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No more than a twelvemonth after he had come into his inheritance, Mr Henry Dashwood, of Norland Park in Sussex, was nearly robbed of it by a sudden apoplexy. The seizure left him in so weakened a state that the physicians feared for his life, and his only son, a Mr John Dashwood, was sent for to attend him at his deathbed along with the rest of his family.
The elder Mr Dashwood survived the days of danger, however, and began gradually to mend. He surprised his son by receiving him with something akin to his usual sanguine cheerfulness, and though John was not a man of strong feelings, he was sincerely glad to see his father doing so unexpectedly well. He immediately sat down to write a letter to his wife Fanny, to tell her of the good news,–and if Fanny received the letter with less joy than with which it was sent, she at least had the decency to respond to it with sufficient expressions of happiness for her husband to maintain his reverent belief that she was the most good-natured of women.
John stayed at Norland for a week, watching over his father together with his father’s second wife and his three half-sisters. They all shared together in the pleasure of seeing the elder Mr Dashwood grow ever stronger with each passing day, as one after another his powers returned to him. But though he could now move all his limbs by will, his right arm and leg remained significantly weakened, and he could neither hold a pen, nor walk without assistance. Therefore, to aid his patient’s continued improvement, the physician who had presided over Mr Dashwood’s care most earnestly urged his removal to Bath.
During the sole year that Henry Dashwood had been the proprietor of Norland estate, he had already made a few improvements to it, in the hope of being able to lay by some money for the future keep of his wife and daughters. Likewise, he had taken several measures to try to live economically,—but now he was instead obliged to significantly add to his expenses, by securing his family lodgings in Stall Street in Bath, from which he would have easy access to the Pump Room. Before he left his estate, however, he provided his steward with instructions to do whatever could be done to increase its yield, without encroaching on his tenants or neighbours.
Thus, when John Dashwood quitted Norland, the rest of the family did so as well, but where he made his way north to reunite with his wife and child, the remaining Dashwoods travelled west, toward Somersetshire.
The Dashwoods had not come to Bath to enjoy themselves, nor were any of them much disposed for enjoyment,—at least not any of the enjoyments commonly associated with that town. For the first fortnight of their stay, they danced at no balls, saw no plays, went to no concerts, and attended no dinners. Mr Dashwood himself was too busy with the waters and the physicians to have any time to spare for more frivolous pursuits,—and even if he were to find himself at leisure for an hour or two, he did not have the spirits to attempt anything more vigorous than to listen as one of the ladies of his family read to him from a favourite book of poetry, or played a beloved air on the pianoforte. As for his wife and daughters, they were all four of them still too anxious for his health to wish to subject themselves to any forced merriment. One enjoyment, however, could not be borne without, at least not by the Miss Dashwoods. Their mother was happy to stay at home with her husband, and get her exercise from attending him to and from the Pump Room three times a day, and the baths three times a week. Her daughters, on the other hand, could not stand being so shut up at Stall Street, nor could a mere stroll through town satisfy them. For them a country walk was needed at least three times a week, to soothe their minds and restore their spirits,—and though the landscape surrounding Bath of course was nothing compared to their beloved Norland, it was allowed to be beautiful enough.
One morning, the three girls were on the point of setting off on one of these walks, when their father returned from the first of his daily excursions to take the waters. Upon seeing his daughters, Mr Dashwood was struck by a thought, and turning to the eldest Miss Dashwood, a girl of nineteen, he exclaimed, “My dear Elinor, I long to gaze upon objects beyond the few streets which have become my world these last weeks. I tire of houses and people, and long for the open air of the country. Will you be my eyes, and bring back with you one or two of the famous views from beyond the confines of this town? That is, can I prevail upon you to take with you your pencils and drawing papers, and draw for me a landscape to look upon as I convalesce, which would allow me to fancy myself walking beside you, like we so often used to do at Norland?”
Such a request was of course impossible to decline, and Elinor immediately ran to fetch her drawing materials, before departing with her sisters.
The Miss Dashwoods’ walk was to take them to Claverton Down, for the youngest of them, a girl of thirteen of the name of Margaret, wished to see Sham Castle, which she proclaimed would make an addition as picturesque as could be to the landscape that Elinor was to draw. Her sister Marianne, who despised artifice of any kind and thought follies very foolish indeed, could not approve of such a scheme,—but as the three girls made their way up onto the Down, there were within view enough mossy rocks, blasted trees, and grazing cattle to satisfy even her more refined taste for the picturesque.
On gaining the brow of the Down, Elinor took out her pencils, and let her practised eye trace across the country that opened up before them. She took in hanging woods and rough slopes, evergreen pines and riverside meadows, Lansdown hill in the distance and the city of Bath spreading out before it. She chose her prospect, and settled down to work. Margaret’s less practised eye cared not for such sights, however. They would be drawn nowhere but towards Sham Castle, and towards Sham Castle she promptly pulled Marianne along to explore.
It came as no surprise to Elinor that, though they had promised to stay near to her as she worked, her sisters soon disappeared out of view. Had they thus left her completely alone out in some remote part of the country, Elinor might have resented them for abandoning her, but as it was a fine February day, the Miss Dashwoods were far from alone in choosing to take their exercise on Claverton Down. Small groups and larger parties were spread out across the plateau, on foot and on horseback, and Elinor was never out of sight of some respectable looking matron or other. Indeed, she was not even alone coming to the Down to draw; she had not been long employed with her pencils when she noticed two fellow artists nearby,—and they presented so entertaining a scene that it was not long before Elinor’s eyes began to stray from her object and her drawing papers, to instead observe the pair.
