Chapter 24

After advancing along the full length of the storey, with frequent attention paid to the portraits contained or the scenes which had once passed therein—narrated with an emphasis more on the vagaries than the grandeur of the characters involved—and an additional excursion to an even higher point up a winding stair, Catherine insisted Henry retire, and was repaid her consideration by his acquiescing without debate. While ensuring he had everything within easy reach, Catherine could not help feeling for the absence of fever twice. "You are not too warm? Is there anything else you need?" she asked again.

"Strength to act upon the feelings a pretty lady bent so close inspires." A yawn marred his delivery, though his tired smile hinted at his meaning, and Catherine was kind enough to offer a chaste kiss upon his brow before sternly telling him to rest. Her injunction was little needed, for already his eyes were closing, and Catherine left satisfied as to her husband's faithfully attending her command.

For her part she busied herself in the next hour with writing another letter to their sister, full of reassurances regarding Henry's health and inquires into the lady's own, and then writing the parish, her own parents, and even her old friend Mrs. Allen: she could not get enough of repeatedly sharing the elation of her heart with anyone who might be remotely concerned, and was more conscientious in her general correspondence that day than perhaps ever before in her young life. The true meaning of the psalm's pronouncement "my cup runneth over" was revealed to her, and it had not stopped flowing when she ran out of paper.

Still restless, and careful that no noise should disturb Henry's repose, she took the letters down herself and was pleased to hear they would go out on that day's mail coach. To think so much good news would be shared, over seventy miles and more!

Coming so near the stable-yard made her covet the sight of their familiar dogs and horses, or even Will with the curricle. But she would be patient: the doctor would return soon, and then they would go home. How happy he would be to discover his patient so well, as glad as Mr. Jones receiving them back at Woodston, as the recipient of their efforts both medical and spiritual was able to take his rightful place again.

"But who will tell the vicar here?" was the next thought that occurred to her as she lingered in the hall, looking out a window at the works going on. That kind man had offered to pray for Henry as well, with the concern born of many years' acquaintance. He must have known her husband most of his life, back when he was subject to the same vicissitudes of lessons and frights as her own brothers had been. How queer it was to consider him that way, and yet how readily she could now, thinking of that little room and the history she could imagine based on his description. She even allowed the captain, though despicable in his hateful abuse toward a dependent relation, might have been a nervous little boy too.

Marriage had begun teaching her what men might be concerned with; she felt she was beginning to understand better how they might act on their fears. It must be something awful that had driven her brother by marriage into his recent ill temper, causing all this misery not just for them but himself. But then, was the general ever afraid as well? And what would discompose him, who must have seen and experienced far worse through his wide experience in the world? And would his disapprobation prevent his informing anyone of Henry's recovery, or had they like the vicar been misinformed to begin with and never realized the danger at all?

She stifled her preference for a long walk to soothe her thoughts, not wanting to cause any further antagonism. Without Henry she felt no compunction to explore the house further. More than anything, she yearned to be in her own environs again, with far simpler knots to untangle.

With no other employment she went back to her uncompleted mending. Catherine felt some embarrassment at her lack of diligence: surely, with so many servants taking care of all their needs, and with so little expected of her, she might have done more in a week's time! She determined she simply must finish the coat she had been repairing if nothing else, and would not even take out a novel to distract her while it remained undone.

At last the hated sleeve was stitched up, and all the buttons repaired. Perhaps she ought to have been encouraged to finish the rest. But she felt so wearied by the effort that she almost threw the things away from her, feeling silly even as she did so, and when she reached out to keep her thread from rolling away, nearly overturned the chair and upset the basin, so that she must instead lunge to keep it from breaking and landed upon her knees with a little cry. Instantly she clapped a hand upon her mouth, worried she had woke Henry, then worried she had missed hearing him call for her, and then worried anew that she would be found sitting so foolishly in a bundle of skirts and bowl and scattered sewing, proving herself the worthless girl General Tilney must believe her to be.

