Chapter 18

Though provided with all the necessary articles of a morning study in the form of pen, paper, prayer book, and perhaps most importantly time, Henry found he was unable to marshal his full attention. Writing might have directed his thoughts, but was abandoned after several attempts that were nearly illegible. Without the soothing rituals of a Sabbath meeting he gained little profit reading the text to himself; without the people gathered around to hear, his tongue felt heavy and without purpose. This latter feeling was especially acute as he missed one specific soul in the front pew who normally smiled at his every word and gesture.

It had not always been so of course; any Oxford man must attempt his first sermons as he could, whether speaking to the empty room, another student, or even an animal. Henry had actually been very fond of learning key passages by heart while riding; he knew of a fellow who would not appear before the class until he could safely make recitations to his dog without it wandering off. Then there had been the awful business of appearing before the bishop and attempting to prove that his years of matriculation had not been wasted. Though fortunate enough to receive a living straight away through his family's preferment, Henry had not avoided the new cleric's early career of mistakes: christening water spilled or communion bread crumbled, stuttered names and butchered readings, and learning the importance of refraining from a splendidly clever but ill-timed remark while in council with the parish officers.

Woodston had in that sense been a very good place to begin: established but without consequence, manageably small and yet not confining, and full of good-natured souls who were willing to embrace a young man of extreme confidence with genial complacency. There were still those who remained indifferent to Henry's abilities but none outright challenged his authority or position, as he knew many a new ordinate sometimes faced. For that matter he had always attempted kindness to his own curate, who though nine years older and with thrice the experience as yet had no living of his own, and for no other fault than that the name of Jones commanded little by way of property, money, or influence. It was Henry's habit to supplement this worthy man's meagre income from the tithes for any services led; and to offer a seat at his own table as often as not, a practice he had been pleased to see his wife not only tolerate but encourage.

Reflections on Catherine's merits did little to curb his distraction. Far from it; his mood persisted as the minutes crawled by, with so opposite the rapidity he usually felt them race at the first of the week. Though reasonably certain there could be little danger in her attending the Northanger church apart from boredom (the good vicar's ponderous ecclesiasticism having undergone little alteration in the years following his protégé's birth), Henry could not make his mind easy over the general's sudden interest in her person. After neglecting her so thoroughly since their arrival, and aside from one brief confrontation, to command her at meals and outings was a step of such marked difference he must wonder at its cause. He felt justified in this concern by his father's past behaviour. Where once he could observe General Tilney's foibles and oddness towards a guest with only detached chagrin, Henry the husband could little afford this luxury: duty, honour, his own tender feelings required he protect Catherine from any new abuse. It was for this very reason he had not wished her to remain captive within the abbey's walls and thus subject to his father's mercurial temper ever again.

Not usually restless, Henry felt all the disadvantage of being unable to give vent to his nerves through physical exertion. He longed for a walk or drive, good company and conversation. Denied these comforts he could only wait for Catherine's return with increasing unease. He wanted to sit with her on the pew, wondered whether she was welcomed, despaired she would not be, then railed against his own absurdity. Here Catherine had left him with the simple belief he would behave as a good Christian, prayerful and guided by the will of Providence, and instead all he had done was fret.

Forcing himself to look on the biblical passage again, he strove to consider the apostle's commendation of the lady chosen by God and the command to love through obedience. That commandment had become a sticking point for him during the past year; it was difficult to remain faithful to the woman of his heart and the patriarch of his blood when the two were in opposition to each other; or rather, when the latter was opposed to the former. Catherine herself was willing, nay eager, to prove herself agreeable. It was quite probable she was motivated as much by some misguided sense of obligation as her own devotion this morning. She continued to believe in the possibility of making amends.

Henry was more doubtful; as the lady was more sinned against than sinning, no penance she could perform would ever quiet the other's invented complaints. He had hoped the general would at least pretend familial concern after sanctioning their marriage, if not actually feel it. As the months passed and no change in attitude was observed, though, Henry gave it up. Never particularly indebted to paternal approbation, he had grown positively indifferent to it during his banishment and courtship.

Or so it had seemed. Now he regretted not exerting himself to find some more reasonable accommodation for his wife than the barest form of consent. A lady should expect public recognition and an invitation to the family's home after her marriage, not kept at bay and then summoned at will like a retainer. Catherine for her part never admitted to any insult, leaving it entirely for her husband to feel on her behalf. Henry had not realized the strength of his own resentment. He could acknowledge some of his displeasure came from confinement and the lingering effects of sickness. Yet here we may observe logic's deficiency as physic: no sooner could Henry rationally explain his state than he leapt to the source of it, namely his brother's intemperate actions, which no doubt sprang from their father's own excesses. At least his sister was spared this latest crisis, in opposition to how she had so often borne the brunt of every choleric outburst.