One of the artists was a gentleman, the other a lady, and the evident intimacy that consisted between the two marked them out as either a married couple, or close kin,—and yet it was the difference in demeanor between them that amused Elinor. The man was a lively fellow, incessantly talking (though Elinor was too far off to hear his words), walking about, and gesturing. Though he was always holding a pencil, he spent most of his time waving it around, or using it to point out some natural feature or another to his companion, and only occasionally returned to his paper to put it to more conventional use. The lady, meanwhile, remained calmly and consistently at her work, while offering occasional replies and frequent laughs. The two made a very inviting tableau, and Elinor found herself desirous of an introduction,—though little could she have expected that so idle a wish would soon be gratified, and the introduction she had been longing for provided in the most unexpected manner.
How it happened was this: Marianne and Margaret had soon gone over every part of Sham Castle, and found it indeed a sham, as Marianne had always known that they would. Margaret was grievously disappointed, and the two sisters spent some minutes insulting the affectatious edifice. Then, having exhausted the subject with Marianne, Margaret wished to renew it with Elinor, and to repeat to her every objection of Marianne’s as if it were her own invention. As they made their way back, she rehearsed in her head how the purported castle was like a mere scene-piece created for the stage, and how the masons who built it had not even bothered to make the side that did not face Bath match the pretension of the front. When Elinor came within sight, Margaret, eager to recite her lines, immediately called out her name, with more enthusiasm than propriety.
Due to the still considerable distance between Elinor and her sisters, in conjunction with the direction of the wind, Elinor could not hear Margaret’s calls,—but the young man and woman whom Elinor had been so eagerly observing were within hearing, and this was what gave rise to a conversation between the two parties. For as Margaret continued calling to her sister, the gentleman made his way over to her and Marianne, to enquire in the most pompous of tones why the attention of his sister was being thus solicited, when she had no memory of ever having had the honour of making their acquaintance. Marianne, provoked by his tone and eager to defend her sister, at first made him a very indignant reply, but soon enough they could all laugh together at a misapprehension occasioned by the fact that the sister of the gentleman who was accosting them bore the name of Eleanor,—and had very reasonably supposed herself to be the one called for by Margaret. With the lady’s Christian name thus given, the rest of the introduction must shortly follow,—and equally necessary was what followed next, for they all agreed that Elinor herself must be made acquainted with the mutual blunder.
This was told to Elinor in a jumble, and with a great deal of noise, as all the principals involved in the story clamoured to be heard. The most intelligible part of the intelligence was provided by the gentleman himself, who was introduced to her as a Mr Henry Tilney. He was a rather tall young man with dark hair and eyes, who looked to be about four or five and twenty. He spoke with fluency and spirit, and the liveliness of his manner brought an animation to his countenance which showed his features, very nearly handsome in themselves, to their best advantage. His sister was a pretty girl with a good figure, and like her brother she had a very agreeable countenance, though her complexion was fair where his was brown.
The conversation soon turned to the subject of drawing, and both Mr and Miss Tilney quickly proved their considerable taste and genuine enjoyment of it. They talked with ease of foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens and perspectives—lights and shades, and each showed the result of their morning’s employment without either affected humility or excessive self-complacency. The lady’s sketch was rather more advanced than her brother’s, but both of their drawing papers showed great promise, and when the turn came to Elinor to show her work, they praised it with both warmth and discernment. When the others were occupied with a comparison between the real view before them and Miss Tilney’s depiction of it, however, Mr Tilney took the opportunity of adding pleasantry to pleasantness. He turned to Elinor and said, in a solemn whisper, “This sketch of yours really is most promising. ’Tis a shame that it will have to be discarded.”
Elinor, who had already begun to make him out, took no real offence,—and though she could not quite capture the same grave tone, she maintained an admirable steadiness of voice as she asked, “Discarded, sir? Whatever can you mean?”
“Surely, Miss Dashwood, you cannot expect Miss Marianne and Miss Margaret to suffer, in their very own home, a depiction of a structure that has so deeply offended their every sensibility?”
Elinor’s drawing did indeed include Sham Castle in the foreground, though off to the right side. As Elinor contemplated whether Margaret might actually be indelicate enough to complain about its inclusion, Mr Tilney took up Elinor’s pen knife and tested it against a fingertip.
“Do you wish for me to cut off the offending part of the sketch? It will make for a rather awkward composition, to be sure, but I declare that even Gilpin himself would have made allowances for the nobility in our purpose of protecting your poor sisters from such a horrid sight.”
Elinor could not fully check her laugh as she replied, “No, sir, I thank you, but for the present I believe I will keep my sketch as it is.”
The Miss Dashwoods had not before repined at the relative retirement of their stay in Bath, but here was inducement to go out into society! As they all walked back to Bath together, Miss Tilney spoke with such fervor of a forthcoming concert that Marianne was immediately compelled to go, and Mr Tilney with such regret of their intention not to attend any assemblies that even steadfast Elinor began to reconsider such an absolute stance. She confined herself, however, to most heartily seconding Marianne’s suggestion that they all walk out again some days hence, and soon the two parties had agreed to meet up again in three days time to explore Beechen Cliff.
Though delayed for an hour on account of a morning rainfall, this second shared excursion passed off without further accident, and was to everybody’s satisfaction. Afterwards it was not many days before the concert which Miss Tilney had so excited Marianne’s interest in, and by then, Mr Dashwood, who was a musical as his second daughter, was sufficiently improved to, with his physicians’ blessing, accompany his wife and daughters to the Upper Rooms to attend it. There, Mr and Mrs Dashwood were introduced to Mr and Miss Tilney, but as their father had determined against going himself, Elinor could not yet satisfy her growing desire of being in company with General Tilney, and learning what he was like,—beyond the impression that she had gotten from the manner in which his children spoke of him, that he must be somewhat of a tyrant.
On the evening of the concert, Mrs Dashwood and Marianne both observed in Elinor the symptoms of a growing attachment to Mr Tilney,—and as they sat together the next morning, Marianne opened the subject by observing, “What a pity it is, mama, that Mr Tilney seems so wholly incapable of being serious.”
