prompt:
Chapter: The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several
disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly
did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with
Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to
him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination
had dared to take with the character of his father--could he ever
forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they
ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He
had--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown
something like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself as
miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the
clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an
intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidable
Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his
behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.
Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was
aware of it.

The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and
her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not
learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that
it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's
entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had
with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be
clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,
each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination
resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by
a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be
frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,
the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if
the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which
she had there indulged.

Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were
the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human
nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked
for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,
they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and
the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there
represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western
extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some
security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of
the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants
were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,
like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps,
there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as
an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was
not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,
there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this
conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this
conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in
the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly
injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she
did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.

Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she
had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and
the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness
of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,
under which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a
chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of
japan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento
of past folly, however painful, might not be without use.

The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.
She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her
only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had
protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs.
Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it
so particularly strange!

For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition
of a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on
the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
letter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
as if he had written it himself. "'Tis only from James, however," as she
looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this
purpose:

"Dear Catherine,

"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my
duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and
me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall
not enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon
hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I
hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily
thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time!
But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly
given--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me
soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love
I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before
Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his
honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father.
Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned
with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and
laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;
but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I
cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no
need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted
at last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never
expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you
give your heart.

"Believe me," &c.

Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to
be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through
the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He
was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father's
entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly
eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she
sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in
her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general,
between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing
her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon
as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the
housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.
She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had
likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation
about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with
gentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after
Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort
to her.

After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine
felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make
her distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if
particularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantly
hint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella
had been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!
She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,
after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from Fullerton, I
hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they are
none of them ill?"

"No, I thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "they are all very well. My
letter was from my brother at Oxford."

Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
her tears, she added, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter
again!"

"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; "if I
had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have
given it with very different feelings."

"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is
so unhappy! You will soon know why."

"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister," replied Henry
warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress."

"I have one favour to beg," said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be coming here, you will
give me notice of it, that I may go away."

"Our brother! Frederick!"

"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
the same house with Captain Tilney."

Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
which Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.

"How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you have guessed it, I declare!
And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its
ending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella
has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed
there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is
bad in the world?"

"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope
he has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's
disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that
anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at
Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."

"It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.
Stay--There is one part--" recollecting with a blush the last line.

"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern
my brother?"

"No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were
clearer. "I do not know what I was thinking of" (blushing again that she
had blushed before); "James only means to give me good advice."

He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close
attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so, I can only
say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has
chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy
his situation, either as a lover or a son."

Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter likewise,
and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire
into Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune.

"Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was Catherine's answer.

"What was her father?"

"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."

"Are they a wealthy family?"

"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but
that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!
He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to
promote the happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked
at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to
promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be
an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how
strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,
is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is
not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so
proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"

"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.
Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to
suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other
was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased
man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,
and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,
guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
and knowing no disguise."

"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said Eleanor with a
smile.

"But perhaps," observed Catherine, "though she has behaved so ill by our
family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man
she likes, she may be constant."

"Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry; "I am afraid she will
be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is
Frederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the
arrivals."

"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first
knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed
that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in
my life before."

"Among all the great variety that you have known and studied."

"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it."

"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we
must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,
I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a
void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming
irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at
Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,
for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no
longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard
you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could
rely on. You feel all this?"

"No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, "I do not--ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
thought."

"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.
Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves."

Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much
relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had
produced it.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Catherine has had an epiphany and realizes how she let her romantic imagination run away from her. Catherine is very embarrassed but Henry is more attentive than usual towards her that evening, realizing that she is upset and ashamed of herself. Catherine starts to recover and decides that she's learned a valuable lesson about using common sense and reason instead of relying on romantic imagination. She traces her problems back to the Gothic literature she read in Bath and decides that it was a bad influence on her. She decides that England is a civilized country where Gothic horrors do not happen. Those other European countries are still suspect, though. Catherine gets back to the real world and begins to worry about James and Isabella, since she's has no news from them. Nine days pass. Catherine finally receives a letter from James. James writes that he and Isabella have broken up and hints that Isabella has run off with Captain Tilney. James cautions Catherine about giving her heart away too freely, since he learned the hard way with the duplicitous Isabella. Catherine is horrified by this news and starts crying at the breakfast table. The General is reading the newspaper and doesn't notice. Henry and Eleanor are concerned, but give Catherine some time to herself before they ask what the matter is. Catherine tells them what happened after Henry wagers a guess and lets him read the letter. Henry and Eleanor are totally confused and can't believe that their brother would actually involve himself with Isabella. Henry says that Captain Tilney has behaved like a moron and he's done for now. Both the Tilney siblings are worried about their father's reaction to this scandal. Catherine exclaims that she can't believe how deceived she was by Isabella, but she's comforted by the Tilneys and takes this news in stride.


