The
happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the
fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy. Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the prospect of the
connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my
Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much
more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”

This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine. “You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland
came to us last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart
was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair
done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John
introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.”

Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she
had never in her life thought him handsome. “I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought
your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a
wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! catherine, the many sleepless
nights I have had on your brother’s account! i would not have you
suffer half what I have done! i am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I
will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking
of my partiality for the church! but my secret I was always sure would
be safe with _you_.”

Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor
refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate
sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was
preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his
situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation
to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
their son’s wishes. “It is impossible,” said she, “for parents to be
more kind, or more desirous of their children’s happiness; I have no
doubt of their consenting immediately.”

“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!”

Here Catherine again discerned the force of love. “Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify.”

“Oh! my sweet Catherine, in _your_ generous heart I know it would
signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had
I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your
brother would be my only choice.”

This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave
Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than
in uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her
frequent declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.”

“For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are
really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would
not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired
village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about
Richmond.”

“Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
be near us.”

“I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near
_you_, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! i will not allow
myself to think of such things, till we have your father’s answer. Morland says that by sending it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it
to-morrow. To-morrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the
letter. I know it will be the death of me.”

A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown. Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire. Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not
been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that
he would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness
to have him gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how
far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven’s
sake, waste no more time. There, go, go—I insist on it.”

The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were
inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours
flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with
everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to
consider Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance
imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and
add their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill
up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger
sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve
seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her
heart at ease by the sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening
was spent in a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on
one side in the mystery of an affected secret, on the other of
undefined discovery, all equally acute. Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of
reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more
desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a
state of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress be
found?