Part 9: Satisfactory Meditations

That morning Catherine awoke to see a light snowfall out her window, which she regarded even more forlornly then rain. At home her reaction might have been very different, as she could look forward to a jaunt out to play with her young brothers and sisters, or sled down the slope behind the parsonage. Here in Bath it could only mean confinement: Mrs. Allen would not risk her gowns by walking, nor Mr. Allen his horses in uncertain weather. As they were not engaged that day, there would be no chance of coming across either Isabella or Miss Tilney. Furthermore, James would be delayed returning, which must cause even greater distress to Isabella than their own present separation

These were all melancholy thoughts to entertain at the breakfast table, and Mrs. Allen joined with her in bemoaning the unlucky circumstance. "How awful it looks! I am very glad we are to stay at home."

Her husband provided more cheerful prognostications. "I do not believe it will last long. We may perhaps still be able to join your friends at some entertainment this evening."

Catherine latched onto this hope with every belief that it must come true, and thus was able to assist Mrs. Allen with her correspondence in a much happier frame of mind when they retired to the parlour. This activity took them a great deal of time; Catherine had sent very few letters since arriving in Bath, and Mrs. Allen—though a more regular correspondent—was not blessed with either the memory or imagination to make the duty easy. She therefore relied on her young friend to furnish details and anecdotes otherwise entirely given over to the style of clothing observed or purchased.

"Please tell your dear mother again how sorry I was not to speak to James before he left us, as I should certainly liked to have sent my compliments by him; and remind her of my warmest congratulations on his engagement. They could not ask for a lovelier daughter than Miss Thorpe."

"I shall do so, Mrs. Allen, thank you." Catherine then described a new gown as dictated, and included a few lines of her own regarding a hat she and Isabella had looked on together some days previous.

Or was it a week ago? Counting back the days, she was astonished to realize it had in fact been a fortnight, just before James first joined them in Bath! Considering the matter while Mrs. Allen looked over patterns and Mr. Allen his newspapers, Catherine was drawn to more recent conversations with her friend, which at first comprised many favourable outpourings of joy but of late were more muted in tone. Perhaps, after one's engagement was announced, the mind was freed to pursue other matters. Yet Catherine was sure the case would not be true for Emily or Valancourt, though she had not yet finished Udolpho; surely, where affection was so tender, the lover's every thought and feeling would be held captive?

This belief was strengthened when Catherine, abandoning any pretence of work, took up the novel later by the fire, and read of the heroine's boldly suffering for the sake of the man she held dearest, though separated by great distances and with no assurance of their reunion (though, she comforted herself, they must eventually come back together.) But Emily also suffered in silence, which must be due to the strength of those feelings she could not give voice to except in prayers and poetry.

Isabella had shared neither with her friend. Perhaps, then, she only vented her passions privately? Indeed, she must: why, Catherine realized, Mr. Tilney had provided her with the very answer, Isabella must keep a journal! It would explain a great deal, for prior to being told Catherine had never once suspected her friend of more than a partiality of dancing with her brother; not an altogether unusual one, as Isabella did not like dancing with her own, and whatever James lacked in appearance, he more than made up for in conversation and devotion. All was now made clear: Isabella, possessed of the deepest feelings known to woman, and shy of revealing so much to the sister of her heart's desire, or uttering them at all, could only consign them to a most private portfolio.

How delightful such pages must be, when the author was inspired by the greatest of muses! Catherine sighed a little at the thought, and though she would dearly have loved to sample even a teaspoon of this ambrosia, resolved she would not ask her friend so delicate a question, for exposure of such things must only bring pain. Perhaps, when marriage joined them in sisterhood, they would be able to commune so intimately, but Catherine would not require it, nor expose Isabella's feelings for the world.

Of course, perhaps, another circumstance might open the door to such confessions, were Catherine to find herself as similarly blessed by dent of Cupid's arrow. It was only slightly more improbable than her brother's own happy state; but she was never sure if her partiality merited the name attachment, given how often she could be satisfied with the company of others, and certainly could not begin to speculate on whether it would ever be answered by anything but a friendly regard. As she was content to accept this beggar's meal, Catherine decided she was in no danger yet, and turned back to the richer fare of discovery within the next chapter: she was eager to learn who, exactly, was imprisoned beneath the castle.

Some time later she glanced out the window to discover a clear sky and street full of activity. How wonderful! On inquiring if she might go out among the throng, she was met with an even greater reward: an invitation for the Thorpes to join them at dinner and a concert. The day was no longer gloomy but full of promise.

Why, if she were diligent, there would be time for one more chapter before they departed.

Title from Chapter 3 of Northanger Abbey:

“What are you thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.”