Tears pricked her eyes and she stood in frustration, silent but shaking, needing release for her pent up anxieties and unsure if there were anywhere in the house or grounds safe to express them. If only Henry were fully better, and she could trust it would not harm him, she would run at once and let him soothe her in his arms; but she had felt his need earlier, with so little of his usual strength, requiring her to keep him balanced, still without the means of holding his own. If she did anything to check his progress now, when he was so close to being made whole!

She gritted her teeth, squeezed her fists, walked about the room, anything to relieve the painful trepidations that rocked her. It was not his fault, she did not blame Henry, never: and yet she could not stop her heart from jealously desiring he might be able to consider her needs, so long kept at bay, as if waiting only for the first sign of his restoration to be unleashed. She repented the feeling at once, ashamed, and yet that only brought more tumult to her spirit, more difficulty in regaining her calm.

The general was so unkind: could he not see how hard she was trying to conform to his dictates? Could he not have entered into a truce, for Henry's sake? Why must he forever torment them? She felt nearly sick with these unvoiced thoughts circling her mind, as if she would die if she could not scream in that instant. And would that not be wonderful, to prove her wretched enemy correct and shew herself very foolish, to fret so without cause? Why must she feel this way now: she had not been near so upset when Henry was in real danger. It was vanity, or pride, or arrogance, or any number of other sins she had not suspected herself guilty, to indulge a tantrum like an ignorant child, and just when there was so much to be grateful for.

Not able to stand it any longer, Catherine threw herself on the bed, heedless of the mess left behind, and buried her face in a pillow to hide the sobs she could no longer swallow. She cried so hard her head ached, and still did not stop, even though she must soon have no tears left to spill and her throat hurt from the muffled heaving. She thought of how merry everyone else in the world must be at that moment, her letters going out to further their cheer, and wondered if it was possible to empty one's joy in spreading it too far. It never seemed so before. She had not felt this miserable when sent away in her maidenhood and believing she would never see Henry again, nor earlier when he had reproached her scandalous aspersions against the general, and not even when she was sure the general would never consent and they would never marry and the world had appeared suspended in time, and yet rushing past her so quickly. She had only thought herself miserable before. Now she truly tasted its black bile, not the kind that came from persecution, a guilty conscience, or tenderness of heart, but a wrenching melancholy such as she had never dreamed of, a despair not born of any reason she could name, a horrible bleakness that emptied her of any other feeling, leaving her at last exhausted.

This sort of mood, while it may be commonly understood, was positively shocking for Catherine, who while not as jovial as her husband was nevertheless usually content. Were she of a more contemplative nature, the example of Job's Wife would have explained how circumstances could make even a pious matriarch wretched. A more sophisticated creature might take for her model great personages, such as Catherine's own Tudor namesake, the Norman lady of Aquitaine, or Nero's empress. A truly stupid or low woman would have only considered her own propensities, defying all scruples.

Instead, Catherine felt a great thirst and the beginnings of hunger, and realized if she was to satisfy these needs, she must achieve some mastery over her feelings. It took far too long to make herself rise, and when she did, surveying the disarray of her appearance and the room, she almost threw herself back down. But the idea of someone discovering her folly at last forced her back up, and she set to work tidying up: first the things, then her person, wiping her face and fixing her hair, and in all respects attempting to make herself presentable again.

When at last she felt she could leave the room without dying of shame, she went on tiptoes, all her shyness returned, for she desired under no circumstances to call any of the women who had been attending her. She still felt apt to come apart at the slightest provocation, and could not bear for them to see her so weak. So concerned and mortified was she at the idea of meeting anyone, she slipped to the end of the gallery and down the back stair, retracing the path she and Henry had passed so joyfully what felt a lifetime ago. Her only thought was to find the kitchen and beg for a little something, then to lock herself away from all penetrating looks.

Later she realized that, in keeping her eyes downcast, she must have taken a wrong turn, for she eventually realized she was nowhere near her destination. Instead she nearly gasped on bumping into a large table and recognized the billiard room. In alarm she raced back to the door she had just come through, unwilling to be found somewhere the general might guard as zealously as his garden, but at first could not get it open again, though she pulled with all her might. At last she leaned against the handle in dejection and found herself tripping back into the corridor, and might have fallen had not a steady pair of arms caught her.

