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. Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name of
sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene
of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the
source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully
superior in reality and substance! her anxiety had foundation in fact,
her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the
contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her
situation, the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building,
were felt and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the
wind was high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout
the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without
curiosity or terror. Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or
give assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be
done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her
packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message
from the General occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so
natural, as that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And
she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology
might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been
useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was
put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between
them on meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and
trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,
Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more
goodwill than experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything
was done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute
behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known,
cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where
breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from
the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable; but she had
no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between
this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and
strengthened her distaste for everything before 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. These reflections were long
indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep
in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first
thing to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine’s
colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was
treated, striking at that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made
her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
impelled into resolution and speech. “You _must_ write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you _must_ let me hear
from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I
shall not have an hour’s comfort. For _one_ letter, at all risks, all
hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that
you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then,
till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not
expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under
cover to Alice.”

“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.”

Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not
importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at
a distance from you.” But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying
it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly
said, “Oh, Eleanor, I _will_ write to you indeed.”

There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle,
though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that
after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided
with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting
it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to
be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the subject till
that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for
this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house
without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon
announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each
other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house
without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by
either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it
intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent
friend.” But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of
restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could
with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the
chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door. CHAPTER 29


Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or
feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage,
in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the
walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of
ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was
capable of turning her eyes towards it.