Chapter 15

The doctor's visit, so long anticipated, was not as satisfactory as might have been hoped. He was very complimentary of Henry's progress, pleased beyond measure to see the patient so improved, but looked grave on finding his pulse remained unsteady. A test of Henry's limbs confirmed they were still tender, and while the fever had dampened, it was clear his coughs stubbornly refused to abate.

"Mr. Tilney must not travel before the end of next week," was the pronouncement made after this examination, and no protests from his patient would be entertained. "We cannot risk your health, newly gained and fragile; and besides, a carriage ride even on the best of roads would be very difficult to endure in your present condition." Another sevenday would make all the difference, and he promised to return before then to monitor and check Henry's progress. It was allowed that light activity might be risked now that the worst had passed, with the recommendation of walking the length of a hall and back. Nothing too strenuous should be attempted at first, but only the barest means of restoring Mr. Tilney's strength. If he continued improving and suffered no setbacks, they might consider moving further about the house or even outside. "But steady and slow were the watchwords to obey: incremental improvement was to be sought more than rapid change. Any return of the ague must be treated directly, and then all activity suspended."

Catherine listened attentively, asking what questions she could think of to assure herself she understood what was required. "What did the the doctor think of his victuals? Could Mr. Tilney attempt anything more filling?"

Fruit was approved, and the doctor commended Catherine's judgment in providing her husband with cool supplements to his regime. "Nothing better for tempting a person to better health, and nourishing besides." Bread, butter, thin soup or vegetables were also on the menu, but beef or heavy fare should be avoided, and beyond the little wine already prescribed, spirits were taboo as well. He hoped the latter injunction would be no great hardship, for while it might provide some relief, too heavy drinking would be deleterious toward an honest measure of Mr. Tilney's health and tempt him to deeds beyond his actual abilities.

Henry promised to faithfully honour every stricture, and with so little complaint the doctor looked noticeably relieved. "I could wish all my patients were as obedient," he added.

"Is my brother causing difficulty?" was Henry's knowing response.

There the physician would not tell tales, only commenting that he understood active men like the captain must be unused to confinement. "It is no great surprise he should resent captivity, after all, and the loss of his leg, however temporary, must be a blow to a man kept from taking up his duty."

Catherine wondered if perhaps more irony was meant by the latter sentence than might be implied; it had never seemed to her that the captain was overly impressed with the need to perform any duty, whether to family or society. But she reproached this uncharitable thought. The man was to be pitied regardless of his behaviour, and however little his occupation might have engrossed him heretofore, any relief from current circumstances must be welcome. Perhaps it would be the start of a reformation of his character and if so, Catherine must be careful not to be unjust, regardless of his former sins.

"But is his injury still very bad?" she asked, determined to act the part of a concerned sister in the hope it might truly be so.

"I am happy to say it was a clean break and will mend well, and the quick attentions he received will be instrumental in hastening his return to health. I understand I must bow to you, ma'am, for aiding his rescue."

Catherine coloured and denied any great responsibility, pointing toward her husband as the true hero in the story. But said husband was not so ungallant as to accept praise where he felt it undeserved. "For it was Mrs. Tilney who knew to look for us when I had wandered afield, and her actions saved both our lives." He looked as if he might say more, but Catherine was so obviously embarrassed, he instead changed the subject, saying he was glad to hear his brother was in no mortal danger.

"In fact, he is in better shape than yourself," was the next admission, "for his fever abated almost in the same hour it appeared. He seems to have been spared the worst effects of the recent tumult, and has been so well situated that were it not for the actual injury itself, I would be glad to release him upon Monday."

What a trial this news was for Catherine! How much easier it was to pity the captain, and nurture better feelings toward him, when she could imagine the poor man afflicted like her husband. It hardly seemed fair that the principal author of their present misery should escape almost unscathed, and the temptation was great to refuse expressing any happiness at the news. She could not lie; she could not rejoice whole-heartedly, but did manage to acknowledge at last that "It was good God had been so merciful." Good indeed, she decided, that it was up to her Heavenly Father to determine such matters, and not so jealous a spirit as her own. There must be general agreement to so virtuous a declaration, and the doctor took his leave, hoped all would continue well, etc.

Catherine, who had followed him to the door, closed it with a deep heaviness of heart. She had dared hope, with Henry so improved, they might escape this terrible place. Now that she knew the reality it was difficult to confine herself to the smallness of a sickroom for the length of time described, separated from the comforts of the home she and Henry had built together since their marriage; in her anguish, even the mending pile was missed. She felt herself grieved and repented her ingratitude at the same moment, and struggled to keep her feelings from showing as she took up her place by the bed once more. It would not do for Henry's spirits to be further dampened by her weakness. Searching for any distraction, she picked up her letter again. "I have some space left here: do you have anything else for Eleanor before I send it off?" And she took up her pen, staring down at the paper to marshal her unruly feelings.

