Chapter 20

Many a heroine, believing herself cruelly used, has compounded the folly of insulted dignity with equally foolhardy actions. I will refrain from identifying any here; their names are familiar to any reader of the popular literature, or even a certain authoress from this time. How often has a woman's frailty been her own undoing, and equally mortifying is the conclusion that the sex presumed to be lesser is able to bring the mightiest down when in error.

Fortunately, though Catherine knew how often ladies were described as fainting and running to hysterics, she felt no inclination to imitate their example. Never having pretensions to greatness she did not entertain any similar conceit in her disappointments. Even when returned to her parents' home in disgrace, convinced Henry was lost to her forever, Catherine only indulged a sad unsettledness. She had not rejected food, sleep, or her nearest relations and friends: it never occurred to her to behave in this manner for the simple fact that she never wished to.

So Catherine did not in the present circumstances prefer death to life. What is more, she did not prefer it for anyone else, least of all a husband whose regard—despite this most recent difficulty—she felt the fullest reliance on. Instead, she believed him ill-used, gave him credit for his usual good temper, and was wise enough to seek the assistance of others better equipped to aid him at this time. Once satisfied that Henry was cared for, Catherine absented herself rather than foment further discord. It is always good when simple virtue may be relied upon to direct one's course, and many another character of more knowledge would have been better served to do the same.

Donning her bonnet, Catherine decided to stroll about the grounds. She always enjoyed walking; and as she was restless from her self-enforced retirement, it was glorious indeed to wander the park, feeling the sun's warmth, and without hindrance from any stride or direction contrary to her own.

She wished again for Eleanor; a sister would be the most sympathetic companion, even more one who could appreciate both Catherine's frustration and devotion. But no reply had yet come in answer to her letters, not altogether surprising given the many delays that may have resulted from the storm's disturbance even beyond this county. Her warm felicitude, and that of any others of their acquaintance which might even now be en route, could only be anticipated. How much easier it was to understand her loneliness prior to marriage! Catherine was glad to think that, ignorant as she had been when first becoming acquainted, their friendship may have provided some relief; and that their sorority might be as much a gift to a viscountess as the reverse.

It was with reluctance that she turned her steps back to Northanger Abbey. So loathe was she to go in that she alighted on a picturesque bench as soon as it came in sight, though not truly tired. Everything here was as wonderful and luxurious as she remembered, and at times it seemed even more so. Her previous visit had ended in early spring; seeing the abbey in the height of verdance explained some of the general's former lament that his guest could not fully appreciate the sights. It was all so beautiful. And yet also so isolated.

The Woodston parsonage was a study in contrasts. There was always something to mend or repair, some work to be accomplished, and not nearly as many people to do it. The dogs would bark, the neighbours might call, and the inhabitants of the house were usually occupied over something. Her garden was hopelessly wild in comparison to the exacting neatness of the stalks before her. But she reflected that the Allens had as pretty a lawn even if it was not nearly as large, and besides, it was in her opinion a far pleasanter place to visit. Yet there must be those who enjoyed precise squares and perfectly placed fountains as well. Taste might be as subject to one's own inclinations and experiences as agreed upon standards.

Standing, she surveyed the landscape again with a more discriminate eye, appreciating it without feeling humbled in return. The grounds as laid out must be what the general required. That was right: it was after all his home. Still she could not imagine Henry arranging their home with comparable uniformity, or ever being wholly comfortable in such an environment.

Upon entering the house she realized far more time had passed than she was aware: the clock looked close to four. It would not do to attend dinner with so much dirt about her. Hurrying back to her room she was quick to wash and change. She thought of checking on Henry again, but decided against it: if he had been able to walk he must be resting, and if not, might demand more of her time than she had leisure to give. Instead she asked the maid to offer her excuses, and to say she would see him once dinner was over.

