Chapter 19

The next day brought little relief to the oppression of Henry's spirits. He woke, he ate, he read, and felt every moment as if he must improve. But still his body betrayed him with tremors and pains. When he would compliment Catherine on the excellence of her dress, with a witty observation about the fashion of frugality, the soreness of his throat prevented him doing more than smile and name her pretty. Another experiment at writing brought on a headache and wearied him so that he must perforce leave it off. He was so exasperated that when his wife asked him to pick a novel to hear, he only shook his head in refusal.

At last he pretended to doze, without enthusiasm or success, while Catherine took up her work. The stillness of the room was far from soothing: he was aware of every minute sound, from any furtive step beyond the door to the pulling of a thread in his wife's hands. The phrase "his skin crawled" had always seemed unintelligent and particularly banal till this moment; now he acknowledged it was not only possible but absolutely dreadful to experience the sensation. It was as if all the activity pent inside him were being performed by his idle muscles, out of concert with his will and with irritating irregularity.

If fraternal affection had been tested before, it was currently so impoverished that Frederick owed his preservation in large part to his brother's incapacity; and that though spiritually alike, the desire to commit harm is not equivalent to the actual deed.

It did not help that Catherine remained steadfast in her commitment to attend to the rhythms of the household. He knew he should not begrudge her feeling comfortable enough to join his father at the breakfast table, and in fact was glad she no longer appeared curtailed. Nor, in his better moments, did he covet her frequent excursions to the library; after all, they were largely on his behalf, as she always brought back new selections. He was not unmoved by her relearning to admire a house so long associated with misery and degradation. It was a trial of his forbearance, though, when she looked so eager upon leaving and entering his room, and seemingly grew more forlorn the longer she remained. No word of complaint ever passed her lips, not a note of regret sounded in her tone. But Catherine was an honest soul and could not always help revealing her sentiments. Henry had become even more sensitive to the subtleties of her mood upon marrying her, and felt the cause of her listlessness greatly. It made him even more determined to recover, and yet stubbornly, this achievement eluded his power.

His patience reached its limits when striving to once again rise for a walk. Catherine did not exactly forbid him but was not encouraging, and more than once asked if he would rather continue resting. "No, I would not," was his curt answer, so that she finally put down her needlework and went to help him.

All seemed well until he reached out his arm, putting weight on his sore shoulder, and his nerves hummed in agony. He lost control of the offending limb and only Catherine's firm grip kept him from an ungainly fall. In alarm she began to guide him back down even as he urged her to help him stand, and not insensitive to his pleas, changed course. But in propelling him upward, she did not realize how the action taxed his back, and he could not prevent a loud cry at the sensation. Startled, she let go at once, so that he tumbled back against the pillows, further inflaming his already bruised flesh.

"O Henry, I am so sorry!" was her own piteous cry, and she reached out to take his hand.

He instantly regretted pulling away; no matter his suffering, it was not her fault, and even if no better motive had been found, pity would have ruled at the sight of her stricken reaction. Yet he could not relieve Catherine's agony in the throes of his own, so dearly did he ache in every nerve, leaving him without voice or nearly thought. He managed to speak at last, but rather than soothing it sounded stiff and even cold to his ears, "Catherine, for pity's sake don't—!"

He only meant to stop long enough to draw breath and explain how she had hurt him, to instruct her better. But the delay stretched longer than it should have, nor could he help a cross exclamation when she begged what to do, unsure himself what course to take and chafing at the admission.

Before he could betray himself further she stood abruptly. "Rest easy, I will call a servant to help you."

So saying, she fled out the door, leaving Henry in very dejected spirits. It was not long before a man came and with efficient, patient effort brought him up. But even with this greater strength assisting him, Henry could only stand and tremble. At last admitting to failure, he asked for his things and dismissed the aid. He forgot to ask after Mrs. Tilney until it was too late, and was not altogether sure he wanted to see her again if she were only returned by force of obligation, and with perhaps tears barely restrained. It would be better not to force his perturbation on her. Still, he could not help feeling abandoned even when he was himself the cause of it.

Wrestling between these exacting emotions was not easy for him, as he had no regular practice with such extremes: Henry usually enjoyed a more agreeable disposition and was provoked by his own unwonted distemper, which as anyone may tell you is no way to actually conquer it. In his present affliction he rued even the sun's brilliance, for what right had this week to present fine weather when the last was so awful? Nothing suggested consolation; boredom and malaise poisoned every thought, so that Henry nearly wished he was back in a fever, if only to escape it all.

