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1Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance where it was possible; but very
2little remained to be done. Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The
3possibility of some conciliatory message from the General occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as
4that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an
5apology might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here; it was not called for;
6neither clemency nor dignity was put to the trial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on
7meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were the sentences exchanged while they remained
8upstairs, Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon
9filling the trunk. When everything was done they left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend
10to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast
11was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable;
12but she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast in that
13room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four and twenty hours
14ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different! with what cheerful ease, what
15happy, though false, security, had she then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little in
16future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! happy, happy breakfast! for Henry had been there; Henry had sat by
17her and helped her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as deep
18in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall them to the present
19moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that
20instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now
21impelled into resolution and speech. "You must write to me, Catherine," she cried; "you must let me hear from you as
22soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks,
23all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your
24family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at
25Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice." "No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter
26from me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe." Eleanor only replied, "I
27cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you. I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a
28distance from you." But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment,
29and she instantly said, "Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed." There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was
30anxious to settle, though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of. It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from
31home, Catherine might not be provided with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to her
32with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly the case. Catherine had never thought on the
33subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she
34might have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she must have
35been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either during the time of their
36remaining together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly
37rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered
38the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused
39a moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left "her kind remembrance for her absent friend."
40But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as
41she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the
42door. CHAPTER 29 Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began
43it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a
44violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the
45highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes
46towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed
47along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the
48review of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer
49Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and
50thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive. The day which she had spent at
51that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the General had made use of
52such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive
53conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard--had
54he even confused her by his too significant reference! and now--what had she done, or what had she omitted to do, to
55merit such a change? The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely
56possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so
57idly entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have
58betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to
59think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his
60indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his
61house. But a justification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power. Anxious as were all
62her conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a
63more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to
64Northanger and heard of her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be never
65ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others
66was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the General, of course, he would not dare to
67speak; but to Eleanor--what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
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