No More Learning

There’s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are
to pass before your brother can hold the living. ”

“Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see
into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the
present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a
noble honest affection. ”

Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella’s
regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and
amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought
otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the
most gratifying kindness.




CHAPTER 17


The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and
whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which
Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with
the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.
Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,
and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should
be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to
produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made
but a small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since
James’s engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so
far as to indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the felicity of
being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now
comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for
that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite
but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this
business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her
joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she
expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney
told her of her father’s having just determined upon quitting Bath
by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of
the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.
Catherine’s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she
echoed Miss Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end of another week! ”

“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival
whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a
hurry to get home. ”

“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known
this before--”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so
good--it would make me very happy if--”

The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine
was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.
After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his
daughter and said, “Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
successful in your application to your fair friend? ”

“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in. ”

“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My
daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter time
to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has
perhaps told you, on Saturday se’nnight. A letter from my steward tells
me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope
of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of
my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And
could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a
single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene
of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in
Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its
presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath
than yourself. Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain
it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit,
you will make us happy beyond expression. ‘Tis true, we can offer you
nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither
by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain
and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make
Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable. ”

Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s
feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified
heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her
company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s approbation,
was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she, “and if they
do not object, as I dare say they will not--”

General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her
excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of
his wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may
expect philosophy from all the world. ”

Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and
the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary
reference to Fullerton would allow.

The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were
now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she
hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on
the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their
daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had
been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their
ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though
not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being
favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,
circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her
advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had
been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her.
Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.
Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The
affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,
they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,
outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their
intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she
was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society
she mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to
be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in
degree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made
usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see
and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters
of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more
than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.
And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,
hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,
and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow
cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she
could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some
awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.

It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the
possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so
meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A
distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority
of abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.

Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so
active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she
was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been
a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having
fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,
of a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the
present dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low
in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.




CHAPTER 18


With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than
a few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and
to sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one
morning, by Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear; and
scarcely had she felt a five minutes’ longing of friendship, before the
object of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the
way to a seat. “This is my favourite place,” said she as they sat
down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of
everybody entering at either; “it is so out of the way. ”

Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards
one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how
often she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a
fine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, “Do not
be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here. ”

“Psha! My dear creature,” she replied, “do not think me such a simpleton
as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous
to be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you
are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the
finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most
particular description of it. ”

“You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
looking for? Are your sisters coming? ”

“I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you
know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an
hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent
creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a
certain stamp. ”

“But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me? ”

“Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My
poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just
had a letter from John; you can guess the contents. ”

“No, indeed, I cannot. ”

“My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write
about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with
you. ”

“With me, dear Isabella! ”

“Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty, and
all that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty is
sometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so overstrained!
It is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such as a child must
have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you
gave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter,
says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his
advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge his suit,
and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain to affect
ignorance. ”

Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her astonishment
at such a charge, protesting her innocence of every thought of Mr.
Thorpe’s being in love with her, and the consequent impossibility of
her having ever intended to encourage him. “As to any attentions on his
side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a
moment--except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming.
And as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some
unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that
kind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be believed, I solemnly protest
that no syllable of such a nature ever passed between us. The last half
hour before he went away! It must be all and completely a mistake--for I
did not see him once that whole morning. ”

“But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar’s
Buildings--it was the day your father’s consent came--and I am pretty
sure that you and John were alone in the parlour some time before you
left the house. ”

“Are you? Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say--but for the life
of me, I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and
seeing him as well as the rest--but that we were ever alone for five
minutes--However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass
on his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it,
that I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind
from him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for
me--but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had
the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and tell
him I beg his pardon--that is--I do not know what I ought to say--but
make him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not speak
disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but you know
very well that if I could think of one man more than another--he is not
the person. ” Isabella was silent. “My dear friend, you must not be angry
with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And,
you know, we shall still be sisters. ”

“Yes, yes” (with a blush), “there are more ways than one of our being
sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
seems to be that you are determined against poor John--is not it so? ”

“I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant
to encourage it. ”

“Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further.
John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have.
But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very
foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of
either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You
have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will
support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say, there
is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he
could not have received my last. ”

“You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong? --You are convinced that I
never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
till this moment? ”

