And yet, as much as I wished to stare out my window all day and think of the adventure to come, the pump room would be visited. If I went longer than two days without visiting the pump room with Mrs. Allen, there would be questions from her latest acquaintances as to my state of health, whether I had the pox or palsy, or if I had been sent home.

And thus my regular rotation of three visits per week began. The day after the letter from home arrived, I found myself walking with Mrs. Allen one of these visits. It wasn't until Isabella walked in that I realized I'd barely seen her for days.

She lit up at the sight of me and rushed forward. "Catherine, what an age since we have met! I have been so desolate without you, but you know, James is such delightful consolation, and I so enjoy spending time with him."

"I'd rather thought you wished for more of his company than mine, but you should have sent a note."

She pulled me away from Mrs. Allen and led me to a bench between the doors of the pump room. From my seat, I could see all the people flowing in and out at each entrance.

"This is my favorite place," said Isabella in a low voice. "It is so out of the way."

I looked the other way and smiled at her remark. It was hardly out of the way. When I looked back, Isabella's eyes were flashing back and forth from one door to the other, as if in eager expectation.

"Do not be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here," I said. Isabella's discomfort without James must be keen indeed for her to act so. "You have chosen the perfect seat, my dear, you will see him straightaway when he comes."

"Psha! My dear creature," she replied, "do not think me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous to be always together. We should be the jest of the place. And so you are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular description of it."

Her words surprised me—I had expected to share the news of Northanger with her myself. I believed even James to be yet unaware. "Are my plans already known to the gossip mill? I admit myself shocked that anyone could have such an interest. And you shall certainly have the best description in my power to give." Isabella's continued to look at the rooms entrances. "But who are you looking for? Are your sisters coming?"

She waived her hands, and finally focused her eyes on me. "I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp."

Tilney? Remarkable, that his words of two weeks past should be so easily recollected. "But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?"

"Oh! No indeed, my sweet, but I did so long for your company by my side. Oh but there is something I would ask you. I've received ever so many letters from John of late, and not a single time has he asked about you. I confess myself astonished, as I believed him to be very attached to you. But Catherine, you are such an arch one, I thought he was not asking about you because you had been in a secret correspondence with him. Am I right? Oh, do not keep me in such suspense! Why do you look at me in such a way?"

I closed my mouth, which had fallen open after Isabella's suggestion that I was actually writing to her brother. "I would never correspond with a gentleman in secret. Why would you ever think so? The very thought offends that you would think so low of my character."

"Oh nonsense, I knew half a dozen girls in Tunbridge Wells with secret beaux they wrote to. I longed for one myself."

"I can assure you I am engaging in no such thing with your brother, nor would I ever wish to. I have never shown your brother anything but basic civility, and certainly would not have encouraged him to form an attachment with me."

"It is a great mystery to me then, for I am sure he spoke of you very tenderly before he left. But since you are not writing him after all, I am sure I shall not tease you any further. For what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays, and after all that romancers may say, there is no doing without money."

Her talk of money rankled. "You do acquit me, then?"

"What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter."

"But my opinion of your brother never did alter, it was always the same, if not worse than when we first met. And I can assure you my opinion of him is not what you thought."

"My dearest Catherine," Isabella said, her eyes still on the doors—as though she was not even listening to a word I said— "I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an attachment before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially. They are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own affections, and I believe he is very right."

There was no reply I could make to Isabella that would clear me of what she believed I secretly felt for her brother. I was struck by the difference between Isabella and Eleanor. When I told Eleanor she was mistaken in her assumption of my feelings for Henry, she accepted me at my word. But Isabella did not even do me the courtesy of hearing me out.

"Ah!" Isabella said, "here he comes." I looked up and saw Captain Tilney had just walked in at the door nearest our perch. "Never mind," she continued, her voice much louder than before, "he will not see us, I am sure."

The Captain fixed his eyes on us, her loud voice catching his notice. He approached immediately, and took the seat to which Isabella's movements invited him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she could distinguish, "What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!"

"Psha, nonsense!" was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. "Why do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit, you know, is pretty independent."

"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me."

"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have none of you any hearts."

"If we have not hearts, we have eyes. And they give us torment enough."

"Do they? I am sorry for it. I am sorry they find anything so disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you," —she turned her back on him— "I hope your eyes are not tormented now."

"Never more so—for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at once too much and too little."

I heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for my brother, I rose up, and saying I should join Mrs. Allen, proposed our walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room, and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters. She was expecting her sisters every moment, so that her dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly down again.

