Amanda Grange: Henry Tilney's Diary

And with that one word I knew she was mine.

She blushed and stammered and offered me a seat, which I took, but hardly had I sat down when her mother entered the room, closely followed by sundry brothers and sisters.

I sprang up and Catherine introduced me.

‘I must apologize for my sudden appearance. I have no right to expect a welcome here after what has passed, but I had to be sure that Miss Morland had reached her home in safety. I knew nothing of her sudden departure, being attending to business in my own parish, and I am more sorry than I can say that she was left to endure such a journey alone,’ I immediately began.

Mrs Morland was generous in her reception of me, saying, ‘Well, now, if that is not good of you, Mr Tilney. I am sure it was not your fault that Catherine had such a strange journey and there is no harm done, as you see. Besides, it is a great comfort to find that Catherine is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself.’

I began to apologize for my father but she did me the kindness of judging me apart from him and saying that she had long been wanting to thank me for my friendship towards Catherine.

‘She has told us a great deal about you and your sister in her letters. We are always happy to see Catherine’s friends here. The future is what matters, and the present, not the past. Pray, do not say another word about it.’

I was not ill-inclined to obey her request, for, although my heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not in my power to say anything at all. Seeing Catherine again, having so much to say to her that could not be said in company, rendered me mute and I sat down again in silence.

Mrs Morland sent one of the younger children for Mr Morland, feeling, no doubt, that he would introduce a new topic of conversation. Whilst we waited, she asked about the weather, my journey, and a dozen other such commonplaces. I made the usual replies whilst watching Catherine, who looked anxious, agitated, happy and feverish. She guessed, of course, why I had called. If I had been merely solicitous over her safety I could have written her a letter. A visit spoke of something more.

At length, no more remarks about the state of the roads and the mildness of the day for the time of year could be made, and we awaited Mr Morland in silence, only to learn some minutes later that he was from home. When the conversation dwindled to nothing I roused myself and asked after the Allens, then saying that I wished to pay them my respects I asked Catherine if she would show me the way.

‘You may see the house from this window, sir,’ said her sister Sarah helpfully.

Her mother silenced her with a nod and Catherine and I set out.

‘Miss Morland ... Catherine,’ I said, as soon as we had turned out of the drive. ‘I have that to say to you which ... I think you can guess ... that is to say ... Catherine, I think you know what my feelings are for you.’

She blushed and said, ‘You like me as the friend of your sister.’

I took her hand, which relaxed in mine as she felt the touch of my fingers, for I had removed my gloves on entering the house and neglected to put them on again, whilst she had forgotten hers.

‘As more than that,’ I said. ‘Much more. I thought I would have plenty of time to say this ... I thought you were to stay at the abbey for several weeks more ... but now I can wait no longer. You have my friendship, my love, my affection, my heart. Tell me, Catherine, do I have yours?’

She looked down, and murmured, ‘You do,’ so quietly that I had difficulty hearing it.

I smiled.

‘I know you like my parsonage and I think you like me. If I promise to fit up the drawing room in the way you like, will you come and live there with me? Will you be my wife?’

Her reply was everything I could have wished for. To be sure, she was incoherent, and her sense of obligation and pleasure were so mixed together with an assurance that her heart had long been my own that her words were incomprehensible, but the smile in her eyes told me all I needed to know.

I took advantage of the quietness of the lane to kiss her.

We were disturbed by the clop of hoofs and sprang apart before the horseman turned the corner, then smiled and laughed. I gave her my arm and we walked on together, with the sun shining far more splendidly than usual and the bees buzzing lazily and the birds chirruping in more than usually good voice.

As we turned into the lane I knew I must give her an account of my father’s behaviour and although I was ashamed to do it, I told her all. She was startled to find that he had thought her an heiress, but not at all surprised that the mistake had been caused by John Thorpe, whose family had caused hers such distress.

‘So that is why I was invited to Northanger Abbey,’ she said.

‘By my father, yes, but not by Eleanor or myself. We wondered why he was making so much of you, but as we knew you to be poor we thought he was being kind to Eleanor at last and securing for her the cheerful company of a valued friend.’

I told her that it was Thorpe again who, on seeing my father in London, and being angry because Catherine’s brother refused to have anything more to do with Isabella, had claimed that Catherine had deliberately lied about her fortune in order to mislead everyone.

‘Though how my father could have believed it, when he knew you and knew you to be incapable of such deceit, I cannot imagine. His anger was not really at you, but at himself for being so easily duped.’

‘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.’