“Oh! As to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All
that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will
occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one
wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in
the world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for
in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not
mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter. ”

“But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same.
You are describing what never happened. ”

“My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an
engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything
would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely
to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after
all, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom
know what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly
changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother’s
happiness be dearer to me than a friend’s? You know I carry my notions
of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do
not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great
a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is
nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own
affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! Here he comes; never
mind, he will not see us, I am sure. ”

Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,
earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He
approached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements invited
him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she
could distinguish, “What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy! ”

“Psha, nonsense! ” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it--my spirit,
you know, is pretty independent. ”

“I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me. ”

“My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts. ”

“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough. ”

“Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so
disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you”
(turning her back on him); “I hope your eyes are not tormented now. ”

“Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view--at
once too much and too little. ”

Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen
no longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her
brother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed
their walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so
amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was
expecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must
excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be
stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their
returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving
Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did
she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling
in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;
unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to James was as
certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth
or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not
looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that
she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a
hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which
her too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her
brother.

The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as
from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he
could mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.
In vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in
wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love
with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his
attentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said
many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never
be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present
ease and comfort.




CHAPTER 19


A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of
her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.
When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends
in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so
trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed.
A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of
mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come
across her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread
a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her
in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions as readily as they were
offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice
and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What
could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at,
was beyond her comprehension.
Isabella could not be aware of the pain
she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which
Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him
grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman
might be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object.
For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks
did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she
thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for,
in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room,
his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella’s
engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it.
He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed
implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by
a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make
her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either
opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest
a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the
intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation;
their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days,
and Captain Tilney’s removal would at least restore peace to every heart
but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing;
he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath.
When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to
Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality
for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.

“My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.

“Does he? Then why does he stay here? ”

He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his
own sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will
in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it
is only staying to be miserable. ”

Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do that. ”

“Then you will persuade him to go away? ”

“Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour
to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He
knows what he is about, and must be his own master. ”

“No, he does not know what he is about,” cried Catherine; “he does not
know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me
so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable. ”

“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing? ”

“Yes, very sure. ”

“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s
admission of them, that gives the pain? ”

“Is not it the same thing? ”

“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended
by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only
who can make it a torment. ”

Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I
am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and
while my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into
a fever. You know she must be attached to him. ”

“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick. ”

“Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
another. ”

“It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so
well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a
little. ”

After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe
Isabella so very much attached to my brother? ”

“I can have no opinion on that subject. ”

“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he
mean by his behaviour? ”

“You are a very close questioner. ”

“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told. ”

“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell? ”

“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart. ”

“My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure
you I can only guess at. ”

“Well? ”

“Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To
be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before
you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young
man; he has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and he has
known her engagement almost as long as he has known her. ”

“Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “you may be
able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am sure
I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he
want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to
him, he would go. ”

“My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry, “in this amiable solicitude for your
brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried
a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or
Miss Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good
behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain
Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him
only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may
be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, ‘Do not
be uneasy,’ because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as
little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment
of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that
real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no
disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open
to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what
is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will
never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant. ”

Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, “Though
Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a
very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence
will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then
be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for
a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney’s
passion for a month. ”

Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its
approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her
captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent
of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject
again.

Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting
interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in
Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite
her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in
excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness
for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that
at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat
contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered
Henry’s instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The
embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied.




CHAPTER 20


Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the
promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing
it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen
attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful
was she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to
preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first
five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to
Pulteney Street.

Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her
unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could
the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her.
Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt
less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort--his
continual solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed
fears of her seeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life
before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--made it
impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She
felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it.
Her tranquillity was not improved by the general’s impatience for the
appearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressed at his
laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down. She was quite pained by
the severity of his father’s reproof, which seemed disproportionate to
the offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself
the principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly
resented from being disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a
very uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain
Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.