“Do you think so? To be sure, you have met with him more often than I have, but I would hesitate to make so absolute a determination about his character from less than a fortnight’s acquaintance. Remember that we have only seen him in the pursuit of amusement, and in so gay a place as Bath at that. I have no doubt that he performs his duties as a clergyman with all the seriousness that they require.”
“That may be so, mama, but I do not think being in Bath should preclude one from speaking seriously on serious topics. You know that I do not object to a little merriment every now and then, but when it comes to books, to drawing, to music! He has genius and taste,—and yet he makes a joke out of everything.”
The Dashwoods, though all of them in possession of a very good understanding (excepting, perhaps, Margaret, on account of her young age), seldom aimed at wit. They equally disregarded puns and proverbs; though a well-placed quotation from a favourite poem was always welcome in their conversation. When they laughed together, it arose rather from the general happiness of being together, than from any particular thing said by one of them, and any pursuit of the arts was approached with the utmost earnestness. Thus, Marianne was very little prepared to understand, or indeed approve of, Mr Tilney,—despite the strong recommendations of a chance encounter in the country, and the gentleman taking the liberty of introducing himself.
“Last night, for instance,” continued Marianne, “Mr Tilney misapplied a quotation from Cowper so as to make its meaning the very opposite of what the poet had originally intended, and this after having professed himself an admirer of his work,—though” (lowering her voice as if about to communicate something very scandalous) “he claims to prefer novels to poetry.”
“That is a dark blot on his character indeed,” replied her mother with a smile. “But, my dear, if, as I suspect you do, you disapprove of Mr Tilney’s manners for the sake of your sister, should you not consult her taste, rather than your own? He might not be the kind of young man that you would choose, but I believe I heard Elinor’s laugh more times last night than I have since your father’s illness first began,—and she is herself so serious that I cannot, for my part, look upon a certain playfulness of temper in her future husband (whoever he might be) as at all a drawback. Mr Tilney seems to me perfectly amiable. I have seen nothing to dislike in him, and would happily see more of him in the future.”
Ere long, as her husband’s health continued to improve, Mrs Dashwood was in tolerable enough spirits to chaperone her two oldest daughters to their first assembly in Bath, where Elinor and Mr Tilney could finally stand up together for the first time. As soon as he learned of their intending to go, he solicited Miss Dashwood’s hand for the opening dances, earning Elinor two whole days of felicity over being already engaged for the evening of the ball.
That evening arrived, and as they took their places in the set, Tilney asked, “What do you make of this assembly, Miss Dashwood? Is it everything that you hoped for it to be?”
“It is rather different from the balls I have attended before, to be sure. Neither the public assemblies at Kingham or Westcott, nor the private dances given by the families in our neighbourhood, were ever nearly as crowded as this one, nor did they start quite this early. In the essentials, however, it is very similar, as were my expectations for it. I looked forward to dancing, conversation, and refreshments, and of the three, two have already been provided.”
“Indeed! You astonish me, madam,” replied he, in an exaggerated tone of surprise. “You ask very little of a ball for one of your sex, for I dare say I have scarcely ever heard of a young woman attending a ball without the hope—nay, the expectation!—that she will there meet with her future husband.”
“Then, I believe, you must not have heard much about the young women of Sussex,” said Elinor with a laugh. “I do generally enjoy our evenings at The Royal Oak very much, but the gentlemen I expect to meet with there are all ones that I have both met with and danced with before, and as of yet, no offer of marriage seems forthcoming from that quarter.”
Tilney muttered something in reply, but in all the noise of the ballroom, Elinor could not make out what. Then, in a more audible voice, he added, “But, Miss Dashwood, here in Bath you are all but bound to make new acquaintances. That young man over there, for instance,—the one in the flowered waistcoat,—is looking very earnestly at you. I swear he must be an admirer already.”
“And perhaps I will one day marry him,” answered Elinor, smiling, “but if I do, I will then consider it a most lucky occurrence to have so happened upon him during our stay at Bath, and not at all as something to have been expected,—for entertaining such hopes whenever one goes out into society must lead to constant disappointment.”
“Ah! But I have never claimed otherwise, Miss Dashwood. My argument is not that it is reasonable for young ladies to expect to meet with suitors wherever they go, only that they do seem to expect it.”
“On what observations do you base this assertion, Mr Tilney? Am I to suppose that you are in so many young women’s confidence that you have been repeatedly told of their hopes and intentions when preparing for a ball? Or are your notions, as I rather suspect, established from your extensive reading of novels? In those works, I grant you, the heroines do often seem to have fateful encounters at balls—especially of the masqued kind. Or are you perhaps imagining a young woman who is as enamoured with these novels as you yourself are, and thus has formed such faulty assumptions of the likelihood of every ball leading so directly to marriage?”
Tilney only made her a laughing bow, and at first seemed to drop the subject, but soon he nodded significantly at Marianne and said, “You may very well be right, Miss Dashwood—but if your sister is anything to go by, it is not too much for a young woman to expect to be surrounded by admirers within half an hour of entering a ball room, and I would be very much surprised if, as soon as you are released from your current oaf of a partner, the same does not happen to you.”
Elinor did not know how to respond to such nonsensical gallantry, so she observed, “Your sister is not dancing.”
For a moment or two, Tilney looked unusually sober, but then he smiled once more, and took his old argument back up by saying, “Ah! yes. My sister is of a less singular disposition than you, you see, and very naturally refuses to enter the set unless she can stand up with a man to whom she would gladly entrust all her future happiness.”
As they danced, the two young people were watched over with much complacency by the lady’s mother, but her’s was not the only parental eye turned towards them. General Tilney stood amongst the lookers-on, and like the gentleman in the flowered waistcoat, he regarded Elinor most earnestly. He soon obliged the name of ‘Miss Dashwood’ to cross his daughter’s lips, and then went in search of an acquaintance that could inform him about the Dashwoods of Sussex. What he learned warmed his heart; the family had been settled in that country for generations, and Mr Dashwood’s estate was large enough to yield four thousand a year. This was sufficient to make the General observe to his daughter that if an opportunity for an introduction should happen to arise, he would not be opposed to making the young lady’s acquaintance.
