Chapter Two
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her daughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every position her mother advanced.
Mrs. Allen returned their visit promptly, more promptly indeed than Mrs. Morland had looked for; Mrs. Allen called the next day with news. This news she particularly wanted to share with Catherine, for, though Mrs. Morland had not apprehended that her daughter's visits to Bath and Northanger had resulted in any pain to her heart, Mrs. Allen, who had been nearer to the deed, who had seen the enjoyment of Henry Tilney glowing in Catherine's cheeks, knew a small suspicion of the true cause of Catherine's loss of spirits. She was now empowered, she believed, as she had had a hand in its cause, to aid in its remedy.
"Mr. Allen has had a letter," she told Mrs. Morland. "Walter Gordon, his godson, is coming to visit us. He has been these many months in Oxford, so I have charged him to bring me linen cloth. He has promised to have it when he comes. Mrs. Johnson will make me a fine frock from it, I am certain."
Mrs. Morland allowed that another young person added to their circle of acquaintances would be a welcome change, and inquired if this were the godson of Mr. Allen's who was the orphaned nephew of a viscount. "Oh, indeed, the poor lad was raised by his uncle, but when he turned out so wild, His Lordship withdrew his support. But all that is in the past, I have the greatest satisfaction to inform you. Mr. Gordon has been these past months studying the law, and Mr. Allen and I have the fondest hopes that he will make amendment of his habits and do his family credit in the end."
Catherine heard this discussion with only feigned interest; what romantic heroine could hear with any pleasure of the arrival of a man who was not the lover of her heart? In previous months, before her departure to Bath, it is true that tales of the handsome Walter Gordon's exploits had burned her and her friends' ears before all fell silent on the subject out of consideration for the Allens' feelings. Mr. Gordon's deeds had, according to Fullerton gossip, grown too nefarious to make light talk of them pleasant to his godparents. Curiosity had burned in her to hear more; but, in Bath, the whispers she'd heard from Isabella of the deeds and misdeeds of another, unrelated Gordon, Lord Byron, had put to shame any local tale of Mr. Allen's godson. If Walter Gordon now pursued a career in the law and a respectable reputation, how very dull to Catherine it seemed. There was only one man she wished, nay longed, to hear of — and she seemed in danger of never hearing of him again. What might Henry Tilney be doing at this very moment, she asked herself.
At that very moment, Henry Tilney set out on the seventy mile ride to Fullerton; for, rather than take the shortest road from Woodston, he elected to follow the better roads which Catherine's coach must have taken. Along the way his affectionate imagination provided him with horrors that could overtake an unprotected young woman traveling post; and, baseless though he hoped such fears to be, he cast his gaze beside the road, along every crossing, as well as into the windows of every inn. He reached Fullerton with his worst fears relieved, but with a curious misapprehension affecting his feelings. What must Miss Morland think of him? What censure, what disapprobation could he expect from her family and from her friends, the Allens? He came to Fullerton as a lover, but the town seemed to him an enemy camp.
Acting on direction from a helpful neighbor, Henry approached the Morland parsonage with less haste than his earlier fears for Miss Morland would have dictated; his fears were now for himself. Resolved as he was to ask for her hand, convinced that she expected, even wished for such a proposal, he could not help but perform an uncomfortable review of his own merits as a husband. He was respectable, there could be no question of that, and he had a good living -- even if the worst happened and his father withdrew the living at Woodston. This thought of his father added to his unease; during his journey his concern had been only for Catherine, but now he felt acutely the isolation from his family he had brought upon himself. He knew well his father's resentful temper; there would be no casual forgiveness. As a suitor for a lady's love, the lack of his father's consent was a serious shortcoming. Of his other shortcomings he now fervently repented: how he had teased Miss Morland and made her ashamed of her youth and inexperience, how severely he had pressed his disapproval of her romantic imaginings regarding his family, and he most regretted that he had waited to speak to her of love.
He reached the lane to the parsonage and dismounted, nervously brushing the dust of the road from his clothes. He led his horse around the hedge and into the lane, where he was seen by an alarming number of children who were playing in the yard of the house. Surely not all these children were Miss Morland's siblings! The children ceased their play and stared at him, and one young girl ran ahead of him to the house. Henry stilled his own trepidation and continued on steadily, until a stable-boy appeared, having been fetched by another of the children, and, bowing, offered to tend to his mount. Henry welcomed the delay, for, this being a stable unknown to Henry, he needs must speak to the man about his horse's care. Behind him, the children bestowed themselves as their habit and instruction dictated for the event of the arrival of an unfamiliar visitor.