And yet at least he had some means to relieve Eleanor's past woes. His deficiency toward his wife, who he loved in equal measure, smote his heart, and it was with ever more earnest, if not sacred, reflections that he passed the time.

It would be a very noble picture of long-suffering to imagine Henry's eyes fastened to the shadows cast on the floor, his ears straining to hear the clock's chimes, watchful and waiting for his bride's return. The reader may retain the described picture as a model of the ideal, hung upon a wall or contained within primers for moral improvement. We rarely think worry may assist sleep, since the reverse is a far more romantic notion, and yet habit is a more powerful mistress than all. It had long been Henry's custom to rest at a certain point before evensong, and as he had nothing beyond idle conjectures to tempt him otherwise, soon found himself drawn to this state almost without volition.

He awoke in some confusion at Catherine's greeting, for he did not recall closing his eyes, and this disorientation made him fear a relapse of his mind as well as his body. But he could not remain troubled for long in her presence, especially as she did not appear bothered in the least by her outing but rejuvenated.

"And so you enjoyed the service?" was his own smiling observation, which she affirmed with the same fervour another might have praised the theatre or an assembly. Her words tumbled so fast, and with such eagerness, that he did not try to understand their full meaning, but gleaned enough to believe her present felicity owed as much to a change in setting as divine intervention. If it is not fully to Henry's credit as a parson to employ this scepticism, it must be added to his role as a lover, so recently sullied by repose.

"I am glad," was his sincere reply to her exultations, without reference to his suspicions over their origins. "Now, if you will indulge your poor husband, I would like to attempt a turn about the gallery before you are taken from my side again."

"Oh of course! But I will not be leaving too soon: the general seemed so withdrawn, I would not be surprised if he does not require me until we depart for evening prayers."

Henry was of two minds regarding this intelligence: on the one hand, a certain possessive delight in the society of one so forcibly missed was foremost. Yet a lingering sense of disquiet remained; it was unusual for the general not to speak his mind, and no scheme requiring secrecy could augur well. Then too he noticed that despite her glowing accolades, no words of comfort or concern filled her descriptions. Instead it was all hollow gestures, the coldest forms obeyed without delicacy or even prevaricated feeling. No matter how little antipathy was admitted, Henry was in no doubt of its expression, and could not be as content as his dear wife with the mere absence of reproach.

Yet Henry did not allow these misgivings to rob of him of the present's peace. Instead he enjoyed what he always experienced in his wife's pleasure for life: an awakening of his own. This sympathy between them was fortunately placed, for though Henry had got up in pursuit of necessities, he had not ventured to perform any extended activity, and the attempt was not as dignified nor encouraging as he might have wished. Only rising was a challenge, one he insisted on performing himself, and though feeling quite hale after his lengthy sleep the effort of sitting fully upright was enough to make him pause.

It was a little better when he took Catherine's arm, and he could not help catching some of her own elation at finally leaving an apartment he had grown quite inured of over the preceding days. The first steps of freedom were sweet indeed, as was the novelty of seeing other sights, even those familiar to him: it was enough that they were so recently different. They fell into conversation while slowly progressing along the gallery, of what it scarcely mattered, simply that it was so normal an occupation, so welcome a resumption of their routine, as must gladden both their hearts. So long as they continued thus, Henry could pretend all was well and that their trials were at an end.

The first cough was small, and so innocent as to be scarcely noticed between them; Henry studiously ignored it, and Catherine was influenced by his example to pay as little heed. As if in retaliation for this neglect, the next was stronger, and the third forced upon him so violently that he was required to stop before walking half the corridor's distance, fully dependent on Catherine to maintain his balance.

"We should turn back," was her suggestion when he was at last able to breathe again, and he reluctantly agreed, his fatigue returning with an unwelcome faintness, matched by the languor of his steps. Whatever animation he had derived from the respite ebbed away as it was withdrawn. Catherine attempted to keep up their chatter, and he strove for her sake to respond, but was denied even this consolation by the irritability of his throat and lungs. All too soon they were back where they had started, and he found himself falling onto the bed with shameful feebleness.

"Are you warm? I pray your fever has not returned," was Catherine's next concern, brushing her palm against his skin.

"I do not believe so," was the short reply he managed at last.

She looked unconvinced. "We must not risk it; we should not attempt anything else today. I am afraid we have been too rash."

Protest was hot on his lips, as much from peevish rebellion as actual disagreement, but he did not attempt to contradict the wisdom of her words with the lamentable proofs of his stability. He submitted to her application of a cool cloth, and offer for light reading, without complaint. And though receiving some measure of relief from her nearness and concern, Henry was not so distracted to miss how often her eyes strayed to the window. The diminution of her cheer was a marked change from when she first returned to his side.