prompt:
Chapter: From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, that her two young
friends were perfectly agreed in considering Isabella's want of
consequence and fortune as likely to throw great difficulties in the way
of her marrying their brother. Their persuasion that the general would,
upon this ground alone, independent of the objection that might be
raised against her character, oppose the connection, turned her feelings
moreover with some alarm towards herself. She was as insignificant,
and perhaps as portionless, as Isabella; and if the heir of the Tilney
property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point
of interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very
painful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by
a dependence on the effect of that particular partiality, which, as she
was given to understand by his words as well as his actions, she had
from the first been so fortunate as to excite in the general; and by a
recollection of some most generous and disinterested sentiments on the
subject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and
which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood
by his children.

They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not
have the courage to apply in person for his father's consent, and so
repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to
come to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind
to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But
as it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his
application, would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,
it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole
business before him as it really was, enabling the general by that means
to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on
a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him
accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had
expected. "No," said he, "my father's hands need not be strengthened,
and Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must
tell his own story."

"But he will tell only half of it."

"A quarter would be enough."

A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His
brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to
them as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected
engagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.
The general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick's
remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and had
no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time at
Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on this
head, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments would
disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the
country, talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner,
and once or twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing
people in the neighbourhood. But then it was such a dead time of year,
no wild-fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country.
And it all ended, at last, in his telling Henry one morning that when he
next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there some day
or other, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and
very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme. "And when
do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at
Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be
obliged to stay two or three days."

"Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is
no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way.
Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I
can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor's table.
Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on
Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor
from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in
decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance
if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would
be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland,
never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of
time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men.
They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them
whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question.
But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be
with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and
three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the
carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may
look for us."

A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than
this little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with
Woodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an
hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she
and Eleanor were sitting, and said, "I am come, young ladies, in a
very moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world
are always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great
disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the
future, that may not be honoured. Witness myself, at this present hour.
Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on
Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I
must go away directly, two days before I intended it."

"Go away!" said Catherine, with a very long face. "And why?"

"Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in
frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and
prepare a dinner for you, to be sure."

"Oh! Not seriously!"

"Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay."

"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?
When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,
because anything would do."

Henry only smiled. "I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's
account and mine. You must know it to be so; and the general made such
a point of your providing nothing extraordinary: besides, if he had not
said half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner
at home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not
signify."

"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As
tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return."

He went; and, it being at any time a much simpler operation to Catherine
to doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon obliged to
give him credit for being right, however disagreeable to her his going.
But the inexplicability of the general's conduct dwelt much on her
thoughts. That he was very particular in his eating, she had, by her own
unassisted observation, already discovered; but why he should say
one thing so positively, and mean another all the while, was most
unaccountable! How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but
Henry could have been aware of what his father was at?

From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they were now to be without Henry.
This was the sad finale of every reflection: and Captain Tilney's letter
would certainly come in his absence; and Wednesday she was very sure
would be wet. The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom.
Her brother so unhappy, and her loss in Isabella so great; and Eleanor's
spirits always affected by Henry's absence! What was there to interest
or amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies--always so
smooth and so dry; and the abbey in itself was no more to her now than
any other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had helped
to nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a
consideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who
had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming
to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected
parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its
faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!

It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
came--it was fine--and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise
and four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive
of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous
village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say
how pretty she thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology
necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village;
but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever been at,
and looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of
a cottage, and at all the little chandler's shops which they passed. At
the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest
of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with
its semicircular sweep and green gates; and, as they drove up to the
door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland
puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive and make much of
them.

