I always heard he was a most excellent man;
and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a
suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am
sure he must be a most liberal-minded man.”

“Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do
what they like with their own money.”

Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she,
“that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”

Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet Catherine, there
cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much
smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that
makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if
our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should
not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There’s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and a half that are
to pass before your brother can hold the living.”

“Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see
into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the
present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a
noble honest affection.”

Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of
Isabella’s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as
cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a
minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was
received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17


The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and
whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which
Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with
the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,
and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should
be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to
produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
made but a small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed,
since James’s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had
got so far as to indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the
felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the
present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness
being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a
distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning
which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured
forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No
sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay
than Miss Tilney told her of her father’s having just determined upon
quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! the past
suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present
disappointment. Catherine’s countenance fell, and in a voice of most
sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end
of another week!”

“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival
whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a
hurry to get home.”

“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known
this before—”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so
good—it would make me very happy if—”

The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine
was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his
daughter and said, “Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
successful in your application to your fair friend?”

“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”

“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My
daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter
time to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as
she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se’nnight. A letter from my
steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being
disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General
Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain
me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we
should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be
prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your
friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost
ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly
appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as
yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can
be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond
expression. ’Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of
this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour,
for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no
endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not
wholly disagreeable.”

Northanger Abbey! these were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s
feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified
heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! to have her
company so warmly solicited! everything honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s
approbation, was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she,
“and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not—”

General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her
excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of
his wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may
expect philosophy from all the world.”

Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities,
and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this
necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were
now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried
home to write her letter.