come down again. She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but
Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that
moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg
their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return; and the
others withdrew, after Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of
being of use or comfort to her. After half an hour’s free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine
felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make her
distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if
particularly questioned, she might just give an idea—just distantly
hint at it—but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella
had been to her—and then their own brother so closely concerned in it! She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,
after a short silence, Eleanor said, “No bad news from Fullerton, I
hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are
none of them ill?”

“No, I thank you” (sighing as she spoke); “they are all very well.