Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began
it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one comer of the carriage, in a
violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the
highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes
towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed
along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review
of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston,
added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of
Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive.

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 post-masters 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.

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness,
was a sight to awaken the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the
carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was
even happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her,
leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had
hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so
direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed,
by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or
collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in
catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be
overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the
consideration of their daughter’s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have
been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in
forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly — neither as a gentleman nor as
a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all
his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as
Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that
“it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all their indignation and wonder;
though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful
ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,” said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is
something not at all worth understanding.”

“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it
civilly?”

“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else,
it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney.” Catherine sighed.
“Well,” continued her philosophic mother, “I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over,
perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know,
my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your
wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything
behind you in any of the pockets.”

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and,
to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s next counsel of going early to
bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of
the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and
though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly
unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady
of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time
and distance on her friend’s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having
parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for
what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and
never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do
justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and
honest without resentment — a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of — and, above all, which she
might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of
performance; and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could determine on with any
confidence of safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks,
and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.

“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended.
I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you were sadly out of luck
too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be
better worth keeping.”

Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better worth keeping than Eleanor.”

“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are
thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could
only put into Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never
forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in
that case, to meet —! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving
her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient for restoring her spirits, that
they should call on Mrs. Allen.

The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she
felt on the score of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but otherwise there is no harm done in
the match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest
acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of
her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter
man all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice.”

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could listen to; another sentence might have endangered
her complaisance, and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed up in the reflection
of her own change of feelings and spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago
since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light,
gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension of evil as from
the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she return!

She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection,
would naturally call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated
— though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine
took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of
coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her
there, and almost turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man; but we are so
glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can
shift very well for herself.”

Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen
thought his expressions quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His wonder, his conjectures,
and his explanations became in succession hers, with the addition of this single remark — “I really have not patience
with the general” — to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really have not patience with the general,” was uttered
twice after Mr. Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more
considerable degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately added,
“Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left
Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after
all. I assure you I did not above half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to us, was not it?
You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.”

“Yes, but that did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first given
spirit to her existence there.

“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves
wear very well? I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn them a great
deal since. Do you remember that evening?”

“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”

“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I always thought him a great addition, he is so
very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite gown on.”

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs. Allen again returned to — “I really have
not patience with the general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever
saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder;
Milsom Street, you know.”

As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her daughter’s mind the happiness of having such
steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or unkindness of slight
acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but there are some situations of the human mind in
which good sense has very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every position her mother advanced.
It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs.
Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently
reflecting that now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now, perhaps,
they were all setting off for Hereford.