Henry Tilney's Diary (9781101559024) (26 page)

‘And the visit to Hereford?' she asked.

‘I am ashamed to say there had been no prior engagement, he simply arranged to leave the abbey at once so that he could request you to leave – nay, throw you out of the house. I thought your suspicions of him foolish when you first arrived at the abbey, but you were not so far wrong in your estimation of him: in driving you out of the Abbey at a moment's notice he behaved like a veritable Marquis of Montoni.'

A few minutes more brought us to the Allens' door, where we knocked and were admitted, to find the Allens at home. I said very little to any purpose, and Catherine said nothing at all, but the Allens I hope will forgive us when they know all.

We strolled back to the parsonage through the spring sunshine and I had to tell her that my father had forbidden me to think of her ever again, whereupon she said she was glad she had not known of his disapproval before I had proposed, otherwise she might have felt compelled to refuse.

‘Then it is a good thing I forgot to mention it,' I said.

She smiled, and we finished our walk in perfect happiness.

Such happiness cannot last, and when we returned to the house it was to find that Catherine's father had returned also, and that he was in the sitting room with her mother. The younger children being outside I made the most of the moment and, leaving Catherine to wander the garden, I asked to speak to them.

Their surprise on being applied to for their consent to my marrying Catherine was, for a few minutes, considerable.

‘It never entered our heads there might be an attachment,' said Mr Morland, and I could see that it was so. ‘She never said anything of it.'

‘But was very downcast when she returned home, and now I know why,' said Mrs Morland. ‘I thought it was on account of leaving her fine way of living behind. Now I know it was something far more to her credit; on account of leaving loved ones.'

‘I should not wonder at it,' said Mr Morland. ‘There is nothing more natural than Catherine being loved. We love her very much ourselves.'

‘Then I may have your consent?' I asked.

‘Aye, and gladly. Mr and Mrs Allen speak well of you, and you seem just the sort of young man to make Catherine happy.'

‘She will make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure,' said Mrs Morland, ‘but there is nothing like practice for curing any deficiencies.'

‘Luckily I have an independent fortune as well as my living, and Catherine will not need to learn economy. But there is something I should mention,' I said, for it was impossible to conceal it; and indeed I would not conceal something of such importance. ‘Although I am of independent means, and I have a home to offer Catherine, my father is set against the match.'

They were troubled at that.

‘How set against it?' asked Mr Morland.

‘He has forbidden it.'

‘Well, that is set against it indeed!' said Mr Morland.

‘That is bad. That is very bad. But what can he have against our Catherine?' asked Mrs Morland.

‘Nothing at all, save that he wished me to marry an heiress,' I explained.

‘Well, that must be changed before you can marry,' said Mrs Morland, to my dismay. ‘I will not send Catherine into a family where she is not welcome, for it will only make her unhappy. Will he come round, do you think?'

‘I hope so,' I said.

‘We must all hope so, for whilst your father expressly forbids the connection, we cannot allow ourselves to encourage it,' said Mr Morland. ‘There must be his consent, or else how is Catherine to be happy if he will not recognize her?'

I could say no more, and so I thanked them for hearing me and went outside, where I found Catherine, and made her acquainted with everything her parents had said.

‘I am sure my father will come round eventually,' I said. ‘He cannot fail to love you, once the first shock has passed.'

‘And if he does?'

‘Then I will have to carry you off in a chaise and four, for I mean to marry you, with or without our parents' approval.'

 

Catherine has promised to write to me, and only that makes it tolerable for me to return to Woodston, where I must tend my plantations, preach my sermons and work upon my father until he gives his consent to the match.

 

 

 

At home again, and already writing to Catherine. Eleanor is delighted for me, and we commiserate with each other on our father's nature, which is keeping us both from happiness. Though my case seems the more hopeful of the two, I fear that neither Eleanor nor I will be happy very soon.

 

 

 

Although my father has banned me from Northanger, and although I am resolved never to spend a night beneath his roof, I nevertheless drove over there today to attempt to reason with him once again. I found him in the stables but when I tried to speak to him he would only roar, ‘If I cannot prevent it, I will not condone it. You will not taint the abbey with such a one as Miss . . .' He ended in a splutter as he could not even bring himself to say her name.

‘She will not live here, but at Woodston,' I said.

‘And if your brother dies, what then? Am I to leave all this' – his arm swept wide – ‘to a penniless girl with an enormous family of needy mouths to feed? To have the name of Tilney defiled by such a creature?'

I mastered my temper and explained that Catherine's family were neither needy nor so very numerous as he supposed, but he would not listen, and repeating that I was no longer welcome at the abbey, he mounted his horse and very nearly rode me down as he galloped from the stable yard.