Her father-in-law's habitual impatience did not disturb her nearly as much after repeated exposure. She could not be perfectly easy in his presence, but neither did she expect him to offer more than he was willing to give, which meant they spent the majority of their time together in silence. They had almost concluded the meal before he roused enough to ask after his son's improvement. "He is somewhat better," she answered as truthfully as possible, "but still very weak. I do not believe he has stirred much at all today."

"As opposed to his wife."

This statement held an ominous quality; Catherine could not help feeling there was some accusation in its tone. But rather than dwell on what it could mean she strove to continue the conversation as cheerfully as possible. "I have enjoyed a walk this afternoon. Your gardens look quite splendid: they are very well laid out."

"It is usual for people to ask when they roam my property."

Ah, there must be her mistake! Catherine nodded, and said, "I am sorry not to have done so, I had not thought of it. I only wanted to admire them. I did not touch anything."

He gave no reply beyond a cross look, and Catherine struggled to put herself of a mind with him, to better appreciate what she should do. How much easier it must be for the men of a regiment to please their commander, having been trained to it, and how difficult it was for her to know how such authority was to be placated. It must not be mere idle recreation that she requested; surely that was not how things were done in the army. In considering thus, Catherine showed herself more virtuous than she knew: for with the example of Captain Tilney, it would have been easy to reason otherwise. But she instead theorized how a supplicant might act and did accordingly.

"Please, might we attempt getting Henry outside tomorrow? A chair may be required, but I think he could be helped down, and the weather is so fine it must do him good."

This suggestion was met with some suspicion on the part of her listener. "Had Henry asked for it to be done? Why did he not order it himself?"

"He may not have thought to. It is not for those who are sick to always know what will help them. I am sure it would be to his improvement to see how pleasant everything appears and enjoy the fresh air."

What could be said against such an enterprise, so perfectly desirous of pleasing? The general fell back on expostulations regarding the barometer, wondered if there might be too much wind, and even doubted whether Dr. Morton would approve of the plan. All these excuses Catherine listened to without rebuttal. She did not agree: none appeared, to her mind, insurmountable challenges. Here she unknowingly imitated the actions of an experienced campaigner by not rebuking a superior officer, instead gently guiding him to a course of action she had determined he must, eventually, see the wisdom of himself. "If the general believed it unwise, it would not be attempted. But if the weather continued fair, she thought it good for Henry to at least be brought to one of the gallery's verandas, that he might get more sun. It would not do for him to grow too pale."

Nothing was said against this proposal. Whatever the general meant by his silence, Catherine was determined to interpret it as tacit agreement, and so retired from the dining parlour with renewed purpose.

Only when she had gained the top of the stair did Catherine realize she had neglected to recommend a similar arrangement for the family's eldest son. This thought was not welcome: she did not like to extend an invitation to Frederick, nor did she think it altogether wise on Henry's account to bring them together. But it must have seemed so partial, so resentful! A father, no matter his feelings, must be aware of any slight made against one of his own children, and the general had proven how sensitive he could be where matters of pride were concerned. To chide her for abusing her position, and then for her to answer with an insult, however unintended, must have angered him, and just when she had so wanted to be of like mind! It was no wonder he had discouraged her.

Turning around, Catherine did the only thing she knew to do when recognizing an error: she resolved to remedy it at once. No longer the girl of seventeen who might have allowed guilt or fear to dog her steps, she instead found the nearest servant and calmly asked to be shown to General Tilney. It must say something about Catherine's fortitude that the man did not hesitate to bring her to his master, who was still drinking his coffee.

"I am sorry to disturb you: I will not remain long. But I should apologize, I had not meant to neglect the captain. I am unfamiliar with his wants; you must know them better, do you think he would prefer the excursion too?"

This speech, delivered with no more deference than respect, so direct and lacking in subtlety, was enough to stop whatever foul words the general might have originally intended at the intrusion. He set his cup down and stood, so that Catherine must look up to see his full reaction. It was not vile or agreeable; there was little of emotion in his features at all, as if a mask had fallen upon them.

"Captain Tilney is ordered not to move at present. There is no need for you to consider him at all."

