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Despite his penchant for humor, Henry Tilney was not a man generally given to theatrics; his upbringing had certainly discouraged the latter proclivity, and so to endure it, he had turned to the former.
Under the current circumstances, however, he could not help himself from a rather dramatic arrival at Fullerton. For much of the ride to Wiltshire, Henry had kept his horse to a more sedate pace, despite his racing heart, so as not to over-tax the creature on the long journey. Once they had gone a few miles past Salisbury, Henry finally urged his mount into a canter. As he had just begun to check the gelding into a trot within sight of the Morland residence, he made a fine figure, arriving on a fast horse, his greatcoat stirred by the wind.
As he looked rather windswept, it was not quite the impression he might have wished to make when renewing his application to marry Catherine Morland. As they had been forced to wait much longer than he would have wished, however, he hoped his unexpected appearance might be forgiven.
It must have been the decree of benevolent Providence that Catherine was, at that moment, out on the grounds, playing with two of her younger siblings.
“Catherine!” he called, seeing his beloved; he hoped under the circumstances, his use of her Christian name would not be considered too great a liberty.
“Mr. Tilney!” she cried, leaping to her feet. She began to run toward him, but stopped herself before she might frighten the horse.
Soon, they were better within earshot of each other; Henry dismounted his horse and she met him as swiftly as she dared.
“Is something the matter?" she asked. "Is Eleanor well?”
It would be cruel to keep Catherine in suspense, and Henry was too impatient to delay further. Despite his breathlessness, he answered at once, “I have a letter from my father to yours, providing proof of his consent. May I speak with him?”
Some may scorn our hero for making an unclear pronoun reference; such was Henry’s perturbation of mind and excitement of spirit at such a moment. Catherine, however, did not, nor did she correct his grammatical error, or ask him the antecedent; at this time, she understood him perfectly.
With equal magnanimity, Henry did not mock her when she replied needlessly: “Truly?”
“You may read the letter yourself when he has done.”
Catherine took the hint, and daringly took her beloved’s hand to guide him. Henry did not protest, even though he could have followed her easily by sight alone.
“Come; he is in his study, I am sure.”
It spoke to Catherine’s maturation over the past months that she had enough presence of mind to pause there for a moment, and instruct Charles to get a rub-down for the horse, and Sarah to get some refreshment for Mr. Tilney.
Once Charles and Sarah had gone, Mr. Tilney turned to his beloved Catherine, and as she had already offered one of her hands, he boldly took the other.
"I flatter myself that I understand you by your letters and your willingness to take me to your father under the circumstances - but let me ask: Catherine, do you still desire to be my wife?"
"More than anything in the world!"
Under such pleasing encouragement, Henry was sorely tempted to do more than kiss her hands, but as it was, he contented himself with that, for Sarah returned in impressive time with something for him to drink. Catherine wisely dropped his hands.
Henry thanked Catherine's sister, who was watching him closely. He drained the glass with as much alacrity as he could without being impolite, so that they might go at last complete the long-awaited errand.
Even though Catherine did not take his hand again while under a sibling's watchful eye, she still managed to lead Henry to her father's study, where she knocked tentatively at the door.
“Papa?”
“Catherine, my dear! - you may enter.”
Apparently still in disbelief about the news she had to communicate, Catherine did not speak nor move for an instant. At last, she said to the closed door, “Will you admit Mr. Tilney as well? He comes with a letter from his father.”
There was a creak of a chair on the floor, and a moment later, Reverend Morland opened the door himself.
“I beg, sir, you will forgive the unexpected intrusion,” Henry said at once; “General Tilney has given his consent.”
“God be praised,” murmured Mr. Morland, needing no further explanation of consent to what.
He took the envelope that Henry offered and broke the seal, then perused the letter for a moment. It was full of officious compliments to the Morland family - which originated in nothing better than the General’s new knowledge of Miss Morland’s three thousand pounds, and the general’s pride in now being the father of a viscountess - but at the end, at last, there was confirmation of what Mr. Tilney had said.
“This is wonderful!” said Mr. Morland.
Henry quite agreed; it was wonderful in every sense of the word, including that it beggared belief. Who with any scruples could believe that the general could treat the agreeable and innocent Miss Morland so callously, and could disown a son for desiring to marry her? Who with any scruples could believe that three thousand pounds could induce the general to reverse his decision so instantly? Yet it would be uncharitable to voice such a thought, as it would be akin to looking a gift horse in the mouth, and would rather spoil such a happy moment.
“We must tell Mrs. Morland," added Mr. Morland; "and I am sure she will agree with me that we may now heartily add our consent to General Tilney's."
"Oh, thank you, Papa!" Catherine breathed.
She threw her arms around her father - who held her close for a long moment, perhaps reflecting on the days when he had embraced a much more diminutive daughter.
What heart, no matter how cynical, could not be moved by such a picture of parental affection? Certainly, Henry, who had neither mother nor father who would or could embrace him with such warmth, was not immune.
Yet the man who was now shortly to become his father-in-law clapped Henry on the back fondly and gave him a paternal smile.
"I believe I may speak for Mrs. Morland, as well, when I say that we shall be glad to have another son," said the elder reverend kindly. "But I shall go and get her, and she may express her delight for herself."
