“You must write to me, Catherine,” she cried; “you must let me hear from you as soon as possible.  Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour’s comfort.  For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat.  Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more.  Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice.”

“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write.  There can be no doubt of my getting home safe.”

Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings.  I will not importune you.  I will trust to your own kindness of heart when I am at a distance from you.”  But this, with the look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly said, “Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed.”

There was yet another point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle, though somewhat embarrassed in speaking of.  It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with money enough for the expenses of her journey, and, upon suggesting it to her with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly the case.  Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either during the time of their remaining together.  Short, however, was that time.  The carriage was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.”  But with this approach to his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.

CHAPTER 29

Catherine was too wretched to be fearful.  The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness.  Leaning back in one comer of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her