Satisfied for his horse, Henry turned to the house and prepared to give his card to a housekeeper, but a vision appeared in the open door that halted him and stopped his breath. Miss Morland herself, in simple white muslin, flitted into view and halted, amazed. Her expression, as well as the expression on the face of the younger girl with her, told the story: her sister having carried word of Henry's arrival, had not been believed, and Miss Morland was now faced with the truth of it; her sister's veracity was vindicated. In part Henry hoped that Miss Morland's doubt was not due to any reluctance to see him, but mostly he found himself relieved at the confirmation of her safety and fortified by her confusion. To rush to the door to spy a doubted visitor was impetuous and improper, and so very like the young woman he loved. Recollecting herself, Miss Morland withdrew, taking her sister with her, but not before Henry had seen delight and hope in her eye. Miss Morland, he mused, was wholly incapable of artifice.
His card being properly given and accepted, Henry was shown to the sitting room where Miss Morland herself received him. A number of the scattering children from the yard had settled here as well, and dutifully stood with their sister as he entered. "Mr. Henry Tilney," the servant announced, and they all exchanged courtesies. The flush on Miss Morland's cheek and her nervous movements told him that he had best be the one to begin. "Miss Morland," he said, "thank you for receiving me. I come with abject apologies and to assure myself of your safe arrival home." "Not at all, Mr. Tilney, please," Miss Morland cried. She gathered her composure and displayed her manners. "May I introduce to you my brothers and sisters?" Henry bowed to each embarrassed youngster as they were named. "My father is from home, Mr. Tilney, or he would be glad to receive you. My mother . . ." She looked at one of the boys, George. He shrugged and said in a loud whisper, "I couldn't find her." At that moment a thump was heard above stairs. "Did you look upstairs?" Miss Morland asked. "What's she doing upstairs?" George replied with all the protest of a child caught being neglectful and wishing the blame onto some other object. Miss Morland turned back to Henry. "Will you please sit? My mother will join us soon." Henry was glad enough to obey, facing, as he now feared, the rightful condemnation of a mother for her mistreated child. A step was heard upon the topmost stair, and neither Catherine nor Henry attempted any conversation until Mrs. Morland, holding a volume of The Mirror, came into view and Henry was obliged to stand again.
Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. Catherine meanwhile -- the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine -- said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour.
As they stepped into the garden, Catherine was happily alone with Henry, if only for a brief time. Her heart sang at the sudden privacy, and Henry, too, took only enough hasty steps to remove the two of them beyond the hedge before turning to her, his countenance as earnest as she had ever seen it. "Miss Morland, I most urgently wish you to know that my father's behaviour toward you in no manner reflects my own feelings for you." Catherine gasped and halted where they would be seen neither from her own house nor from the Allen's. "Please allow me to speak frankly. Forgive me, I had hoped to make this declaration under friendlier conditions, but my feelings forbid that I should let any circumstance prevent me from saying how very much I admire and love you. Miss Morland, you have my heart. I beg you to tell me you will be my wife and make me the happiest of men." Catherine's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, Mr. Tilney," she cried, quite overcome. "Oh, oh. What can I say? You have my heart, too. You always have. You always will. I—yes. Of course. Yes." Tears of joy swam in her eyes, but she could see her lover's face relax into a smile. Oh, why could she not think of something more sensible to say? Her powers of communication had deserted her the moment he asked to speak frankly; nay, they had been severely impaired since she had seen him approach the house. A heroine, triumphant in the glory of her happiness attained, unlooked for, should display the grace and simple eloquence of sincerity, but Catherine could command little but blushes and tears. But what of that? She would rather be Mrs. Henry Tilney and unutterably happy than be the heroine of any novel.
Henry's own eyes glittered. "Thank you," he said sincerely, as if it were she who had given him a last best gift. "Should we not continue on?" Yes, they must continue to the Allens', and indeed, Catherine welcomed the freedom to not be looked upon while she sought some composure. After their brief visit, during which Henry talked at random and Catherine scarcely opened her lips, they were once again alone on the walk back to the parsonage. "Your father," Catherine managed. "What will he think? Oh, can you tell me what I have done to offend him? I declare I will do anything in my power to apologise and atone for it." Henry's look became somber. "My dearest Catherine," he said, sending a thrill through her, "you have done nothing to offend my father. Alas for my feelings as a son! My father believed —" Henry flushed. "My father believed you were the heiress of the Allens'. I am deeply ashamed of such narrow-minded counsel! I know not how he was so imposed upon. He wished me to learn to love you and to win you for purely pecuniary reasons. He has done his work too well. His son is more obedient than he knows."
"But," cried Catherine, "this is quite remarkable! I am quite sure I never led him to believe anything so singular. I, heiress to Mr. Allen? Nay, but, is he so concerned for fortune? I am no heiress, but my father—" Catherine hesitated. She had reason to expect a dowry of near three thousand pounds from her father, but she abruptly gave thought to whether she should anticipate on his behalf. "Henry, you will break with my father? And my mother? They should be both applied to."
"Directly we come, I shall," Henry said, his flush fading as a smile lit his face. Catherine smiled back. What of dowries and generals and misinformation and such? She was to marry Henry Tilney!