It took him the better part of the hour before he could find any motivation to overcome his sulk. Reason was sadly against him, for all reasonable arguments pointed to the bleakness of the situation. Sensibility was no opposite champion, though: he had drunk too deep of her bitter cup already. Religion should have been his comfort, but in his weakness he sought what had always been his friend: the absurd, the comic, even the cynic, anything that mocked the caprices of the world. He began flipping at random through the books before him, ignoring grandeur of story or language, seeking instead the dark humour he was particularly in the mood for. No Benedict, Claudio, or even Dogberry for him: instead he sought the sharp tongue of Shylock, the melancholy of Jacques, the perverseness of Iago. Even when his headache returned he did not stop, but neither could he enjoy the speeches he usually revelled in. He found himself skipping between lines, dropping too much of the text to attach himself to any of it, and inanely repeating the most obvious nonsense.

He was not aware of a page slipping from one of the volumes at first; he only realized its presence when he made to shove them all aside, and upon examination that it was not torn from those he had so lately disturbed, for there was no numbering, and furthermore bore his name, written in a hand he had come to know intimately during his courtship's correspondence: it was a letter from Catherine.

The novelty of discovery drew him in where mere existence might have failed. No date appeared but the writing looked new, and the paper was of a kind he had observed her with, the same crisp supply his father always imported from London. Arrested by the thought that she must have penned it here, he began reading, and was as absorbed with its contents as he had been disgusted with that of a far more talented author:

“Dear Henry,

It is with little inclination that I take up this pen; I had far rather speak to you, but that is impossible at present. I am fearful lest I disturb you. I know I ought to pray, as a means for releasing the fear that strikes my heart, but I cannot approach the altar of our Lord when my mind is so disturbed, not when I am unable to voice some of that to the husband He has been so kind to give me. You will shake your head to realize how grieved I am. It must rain on everyone, just and unjust alike, but that the latter should so thoroughly drag the other into it is terrible. I am afraid of my anger. If you do not wake—but I will not give way to such fears, I am sure you will, I know God would not allow such a thing, not when we have shared so little of our lives together. But why should this place be the site of so much unhappiness! Why must it ever be a torment? I have been so forthright to your father: I should feel ashamed, and though I burn at the memory, I cannot regret it, and in fact wish I had spoken far more in your defence—but perhaps you are wisest: a quarter, an eighth even, of my feelings, was enough. For more than the present circumstances, I cannot help suspecting he has done the same to you in the past. I know Eleanor had you to guard and comfort her; but who, dearest husband, protected you? My father has been as patient with me in my middling colds as he has the infirm of the parish, and my mother has nursed me so often I blush to think of my ingratitude. But who was there to kiss your head, and tell you stories, and whisper how brave you were? I cannot even speak this aloud, so close as it is to my former suspicions; you will think me foolish! for I cannot bear to think of you so neglected. You must know I am nearby, I will not leave you, you need never suffer alone again."

Here the letter broke off; it had not been finished, there was no reliance on divine Providence or swearing of eternal love, and Catherine had been so neglectful as to not even initial a signature. It was an untidy letter, rambling and without revision, with large block letters that took up far too much space, so that she had been required to fill in the margins to continue her thoughts, forcing Henry to turn the paper now this way, now that to make out the words. Yet such were those words!

Once was not enough: he devoured it again with a hunger he had not known existed, overpowered with the emotions laid before him: anger, remorse, and such abundance of concern as to humble even the proudest heart. Here was the perfect expression of his grim mood, not in common puns or ribald mockery, but the terrible honesty of a troubled heart. Like the person herself, it was untutored in the genteel sophistry he had been forced to endure in the past. Rather it bespoke that rarest of affections which was equally fervent when considering its object's vulnerabilities as its own, uniting a lover's past with their united present and hoped for future, and containing more sincere tenderness than any sonnet despite never mentioning those emotions outright.

She had behaved as true as her words, clinging to him with all the determination of the parable's persistent widow. There could be no better metaphor for the marriage vow: some better phrased might exist, but none drawn with the same heartfelt candour.

Every ill feeling he had nursed now appeared the height of ingratitude. What insufferable idiot would ever resent her efforts or give her grief for them? He, who wanted her protected from the worst of the abbey's influences, had succumbed to them instead. There was no need to hunt for more severe irony in any of the works surrounding him: he admitted to taking more share of it than was healthy for anyone, let alone a man who claimed to serve God or possess love in his heart, and repented it.

Here is a lesson for any of us tested beyond our limits: it is sometimes helpful to find succour through the vicarious example of another's anguish, not due to any derived pleasure but because we may hope to be its cure. Henry was brought very low by this admission of vanity and the accompanying loss of his wife's steadfast attendance. In sinking beyond his own sorrow he found a purpose that superseded hollow fancies or distraction, so that he felt a welcome return of perspective and firmness of mind. He was determined to take the apostle's advice to not let the sun go down on any perceived wrath between them.

Edited 11/14/2021: changed fourth paragraph grammatical/spelling errors pointed out by Alida at DWG. For all that Henry and Catherine are fond of literature, he's more aware of the "subtleties" of her mood than any "subtitles."