I did not
quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French
bread at Northanger.”

“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what
I eat.”

“There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by
great acquaintance—The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some
day or other, because I am sure it will do you good.”

Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to
her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it
herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her
needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
in her daughter’s absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that
repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of
cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some
time before she could find what she looked for; and other family
matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere
she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created
herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few
minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a
young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect,
he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious
daughter as “Mr. Henry Tilney,” with the embarrassment of real
sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging
that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at
Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland’s
having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He
did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far
from comprehending him or his sister in their father’s misconduct, Mrs.
Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly,
pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of
unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her
daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always
welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was
greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that
moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in
silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most
civilly answering all Mrs. Morland’s common remarks about the weather
and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
Catherine—said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye
made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set
her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside
the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland’s assistance, as well in giving encouragement,
as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his
father’s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home—and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an
hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes’ unbroken
silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her
mother’s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.
Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her
perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his
respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would
have the goodness to show him the way. “You may see the house from this
window, sir,” was information on Sarah’s side, which produced only a
bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her
mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary
consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that
he might have some explanation to give of his father’s behaviour, which
it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine,
would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their
walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in
wishing it. Some explanation on his father’s account he had to give;
but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached
Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think
it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection;
and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty
equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now
sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the
excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must
confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude,
or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had
been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new
circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an
heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a
wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
without sense or connection, and Catherine, wrapt in the contemplation
of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed
them to the ecstasies of another tête-à-tête; and before it was
suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned
by parental authority in his present application. On his return from
Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his
impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland’s
departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The
affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she
listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution
with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious
rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and
as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his
father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant
delight. The General had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay
to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a
deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride
would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich
than he had supposed her to be.