Of the admirers that Marianne had collected around her person in the span of the evening at the Lower Rooms, she found one to be particularly worthy of her notice. He was a young man of the name of Willoughby, of good abilities, quick imagination, and lively spirits,—and though their acquaintance had arisen from so prosaic a circumstance as an introduction by the master of ceremonies, this did not prejudice Marianne against him beyond what he could easily overcome with his open, affectionate manners. He attended Miss Marianne wherever she went, and soon procured an invitation to their Stall Street apartments by expressing how dearly he wished to be granted the opportunity to sing a duet with her.
This Mr Willoughby was not yet himself rich, but as he was to inherit a very good estate near Exeter, this did not much signify. The circumstance of his being the heir to Allenham Court was of particular interest to Mrs Dashwood, though not, as one might expect, from any pecuniary considerations with regard to his growing intimacy with her daughter. No, her motives were more pure: she had family in that part of the country, and delighted in being able to inquire of Mr Willoughby if he might be acquainted with her cousin and his wife. In return, he was able to inform her that he had left Sir John, and Lady Middleton in excellent health, that they gave very elegant dinners, and often collected the young people of the neighbourhood for dancing in the evenings.
Between Tilney and Willoughby existed an uneasy fellowship. As the attachment was strong between the sisters they were each paying their attentions to, they both considered it their best interest to be on good terms,—but had they not been connected through the two elder Misses Dashwood, they would likely never have found reason to exchange even two words between each other, for despite their equally lively spirits, the men were otherwise not much alike, and their tones of conversation were very different. Tilney would contradict Elinor for the sake of drawing her into a laughing argument, while Willoughby adopted every view of Marianne’s almost as soon as he became acquainted with it; and where Tilney would use exaggeration for comical effect, Willoughby’s language, though abounding in extravagant hyperbole, had every appearance of sincerity. Indeed, the latter’s warmth was such that Mrs Dashwood, though she retained her positive impression of Mr Tilney and still looked forward with satisfaction to the possibility of him one day making her Elinor an offer, needed only a week to start expecting with at least as much gratification, and a great deal more certainty, that a union between Marianne and Willoughby was fast approaching.
Towards the end of that week, General Tilney managed to procure his introduction to Miss Dashwood, by coming round to the Dashwood’s box at the theatre, along with Mr Tilney, between the fourth and fifth act of the evening’s play. There he met with all of the family, for even Mr Dashwood had been unable to resist the temptation of seeing Kemble play Corolianus, however fatiguing a whole evening at the theatre was to his nerves. Willoughby was there as well, and so clearly one of the party that when the time came for the General to send out his cards of invitation to a dinner party a few days hence, on the occasion of his eldest son’s arrival in Bath, one of the cards went to St James’s Square, where Willoughby had his lodgings.
The dinner provided Elinor with a good opportunity to observe General Tilney in a small and private party,—and through that observation she regretfully confirmed all of her earlier surmises about his character. Though the General took obvious care to appear to his best advantage, there was so much inconsistency and hypocrisy in his behaviour that one would have to be a simpleton not to see through it. He talked much but never seemed to mean what he said, apologising for dishes that were cooked to perfection and asking about her father’s estate solely, it seemed, for the pleasure of smiling with superiority when he learned that there was no pinery at Norland Park. Even the kindnesses which he took pains to show Elinor herself rang hollow, for he never once paused his litany of self-congratulation and false humility to actually listen to what she had to say on even the most trivial of subjects.—And all his boasting of how well his children were provided for, alongside protestations about how little he cared about money, did nothing to set Elinor’s mind at ease about what he would make of her marriage portion, would he ever have reason to learn of it.
As for the General being a tyrant, the behaviour of his children when in his presence was proof enough. Miss Tilney was rendered near mute until the women withdrew to the drawing-room, and then once more when the men joined them for coffee. Mr Tilney, too, spoke and smiled less than he ever had before when in company with the Dashwoods,—and he never once attempted to draw Elinor into a discussion on some ridiculous subject or another. Even Captain Tilney, whom Elinor had never before met, seemed more subdued than she would have expected any young man in the army to be, especially one so fashionable-looking. Only once did she observe in him anything like true animation,—though that sole instance puzzled her so exceedingly that it supplied some interest to an evening otherwise tedious and dull, through her contuínued contemplation of it.
The scene took place immediately upon the Dashwoods’ arrival at General Tilney’s Milsom Street apartments. They entered together with Willoughby, who had spent much of the day with them, and as the servant announced them, Elinor’s eyes looked round for Mr Tilney. For a moment she believed that she had found him, standing by the fireplace in conversation with Miss Tilney; but this was in fact another gentleman, a stranger, with a much haughtier air and less pleasing countenance. Elinor had just come to the conclusion that it must be Captain Tilney, when the young man started, looked up, and coloured. At first, Elinor, with some apprehension, felt him to be looking at her, but she soon realised that his gaze was rather directed at Mr Willoughby,—before moving quickly to Marianne, and then back, as the expression of his face transformed from recognition to surprise and confusion. This lasted only a few moments; then he recovered himself, and, with a smile, stepped forward to claim an introduction to the guests. Elinor turned to Marianne to see if she had perceived what had passed, but Willoughby was at that moment whispering something in her ear, and Elinor did not believe that her sister, at such a time, could find it possible to attend to anything else.