But I would not. I could be stubborn too, and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their returning home, I joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did I thus leave them. It seemed to me that Captain Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him. Unconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible for me to accept—the happiness of my brother depended on it. And yet, during the whole of our conversation her manner had been odd. I wished Isabella had talked more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she should not perceive his admiration! I longed to give her a hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively behavior might otherwise create both for him and her brother.

I wrestled with these thoughts—such much I wished to believe Isabella was unaware of Captain Tilney's interest. I could not convince myself entirely, however. It was not my first ill thought of Isabella, but it was by far the most hurtful, and I was ashamed that part of me believed her capable of such deceit.

In the days that followed, I continued to uphold Isabella's innocence in the matter. But I could not help but watch her closely. The result was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When I saw her surrounded only by our immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, I would not have noticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which I had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her. But when I saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what my friend could be at, was beyond my comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting, but it was a degree of willful thoughtlessness which I could not but resent. James was the sufferer. I saw him grave and uneasy. For poor Captain Tilney too I was greatly concerned. I thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment, for, in spite of what I had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behavior was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's engagement that I could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. I wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness, but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against me. If I was able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became my chief consolation. Their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But, I soon learned, Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing. He was not to be of the party to Northanger. He was to continue at Bath. When I learned this, I resolved directly to speak to Henry in private.

An opportunity came two days before our departure, while attending a musical assembly, I excused myself at intermission to visit the ladies retiring room. As I left, I gave Henry a rather direct look—one that would make me blush under normal circumstances. As I hoped, he followed me out and I led him to an alcove that was en route to the ladies room.

I brought up Captain Tilney immediately, regretting his evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating Henry to make known her prior engagement.

"My brother does know it," was Henry's answer.

"Does he?" My voice was sharp, and I said again more evenly, "Then why does he stay here?"

He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of the last song performed, but I said eagerly, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again, but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable."

Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that."

"Then you will persuade him to go away?"

"Persuasion is not at command. But pardon me, if I cannot even endeavor to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master."

"No, he does not know what he is about," I said sternly. "He does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."

"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?"

"Yes, very sure."

"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain?"

"Is not it the same thing?"

"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves, it is the woman only who can make it a torment."

I blushed for my friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."

"I understand. She is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick."

"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another."

His eyebrows rose at that. "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little."

After a short pause, I continued with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?"

"I can have no opinion on that subject."

"But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behavior?"

"You are a very close questioner."

"Am I? I only ask what I want to be told."

"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?"

"Yes, I think so, for you must know your brother's heart."

"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at."

"Well?"

"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man. He has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."

"Well," I said, after some moments' consideration, "you may be able to guess at your brother's intentions from all this, but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Surely, if your father were to speak to him, he would go."

"My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behavior, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this—and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not be uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment. But be as little uneasy as you can. If you have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend—then depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them. Depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you. They know exactly what is required and what can be borne, and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant."

Henry spoke as if he knew a great deal about the heart. Not for the first time, the thought crossed my mind if he'd been in love once. As for Isabella and James, I did hope that their was no real jealousy, as Henry put it, but I still felt concern. My face must have shown it, as he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's passion for a month."

I took in a long, slow breath, and then released it. "Thank you, Mr. Tilney. I am sorry if you were made uncomfortable by my drawing you here and questioning you relentlessly. I will try to put this out of my mind."

"I am at your service." Then he grinned and bowed in jest. "But I think you had better call me Henry, from now on."

"What? I most certainly shall not." A blush crept up my neck.

His grin widened. "And if I spend more than five minutes in a secluded alcove with a woman, I always insist on using her Christian name. You would not disappoint me?"

"Oh, stop making fun. And from my calculation, we have stood here only four minutes." I resolutely stepped out of the alcove, and turned back to the music hall.

"Nay, it has been nearly ten. But I will let you win, as I am a gentleman after all. On second thought, it probably would not do to return on a first name basis—Eleanor may get ideas into her head."

I turned my head sharply. "No. It would not do at all."

His teasing on such a topic was not something I was prepared for. I knew now he had a sense of humor and wasn't serious in much of his words, but still I wished not to be the butt of his joke. I reached out to grasp the handle to the main hall, only to have Henry block it with his hand. "Only one more request, before I let you go. Pray, don't give that summoning look of yours to any other man. I fear it would be misunderstood."

"That was terribly impolite of me, wasn't it?"

"Impolite isn't the word I was thinking of."

"Excuse me, Mr. Tilney."

"After you, Miss Morland."