no wonder that the accomplished Henry Tilney falls in love with her when he finds that she is already a little in love with him; and when his father brutally sends her home from the Abbey where he has pressed her to visit his daughter on the belief that she is rich and will be a good match for his son, it is no wonder that Tilney follows her and offers himself to her. She prevails by her innocence and sweetness, and in spite of her romantic folly she has so much good heart that it serves her in place of good sense.
V
The chapters of the story relating to Catharine's stay at the Abbey are rather perfunctorily devoted to burlesquing romantic fiction, in accordance with the author s original design, and they have not the easy charm of the scenes at Bath, where Catharine, as the guest of Mrs. Allen, meets Henry Tilney at a public ball. " Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. . . . The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere, and seeing everything herself, as any young lady could." But at the first ball she knows nobody, and she can only say to Catharine from time to time, " I wish we had a large acquaintance here," but at their next appearance in the Lower Rooms (how much the words say to the reader of old-fashioned fiction!) the master of ceremonies introduces a partner to Catharine. " His name was Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very lively and intelligent eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. When they were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. . After chatting for some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—' I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath, whether you were ever here before, whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert, and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent; but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are, I will begin directly.' 'You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.' 'No trouble, I assure you, madam.' Then, forming his features in a soft smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added with a simpering air, ' Have you been long in Bath, madam?' 'About a week, sir,' replied Catharine, trying not to laugh. 'Really!' with affected astonishment. ' Why should you be surprised, sir?' ' Why, indeed?' said he in his natural tone. ' But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable, than any other. Now let us go on. Were you ever here before, madam?' 'Never, sir.' 'Indeed! Have you yet honored the Upper Rooms?' 'Yes, sir; I was there last Monday.' ' Have you been to the theatre?' 'Yes, sir; I was at the play on Tuesday.' 'To the concert?' 'Yes, sir; on Wednesday.' 'And you are altogether pleased with Bath?' 'Yes, I like it very well.' ' Now, I must give one more smirk, and then we may be rational again.' Catharine turned away her head, not knowing whether she ought venture to laugh. ' I see what you think of me,' said he gravely. ' I shall make but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow. . . . I know exactly what you will say. Friday went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings, plain black shoes; appeared to much advantage, but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.' 'Indeed I shall say no such thing.' 'Shall I tell you what you ought to say?' ' If you please.' ' I danced with a very agreeable young man, had a good deal of conversation with him, seems a most extraordinary genius; hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.' 'But perhaps I keep no journal.' 'Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting beside you.'"
It is plain from the beginning what must be Catharine's fate with a young man who can laugh at her so caressingly, and what must be his with a girl so helplessly transparent to his eyes. Henry Tilney is as good as he is subtle, and he knows how to value her wholesome honesty aright; but all her friends are not witty young clergymen, and one of them is as little like him in appreciation of Catharine's rare nature as she is like Catharine in the qualities which take him. This is putting it rather too severely if it conveys the reproach of willful bad faith in the case of Isabella Thorp, who becomes the bosom friend of Catharine at a moment's notice, and the betrothed of Catharine's brother with very little more delay. She is simply what she was born, a self-centered jilt in every motion of her being, and not to be blamed for fulfilling the jilt's function in a world where she is divined in almost her modern importance. In this character, the author forecasts the supremacy of a type which had scarcely been recognized before, but which has since played so dominant a part in fiction, and as with the several types of snobs, proves herself not only artist but prophet. Isabella is not of the lineage of the high and mighty flirts, the dark and deadly flirts, who deal destruction round among the hearts of men. She is what was known in her time as a "rattle"; her longue runs while her eyes fly, and her charms are perpetually alert for admiration. She is involved in an incessant drama of fictitious occurrences; she is as romantic in her own way as Catharine is in hers; she peoples an unreal world with conquests, while Catharine dwells in the devotion of one true, if quite imaginary lover. As Catharine cannot make anything of such a character, she decides to love and believe in her utterly, and she cannot well do more after Isabella becomes engaged to her brother James, and declares that she is going to withdraw from the world in his absence, and vows that though she may go to the assembly she will do it merely because Catharine asks it. ' But do not insist upon me being very agreeable, for my heart you know will be forty miles off; and as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is quite out of the question.' "
Catharine takes her friend so literally that when Tilney asks her in behalf of his handsome brother the question whether Miss Thorp would have any objection to dancing, "'Your brother will not mind it, I know,' said she, ' because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured of him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner, but . . . she would not dance on any account in the world.' Henry smiled and said, 'How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people's actions.' 'Why, what do you mean?' ... 'I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of dancing with Miss Thorp to good-nature, convinced me of your being superior in good-nature yourself to all the rest of the world.' Catharine blushed and disclaimed. . . She drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen . . . till roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give their hands across. Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given. Catharine . . . spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner. 'I cannot think how it could happen. Isabella was so determined not to dance.' 'And did Isabella never change her mind before?' 'Oh! but because—and your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?' . . . 'The fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself.' 'You are laughing; but I assure you Isabella is very firm in general.' . . . The friends were not able to get together . . . till after the dancing was over; but then as they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: ' I do not wonder at your surprise, and I am really fatigued to death. ... I would have given the world to sit still.' 'Then why did not you?' . . . 'Oh, my dear, it would have looked so particular, and you know how I abhor doing that. . . . You have no idea how he pressed me. ... I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I did; and your dear brother, I am sure, would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. My spirits are quite jaded, listening to his nonsense; and then being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was upon us.' 'He is very handsome indeed.' 'Handsome? Yes, I suppose he may . . . But he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down, several times, you know, in my way.'"
The born jilt, the jilt so natured that the part she perpetually plays is as unconscious with her as the circulation of the blood, has never been more perfectly