Taken all in all, the evening did not afford much pleasure to Elinor, and worse, it augured ill for her future happiness were she to become one of the Tilney family party. How could she endure such a father-in-law as General Tilney! She had learned during the dinner that Tilney’s living was not far off from the General’s seat at Northanger Abbey. Could she move above an hundred miles away from her dear family, and give up a daily intercourse with those she loved best, for frequent visits to and from General Tilney? And perhaps the General was in hopes of being one day able to give his son a second living, even closer to his own home? This line of reasoning made Elinor, with a pang of guilt, turn her thoughts upon old Dr Rowe, the incumbent of Norland living, and his repeated bilious attacks. If her marriage to Mr Tilney were merely to take her the short distance from Norland Park to Norland Parsonage, would she then be more likely to consent to it?
Not that Tilney’s attentions had been so very marked as to make Elinor think it inevitable that he would make her an offer of his hand. Where Willoughby’s behaviour towards Marianne betrayed him to everyone who saw them together as her lover, (though he had not, from what Elinor could understand, yet proposed,) Tilney had always been much more cautious;—but whether for the sake of propriety, or because he did not yet fully know his own heart, Elinor could not tell. And what of her own heart? She had never met another man as agreeable as Tilney; she liked him a great deal, indeed,—but they had known each other no more than a few weeks, and in such a place as Bath, which encouraged gaiety rather than intimacy. She had learned much of his talents and abilities, and prized them highly, but she would wish to know more of his character, as well, before she settled it within herself that he was the person with whom she would wish to spend all her future life.
Such were my heroine’s thoughts as she lay awake in her bed after her return from Milsom Street that night,—but Elinor had too much sense to allow her spirits to become agitated enough to rob her of more than half an hour’s rest, and by one o’clock she was fast asleep.
The next morning brought a fresh disappointment, in Miss Tilney, at the agreed upon hour of their setting off on another country walk, arriving not with her brother, but instead with his apologies for not being able to keep his appointment. He had, his sister told them, been called away on unexpected business that could not be delayed,—but there was something conscious about the manner of Miss Tilney’s delivery which made Elinor uneasy. She then overheard a complaint from Willoughby, murmured to Marianne, about gentlemen who chuse not to keep their engagements, which made her cross. The group set off together, a party of five instead of six, and though the day was fine and the walk well-chosen for its picturesque beauties, it was impossible for Elinor to enjoy herself as she had depended upon doing. She was, in fact, so engrossed by her own meditations, and Marianne and Willoughby so wholly occupied by one another, that poor Margaret and Miss Tilney were left to entertain each other as best they could.
That evening, Tilney was again absent, this time from a concert which he had spoken of with interest, though without making any absolute statement that he would attend. His sister and his father were both there, but Tilney himself was nowhere to be seen. Elinor reproached herself for having depended upon meeting with him there without good reason, but she soon had to forget the oppression of her own feelings, to attend to the distress of Marianne; for Willoughby was also absent, and this despite having promised that he would meet them there. His abandonment deprived Marianne of every ability to take pleasure in the musicians’ performance, and she was so overpowered by anxiety that she was every moment watching the door for the entry of either Willoughby himself or of a servant who came to deliver a message from him.
Elinor was less convinced than her sister that Willoughby must have fallen grievously ill or been attacked in the streets by ruffians, but his continued absence did worry her as well. She thought of Captain Tilney’s puzzling reaction to first beholding Willoughby, and Tilney’s absence from their walk, along with Miss Tilney’s awkwardness in explaining it,—and how all three men were now missing from an entertainment which Elinor had expected at least two of them to attend. Elinor could discern no plausible explanation to account for these particulars, but they all seemed significant, and her contemplation of them left her mind in a tumult.
When the concert reached its first interval, Elinor turned to her sister and said, “Let us leave, Marianne. I am sure you will be more comfortable at home than you can be here, and from Stall Street we can send our own servant to inquire after Willoughby.”
“Yes, yes! you are right, Elinor,—this crowd is detestable to me, and I long to be with my mother and father.”
But though a servant was immediately dispatched upon the sisters entering their Stall Street lodgings, his return brought no further information than that of Willoughby being out. Elinor made the decision to go early to bed,—but how long Marianne stayed up in the hope of more news may perhaps best be left unstated.
Breakfast the next morning was an awkward affair. No news of Willoughby had arrived in the night, and now Marianne was determined to go herself to St James’s Square to attempt to find out what had happened to him;—and her father, though it would interfere with his taking of the waters and very likely weary him beyond what he could bear, was equally determined to go with her. Elinor tried to dissuade her sister from such a scheme, and proposed instead to send the servant again, but to no avail,—and Mrs Dashwood, though full of concern for her husband’s health, refused to counsel her child against a plan sprung from so noble an impulse. Thus, the carriage was ordered, and Mr Dashwood and Marianne set off together.
Shortly after they had left, the door to the parlour was once again thrown open, and Mr Tilney announced. He entered the room looking very grave, and upon seeing only Mrs Dashwood, Elinor, and Margaret seated together, inquired after Miss Marianne. When told that she had just left to inquire after Mr Willoughby, he coloured, and, with an air of confusion and embarrassment, asked to speak with Elinor alone, on a very particular business.
Mrs Dashwood, though a little disconcerted by the ill timing and ungraceful manner of the request, could not be surprised at Tilney wanting a private audience with her Elinor, so she suggested that the two sit down together in the drawing-room, while she and Margaret finished their breakfast. Elinor was all the more astonished at his application, for she read in his awkwardness and agitation something very different from the anxiety of a lover. This only made her all the more desirous to know what he had to say, however, and she entered the drawing-room with great curiosity.
“My dear Miss Dashwood, I will not keep you in suspense about the purpose of my visit,” were the first words Mr Tilney spoke as they sat down together on a sofa. “What I have to tell you concerns Mr Willoughby.”
“Indeed, sir, I suspected as much.”
“Yes,—and I suspected your suspicion, for I believe you to be one of the most discerning young ladies I have ever had the honour of meeting. And on the subject of your discernment, my sister believes that you may have noticed, early in the evening two days ago, how my brother reacted to hearing Mr Willoughby be announced.”