Catherine's mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either
to observe or to say a great deal; and, till called on by the general
for her opinion of it, she had very little idea of the room in which she
was sitting. Upon looking round it then, she perceived in a moment that
it was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too guarded
to say so, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.

"We are not calling it a good house," said he. "We are not comparing
it with Fullerton and Northanger--we are considering it as a mere
parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and
habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other
words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so
good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say
otherwise; and anything in reason--a bow thrown out, perhaps--though,
between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,
it is a patched-on bow."

Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported
by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was
introduced by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his
complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.

The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and
handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to
walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment,
belonging peculiarly to the master of the house, and made unusually tidy
on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room,
with the appearance of which, though unfurnished, Catherine was
delighted enough even to satisfy the general. It was a prettily shaped
room, the windows reaching to the ground, and the view from them
pleasant, though only over green meadows; and she expressed her
admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she
felt it. "Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity
not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the
prettiest room in the world!"

"I trust," said the general, with a most satisfied smile, "that it will
very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady's taste!"

"Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a
sweet little cottage there is among the trees--apple trees, too! It is
the prettiest cottage!"

"You like it--you approve it as an object--it is enough. Henry, remember
that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains."

Such a compliment recalled all Catherine's consciousness, and silenced
her directly; and, though pointedly applied to by the general for her
choice of the prevailing colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like
an opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The influence of
fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of great use in dissipating
these embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part
of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on
which Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was
sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she
had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than
the green bench in the corner.

A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a
visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game
of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them
to four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At
four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had
any day passed so quickly!

She could not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did not seem
to create the smallest astonishment in the general; nay, that he was
even looking at the side-table for cold meat which was not there. His
son and daughter's observations were of a different kind. They had
seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his own, and never
before known him so little disconcerted by the melted butter's being
oiled.

At six o'clock, the general having taken his coffee, the carriage again
received them; and so gratifying had been the tenor of his conduct
throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject
of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the
wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little
anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: No one hears anything from either Isabella or Frederick Tilney, and Henry, Catherine, and Eleanor are really confused as to what exactly is going on. Are they getting married or not? Catherine is a bit worried when she hears that the General is really concerned about money. She's definitely not rich. But Catherine decides that the Tilneys seem to love her and the General probably doesn't care as much about money as his kids say. The General declares a few days later that they'll all pay a visit to Henry's house in Woodston. Catherine is thrilled but is disappointed when Henry has to run off to prepare for their visit. Catherine is miserable about James and is depressed by Henry's absence. The day of the visit finally arrives and they have a lovely ride to Woodston. Catherine thinks it's a lot like Fullerton, except better. The General chats up Woodston and Henry's house - not that he really needs to, Catherine is already sold. They arrive and take a tour. Catherine thinks it's the best house ever and the General agrees with every observation she makes. At least Catherine doesn't realize that Henry is being embarrassed by his dad in front of his kinda/sorta girlfriend. But wait, Catherine finally gets clued in. The General hints that Catherine may be in charge of decorating an empty room soon. And Catherine figures out what he's hinting at and clams up quickly. The day passes fast and Catherine is sad to leave.


prompt:
Chapter: The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:

Bath, April

My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest
delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them
sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid
place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to
begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have
always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me
soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place
tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the dust
is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I
could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than
anybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not
having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some
misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only
man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it.
The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you
can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you
never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are
with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you
esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men
never know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the
young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You
will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as
you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before
you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many
girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I
knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago,
and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was
always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no
notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned
directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even
look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have
followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your
brother! Pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy about
him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or
something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but
have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he
took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his
satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself
to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights.
I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in
last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased
me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up
because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they
pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at
one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship;
but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a
pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a
turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made
wretched work of it--it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at
least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but
he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple
now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your dear
brother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest
Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.

Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine.
Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the
very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever
loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her
excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. "Write to James on her
behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her
again."

On Henry's arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor
their brother's safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and
reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she had finished it--"So much for Isabella," she
cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she
could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her
character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has
been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I
do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I
wish I had never known her."

"It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.

"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has
had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and
then fly off himself?"

