close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone
was
touching the very doorway--and in another moment
a slight
motion of the lock proved that some hand must
be on it. She trembled a little at the idea of anyone's
approaching so
cautiously; but resolving not to be again
overcome by
trivial appearances of alarm, or misled
by a raised
imagination, she stepped quietly forward,
and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine's spirits, however, were tranquillized but for
an
instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and her manner
greatly agitated. Though
evidently intending to come in,
it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still
greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some
uneasiness on Captain Tilney's
account, could only
express her concern by silent attention, obliged her
to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water,
and hung over her with
affectionate solicitude.
"My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not indeed--"
were Eleanor's first connected words. "I am quite well.
This kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come
to you on such an errand!"
"Errand! To me!"
"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!"
A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind,
and turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed,
"'Tis a
messenger from Woodston!"
"You are
mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking at
her most compassionately; "it is no one from Woodston.
It is my father himself." Her voice faltered, and her eyes
were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name.
His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make
Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she
hardly
supposed there were anything worse to be told.
She said nothing; and Eleanor, endeavouring to collect
herself and speak with
firmness, but with eyes still
cast down, soon went on. "You are too good, I am sure,
to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged
to perform. I am indeed a most
unwillingmessenger.
After what has so
lately passed, so
lately been
settled between us--how
joyfully, how thankfully on my
side!--as to your continuing here as I hoped for many,
many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness
is not to be accepted--and that the happiness your
company has
hitherto given us is to be repaid by-- But
I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine,
we are to part. My father has recollected an
engagementthat takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going
to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.
Explanation and
apology are
equally impossible. I cannot
attempt either."
"My dear Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her
feelings as well as she could, "do not be so distressed.
A second
engagement must give way to a first. I am very,
very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so suddenly too;
but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my
visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come
to me. Can you, when you return from this lord's, come
to Fullerton?"
"It will not be in my power, Catherine."
"Come when you can, then."
Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts
recurring to something more directly interesting,
she added, thinkng aloud, "Monday--so soon as Monday;
and you all go. Well, I am certain of-- I shall be able
to take leave, however. I need not go till just before
you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can
go on Monday very well. My father and mother's having
no notice of it is of very little consequence.
The general will send a servant with me, I dare say,
half the way--and then I shall soon be at Salisbury,
and then I am only nine miles from home."
"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be
somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions
you would have received but half what you ought.
But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow morning is fixed for your