No More Learning

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. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was
carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those
of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest
fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on
this point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of
anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.
Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was
preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed
for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large
high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.
The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she
stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed
her:

“This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An
immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here?
Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into
it--cost me what it may, I will look into it--and directly too--by
daylight. If I stay till evening my candle may go out. ” She advanced and
examined it closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker
wood, and raised, about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the
same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end
were the imperfect remains of handles also of silver, broken perhaps
prematurely by some strange violence; and, on the centre of the lid, was
a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently,
but without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She could
not, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be
a T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was
a circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not
originally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the
Tilney family?

Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing,
with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at all hazards
to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty, for
something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;
but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her,
starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This
ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney’s maid, sent by her mistress to be of
use to Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it
recalled her to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and forced her,
in spite of her anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in
her dressing without further delay. Her progress was not quick, for her
thoughts and her eyes were still bent on the object so well calculated
to interest and alarm; and though she dared not waste a moment upon
a second attempt, she could not remain many paces from the chest. At
length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her toilette
seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might
safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate
should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by
supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With
this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.
Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes
the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one
end of the chest in undisputed possession!

She was gazing on it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Tilney,
anxious for her friend’s being ready, entered the room, and to the
rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd expectation,
was then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search. “That is
a curious old chest, is not it? ” said Miss Tilney, as Catherine hastily
closed it and turned away to the glass. “It is impossible to say how
many generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this
room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I thought it might
sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that
its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at
least out of the way. ”

Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once blushing, tying her
gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they
ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General
Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,
on the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence,
ordered “Dinner to be on table directly! ”

Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he spoke, and sat pale
and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his children, and
detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he
looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for
so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath
from haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the
world: but Catherine could not at all get over the double distress
of having involved her friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton
herself, till they were happily seated at the dinner-table, when the
general’s complacent smiles, and a good appetite of her own, restored
her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble room, suitable in its
dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in common use, and
fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost lost on the
unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness
and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud
her admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,
acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further
confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he
did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries
of life; he supposed, however, “that she must have been used to much
better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen’s? ”

“No, indeed,” was Catherine’s honest assurance; “Mr. Allen’s
dining-parlour was not more than half as large,” and she had never
seen so large a room as this in her life. The general’s good humour
increased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not
to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be
more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen’s house, he was
sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.

The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the
occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.
It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue
from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could
think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.

The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained
violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest
with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of
the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt
for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were
characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless
variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she
rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls
so solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken
gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told her
that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have
nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as securely
as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying
her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially on
perceiving that Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter
her room with a tolerably stout heart; and her spirits were immediately
assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. “How much better is
this,” said she, as she walked to the fender--“how much better to find a
fire ready lit, than to have to wait shivering in the cold till all the
family are in bed, as so many poor girls have been obliged to do, and
then to have a faithful old servant frightening one by coming in with a
faggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If it had been like
some other places, I do not know that, in such a night as this, I could
have answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is nothing to
alarm one. ”

She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion. It
could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the
divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward, carelessly
humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her,
and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction
of the wind’s force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from
this examination, was not without its use; she scorned the causeless
fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to
prepare herself for bed. “She should take her time; she should not hurry
herself; she did not care if she were the last person up in the house.
But she would not make up her fire; that would seem cowardly, as if
she wished for the protection of light after she were in bed. ” The fire
therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the best part of an
hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed,
when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the
appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in
a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.
Henry’s words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape
her observation at first, immediately rushed across her; and though
there could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical, it
was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her candle and
looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but
it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she
held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key
was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it; not,
however, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was
so very odd, after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep
till she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on
a chair, she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn
it; but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged,
she tried it another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself
successful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable.
She paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the
chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything
seemed to speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed,
however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be
impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed
in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the
key, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants with
the determined celerity of hope’s last effort, the door suddenly yielded
to her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and
having thrown open each folding door, the second being secured only by
bolts of less wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her
eye could not discern anything unusual, a double range of small drawers
appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them; and in
the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in
all probability a cavity of importance.

Catherine’s heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her. With a
cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers
grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was entirely empty.
With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a
fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not
one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure,
the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and
she felt round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the
middle alone remained now unexplored; and though she had “never from
the first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the
cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus
far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was
about it. ” It was some time however before she could unfasten the door,
the same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of
the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her
search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back
into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and
her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her
knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady
hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain
written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations
this striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved
instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.

The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with
alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some
hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty in
distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion,
she hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A
lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a
few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a
remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.
Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust
of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.
Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a
sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck
on her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat
stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping
her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of
agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in
sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With
a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated,
repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful!
She had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast
seemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully
found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning’s prediction, how was it
to be accounted for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate?
By what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly
strange that it should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she had made
herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose
nor comfort; and with the sun’s first rays she was determined to peruse
it. But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. She
shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The
storm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even
than the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very
curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another
the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to
enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than
once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after
hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed
by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.




CHAPTER 22


The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the
next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her
eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning
had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the
consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;
and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid’s going away,
she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the
roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury
of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not
expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what she had
shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of
small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much
less than she had supposed it to be at first.

Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import.
Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory
of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before
her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill
in her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with
little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing
new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two
others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more
interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball.
And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first
cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”--a farrier’s bill! Such was the
collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the
negligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken them) which
had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her
night’s rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of
the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as
she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now
be clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a
manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in
a room such as that, so modern, so habitable! --Or that she should be the
first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was
open to all!

How could she have so imposed on herself?