Henry, touched by this declaration, managed to say something suitable to express his gratitude; and then Mr. Morland was gone.
Left alone with his affianced, Henry did as he had long been yearning to do: he enfolded his Catherine in his arms, and bent his head to press his lips sweetly to hers.
They parted rather more hastily than he might have wished, for Henry was quite conscious that at any moment, any number of Morlands might appear.
Catherine, however, took his hand once more and pressed it.
"Oh, Henry, I've missed you so desperately," she murmured. “Your letters were delightful, but they cannot compare to this. I am so happy to see you again, and with such news--!”
“It is my dearest wish that we should never have to endure such a separation again,” he replied. “Yet you have borne it all, my love, as no other woman could.”
“I could bear anything for your sake,” she vowed. “I love you, Henry.”
The simplicity and frankness of this declaration were so charming that Henry was nearly induced to kiss her again. It was fortunate for them all that he resisted, for he had scarcely finished with verbally requiting Catherine's proclamation when her parents both approached, with a few young Morlands in tow.
“Mr. Tilney, my husband has told me the happy news,” said Mrs. Morland, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.
"You have our blessing, and we give it gladly," added Mr. Morland.
Henry thanked them prettily, meriting their smiles.
His hostess then gestured back toward their sitting-room “Please, make yourself comfortable; I am sure you have had a long ride.”
“I will go get the tea things,” offered Catherine, eager to prove the hostessing skills required of a vicar’s wife.
“Thank you, Catherine,” said Mrs. Morland approvingly; “that is very thoughtful of you.”
Mr. Morland said he would return shortly after gathering the other children to tell them the news.
“Catherine has improved during these last few months,” declared Mrs. Morland privately to Henry, once they were seated. “I suppose I need not tell you, sir, that my daughter will make you a good wife. She may be a sad, heedless housekeeper at first, but shall overcome that with practice. You shall not find a more good-natured girl, and she is familiar with what is expected of a clergyman's wife."
Henry, who had endured a painful separation from his beloved, and had by his fidelity to her been separated by his ungenerous father from his siblings and family home, would not be turned away from his dear Catherine by an occasional tendency to be scatterbrained or silly.
"I am happily aware of my good fortune," Henry assured her, "but an engaged man ought not tire of hearing his future wife praised."
"Furthermore," added Mrs. Morland, a practical and sensible mother of ten who blushed at very little, "she is quite healthy, and very good with children."
To this, even witty Henry could think of no clever reply.
Catherine returned with a tray of tea and cakes, and a larger brood of Morland children soon appeared with many questions for Henry about his horse, the abbey, and his brother's military service. Most of them cared little about the prospect of Henry becoming their brother-in-law, except that he sometimes told interesting stories and made them laugh.
If Henry was a little out-of-form on that particular day - tired from a long ride, and distracted by the wish to be alone with his betrothed - it can only be hoped that the younger Morland children would forgive him.
Mrs. Morland, ever sensible, said at last, "Mr. Tilney, if you are not too fatigued, might you wish to walk to the Allens'?"
"After such kind hospitality, I am quite recovered," Mr. Tilney declared with a smile.
"Catherine, my love, you might accompany him," suggested Mrs. Morland; "it has been some time since Mr. Tilney has walked that way."
It was quite impossible to get lost on the short journey - and moreover, Mrs. Morland was not entirely sure whether the Allens were home at present - but that did not matter to her purpose. The young lovers had been cruelly and capriciously separated for quite some time, and Mrs. Morland still had some recollection of what it was like to be young. It could not be possible to commit too many improprieties along a path, and Mr. Tilney was a respectable vicar.
Fortunately for Henry and Catherine, Mrs. Morland's memory was a little imperfect. For if she had remembered all of the kisses bestowed upon her by her respectable vicar of a fiance just prior to their wedding, she might not have permitted her daughter to walk alone with one.
"I will just get my coat," said Catherine, in a tone even more cheerful than usual.
--
"We owe a great deal to Eleanor and her excellent husband," Henry finished explaining, walking arm-in-arm with his dear Catherine. "It was she who begged pardon of my father on my behalf, and gave him such information of your family as to secure our marriage."
"Dear Eleanor!" sighed Catherine. "She has always been the kindest and best of friends."
Henry wisely refrained from mentioning Isabella Thorpe, who did not merit a mention to mar such a happy day.
"And now," Henry said, "she shall be the most affectionate of sisters."
"Oh, it pains me to think how lonely she must have been, when your father had banished you from Northanger," Catherine murmured sympathetically.
Amused by her diction, Henry nonetheless replied seriously, "Think on it no more, my dear, for now she has every happiness that she deserves; and I quite wish for you to revel in your own happiness."
"Oh, I do!" Catherine assured him, hugging his arm a little closer. "I am sure I am the happiest creature in the world."
"Then we shall have to argue over that title," replied Henry with a smile.
By this time, they were a safer distance from the Morland abode; Henry gently drew Catherine against some conveniently-located shrubbery.
"How I have missed this beloved face," Henry murmured, cupping Catherine's cheeks tenderly in his hands. He placed feather-light kisses on her forehead; her cheeks; her lips.
"I am glad you like it," Catherine said with a shy smile. "You shall have to wake up to it every morning, soon."
"Not soon enough for my liking," rejoined Henry.