Elinor replied that she had.
“Later that evening,” Tilney continued, “Eleanor asked Frederick—my brother—why he had started at hearing Mr Willoughby’s name, but he refused to give an answer that could satisfy her. She is not a very undiscerning young lady herself, and she had her suspicions,—but this leads me into a subject I would rather not dwell on for too long. My brother, you see, moves in some very… loose circles.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elinor. “Is it—does Willoughby…!”
“Yes, but it is still worse,” replied Tilney in a grave voice. “When Eleanor could not get my brother to give her a straightforward answer, she charged me to speak to him, and though he did it very unwillingly, he at last confessed to having met with Willoughby before. After some further questioning, I had gained a decent understanding of the circumstances under which they had met, which were as follows: when Frederick first arrived in Bath, a couple of days before the dinner party where you first met him, he had attended an… evening engagement, together with a group of friends that he would blush to have my father learn about. There, he had been introduced not only to Mr Willoughby, but also to a young woman of the name of Miss Williams, whom he had then understood to be Mr Willoughby’s future wife,—though Mr Willoughby’s behaviour towards her had, I understand, been such as would only be appropriate if he were already her husband.”
“This is beyond every thing!” exclaimed Elinor.
“It pains me to be the bearer of these tidings, Miss Dashwood, but I think too highly of your sense to feel that you need to be spared from such delicate subjects purely on the basis of your sex. And you may believe that I would have immediately rushed here to inform you and Miss Marianne of what my brother had divulged, had it not been for the matter of the other young lady involved in the matter. But, ah! on the subject of Miss Marianne, another fact about Miss Williams is that she bears a great resemblance to your sister, such that Frederick at first had thought he was once again in company with Miss Williams herself, when he first beheld Miss Marianne. Indeed, I have seen Miss Williams myself,—”
“You have seen her!”
“Yes. I suspected, from what my brother told me, and from what I have observed of Mr Willoughby’s behaviour when in company with your sister, that Mr Willoughby’s intentions towards this young lady were far from honourable, and I wished to assure myself of her safety and welfare. Having solely a name to go by, discovering Miss Williams took me and Frederick the larger part of yesterday,—yes, my brother has, at least, honour enough to have helped me in this endeavour, and without him I could never have succeeded, for the lady was well concealed, and it was only with the help of a hint from one of his friends that we could, at last, locate her. Mr Willoughby had convinced her to leave behind her friends, and move to an establishment that he had formed for her, where she waited for him every day, while he paid his attentions to your sister. A scoundrel and a villain, that man is!... And a fool, too, to believe he could do this with impunity; in such a country as England, in a nation of Christians.”
Here, Elinor gave vent to all her feelings of horror and indignation towards Mr Willoughby, and solicitude for the poor girl, after which she fell into a thoughtful silence, before Tilney took up his tale once more.
“Miss Williams was at first very reluctant to give up her situation, for she loves Mr Willoughby dearly, and wholly trusted in his assurances that they would one day marry. She had heard nothing at all of Miss Marianne, and at first refused to believe a word I said about Mr Willoughby’s behaviour towards her. I had to swear to having seen it with my own eyes, and swear to being myself a clergyman, before she would pay any credit to my claims. Then, however, she burst into tears, and willingly allowed us to restore her to her guardian, who seems to be a very worthy man, lately arrived in Bath in order to search for her himself.”
“Thank God!”
“Miss Williams’ removal could of course not long be concealed from Mr Willoughby, though you unknowingly helped delay his making the discovery through having him attend you on your morning walk,—and here I have to admit that my sister did so less unknowingly. I hope you will forgive her dissembling.”
Elinor bowed her assent.
“As soon as Mr Willoughby comprehended Miss Williams’ abandonment, and discovered, through the very friend who had given Frederick the hint about where her lodgings were to be found, our involvement in the business, he went in search of us. He found us at home, awaiting his arrival, and there he tried to convince us not to expose his misdeeds. With the girl already returned to her guardian, he contended, what ill could come from us preserving the secrecy of the affair? Above all, he implored us not to inform Miss Marianne, towards whom, he claimed, his intentions had always been strictly honourable. This application of course had to be refused, and after the refusal was given, Mr Willoughby hastily left; to go whence, I do not know.”
After finishing his speech, Tilney consulted Elinor on how best to deliver this distressing account to Miss Marianne. Would the intelligence best be given by him, or by her? What about her father and mother,—who could best inform them of Mr Willoughby’s misconduct? They settled it between them that Elinor would go directly to her mother, while Tilney remained behind to wait for the return of Marianne and Mr Dashwood, who were immediately sent for, and repeat his tale for their enlightenment.
What Marianne thought and felt upon having her favourite sunk so suddenly and so absolutely in her opinion can be easily imagined. She wept for herself, for Miss Williams, and even for Willoughby, who by Nature had been endowed with genius, taste, charm, and passion, but had chosen to use these gifts for dissipation and sin. She could scarcely bear to consider what his views on her might have been, and reproached herself dreadfully over having let herself be so imposed on by a libertine. Still, however, she comforted herself that the attachment had been of such recent origin that her heart remained essentially untouched; and thus she could preserve the distinction of a first attachment for some later, more suitable suitor.
As for Mr Tilney, he raised himself considerably in Marianne’s esteem through extinguishing her dearest hopes, and she felt that she had done him very wrong when accusing him of being incapable of speaking seriously on serious topics. Here was a subject serious enough!—and in his treatment of it, Tilney spoke not merely with solemnity and compassion, but with true sensibility. And even had he filled his tale with misapplied quotations and ill-timed mirth, his goodness of heart would still have been so perfectly proven by his actions, that his manner telling her of them could not have prevented her from loving him as a brother, and looking forward to embracing him as a one on the happy day of his nuptials, which she could not doubt would soon take place.
