A/N: Again, the words in italics are Austen's, not mine.
Chapter Three
She was not to marry Henry Tilney, not soon, and, if the general be not magnanimous toward them, not ever. Her parents, while pleased with Henry's manners and good sense, certain that nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine's being beloved, and conscious that it was a match beyond the claims of their daughter, could not approve it under the circumstances.
Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained -- and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied -- their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His consent was all that they wished for.
Catherine's parents said their farewells to Henry the next morning in the hall, and forbade any of the younger children from following their sister outside. Catherine stood in mournful happiness as Henry readied his horse.
"Will it be long, do you think?" she asked him.
"I will write to you every day. Will that cause any inappropriate comments?"
"Only my family will know of it. We receive post almost every day, as it is. Oh, but Henry, I so wish—where will you go? May you return to Northanger?"
"I think I must not try my father just yet. I will return to Woodston. Write to me there, my dearest?"
"Oh, yes!" Catherine yet blushed to hear endearments from her love, but they were blushes of pleasure, not embarrassment. "You will apply to your father soon?"
"I will wait a few days for his temper to cool, and then I promise I will write to him." A look of distaste passed over Henry's face. Catherine's sympathetic feelings ached for him. What mortification it must cost Henry to write such a letter. Oh, why must her parents be so correct? "I expect he will be with Lord Longtown for many days yet," he said.
"And Miss Tilney? Oh, Henry, she bad me write to her under cover to Alice, and I have done so once, but I cannot write any of my true feelings if the letter might be read by another. We must tell her! How I wish I could see her. She will welcome our union, will she not? Does she share this belief of your father's that I am—" Catherine halted, afraid she might begin to weep.
Hastily Henry set down the sack of food Mrs. Morland had pressed upon him, and took both her hands in his own. "No, my dear Catherine, you must not think so! I know my sister adores you as I do. And even my father, though under this hateful misapprehension, enjoyed your company, I am certain of it. I beg you, have no concerns that your conduct or character in any way warranted this unfortunate treatment. No one blames you, I swear it. It is only that my father—oh, but do not weep."
Catherine was willing to do anything Henry bid her, and so she valiantly tried to stop her tears, succeeding in some degree, but speech she was powerless to command. "You will write to Eleanor, as I will, and give her this news. Send your letter to me and I shall forward it. My father will not forbid her to receive letters from me, and besides, Eleanor and I both know where is the nearest post office. You may believe your letters will reach her safely."
Catherine nodded, swallowing her tears, and forced a smile for his sake. "Do you think—do you believe your father is very set against us?" she asked. Still holding her hands in his own, in defiance of any consciousness that they might be seen from the windows or by the servants, Henry answered, "I would give a kingdom to be able to assure you that my father's approval will come swiftly, but I cannot. It might come tomorrow, if he is put in good humor and sees how blameless you were in the matter of someone else's false gossip; but he is a strong man, stronger in resentment than in affection, it grieves me to say, and our parting was far from friendly. I am unable to tell you how long I must ask you to wait."
Catherine squeezed his hands. "Think nothing of that. I will wait as long as must be. Yours is the more difficult part, I think. You must find the way to best appeal to the general and not wound your own pride."
"My own pride is nothing. I promise you, I will do everything in my power to win my father, and as quickly as it can be rightly managed." Reluctantly, Henry released her and mounted his horse. Catherine handed up the sack of bread rolls and cheese. Neither managed any further words. Henry tipped his hat to her and to the window of the house, directed his horse about, and left the parsonage grounds. Catherine watched him go in an agony of uncertainty that would do credit to any lovelorn heroine. When would she ever see him again? She returned to the house and could find nothing else would do but to flee to her room and cry.