"Yes: tell her that our brother is a knave and a coxcomb who does not deserve the mercies he has been shown, and who in all likelihood will be unmoved either toward deep reflection or better feelings by this experience. You may further add that doctors are horrid men with no sympathy for their charges, and that kind-hearted ladies who have their heads turned by callow young men at assemblies are to be pitied above all others. Indeed, I think we should start a new epistle, and you may advise as a Christian matron to your unmarried sisters how best to avoid being unnaturally yoked to their less charitable brethren, instead devoting themselves to a life of quiet reflection and thoughtful study. Perhaps you might advise them on further reading materials for guidance: I think you are very fond of Mr. Mackenzie's works, did not your mother send you his most recent publication?"

At this last Catherine could not help starting up in protest: she was sure she had never claimed to prefer those works, even if her mother had procured her a copy, and she was about to argue the point further when she realized in chagrin that Henry had been only in jest, as she should have realized had her attention not been directed elsewhere.

"There, that is much better, I am sure I could not hope to survive the next week if I was always to be looking at the top of your head."

"I do not believe your sister would say you deserved to survive after that speech."

"Eleanor would say worse if you wrote any of what I just said, and would furthermore scold me for practising on your credulity at such a time. It was perhaps ill done: have I upset you, my dear Catherine?"

"No, not at all." For despite herself, Catherine felt her spirits lifted and could now smile at his impudence. "I know you were not serious, and only meant to make light of our troubles. I confess you did take me by surprise, for it sounded as if you were quite angry at your brother to begin with."

"Perhaps I am. The more I consider it the more I do not know how you are not, as the most grieved of the whole party." Here his tone changed, and eyeing her with real concern, asked "Would you not be more comfortable at Woodston? You see I am far from shaking off my mortal coil, and it will be very dull for you to remain bound to an invalid barely allowed to traverse the gallery beyond. You have already far exceeded any obligation required by your marriage vows."

It was a very pleasing suggestion, and had the curricle been within easy reach Catherine was not sure she could have resisted. But in recollecting the journey would require dependence on the general's generosity, and knowing how worried she would be without the means of assuring herself of Henry's improvement—for she did not trust that anyone would think to send word to her if his health declined,—it was refused. "I hope you do not think I am so wayward as to need only the commands of duty to serve you."

"There are many superlatives to describe such a wife; wayward, being left off the list, must be supplanted by a better adjective. Perhaps we might substitute steadfast or indomitable? No? Will you accept magnanimous then? With five syllables it must be admitted to bearing some pretensions of approach, even if it is not truly nice enough to capture the person we seek to admire."

Catherine could not help laughing now, even as she had felt near to tears but five minutes earlier. "How can you always be so teasing Henry?" she asked, the puzzlement of her entire relationship with this man never fully understood.

He smiled as well at his success, and taking her hand in his with only the barest sign of discomfort, answered, "I hope I may always be able for so worthy an object. The day I cannot beguile fair Catherine out of her troubles will be a dark one indeed. I am not so ungrateful a ruffian as to take my responsibilities as husband lightly, you see."

"No, not lightly at all; but will you not add anything to the letter?"

"And prove I partake of my fraternal duties no less ardently than those of the marital variety? I suppose I must, if I hope to redeem myself in either your or Eleanor's eyes. It is certainly provoking to have so amiable a wife; how is a man to nurture resentment or give way to his temper with such an example before him?"

Catherine smiled but held her pen ready, and after Henry had dictated some lines assuring their sister of his improvement and giving his love, she declared he was as virtuous as he had made her out to be.

"I do not know if I deserve the compliment, but I will take it all the same, for the pleasure I choose to believe it gives you of my accepting. A truly virtuous husband would not accept either idle words or the sacrifice you offer to make this coming week; I am as out of patience with my own conduct as Frederick's when I think of it again."

"Then do not choose to think about it so much," was Catherine's artless advice, to which Henry smiled sincerely.

"A very good idea: let us avoid any talk of troublesome persons further, and content ourselves only with the pleasing notion of how pained Eleanor will be when she reads your first letter, followed so close at hand by the happy tidings we are now sending, that it will be as if the disturbance never occurred at all."

Banishing one relation from her mind, bound as he was to his bed and unlikely to cause further incident, proved easy enough to accomplish. But as Catherine completed her correspondence, with further instructions to the parsonage and parish regarding their continued stay at Northanger Abbey, the master of the estate weighed heavily upon her thoughts. It was out of the question for Henry to stir from the house on the morrow. But whether it was correct for her also to remain at home of a Sunday was doubtful. She could no longer claim he required her constant presence, and was not able to pretend that her reluctance to attend services was out of concern for him alone. Rather, if she were to obey the strictures of the commandments, and what is more, the expectations placed on a parson's wife, she must put herself in the general's presence once again. And not just for one interview; to do as she knew she ought, she must accompany him in his carriage, sit with him in the pew, and might even be expected to dine with him upon their return. This action could lead to even further penance, for by observing one meal with him she might rightly be seen as under obligation to share all as a daughter would.

How she wanted Eleanor at this moment, who had Henry's judgment but also the sympathy of a woman's position. If only she might receive an answer to her letter immediately and counsel from one with more experience than her own, unbiased by the present circumstances. Yet instant communication was not possible. Catherine must depend on her own understanding, and while she chatted with Henry the dilemma of how she should act was never far from her thoughts.