Elinor, as well, was now as convinced of Mr Tilney’s merit as she could ever wish to be. He had done her sister a great service, in preserving her from Willoughby’s designs on her, which, whether honourable or not, could never have promoted her happiness,—but the service he had done Miss Williams spoke even higher of his character, for with her there had been no prior acquaintance to guide him towards doing what was right. The affection that Elinor had felt for Tilney since very early on in their acquaintance was now heightened into esteem,—and could she only know what his sentiments were in regards to herself, she would not hesitate to call her partiality for him by the name that she in her heart already knew that it deserved.
The next morning brought such a reverse that Elinor was very glad that she had not betrayed the depth of her feelings for Mr Tilney to her family. Like the day before, the Dashwoods were again interrupted at breakfast by an early visitor,—but this time it was Miss Tilney instead of her brother, and she came, most unexpectedly, to pay her parting respects to her friends before quitting Bath. Henry, she said, had been too busy to come with her, but though he had not even had the time to send with her his excuses for not being able to bid them farewell in person, she was certain that he regretted this sudden change of plan as acutely as she did herself. Her father's regrets she had been authorised to deliver, and this she did, along with this explanation of why their stay in Bath was to be so suddenly cut short:
“My father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial, and as he has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival whom he expected to meet here, the receipt of a letter from his steward this morning, concerning some recent alterations made to the tea house at Northanger, was enough for him to decide that it was time for us to return home, so he can oversee the matter himself.”
Miss Tilney’s manner in delivering this explanation was greatly embarrassed, and she blushed deeply at Marianne’s exclamation of astonishment and concern, which followed it. When gently pressed by Mrs Dashwood on whether something else was behind this strange revolution, Miss Tilney only repeated that she was exceedingly grieved to have their intercourse come to such an abrupt end. Shortly afterwards she left.
Once Miss Tilney was gone, they all burst out with questions and conjectures. It was a most extraordinary thing! Though none of them knew what to make of it, it was impossible not to speculate and wonder. Margaret attempted to make out what kind of calamity could have befallen the poor tea house to occasion that the entire family remove to Northanger Abbey, while her mother maintained that some piece of news must have reached the family, which they did not want widely circulated, and which called them home at such an inopportune time. Mr Dashwood, for his part, had taken a great dislike to General Tilney during the evening he had spent at Milsom Street, and thought him to blame in some manner or another; it did not much signify how.—And poor Marianne, who now saw treachery and deceit wherever she turned, knew only that her sister had been used very ill, and gave Elinor further pain by refusing any exoneration of Henry Tilney in the matter.
And what did Elinor think? How could she arrange the facts so as to make sense of the Tilneys’ removal from Bath? It occurred too closely in time to Mr Tilney’s recent adventure for her to believe it likely for there to be no connection between the two events, but how could one have caused the other? Had Willoughby made the family a threat, to scare them off? No; that seemed beyond even his hardened villainy, and surely two soldiers like the General and Captain Tilney would have stood their ground rather than flee. Did General Tilney, then, perchance, disapprove of his sons involving themselves in another man’s business, and was breaking off their stay to punish them? And if so, her heart whispered, perhaps the General knew that the punishment would be all the greater for Henry in depriving him of her society?
Such ran the current of Elinor’s thoughts when Henry Tilney stepped into the breakfast-room.
It is impossible to say how long it would have taken Mr Tilney to declare himself, had things been allowed to take their natural course. That he admired Miss Dashwood exceedingly much, and thought highly of her mind, her heart, and her person, cannot be doubted;—and yet, many a young man has equivocated over whether and when to make his offer for longer than the object of his affections might think at all necessary, and Mr Tilney might very well have added to their number, had it not been for a parting kindness paid to him by Mr Willoughby.
As it was, he entered Stall Street in a state of high agitation,—but his anxieties regarding how Elinor might receive his suit were much abated by her evident delight upon seeing him. An expressive smile overspread her glowing face as she rose to greet him, and she held out her hand to him as she inquired how he had found time to come there when they had heard on such good authority that he would not be able to do so. Oh! how he had longed to take her hand the day before, to give some comfort as he told his alarming tale of duplicity and vice. Now, he pressed it with hope and joy, assuring her that he came not to bid her farewell, but rather hoped to spend much more time with her in the future,—and soon he could lead her back to the drawing-room for a second private audience, this one much more conducive to promoting the happiness of its participants.
Tilney spoke uncommonly well for a man who had had so little time to compose his address, and though he was unable to resist a flourish about how well he had been prepared to learn to love an Elinor, in having so long loved an Eleanor, his proposal was most eagerly accepted.
“For I,” said Elinor, with a smile, “have after all, in my father, long loved a Henry,—and I must thus be even better prepared to love you, for here the spelling is exactly the same.”
Now, it only remained for Tilney to explain to his lady the events, as he understood them, of the last two days, which had led to this happy conclusion. His was, however, a rather disjointed and at times almost incoherent account, so to spare my readers all the perplexity that Elinor suffered as she tried to make sense of it, I shall take the liberty to present the proceedings in their chronological order, and as they truly happened.
I mentioned before a parting kindness paid to Mr Tilney by Mr Willoughby,—though the latter had rather intended to make mischief than to do the former a service. This was the source of everything that had then followed, and the connection between Tilney’s rescue of Miss Williams and his father’s decision to leave Bath, which Elinor had correctly surmised the existence of. The morning before, when Tilney left his father’s lodgings to inform the Dashwoods about Mr Willoughby’s offences, Willoughby himself had watched him safely out the door. Once Tilney was gone, Willoughby approached the door himself, and told the servant stationed there that he had something of importance to communicate to General Tilney, concerning the family of Dashwood.
