Northanger Abbey

he next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:

Bath, April

My dearest Catherine,
I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and
have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I
really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place
one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to
begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but
have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray
write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave
this vile place to-morrow. Since you went away, I have had no
pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares
for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the
rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am
quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him
since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding.
Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did
or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring
fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can
imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you
never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family
you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against
those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust,
and young men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice
to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly
abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must
mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly
disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards
he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have
been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I knew the
fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and
I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days
he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste,
but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street,
and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I
would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards;
but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a
contrast between him and your brother! pray send me some news of
the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable
when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his
spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his
direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in
my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or,
if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a
call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have
not been to the Rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in
last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they
teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut
myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the
Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out.
I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but
now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be
taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own.
Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it
the week before at the Concert, but made wretched work of it—it
happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me
so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last
man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know
I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s
favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in
writing to him and to me,

Who ever am, etc.

Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the
very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever
loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her
excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. “Write to James on her
behalf! no, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her
again.”

On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother’s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and
reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she
cried, “and for all our intimacy! she must think me an idiot, or she
could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her
character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has
been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I
do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and
I wish I had never known her.”

“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.

“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has
had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and
then fly off himself?”

“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives, such as I believe
them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the
chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet
injured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him
with you, we had better not seek after the cause.”

“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”

“I am persuaded that he never did.”

“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”

Henry bowed his assent.

“Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has
turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,
there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any
heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with
him?”

“But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
case, she would have met with very different treatment.”

“It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”

“And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by
the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate
principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the
cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”

Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more
of it.