A familiar voice came from the other side of the column. “Judith, I beg you — ”
“I must go. My mother will be looking for me.”
“I can take you away from her oppression forever, my love, my heart! I cannot live without you, Judith! Say you will be mine!”
Catherine peeked around the column; the lovers proved to indeed be Mr. Shaw and Miss Beauclerk. She listened in spite of herself, because she had never before heard a man who talked so exactly like the hero of a novel.
“I am grateful for the services you have performed for me,” said Miss Beauclerk. “But I find your continued declarations most tiresome in the face of my previous professions on the subject.”
“Services? You can talk of services? When I would do anything for you, my own heart? When I have done for you — ”
“Do not speak of it,” said Miss Beauclerk in a low, urgent voice. “Not here.”
Catherine’s eyes widened in spite of herself. What services could Mr. Shaw have performed that must not be discussed in a public place? Could it be — could Mrs. Findlay’s accusations have merit? Henry and Lord Whiting had laughed at the idea, but —
“Mrs. Tilney,” said a familiar voice, low and familiar, in her ear. She jumped, startled, and whirled about to see Sir Philip.
“Oh!” she cried. “You startled me!”
“Indeed? If so, I beg your pardon, madam. I would not make you feel any discomfort for the world; unlike, I think, some others.”
Catherine had no idea what he meant, and looked her surprise.
“Do you not understand me? Ah, you are young; but I saw your blush tonight when your husband prevented me from meeting you. I suspect the apple does not fall far from the tree in the Tilney family.”
She blushed again, remembering what she had learnt of Sir Philip. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must go; Henry will be looking for me.”
“Oh, well, then. I should not like to be the agent of unpleasantness for you. Until another time.” He bowed, and Catherine turned away, confused by his words, only to be startled by Mrs. Findlay’s manservant, clutching a lamp and leading his mistress.
Mrs. Findlay looked from Catherine’s blushing countenance to Sir Philip and back again, and smiled most unpleasantly. “Oho!” she said. “Caught in the act!”
“You have caught nothing, ma’am. I wish you good night.” Catherine hastily curtsied and proceeded outside the theatre as quickly as she could through the thinning crowd.
She met Henry by the door. “What is it?” he said upon seeing her expression.
“Sir Philip and Mrs. Findlay,” she said. “Please take me home, Henry.”
“With all possible speed, my sweet.” He put his arm around her waist and swept her through the crowds and into Lord Whiting’s carriage, where his lordship and Eleanor waited to receive her and make her comfortable. Catherine leaned against Henry’s sleeve and sighed.
“Better now, Cat?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“What is it, Catherine dearest?” asked Eleanor gently.
“Sir Philip would talk to me, and though I put him off, Mrs. Findlay saw us, and I believe she has drawn the wrong conclusion.”
“Never mind,” said his lordship. “Everyone must know that Mrs. Findlay’s gossip is nonsense. First, accusations of murder, and now adultery! No one family has so much melodrama in these modern times. No one will pay her any mind.”
“I hope you are right,” said Catherine. “I overheard Miss Beauclerk and Mr. Shaw talking about services that he performed for her. It sounded most sinister; but I am sure he only meant making up her potion.” She shook her head. “Such nonsense! I liked the play very much. Did not you?”
His lordship looked chagrined, and Eleanor laughed at him. “You paid no attention to it, did you, my love?”
“Well, no; but that is not why one goes to the theatre.”
“Catherine likes a play very well,” said Henry.
His lordship bowed. “Another time I shall be quiet and let you enjoy it.”
“I could hear perfectly well, sir; I thank you for inviting me.”
“I am sorry your evening had a sad end,” said Lord Whiting.
“To make up for tonight,” said Henry, “Tomorrow we will have our walk. Eleanor, Whiting, will you join us? We thought to walk along the river and up to Beechen Cliff, retracing our steps from last year.”
They agreed to meet at the pump-room at noon, and Catherine’s evening had a happier ending than she would have thought when she first entered the carriage.
At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.
“I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.”
Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure.
“Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight of this moment by that air of cruel reserve? — Why seek to throw me again into the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.”
“If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.”
Catherine sat up. “Henry, please read that again,” she said.
“Which part?”
“Emily’s last part.”
“Very well,” said Henry, and repeated the last paragraph.
“That is very good,” said Catherine. “It is just the thing for me to say to Sir Philip when you are not there, do not you think?”
Henry looked at her, his brow creased. “Did Beauclerk impose upon you?”
“Oh, no! But I think he has formed a — a wrong idea. I just need to explain it to him. Do not you think that is a good way to say it?”
“The meaning could not be clearer.”
“Let me see the book.” She took the volume and read it over several times, repeating it aloud. She handed the book back to Henry. “Will you hear me recite?”
“With pleasure.”
“Sir Philip,” said Catherine solemnly, “Hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem which I was inclined to believe you merited.”
“Full marks. You make an excellent pupil, my sweet.”
Catherine laid her head upon his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Now I shall not be at a loss if he makes me uncomfortable again. I shall say to myself, ‘What would Emily do?’ and I shall have my guide.”