Just like the General himself, Mr Willoughby had made some judicious inquiries very early on in his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, and his informants had produced a more complete picture of the state of their finances than what General Tilney had gotten. He had known all along that though Mr Dashwood was indeed rich, he had little more than seven thousand pounds at his own disposal, to bequeath to his wife or use for his daughters’ marriage settlements—and that Mrs Dashwood had nothing of her own. To General Tilney, however, he now presented this intelligence as something recently learned, perhaps even something that the Dashwoods themselves were taking care not to have spread abroad,—especially as Mr Dashwood might at any moment be carried off by a second seizure.
This all struck General Tilney most forcibly, and he was further discomposed by Willoughby’s insinuations that he was about to quit Bath solely in an attempt to weaken the second Miss Dashwood’s claims on him, after having been too careless with his affections. If the Dashwoods were even half as scheming as Mr Willoughby’s representations made them seem, the General felt, this boded very ill for his Henry.
It was a most vexing business! A few years, if the father survived and increased his wealth, might make the match a very eligible one,—but General Tilney could not approve of a daughter-in-law with only a little over two thousand pounds, likely not to be received until after death of her mother (for Willoughby had neglected to mention that each of the Miss Dashwoods had been left a thousand pounds a-piece by their great uncle). The General cursed Mr Dashwood’s illness (though how he fancied that his son would have met that gentleman’s daughter if not for that very illness, it might be difficult for anyone other than the General himself to understand), and thanked Mr Willoughby most profusely for preserving his son from so disadvantageous a connection.
Willoughby then left Milsom Street,—and soon thereafter Bath itself, so as to avoid having to defend his conduct in a duel with Miss William’s guardian, who was an old soldier. As soon as he was gone, General Tilney began to prepare the journey home, and when the letter from his steward arrived the next morning, it provided only a suitable pretext for their return to Northanger.—And as he fancied that presenting their removal from Bath as already settled upon and in progress might more easily reconcile Henry to going, he then sent his second son off on an errand that might keep him away until their luggage was packed up and the carriage ordered.
When Tilney returned to Milsom Street, he was met by his impatient father, who informed him of their imminent departure, and ordered him to think of Elinor no more. What Mr Tilney did instead, has already been told, and so it turns out that Willoughby was the means of uniting the very lovers who he had meant to separate with his interference.
It would never have occurred to Mr or Mrs Dashwood to be so cruel as to withhold their own consent for a child to marry, merely for the reason of another parent having done so. No, they joyfully received Tilney like a son, and even urged him to throw off the yoke of parental tyranny. It fell to Elinor, therefore, to urge a reconciliation with General Tilney,—but when none such was forthcoming, she did not chuse to delay her own happiness. The happy couple was united in matrimony, and removed to the village of Woodston, of which Tilney held the living. Its income was one of independence and comfort, and as long as Elinor’s family remained in Bath, they were even within a tolerably easy distance for regular visits.
There was some awkwardness, of course, in General Tilney being their patron, especially after Miss Tilney, inspired by their example in filial disobedience, decided to make Woodston Parsonage her home as well. Eleanor was not only the cause of a widening of the breach between father and son, however,—but eventually also the means of a reconciliation between them. She had not long lived with her brother and sister, when she received her own proposal of marriage, from the most charming young man in the world, who had recently succeeded to both title and fortune, after having been lowly and poor all his life before. When General Tilney learned of the engagement, he hastened to mend the rupture with his daughter; and if the stipulation for being allowed to hail Eleanor as “Your ladyship!” was to belatedly receive Elinor as his daughter-in-law, that was a trifling sacrifice for him to make.
As this young viscount was so instrumental in restoring my hero’s family to peace and harmony, I am sure my readers will freely forgive my transgressing the rules of composition by introducing, and so very late at that, a character wholly unconnected with my fable. And now, having obtained that forgiveness, I will immediately trespass once more in the very same manner; for I suspect that many of my readers count among the acquaintance of Catherine Morland, and might presently feel some apprehension for her happiness. I confess myself compelled, therefore, to give a brief account of her adventures.
Miss Morland had a taste of heroism when she danced with Mr Tilney at a ball in Bath,—and then met with her first disappointment in love when, after looking for him every day for more than a week, she saw him with Miss Dashwood, and paying her every attention that poor Catherine could have wished him to pay to herself. This was misfortune indeed! And yet, Miss Morland’s stay at Bath was, upon the whole, very pleasant,—though her memories of it were later rendered painful by her dear friend Isabella Thorpe’s subsequent desertion of her brother James.
Her brother’s woes, however, in time served to bring Miss Morland happiness; for at Oxford, James Morland formed an intimacy with a young man of the name of Edward Ferrars, through the sharing of many a conversation on the interesting subjects of cut off engagements and the inconsistency of the female sex. Mr Ferrars had been banished from his family on account of a most unworthy young woman, who had then dropped him for his own brother,—and as this left him without anyone to spend the Christmas holidays with, James generously invited his new friend to spend it with his family at Fullerton. Thus, nearly two years after her first heroic endeavour, Catherine could once more take up her career as a heroine,—and this time her hero was not snatched off by another. After receiving her parents’ consent, Miss Morland and Mr Ferrars wanted only a sufficient income to be able to marry.
Mr Dashwood, at this point restored to health and happiness, had long wanted to do something for this very same Edward Ferrars, who was in fact his son’s brother in law, to counteract the cruel treatment of Mr Ferrars’ mother. When the living at Norland at last became vacant, he therefore at first considered giving Mr Ferrars the presentation,—but he was prevailed upon by Elinor to instead let his son-in-law do Mr Ferrars the kindness of appointing him his curate, on a very liberal stipend. Thus Catherine found herself at Woodston, whence she was always fated to go,—and Tilney was thereby freed up to accept the newly vacant living himself. He and Elinor happily removed to Norland Parsonage, where they lived within a few miles of the remaining Dashwoods, and could meet with them every day of their lives.