leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;

the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven
o'clock, and no servant will be offered you."

Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless.
"I could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it;

and no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at
this moment, however justly great, can be more than I

myself--but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I
could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What

will your father and mother say! After courting you from
the protection of real friends to this--almost double

distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,
without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear,

dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message,
I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you

will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this
house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it,

that my real power is nothing."
"Have I offended the general?" said Catherine

in a faltering voice.
"Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know,

all that I answer for, is that you can have given him
no just cause of offence. He certainly is greatly,

very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so.
His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred

to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment,
some vexation, which just at this moment seems important,

but which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in,
for how is it possible?"

It was with pain that Catherine could speak at all;
and it was only for Eleanor's sake that she attempted it.

"I am sure," said she, "I am very sorry if I have offended him.
It was the last thing I would willingly have done.

But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know,
must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner,

that I might have written home. But it is of very
little consequence."

"I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it
will be of none; but to everything else it is of the greatest

consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family,
to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath,

you might go to them with comparative ease; a few hours
would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles,

to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!"
"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that.

And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later,
you know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven.

Let me be called in time." Eleanor saw that she wished
to be alone; and believing it better for each that they

should avoid any further conversation, now left her with,
"I shall see you in the morning."

Catherine's swelling heart needed relief.
In Eleanor's presence friendship and pride had equally

restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than
they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house,

and in such a way! Without any reason that could justify,
any apology that could atone for the abruptness,

the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a
distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope,

every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could
say how long? Who could say when they might meet again?

And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite,
so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It

was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous.
From what it could arise, and where it would end,

were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm.
The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil,

hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience,
or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time

or mode of her travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on,
and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved

to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning,
that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could

all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means
or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him.

Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion,
but Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury

or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against
a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be

connected with it.
Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that

deserved the name of sleep, was out of the question.
That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented

her on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated
spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the

source of her inquietude from what it had been then--how
mournfully superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety

had foundation in fact, her fears in probability;
and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of

actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building,

were felt and considered without the smallest emotion;
and though the wind was high, and often produced strange

and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard it
all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity

or terror.
Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show

attention or give assistance where it was possible; but very
little remained to be done. Catherine had not loitered;

she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished.
The possibility of some conciliatory message from

the general occurred to her as his daughter appeared.
What so natural, as that anger should pass away and

repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know how far,
after what had passed, an apology might properly be received

by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;
it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity

was put to the trial--Eleanor brought no message.
Very little passed between them on meeting; each found

her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were
the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs,

Catherine in busy agitation completing her dress,
and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience intent upon

filling the trunk. When everything was done they left
the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind

her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known,
cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour,

where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well
to save herself from the pain of being urged as to make

her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could
not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this

and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery,
and strengthened her distaste for everything before her.

It was not four and twenty hours ago since they had
met there to the same repast, but in circumstances

how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy,
though false, security, had she then looked around her,

enjoying everything present, and fearing little in future,
beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy,

happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat
by her and helped her. These reflections were long