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Chapter 25 The visions of romance were over.
Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry's address,
Short as it had been,
Had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done.
Most grievously was she humbled,
Most bitterly did she cry.
It was not only with herself that she was sunk but with Henry.
Her folly,
Which now seemed even criminal,
Was all exposed to him and he must despise her forever.
The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father,
Could he ever forgive it?
The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears,
Could they ever be forgotten?
She hated herself more than she could express.
He had,
She thought he had,
Once or twice for this fatal morning,
Showed something like affection for her.
But now,
In short,
She made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour,
Went down when the clock struck five with a broken heart,
And could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well.
The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room and the only difference in his behavior to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.
Catherine had never wanted comfort more and he looked as if he were aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquility.
She did not learn either to forget or defend the past,
But she learned to hope it would never transpire further and that it might not cost her Henry's entire regard.
Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done,
Nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary self-created delusion,
Each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm,
And everything forced to bend on one purpose by a mind which,
Before she entered the Abbey,
Had been craving to be frightened.
She remembered with what feeling she'd prepared for a knowledge of Northanger.
She saw the infatuation had been created,
A mischief settled long before her quitting Bath,
And it seemed as if the might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs.
Radcliffe's works,
And charming even as were the works of her imitators,
It was not in them perhaps that human nature,
At least in the Midland counties of England,
Was to be looked for.
Of the Alps and Pyrenees,
With their pine forest and vices,
They might give a faithful delineation,
And Italy,
Switzerland,
And the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented.
Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country,
And even of that,
If hard-pressed,
Would have yielded the northern and western extremities.
But in the central part of England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not beloved,
In the laws of the land and the manners of the age.
Murder was not tolerated,
Servants were not slaves,
And neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,
Like rhubarb,
From every druggist.
Among the Alps and Pyrenees perhaps there was no mixed characters.
There,
Such as were not as spotless as an angel,
Might have the dispositions of a fiend,
But in England it was not so.
Among the English,
She believed,
In their hearts and habits,
There was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad.
Upon this conviction she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney some slight imperfection might hereafter appear.
And upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father,
Who,
Though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions,
Which she must ever blush to have entertained,
She did believe,
Upon serious consideration,
To be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points,
And her resolution formed of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense.
She had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever.
And the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of another day.
Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct,
In never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
Was of the greatest assistance to her.
Sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress,
Her spirits became absolutely comfortable,
And capable,
As heretofore,
Of continual improvement by anything that he said.
There were still some subjects,
Indeed,
Under which she believed they must always tremble.
The mention of a chest or a cabinet,
For instance,
And she did not love the sight of Japan in any shape,
But even she could allow that an occasional memento of past folly,
However painful,
Might not be without use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of romance.
Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.
She was quite impatient to know how the bath world went on,
And how the rooms were attended,
And especially was she anxious to be assured of Isabella's having matched some fine netting cotton on which she had left her intent,
And of her continuing on the best terms with James.
Her own dependence,
For information of any kind,
Was on Isabella.
James had protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford.
Mrs.
Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she got back to Fullerton.
But Isabella had promised and promised again,
And when she promised a thing,
She was so scrupulous in performing it.
This made it so particularly strange.
For nine successive mornings Catherine wandered over the repetition of a disappointment,
Which each morning became more severe.
But on the 10th,
When she entered the breakfast room,
Her first object was a letter held out by Henry's willing hand.
She thanked him as hardly as if he'd written it himself.
It is only from James,
However,
As she looked at the direction.
She opened it.
It was from Oxford,
And to this purpose.
Dear Catherine,
Oh,
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 on bath yesterday,
Never to see her 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 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 of 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.
Etc.
