I could not hold back long. I sent my letter the following day, and then another on the next.

And then the morning came, nearly two weeks following me departure from Bath, I went down to the breakfast room to find Henry holding out a letter for me.

I gasped. "Thank you. Finally, a letter from Isabella—oh—tis only from James", as I recognized the script, and tore it open on the spot.

"Dear Catherine,

"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.

"Believe me," &c.

I had not read three lines before I felt despair take over. I read through to the end of the the letter, more aghast with every line. I looked up, and my eyes were met by two pairs of brown, each solicitous. There was no time to speak as the General joined us and began his own breakfast. I dutifully went and got some eggs and cocoa, but the thought of eating turned my stomach. As soon as I dared leave the table, I hurried away to my room. It was full of housemaids however—I was obliged to leave. I tried the drawing-room, but Henry and Eleanor had also retreated there, and were deep in some discussion.

I drew back. "I beg your pardon," and turned to go but for Eleanor's voice, more firm than I had yet heard, telling me I must stay and they would withdraw, until I had need of her. She wished to be of use, but I thanked her and let them go.

The settee called, and I cast myself into it, tears falling down my cheeks. I sat there in silence, until I felt equal to encountering my friends. They would ask questions—I could not deny them some answer, but I wished I might only distantly hint at the truth, so distressing was it to say.

I found them in the breakfast room, alone. I sat, and after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are none of them ill?"

"No, I thank you," I sighed, "they are all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford."

Nothing further was said for a few minutes, as they expected me to say what I could not. Tears came again to my eyes, and I said finally, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!"

"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had just opened, "if I had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings."

"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know why."

"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister," replied Henry warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress."

I looked into his eyes, surprised at the words—they sounded so sincere.

"I have one favour to beg," I said, in an agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go away."

"Our brother! Frederick?" said Eleanor.

"Yes, I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney."

Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing astonishment, but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.

"How quick you are!" I cried, "you have guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella—no wonder now I have not heard from her—Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?"

"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed," Henry said. "I hope he has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that anyone you love should be unhappy, but my surprise would be greater at Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."

"It is very true. You shall read James's letter yourself. Stay—There is one part—" I recollected with a blush the last line.

"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern my brother?"

"No, read it yourself," I said, thinking more clearly now. "I do not know what I was thinking of" —I blushed now at blushing before— "James only means to give me good advice."

He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son."

Eleanor, at my invitation, now read the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Isabella's connections and fortune.

"Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was my answer.

"What was her father?"

"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."

"Are they a wealthy family?"

"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all. But that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"

"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption against him," he said. "When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man—defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise."

"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said Eleanor with a smile.

"But perhaps," I said, "though she has behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant."

"Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry, "I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is Frederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals."

"But Isabella did come in the way of a baronet. She met Sir Harry, and knew his station. It was only once, but still—I can say at least that for her defense."

Henry grimaced. "I can have no opinion there."

"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are some things that do point that way. I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in my life before. Though I was far less deceived in Mr. Thorpe, I always gave Isabella chance after chance, convincing myself she was true. My own disappointment and loss in her is very great. But, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it."

"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present, but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours," he said. "You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?"

"No, I soon learned to keep her at arms length," I said, "many things she said and did were irking in themselves. To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very much afflicted as one would have thought. I think I built her up in my mind as a future sister-in-law, but now that she is not, I can remove that pedestal."

My spirits were so very much relieved by this conversation that I did not regret divulging the contents of the letter, though it was a selfish thing to do. I suppose it is not possible to be always selfless, but I did feel sorry for bringing them such news of Captain Tilney.

I did wonder at Henry's reaction when I mentioned Sir Harry. I had never seen them interact other than what was required socially, other than what I witnessed through the barn window.

As I had missed my morning appointment (as it had now become expected on both sides) with Sir Harry, I went to seek him out in the afternoon but was immediately thwarted. The stable hands had no notion of where he was, and I realized I had never noticed where his rooms were. I certainly could not ask a servant—such a question would be far too embarrassing to utter aloud. I was walking beside the lower gallery windows—those opposite the hall of my own room—when I saw the two men together across the way. I walked quickly around the quadrangle, about to round the corner when snippets of conversation bent my ear, and I halted abruptly before I was seen.

Henry's voice was heard first, which caused me to stop before I interrupted what sounded like a heated discussion. "…presence grows more insulting by the day. I cannot fathom why…depart immediately, I have been most patient."

Sir Harry's voice was not as loud, but still audible. "…none of your business, old friend. You lost that right years ago. This house does not belong to you."

"No, it my father's house, which carries the same insult."

"I told you I had no notion you resided here."

"That should should have made no difference. Your actions affected others in my family, as you well know."

"You have already …on that point. Out of respect to your sister…" Sir Harry's voice became too low to hear.

"I would stop at nothing to prevent such a connection."

Sir Harry's response was too low to hear, except for I was almost certain of the mention of my given name.

Henry's voice became low and chilling, but whatever he said was lost to me.

My back to the wall, I waited for a sound, a hint, of anything more, and then the soft click of a door. I padded back down the way I had come, but it was not until I had found Eleanor in the sitting room that I could calm my wild pulse.

Eleanor looked up and smiled, her work always at hand. I hurriedly found a patchwork I'd left lying around another day, and snatched it up. After a few minutes of this, I found I could relax enough to think clearly on what I had heard.

Though much of the conversation had been inaudible, it was clear that Henry and Sir Harry were not peacefully coexisting as I had previously thought. I must have read the situation correctly then, when I saw them through the window over a week ago. But if they were on such very bad terms, why would Henry's family not be aware of it? I could not imagine the General asking Sir Harry under such circumstances unless he was unaware. Further, this would explain why Henry did not use my own recommendation of Sir Harry, as he did not wish him to come here.

Why Eleanor and I were mentioned in the conversation I could not say.

I changed colors, rethreading my needle with red.

What I did know, was that I wished I had not witnessed their argument—indeed, I should have turned away from the first moment. Still, I was determined to be sensible now. A sensible girl would not dwell on it.

There. I have put it out of my mind.