Part 46: A Dreamer or a Lover

It was a truly wonderful thing to appear at a fashionable assembly in the company of a viscount no matter how recently titled. Henry, with such a long absence from society, enjoyed himself immensely.

"You look very happy indeed." Eleanor smiled at him as they went down the set.

It was second nature by now to put to memory anything of interest for later, so much so that he was not fully aware of his distraction until one of his partners asked who he was thinking of. Only briefly startled, Henry begged her pardon and admitted he was, in fact, considering a letter's composition.

The lady tossed her head with flippant dismissal. "Of course, it is a matter of grave business, to be sure."

"Not of the grave no, I must admit I have no such business at this time, though a clergyman may never anticipate when he will be called."

"Then it must be the opposite: tell me, Mr. Tilney, do you have a wedding planned ere long?" She eyed him with obvious cunning, albeit guisesd as maidenly modesty. The attempt was poor considering the true model he knew in comparison, and somewhat soured what might have been an otherwise pleasant diversion between the steps. It should have been funny. Instead, a familiar wistfulness descended as had been kept at bay during the fortnight previous on his new brother's estate.

"I see I have guessed too well, and it is not something to be discussed. Come, let us change the subject," the lady spoke before he could reply, and the dance soon forestalled any further comments.

He struggled to describe the conversation afterward, not out of discretion—there was little unshared in their correspondence at this point—but a restive sense of disquietude. It chilled his thoughts like the draft guttering his candle and was all the more difficult to bear after the daily encouragement of his sister's felicity, as if the clock were wound back and the past year's trials a dream, save the pull on his heart. Henry wondered with a desperate attempt at leavening his mood whether a barometer could be developed to foretell when that pernicious organ might rise and sink in such quick succession

A year ago he had not known such a person as Catherine Morland existed. How frail and immature his previous ambitions appeared in the mirror of his present desire. For, shrouded by darkness, away and in town, and near exhausted after so long an evening of merriment, he certainly felt desire. It was worse than drink, and far sweeter than wine. He could not pen these ravings to a lady who remained unengaged, understanding or no. Even the humble Joseph had the figleaf of a betrothal to Mary on her annunciation! The apostle's clear warning to wed rather than burn singed his soul at the moment, and in the next he determined to abandon any further writing until sleep hopefully cleared his mind enough to finish his sentences properly.

Title from Chapter 3 of Northanger Abbey: "How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head...."