He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,
which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on
Isabella’s account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been
the real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being
decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form
her opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father
remained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits
affected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper to
Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are all off. ”

The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the
trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom
Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him
to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to
accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,
though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had
so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit;
and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed her
in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from
being thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was closed
upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in which
the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a
journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger from Bath,
to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine’s spirits revived as
they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint;
and, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey
before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without
any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it. The
tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was
nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about
without anything to see, next followed--and her admiration of the style
in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and four--postilions
handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and
numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent
inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would
have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed
always a check upon his children’s spirits, and scarcely anything was
said but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at
whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made
Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen
the two hours into four. At last, however, the order of release was
given; and much was Catherine then surprised by the general’s proposal
of her taking his place in his son’s curricle for the rest of the
journey: “the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of
the country as possible. ”

The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for
General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for
her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry
in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial
convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;
the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it
was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget
its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would
have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have his own
carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a
minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;
Henry drove so well--so quietly--without making any disturbance,
without parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only
gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! And
then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat
looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being
dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In
addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her
own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for
her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real
friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he
said, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female companion--and,
in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any
companion at all.

“But how can that be? ” said Catherine. “Are not you with her? ”

“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father’s,
and some of my time is necessarily spent there. ”

“How sorry you must be for that! ”

“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor. ”

“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of
the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
parsonage-house must be very disagreeable. ”

He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the
abbey. ”

“To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one
reads about? ”

“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such
as ‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves
fit for sliding panels and tapestry? ”

“Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there
would be so many people in the house--and besides, it has never been
uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back
to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens. ”

“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly
lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread
our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.
But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means)
introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from
the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the
house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up
a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment
never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years
before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind
misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--too lofty and
extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take
in its size--its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as
life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even
a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you? ”

“Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure. ”

“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And
what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,
but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a
ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace
the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so
incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your
eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,
gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.
To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that
the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs
you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this
parting cordial she curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her
receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you--and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover,
with increased alarm, that it has no lock. ”

“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot
really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy.
Well, what then? ”

“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to
rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at
farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a
violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice
to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains--and during
the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think
you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging
more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your
curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly
arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine
this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in
the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection,
and on opening it, a door will immediately appear--which door, being
only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts,
succeed in opening--and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through
it into a small vaulted room. ”

“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing. ”

“What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a
secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel
of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple
an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room,
and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very
remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another
a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of
torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way,
and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own
apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your
eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony
and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you
had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will
eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into
every drawer--but for some time without discovering anything of
importance--perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At
last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will
open--a roll of paper appears--you seize it--it contains many sheets of
manuscript--you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber,
but scarcely have you been able to decipher ‘Oh! Thou--whomsoever thou
mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may
fall’--when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in
total darkness. ”

“Oh! No, no--do not say so. Well, go on. ”

But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able
to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of
subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy
in the perusal of Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew
ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her
attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really
meeting with what he related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never
put her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all
afraid. ”

As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight
of the abbey--for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects
very different--returned in full force, and every bend in the road was
expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey
stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the
sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so
low did the building stand, that she found herself passing through the
great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without
having discerned even an antique chimney.

She knew not that she had any right to be surprised, but there was a
something in this mode of approach which she certainly had not expected.
To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with such
ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a
smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity
of any kind, struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was not long
at leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain,
driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything
further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw
bonnet; and she was actually under the abbey walls, was springing, with
Henry’s assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the
old porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her friend and
the general were waiting to welcome her, without feeling one awful
foreboding of future misery to herself, or one moment’s suspicion of any
past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze
had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted
nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake
to her habit, she was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room,
and capable of considering where she was.

An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she
doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her
observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in
all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she
had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was
contracted to a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and
ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which
she looked with peculiar dependence, from having heard the general talk
of his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care, were
yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch
was preserved--the form of them was Gothic--they might be even
casements--but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an
imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest
stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was
very distressing.

The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the
smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,
being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc. ; flattering
himself, however, that there were some apartments in the Abbey not
unworthy her notice--and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding
of one in particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to
pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed
the word of separation, and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss
Tilney in such a manner as convinced her that the strictest punctuality
to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.

Returning through the large and lofty hall, they ascended a broad
staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many
landing-places, brought them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it
had a range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which
Catherine had only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before
Miss Tilney led the way into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she
would find it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreaty that she
would make as little alteration as possible in her dress.




CHAPTER 21


A moment’s glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the
description of.