Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as would make their meeting materially painful.  She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave to him very civilly.  In such considerations time passed away, and it was certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.

At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for its continuance; but all was silent.  Scarcely, however, had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving 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