Eleanor was my consolation. As I walked with her, I said, ‘How do you bear it? You may come and live with me at Woodston any time, you know.'

‘It is not so bad,' she said. ‘Now that Margaret and Charles have returned to the neighbourhood I have more opportunities to escape, at least for awhile, and the Lady Frasers are here again. You know how much our father has always liked titles and he encourages me to visit them, as well as to invite them here. And I have Catherine's and Thomas's letters.'

‘What we need is a
deus ex machina
,' I said to her. ‘If this were a play, then a platform would lower itself from the heavens and the gods would step forth and solve our problems with a wave of their hands. Some unforeseen and unexpected conclusion would present itself to speed a happy ending.'

She smiled, and said, ‘I dread to think what Papa would say if one of the gods descended from the heavens and landed here.'

‘He would probably take Zeus by the hand and lead him round the kitchen garden, pointing out the improvements he has made,' I remarked.

She gave a wry smile and said, ‘Alas, such things only happen in novels.'

We were interrupted at that moment by Alice, my sister's maid, who looked about her furtively then said, ‘A letter for you, miss.'

Thinking it must be from Catherine, I drew closer, but on seeing the first few words I realized it was not from Catherine at all.

‘So Alice now brings you Thomas's notes as well?'

‘After our father intercepted his second note, it seemed the only way.'

I wandered away to let her read it in private, but after only a minute she called me back in great excitement, smiling and then bursting into laughter.

‘Oh, Henry!' she said, and then, laughing too much to speak, she handed me the letter. I took it, mystified, and read:

I laughed along with my sister.

‘My dear Eleanor, you will be the happiest of women, and there is no one who deserves it more,' I said.

‘I wonder what my father will say?'

We looked at each other and laughed, wondering how he would manage such a
volte face
.

‘But stay,' I said, as I handed the letter back to her. ‘It says he will be here on Wednesday. That is today. The letter must have been delayed.'

Eleanor looked at me, then at Alice, then said, ‘Quickly! I must change my dress!'

She had hardly reached the front door, however, when my father, newly returned from his ride, emerged, beaming all over his face.

‘Do you remember that delightful young man who joined us at the abbey some years ago, a friend of Frederick's, Mr Morris?' he asked Eleanor. ‘But of course you do. I felt sure you liked him, and he you. I believe he wrote to you once or twice, I remember intercepting his letters. It was quite wrong of him to write to you, of course, but it was evident he liked you and I admired him for it. It showed a pleasing spirit and a great intelligence in recognizing your worth. I happened to hear that he would be in the neighbourhood and it is possible he might call. You had better see to your dress, it will not do to have him finding you like this. Put on that new gown you had last month, I am sure he will like it.'

‘This is very sudden, sir,' I could not resist saying. ‘I thought you did not like Mr Morris.'

‘Nonsense, I have always thought him a very fine young man, he is just the sort of young man I would like to have in the family.'

‘But he has no fortune,' I said.

‘What does fortune matter?' asked my father blithely. ‘It matters not at all.'

‘I am glad to hear you say so,' I returned. ‘Then you can have no objection to Miss Morland.'

He was momentarily disconcerted, but returned with, ‘Miss Morland is too young for marriage.'

‘A problem that time will heal,' I said.

He waved it away.

‘There is not time to think of Miss Morland now. You would not want to spoil your sister's happiness, nor take anything away from her, I am sure. Eleanor, go and dress, my dear, I think I hear a carriage.'

Eleanor, hearing it too, flew inside.

I, content to see Eleanor happy, and knowing I had at least reminded my father of Catherine and my determination to marry her, went out with him to the carriage: I wanted to give Thomas a welcome as genuine as my father's would be false. My father, in his excess of good humour, forgot that he had banished me and even smiled at me as the carriage rolled to a halt.

The door opened and Thomas stepped out. My father was at his most genial, welcoming him to the abbey and asking after his journey.

Thomas – or the viscount, as I must get used to calling him – was still dressed in his old clothes, having stopped for nothing in his eagerness to see Eleanor again. He greeted me heartily and he endured all my father's obsequiousness, although he looked momentarily put out when my father declared that no letter had arrived to prepare him for the visit. He glanced at me and, seeing my face, knew that the letter had arrived.

Disdaining to call my father a liar, he said, ‘A pity. You must think it very strange of me to call, but I have a matter of great importance I would like to discuss with you. I wonder if you would favour me with a few minutes of your time?'

‘But of course. My time is always at your disposal.'

And smiling benignly, he led Thomas into his study.

The outcome was never in doubt. In a few minutes Thomas emerged and, catching sight of Eleanor, who had just come downstairs, he ran to her and claimed her as his own.

I retreated to give them their privacy and thought, Now if only some similar miracle could happen for me.