The note of dismissal was clear, and Catherine was aware of the servant waiting expectantly by the door. "I will gladly leave him in your hands; only, I hope I may always offer the consideration of a sister." Here she curtsied and let herself be led away, satisfied she had done everything possible to demonstrate her respect. If the general would not risk his heir's health, she would not attempt to persuade him otherwise. As to the second son's confinement, though, she was busy formulating how to surmount any and all barriers towards its end.

Her mind was so full that it is not surprising she forgot to look in on her husband. Every thought was on him and yet none pointed her steps beyond her chamber. It was not until she had retired to bed that Catherine realized her negligence: she had not seen Henry, not even asked about him, since leaving so hastily. At first she resolved not to disturb him; it was late enough he might already be asleep, and she was certainly not dressed to go into the hall. But then she remembered they were not at home but at the abbey, that the rooms were connected, and that it would be the work of a moment to slip over and peer in. No sooner did the thought occur than she must do it. She pried open the passage with great care, trying to make as little noise as possible.

A candle by the bed gave her light enough to see Henry was still awake; he looked as if he were studying something intently. She made to go but evidently without nearly as much quiet, for she heard him call her name.

She turned, not quite entering, and explained, "I only wished to see that you were well. I will let you rest."

"Will you stay a moment?"

It was such a plaintive question she could not help coming to his side, forgetting all other considerations in her concern. "Of course, I am here, what do you need?"

He looked well, though whether due to real improvement or the dim lighting, she was not sure. His smile forbade further worry, however, and the strength of his movement when he took her hand was admirable. "I will not tax either my voice or your patience long. But I hoped you might share some of your activities. I trust your afternoon has been well spent."

"Oh: yes!" Catherine smiled herself, and needed little inducement to launch into a description of her walk, and her appreciation of everything she had seen, with so much enthusiasm one might be forgiven thinking she had never experienced them before. Henry listened intently, answering when called upon, and it was only when she found herself circling back around in her praise that she thought to ask how he had passed the time.

"I am much better hearing of your enjoyment. I confess, I have not been a proper companion of late."

She protested, but he held up a hand. "You must allow me some measure of contrition; it is not much, it is not be compared with your genial temper. But I should attempt some restitution for the distress I have caused you."

"But you could not help it: you were suffering."

"As much say I could not help it, I was annoyed, or displeased, or inattentive, as I am afraid you must realize your husband may be on many occasions. It is not the woman only who should remember her troth. Have I not sworn to love, comfort, and honour thee above all others? I do not recall any exception based on the groom's deficiencies, and after performing enough weddings, I believe I should know it by heart."

"You have always done those things. I do not see what objection could be made."

"How fortunate the sinner who has so liberal a judge to acquit him: it should encourage him to go and sin no more."

Her heart lifted in hearing him speak so familiarly, and encouraged her to press her position, reassured that his constitution could stand it. "But Henry, the husband is not meant to offer comfort alone. I am sure any sufferer, man or woman, should expect some indulgence on their sickbed. No one could resent such a need. I am glad I can serve you."

Here he grew serious, and gripped her fingers tighter. "And I am glad you can still say so. Gladder still you believe in such general goodness; for I assure you, there are more resentful hearts than are dreamed of in your philosophy. But your charitable nature will not hear me say so; I must content myself with claiming yours is the first of many, when I think there are few who even come close to matching it."

Catherine made no further argument, and expressed her appreciation for his words by kissing his hand. So happy was she that her scheme of going onto the veranda was voiced, causing Henry's features to light with reciprocal joy. "I have already spoken to your father, so that is taken care of."

"And did he approve of this action?"

"He did not forbid it; if he does not like it, I do not see that it matters."

Somewhat taken aback by her resolution, Henry wonderingly asked, "What happened to that sweet little Miss Morland, so timid and mild?"

"She married," Catherine answered, smiling at him and standing to take her leave.

Henry's laughter, and reflection on the boldness endowed by the Tilney name, followed her out of the room, and gave them both the most agreeable expectations for the day to come.