"Why, Mrs. Tilney, are you afflicted too?" were the doctor's kind words. Catherine was almost giddy with relief until another much deeper voice spoke, and she looked up to see the general standing nearby.

She sprang up and stammered an apology, but found herself horrifically falling into tears again: "No, no, I will leave right this moment," yet was held by the doctor's firm grip.

"Are you sure? I hope you have not caught your husband's fever." He then led her back to a chair—in the room, the very place she had fled!—and anxiously took her pulse. Catherine submitted, forcing herself to breathe, though all the time wishing she were dead. As the doctor asked after her symptoms she could see the general pacing just beyond, like a lion when it was hunting, she was sure of it, why the tails of his coat were just like that of a great beast. Or rather, that was how the cats in her girlhood comported themselves, so must not a lion do the same?

And just like that, instead of crying or trembling, Catherine could not help laughing. It was only a nervous giggle at first, but the memory of Mrs. Allen's pet prancing about, finicky and neat, never deigning even to touch the mice it terrorized, provoked further merriment, and she could not control peals of laughter at the thought of General Tilney being no more than a self-important Tom. How ridiculous it all seemed now!

When the doctor began talking of hysterics, and calling for her to be taken to bed, she was at last able to restrain herself, and shaking her head, insisted she was not in a fit. "I am sorry for alarming you," she said, calmer and with more sincerity, "I only came down to get something to eat. I had no thought of disturbing anyone." Turning to the general, she bowed her head. "I did not mean to encroach: I am afraid I became lost." That word, with such a double meaning for her state of the past few hours, struck her as funny all over again, and it took great diligence on her part to keep from succumbing to fresh hilarity.

"This affair has been a great strain upon your nerves, I am sure," the doctor commented, still watching her closely. "Have you had difficulty eating? Sleeping?"

She shook her head. "No, I have been very well, I have no complaints."

"Have you been able to distract yourself: are you able to walk, to take fresh air?"

"Oh, I have taken walks," and here she stopped herself, not sure of what might least offend, and so finished, "that is, I did. I have not been solely closeted upstairs."

"But today, for example? What activity have you had?"

Here she might acquit herself better, and while the doctor sent for wine, described eating breakfast, helping Henry walk, making sure he received rest afterward, and writing letters. Catherine then faltered over what to say next. Perhaps it had been a fit that came upon her, so alien did her previous feelings appear now, as if she had been someone else entirely. Feeling freed of its power was such a relief she forbore to let it discompose her further, and was able by a perseverance of good sense and disposition, as well as drinking from the glass she was handed without difficulty, to prove she had only been in need of refreshment.

"It appears to have been a mild case, thankfully: but you must not overdo things Mrs. Tilney. You must not abandon your routines or leave off exercise. Why, the general himself keeps in excellent condition with his daily airings. Sir, I think the young lady would benefit from joining you. There is still daylight left, and a small turn might offer as much relief as lying down. Since you have been kind enough to extend an invitation to dinner, we will all have just time enough to complete our labours beforehand—you in the preservation of health, I in checking on the same with the invalids."

It was unclear whether Catherine or the general was least delighted with the doctor's scheme, though she was better able to hide her aversion. "I would not intrude on the general's time," was her objection, seeing the scowl on the other man's countenance.

"Oh, but were you not telling me just now you were set on a walk?" the doctor asked his companion, and when he was affirmed turned back to the lady. "You see, it was already planned, you will not be taking away from anything. Now, let us have your hat and gloves brought down, and you may soon enjoy some recreation. Nothing better for troubled spirits."

Without any return of her malaise, Catherine accepted her fate as the just reward for her silliness. "For I would not be in this position if I had behaved better," she decided, and so acquiesced to the doctor's help standing and the general's leading her to the door with all the tranquillity of a martyr. Yet death was no longer her aim. Catherine instead prayed for a different deliverance, one her husband had hinted required divine intervention: the softening of the heart beside her.

Edited 12/4/2021: thanks to commenter Karentea at DWG for pointing out a spelling error.