The day which she had spent at that 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 such expressions with regard to Henry and herself,had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage.Yes,only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard had he even confused her by his too significant reference!And now what had she done,or what had she omitted to do,to merit such a change?
The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself,had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge.Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained;and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.Designedly,at least,Henry could not have betrayed her.If,indeed,by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for,of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations,she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation.If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer,she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house.But a justification so full of torture to herself,she trusted would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point,it was not,however,the one on which she dwelt most.There was a thought yet nearer,a more prevailing,more impetuous concern.How Henry would think,and feel,and look,when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being gone,was a question of force and interest to rise over every other,to be never ceasing,alternately irritating and soothing;it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence,and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.To the General,of course,he would not dare to speak;but to Eleanor what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries,on any one article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose,the hours passed away,and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.The pressing anxieties of thought,which prevented her from noticing anything before her,when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,saved her at the same time from watching her progress;and though no object on the road could engage a moment's attention,she found no stage of it tedious.From this,she was preserved too by another cause,by feeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion;for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best,even after an absence such as hers an eleven weeks absence.What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family;that would not increase her own grief by the confession of it,extend an useless resentment,and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will?She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor's merit;she felt it too strongly for expression;and should a dislike be taken against them,should they be thought of unfavourably,on their father's account,it would cut her to the heart.
With these feelings,she rather dreaded than sought for the first view of that well known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of home.Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger;but after the first stage she had been indebted to the postmasters for the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it;so great had been her ignorance of her route.She met with nothing,however,to distress or frighten her.Her youth,civil manners and liberal pay,procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could require;and stopping only to change horses,she travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm,and between six and seven o'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.
A heroine returning,at the close of her career,to her native village,in all the triumph of recovered reputation,and all the dignity of a countess,with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons,and three waiting maids in a travelling chaise and four,behind her,is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell;it gives credit to every conclusion,and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is widely different;I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace;and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.A heroine in a hack post chaise,is such a blow upon sentiment,as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand.Swiftly therefore shall her post boy drive through the village,amid the gaze of Sunday groups,and speedy shall be her descent from it.
But,whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind,as she thus advanced towards the Parsonage,and whatever the humiliation of her biographer in relating it,she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature for those to whom she went;first,in the appearance of her carriage and secondly,in herself.The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton,the whole family were immediately at the window;and to have it stop at the sweep gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children,a boy and girl of six and four years old,who expected a brother or sister in every carriage.Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.
