“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.