"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe
them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the
chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet
injured himself. If the effect of his behaviour does not justify him
with you, we had better not seek after the cause."

"Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?"

"I am persuaded that he never did."

"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?"

Henry bowed his assent.

"Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has
turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens,
there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any
heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?"

"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
lose--consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
case, she would have met with very different treatment."

"It is very right that you should stand by your brother."

"And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by
the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate
principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool
reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."

Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
resolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more
of it.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Finally, a letter arrives from Isabella. Isabella writes in circles and hints that James has made a huge mistake, that the whole Captain Tilney thing is a big misunderstanding, that the Captain is a jerk, and that people are spreading rumors. She asks Catherine to speak to James on her behalf. Catherine is appalled by what a shallow and artificial person Isabella is and realizes that she's a big liar. Catherine fills the Tilneys in on the latest developments and they are relieved that Frederick won't be stuck marrying Isabella, though Henry hints that Isabella's reputation is likely destroyed now. Catherine still can't figure out Frederick's motives and asks Henry if he was just behaving badly and likes getting into trouble. Henry concedes this point. Henry notes that Catherine is warped by a principle of general integrity and Catherine is flattered and forgets about being mad at Isabella and Frederick. She decides not to answer Isabella's letter.


prompt:
Chapter: Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for
a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously
recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children
as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the
first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The
happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary,
every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour,
walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures,
and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the
restraint which the general's presence had imposed, and most thankfully
feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her
love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not
been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and
an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at
each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in
the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth
week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she
stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it
occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very
soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away,
and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might
be taken.

Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to
bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of
being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor's being in the
middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her
obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself
much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a
much longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose
that a much longer visit had been promised--and could not but think that
if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have
her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return." Catherine
explained: "Oh! As to that, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As
long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied."

"Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?"

"Oh! Because she had been there so long."

"Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you
think it long--"

"Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as
long again." And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving
them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness
so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The
kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor's manner in pressing her to stay,
and Henry's gratified look on being told that her stay was determined,
were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only
just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably
without. She did--almost always--believe that Henry loved her, and quite
always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong
to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely
sportive irritations.

Henry was not able to obey his father's injunction of remaining wholly
at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London,
the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on
Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been
while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not
ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and
improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time
to themselves, that it was eleven o'clock, rather a late hour at
the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry's
departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed,
as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a
carriage was driving up to the door, and the next moment confirmed the
idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. After the first perturbation
of surprise had passed away, in a "Good heaven! What can be the matter?"
it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose
arrival was often as sudden, if not quite so unseasonable, and
accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.

Catherine walked on to her chamber, making up her mind as well as she
could, to a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and comforting
herself under the unpleasant impression his conduct had given her, and
the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of
her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as
would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted he would never
speak of Miss Thorpe; and indeed, as he must by this time be ashamed of
the part he had acted, there could be no danger of it; and as long as
all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she thought she could behave
to him very civilly. In such considerations time passed away, and it was
certainly in his favour that Eleanor should be so glad to see him, and
have so much to say, for half an hour was almost gone since his arrival,
and Eleanor did not come up.

At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and
listened for its continuance; but all was silent. Scarcely, however,
had she convicted her fancy of error, when the noise of something moving
close to her door made her start; it seemed as if someone was touching
the very doorway--and in another moment a slight motion of the lock
proved that some hand must be on it. She trembled a little at the idea
of anyone's approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again
overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised
imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,
and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits, however, were
tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and
her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when
there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney's account,
could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged her to be
seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with
affectionate solicitude. "My dear Catherine, you must not--you must not
indeed--" were Eleanor's first connected words. "I am quite well.
This kindness distracts me--I cannot bear it--I come to you on such an
errand!"

"Errand! To me!"

"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!"

A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as pale as her
friend, she exclaimed, "'Tis a messenger from Woodston!"

"You are mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking at her most
compassionately; "it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself."
Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she
mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make
Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly supposed
there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes
still cast down, soon went on. "You are too good, I am sure, to think
the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most
unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been
settled between us--how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!--as to your
continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell
you that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that the happiness
your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by--But I must not
trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father
has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on
Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.
Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt
either."

