Eleanor was sorry for her brother. Her own hopes for a marriage with the man she loved, a college friend of Henry's, had been disappointed some time ago. She had resigned herself to the fact that her love could not support them, and that her father would never consent to the marriage. To see her beloved brother's hopes dashed in such a similar manner broke her heart. It was time for her to share her own story with Henry.

It was at least a distraction for Henry. He had suspected, at one time, that his friend was becoming attached to Eleanor. He had never suspected Eleanor of caring about his friend, or that the attachment was continued. They spent most of the trip discussing their feelings, the worthiness of the ones they loved, and their mutual respect, love and support of one another. Both wanted a marriage of love, not convenience.

Their arrival at Woodston was quiet. Eleanor was at the brink of despair at the thought of returning to her father's home. Northanger Abbey was becoming a prison in her thoughts, not a home. Henry was also depressed at the idea of leaving Eleanor at the Abbey, but he really had no choice. His father had to be seen. If nothing else, Henry had to start trying to get the General's consent for his marriage to Catherine. Both foresaw a very long road ahead of them.

Late the next morning, Henry drove Eleanor back to Northanger Abbey. As they drove up the lane, Henry made one more decision. "Eleanor, I cannot bear the thought of not seeing you again. Father might refuse to let me come back after today, and will certainly not allow you to visit me. Do you want to come back to Woodston with me? If he really wants you, he can come and get you!"

Eleanor was surprised at Henry's outburst. "No, Henry! That would be a very bad idea. If he if forced to come for me, you know he will never forgive us! I will be fine. I have a great tolerance for him, as you know," and she tapered off. Both knew how difficult her life was about to become. They pulled up and Henry helped her out of the curricle. They slowly entered the house and headed for the sitting room the General favored.

He was there, reading a newspaper. They entered, and Eleanor sat down. The General lowered the paper to his lap, they set it on the table next to him. He stared at his erring children and commented, "So you have returned."

There didn't seem to be any point in replying to that, so neither of them did. The General beetled his brows and stared at them. "So, I suppose you have come to tell me you have married that chit!" He stood and stood angrily about the room. "I will not have you in my home, Henry, after your disobedience!"

Henry replied, "No, sir, I have not yet married Miss Morland. Her parents wish us to gain your consent before they will allow us to marry. As Miss Morland is not yet of age, and as we both respect her parents, we have decided to comply with their wishes."

This pleased the General enormously. "Good! But you are still not welcome here. You may take the rest of your belongings, which I have already had packed, and GET OUT!" The last words were roared.

"Not until I make sure you realize, Eleanor had nothing to do with this. When I was last here, I told her to pack and get into the curricle. I gave her the impression that your permission was granted for her to come to Woodston. I do not want my sister to suffer for my transgression." Henry could hardly believe he was saying it, but if it helped Eleanor, it was worth it. He continued, "Eleanor was unable to return, or course, as she had no word from you to do so, and I would not make the trip until I saw Miss Morland safely with her own family."

The General made gruff noises, but it was clear he believed his daughter would not deliberately go against his wishes. He would be unpleasant, because it pleased him to be. But he would not take extra pains to make Eleanor suffer for this latest escapade. This was more the man Henry knew from recent years. He considered - perhaps his father's erratic behavior lately was temporary? Still he had one more thing to clear up before he could leave. Henry had one more thing to say. It had been eating at him for days. "I also will not leave until you answer two questions for me. Who told you Miss Morland was rich - and who told you she was poor?"

The General looked Henry straight in the eye, and said, "Then will you leave?" "You have my word on it," Henry stated. "It was that young pup, Thorpe. When I saw him in Bath he could say nothing but how great a match she would be. It was clear he was in the running for her, which is why I interceded. But when I saw him in London, he put me straight. He was misinformed himself about the family - his own sister almost made a most unfortunate match to the young chit's brother. He was extolling on his escape, and I knew I had to get back here and get rid of her. It is just like you to not appreciate what I have saved you from. Now get out of MY home!" He threw himself in to a chair and picked up the paper again. Eleanor looked longingly at her brother. They had said their goodbyes before he brought her in.

Henry was so angry he wanted to strangle Thorpe, and maybe his father as well. But he had promised, so he turned on his heel and walked out. A cart was already packed and waiting behind his curricle. A servant was in the seat, ready to drive the rest of his belongs over to Woodston. He climbed into the carriage, and drove off without a word.

He berated himself for the entire drive back to Woodston. Thorpe was a fool, and Henry had recognized that fact. What he had not recognized was how dangerous a fool could be. Everything made sense, now that it was too late. The General's interest and support of Henry's pursuit of Catherine had been strange. He had not wanted to question his good fortune. But what the fool had given him - the chance to spend time with Catherine and win her affections - he had also taken away. Spite was the only reason Henry could think of. John Thorpes sister had tried to climb too high - and lost what she had. She must be quite furious with both the Tilneys and the Morlands by this time. Add that to Henry's obvious interest and success with Catherine, and he understood WHY John Thorpe had been spreading unkind rumors.

His father's erratic temper had always been a family problem. The General's willingness to listen to a comparative stranger and take his word BOTH times about Catherine's status still seemed strange. It was not like the careful officer his father had once been. Age or disease, or perhaps too many years of getting his own way? Henry sighed - he would likely never know the answer. With as little love and respect he had for his father, it still rankled that he took that idiot John Thorpe's word on something over his own son's.

The weeks went by. Henry wrote to his sister every few days, and his fiancé even more often. He was glad Eleanor's maid could be trusted to pass on his letters. It was clear from her letters that Eleanor was receiving his letters. It was also clear that she was very unhappy. Between Eleanor's and Catherine's tear-stained epistles, Henry had a hard time keeping his own spirits up. He just prayed, daily, that a solution to all their problems would appear. After all, he was a minister, right? He believed in Divine Intervention. With all his high spirits and love of mischief, Henry had complete faith. He was too honest a person to accept ordination without believing what he had to preach.

Then it happened. Out of the blue. Lack of male issue in a monied and noble family and started a search for the Grand-uncle's male issue. His old college friend had been chosen and received the title (and money) and was now a Viscount! Henry stood and stared at the letter from Eleanor for ten minutes, believing it had to be joke of some sort. When he finally comprehend it, he cheered until Mr. and Mrs. Jones came running to see what had turned the parson into a lunatic.

It was a huge comfort to him to know that Eleanor, at least, had escaped the trap Northanger Abbey had become. Her (daily) letters now were filled with joy. She assured him that she still loved her Viscount, and that he still loved her. No sooner had he received his title, than he had traveled to Gloucestershire. He had gone straight to the General and asked to pay his address to Eleanor. He knew he would never get near Eleanor without facing the dragon first. He speedily received her consent, and two planned a wedding as quickly as they could, and still satisfy the General's need for a grand event.

Henry could not be invited due to the rift with his father. It did not seriously diminish his joy for his sister. She had achieved the greatest goal they had - she had married for love.

I will leave it to Jane Austen to complete the story. In the great author's own words...

"What probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the General's? The circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer -- an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good-humor, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him "to be a fool if he liked it!"

The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never had the General loved his daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed her "Your Ladyship!" Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to add -- (aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable) -- that this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.

The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess in their brother's behalf was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances which, as soon as the General would allow himself to be informed, they were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every greedy speculation.

On the strength of this, the General, soon after Eleanor's marriage, permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and every body smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the General's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen, is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced, that the General's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience."

Finis

Copyright © 2000 by the author. All Rights Reserved.

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