"My dear Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as
she could, "do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give
way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part--so soon, and so
suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my
visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can
you, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?"

"It will not be in my power, Catherine."

"Come when you can, then."

Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something
more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, "Monday--so soon
as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of--I shall be able to
take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do
not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father
and mother's having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The
general will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way--and then
I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home."

"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
but half what you ought. But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow morning is
fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice;
the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock, and no
servant will be offered you."

Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. "I could hardly believe
my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no resentment that
you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I
myself--but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest
anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say!
After courting you from the protection of real friends to this--almost
double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,
without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear
Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself
of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have
been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress
of it, that my real power is nothing."

"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.

Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose that deserved the name
of sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed
imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene
of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the
source of her inquietude from what it had been then--how mournfully
superior in reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in
fact, her fears in probability; and with a mind so occupied in the
contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt
and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was
high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house,
she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or
terror.

Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give
assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.
Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing
almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the
general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as
that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only
wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly
be received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;
it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the
trial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on
meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial
were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in
busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than
experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they
left the room, Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend
to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and
went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She
tried to eat, as well to save herself from the pain of being urged as
to make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not
swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her last breakfast
in that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for
everything before her. It was not four and twenty hours ago since they
had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how different!
With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she
then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little
in future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy
breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped
her. These reflections were long indulged undisturbed by any address
from her companion, who sat as deep in thought as herself; and the
appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall
them to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of it;
and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant
on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only
of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

"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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The General has to go out of town, so it's party time at Northanger for Catherine, Henry, and Eleanor. Catherine starts to worry that she has overstayed her welcome, but Eleanor insists she can stay longer if she wants and that she's happy to have her there. Catherine is growing more confident in Henry's intentions towards her, and is pretty sure he loves her. Henry has to go out of town. The girls are startled at someone arriving late at night. Catherine guesses it must be Captain Tilney and Catherine decides to make an effort to be civil towards him. But Eleanor comes up to Catherine's room looking very distressed. It turns out the unexpected arrival was her father. Eleanor has come to inform Catherine that the General has remembered an engagement and that Catherine has to leave immediately. And she means really immediately: the General is insisting that Catherine go first thing in the morning and he won't even supply transportation for her. Catherine will have to ride post, which is like the Greyhound bus service of nineteenth-century England. Catherine is horrified, as is Eleanor. Catherine can't figure out what she did to make the General throw her out. Eleanor is really upset and worries about how Catherine's family will react to this rudeness. She's also concerned about Catherine's safety, since she'll be traveling alone. Catherine tries to reassure her, but she's too upset to do a good job of it. Catherine is appalled by how rude the General is being and is devastated about having to leave Henry. The whole thing is a mystery. She can't figure out the General's motives at all. Catherine has a very restless night. The next morning, Eleanor comes to help her pack. Things are strained between them. At breakfast Eleanor begs that Catherine write to her to let her know she got home all right. She also lends Catherine some money, since Catherine doesn't have enough cash to get home. The post carriage arrives and Catherine has to leave.


prompt:
Chapter: 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 corner 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 view before she was capable
of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed
along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every
bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on
which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when
within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and
thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation
were excessive.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made
use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so
spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his
actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he
elated her by his pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too
significant reference! And now--what had she done, or what had she
omitted to do, to merit such a change?

The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own
heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.
Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by
any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of
what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies
and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his
indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification
so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.

Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,
the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of
her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every
other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others
was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To
the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what
might he not say to Eleanor about her?

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article
of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours
passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.
The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,
saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no
object on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found no stage
of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by
feeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to return in such
a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting
with those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers--an eleven
weeks' absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and
pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession
of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent
with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice
to Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too strongly for expression;
and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of
unfavourably, on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.

With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view
of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of
home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but
after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the
names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great
had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,
to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal
pay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could
require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for
about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven
o'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.

A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,
in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of
a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several
phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author
must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and
disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no
attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her
post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and
speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine's mind, as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her
biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her
carriage--and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being
a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the
window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten
every eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked for by all
but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old,
who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance
that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the
discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George
or Harriet could never be exactly understood.

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the
door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken
the best feelings of Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each, as
she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything
that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even
happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was
subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little
leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table,
which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller,
whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so
direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they
at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden
return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any
quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,
when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,
for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any
romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's long and lonely
journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been
productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could
never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such
a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor
feelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual
ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining
as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;
and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange
business, and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all
their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the
sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful
ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,"
said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all
worth understanding."

"I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
engagement," said Sarah, "but why not do it civilly?"

"I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must
have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;
Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I
am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all
over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for
young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear
Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but
now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much
changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you
have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets."

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's
next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in
her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified
feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,
parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and
though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal
to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first
excursion from home, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to
Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her
friend's disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with
having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough
commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The
strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;
and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor
Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her
sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret,
be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment--a letter
which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,
which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an
undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after
long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she
could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore
which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful
thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.

"This has been a strange acquaintance," observed Mrs. Morland, as the
letter was finished; "soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens
so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and
you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well,
we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be
better worth keeping."

Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, "No friend can be better
worth keeping than Eleanor."

"If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do
not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the
course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!"

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope
of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into
Catherine's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting
dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him
with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget
her; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled with tears as she
pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her
comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another
expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs.
Allen.

The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,
Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of
James's disappointment. "We are sorry for him," said she; "but otherwise
there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be
a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the
smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and
now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at
present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and
I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness
of his first choice."

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,
and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits
since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months
ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards
and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and
independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and
free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three
months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she
return!

She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her
unlooked-for appearance, acting on a steady affection, would naturally
call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure,
on hearing how she had been treated--though Mrs. Morland's account of
it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to their passions.
"Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening," said she. "She
travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till
Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all
of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out
of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd
man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great
comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift
very well for herself."

Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,
with the addition of this single remark--"I really have not patience
with the general"--to fill up every accidental pause. And, "I really
have not patience with the general," was uttered twice after Mr.
Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended
the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately
added, "Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful great rent
in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one
can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath
is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half
like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe's being there was such a comfort to us,
was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first."

"Yes, but that did not last long," said Catherine, her eyes brightening
at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence
there.

"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well?
I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you
know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that
evening?"

"Do I! Oh! Perfectly."

"It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a
notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my
favourite gown on."

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
Mrs. Allen again returned to--"I really have not patience with the
general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not
suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His
lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no
wonder; Milsom Street, you know."

As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her
daughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.
and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with
her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but
there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has
very little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every
position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very
slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and
while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting
that now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard
of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for
Hereford.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Catherine cries until she gets beyond Woodston and thinks of Henry. Catherine anxiously tries to figure out why the General threw her out of his house and wonders about Henry and Eleanor. She spends the entire trip home fretting and worrying herself sick. The journey passes without incident. The narrator breaks in to ironically note that Catherine the heroine isn't returning home triumphant, but is rather arriving in disgrace. Catherine's family is surprised but thrilled to see her back in Fullerton. Her youngest siblings, George and Harriet, are particularly happy that Catherine is home. Catherine reluctantly explains what happened. Her family is sympathetic but no one flies off the handle here. Her parents conclude that General Tilney is very strange. Indeed. Her sister Sarah says it's not surprising he threw Catherine out, but wonders why he didn't do it with more politeness. Mama Morland sends Catherine to bed and is concerned the next day when Catherine is still agitated and distracted. Mr. and Mrs. Morland don't suspect that their daughter has fallen in love with Henry and is love sick right now. Catherine has a hard time writing her letter to Eleanor. She doesn't know how to express her gratitude properly, so she settles for a brief, polite note. She also sends money to Eleanor to pay her back for the loan. Mrs. Morland helpfully notes that Catherine has had terrible luck making new friends and keeping them lately. She says James is still bummed but he's learned a lesson at least. Catherine is upset at the prospect of never seeing the Tilneys again. She and her mom go to call on the Allens. Catherine thinks about how much has changed since she last visited their house. The Allens are glad to see Catherine and agree that the General is very strange. That must be a euphemism for insane in Fullerton. They are indignant on Catherine's behalf. Mrs. Allen reminisces about Bath and how glad she and Catherine were to meet the Thorpes there. Catherine thinks of Henry the entire walk home.