 CHAPTER XVII. 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 Tilney's 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 lodging 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. Because her 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 friend's 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 Marland—he continued, without leaving his daughter a time to speak—has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturdays and nights. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home, and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the marquee of Longtown and General Courtney 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 gate he's 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 endeavour 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 claws of Papa and Mama'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. Miss Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Poultony 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. Moorland, 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 kindest 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 Tillneys, 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 most 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 Tillney, 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 friend should seem so little elated by the possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so meekly born. The power of early habit only could account for it. A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority of a bode 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 are 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 XVIII of Northanger Abbey. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Led by Elizabeth Klett, Houston, Texas, March 2008. Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen. CHAPTER XVIII 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 favorite place,' said she, as they sat down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of everybody entering it, either. It is so out of the way." Catherine observing that Isabella's eyes were continually bent towards one door of the other, has an 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.' "'Peshaw! My dear creature,' she replied, "'do not think me such a simple-ton 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 any body—one's eyes must be somewhere—and you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine when my thoughts are a 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.' "'Now indeed I cannot. My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write about but yourself? You know he is overhead and airs in love with you." "'With me, dear Isabella?' "'Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd. Modesty in 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 is good as made you an offer, and that he 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. Asked when he 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 so, it was so, I daresay, 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 under-see for 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 and prudent business, and not likely to promote the good of either. For what were you to live on 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 romances may say, there is no doing without money. I only wondered 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. You never suspected him of liking me till this moment. Oh! As to that—answered Isabella lappingly—I do not pretend to determine what your thoughts and designs in times 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. That 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 that 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 and personal by proxy. Pasha! 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. Nevermore 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. At least 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 at 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 prophet 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. But upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort. CHAPTER XIX 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 Pultany 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 willful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy, 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 good will, 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 the 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 the stubble 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 in treating 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 you not 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 within 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. Moorland 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 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 gentleman 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 guess-work, 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 moment's consideration, he may be able to guess at your brother's intentions from all this, but I am sure I cannot. But he's 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 Mauland,' 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 anybody 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 also, 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 now it 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 Poltony Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was an excellent spirit, 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 XX 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 greatly increased. Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing at 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 Pultany 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 good will. He listened to his father in silence and attempted not any defense, which confirmed her in fearing that the inquiitude 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 had 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 great coat, instead of being brought for him to put on directly, was spread out on the curicle in which he was to accompany his son. The middle seat of the shares 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 curicle 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-hour's wait at Pettifrance, 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 shares and four, postillions handsomely liveryed, 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 in 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 curicle 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 curicle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her that a curicle was the prettiest équipage in the world, the shez 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 Pettifrance. Half the time would have been enough for the curicle, 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 curicle 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 great coat looked so becomingly important. To be driven by him, next 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 circumstance. 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. "'I'll not you with her.' "'Norfangor is not more than half my home. I have an establishment at my own house in Woodstone, 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 it not 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 wood fire, nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors or furniture. But he 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 starfall, purple velvet, presenting even a funerial 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. Peels 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 you 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 subterranean 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. Caught 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, whomesoever thou mayest 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 further. 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 chambers, he had described, she was not at all afraid. As they journeyed near the end of their journey, her impatience foresight of the abbey, for sometimes 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 and to 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, at 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, and 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 size of the murder to her, it had wafted nothing worse than a thick, misling 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 slaps 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 even be casements, but every pane was so large, so clear, so light. To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stonework, 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 on worth her notice, and it was proceeding to mention the costly yielding of one in particular, when taking out his watch he stopped short to pronounce 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 CHAPTER XXI A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavored 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 uncearful. 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 chef's seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large, high chest, standing back in a deep process 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. Tarn 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 tea, 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 hand 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 an interest in 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 with the first blush of surprise, when Miss Tilney, anxious for her friends 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 it not?' 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 down stairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for General Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch and 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, and 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-parlor 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 unpracticed eye of Catherine, who saw a little more than its spaciousness and the number of their attendance. Of the former she spoke aloud her admiration, and the General with 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 necessarys of life. He supposed, however, that she must have been used to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's. Now, indeed, was Catherine's honest assurance. Mr. Allen's dining-parlor 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 humor 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 ingest 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 the 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 was 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 as 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 un-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 the 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. Catherine's words, a 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 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 in vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Then therefore she applied herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way for some instance, 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 suffice 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 candidly mitted 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 in 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 and sleep that night she felt must be entirely out of the question. The 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, had with the sun's first ray 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 it 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 a 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 XXII The housemaids 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 maids 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 shuttered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small, disointed 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. Would it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory of linen, in course 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 fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waist-coats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoestring, and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramped 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 when 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 eyes, 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? Heaven forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly. And it was, in a great measure, his own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. And to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself. Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the doors having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener darted into her head, and cost her another blush. She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed to the breakfast parlor, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the evening before. Tilney was alone in it, and his immediate hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch referenced to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little. "'But we have had a charming morning after it,' she added, desiring to get rid of the subject, and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. But beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.' "'And how might you learn, by accident or argument?' "'Your sister taught me. I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains year after year to make me like them, but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsen Street. I am naturally indifferent about flowers. But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell the sentiment once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose? But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather I am out more than half my time. Mama says I am never within." "'At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing. At a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?' Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance her composure. The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's notice when they were seated at a table, and lucidly it had been the general's choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of his country, and for his part to his uncritical palate, the tea was as well-flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden or Sav. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago. The manufacture was much improved since that time. He had seen some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly without vanity of that kind, might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long a curve selecting one, though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him. Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business required and would keep him two or three days. They all attended in the hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on re-entering the breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of catching another glimpse of his figure. "'This is a somewhat heavy call upon your brother's fortitude,' observed the general to Elinor. "'Woodston will make but a sombre appearance to-day.' "'Is it a pretty place?' asked Catherine. "'What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect. The walls surrounding which I built and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It is a family living, Miss Morland, and the property in the place being chiefly my own. You may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad one.' Did Henry's income depend solely on this living, he would not be ill-provided for? Perhaps it may seem odd that, with only two younger children, I should think any profession necessary for him, and certainly there are moments when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But though I may not exactly make converts a few young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The money is nothing—it is not an object—but employment is the thing. Catherine Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his profession. The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable. Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the house, and he now offered himself as her conductor. And though Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it was a proposal of too much happiness in itself under any circumstances, not to be gladly accepted, for she had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth, was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to attend him in a moment. And when they had gone over the house, he promised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden. She curtsied her acquiescence. But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to make those her first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at this time of year the uncertainty was very great if it's continuing so. Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his daughter think would most accord with her fair friend's wishes? But he thought he could discern. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morden's eye as a judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. But when did she judge a miss? The abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded implicitly, and would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment. He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed anxious face, began to speak of her unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her. But she was stopped by Miss Tilney's saying, with a little confusion. I believe it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so fine. And do not be uneasy on my father's account. He always walks out at this time of day. Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. Why was Miss Tilney embarrassed? Could there be any unwillingness on the general's side to show her over the abbey? The proposal was his own, and was it not odd that he should always take his walk so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Allen did so. It was certainly very provoking. She was all impatient to see the house, and had scarcely any curiosity about the grounds. If Henry had been with them indeed. But now she should not know what was picturesque when she saw it. Such were her thoughts. But she kept them to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent. She was struck, however, beyond her expectation by the grandeur of the abbey, as she saw it for the first time from the lawn, and two sides of the quadrangle, rich in gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration. The remainder was shut off by knolls of old trees or luxuriant plantations, and the steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it, and her feelings of delight were so strong that, without waiting for any better authority, she boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting gratitude, and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour. The kitchen garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it across a small portion of the park. The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all Mr. Allens as well as her fathers, including Churchyard and Orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length, a village of hothouses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work within the enclosure. The general was flattered by her looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as soon as he forced her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before, and he then modestly owned that. Without any ambition of that sort himself, without any solicitude about it, he did believe them to be unrivaled in the kingdom. If he had a hobby-horse, it was that. He loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit. Or if he did not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allens, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself. No, not at all. Mr. Allens did not care about the garden, and never went into it. With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some way or another, by its falling short of his plan. How were Mr. Allens' succession-houses worked? Describing the nature of his own, as they entered them. Mr. Allens had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allens had the use of for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then. "'He is a happy man,' said the general, with a look of very happy contempt. Having taken her into every division and led her under every wall, till she was hardly weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss Morland were not tired. "'But where are you going, Elinor? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best way is across the park.' "'This is so favourite a walk of mine,' said Miss Tilney, that I always think it the best and nearest way, but perhaps it may be damp.' It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove bold scotch furs, and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect and eager to enter it, could not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea of health and vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself, however, from attending them. The rays of the sun were not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another course. He turned away, and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less real than the relief, offered it no injury, and she began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired. "'I am particularly fond of this spot,' said her companion with a sigh. It was my mother's favourite walk. Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before, and the interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself directly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with which she waited for something more. "'I used to walk here so often with her,' added Eleanor, though I never loved it then as I have loved it since. At that time, indeed, I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.' "'And or did not?' reflected Catherine, to endear it to her husband. Yet the general would not enter it.' Miss Tilney, continuing silent, she ventured to say, "'Her death must have been a great affliction.' "'A great and increasing one,' replied the other in a low voice. I was only thirteen when it happened, and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not—I could not—then know what a loss it was.' She stopped for a moment, and then added with great firmness, "'I have no sister, you know, and though Henry—though my brother's a very affectionate—and Henry is a great deal here—which I am most thankful for—it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.' "'To be sure, you must miss him very much.' A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend. Her influence would have been beyond all other.' "'Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was it from dejection of spirits?' Were questions now eagerly poured forth, the first three received a ready affirmative, the two others were passed by, and Catherine's interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented with every question, whether answered or not. Of her unhappiness in marriage, she felt persuaded. The General certainly had been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk. Could he therefore have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features which spoke his not having behaved well to her. Her picture, I suppose, blushing at the consummate art of her own question, hangs in your father's room. No, it was intended for the drawing-room, but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber, where I shall be happy to show it to you. It is very like. Here was another proof—a portrait, very like, of a departed wife, not valued by the husband. He must have been dreadfully cruel to her. Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the feelings, which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously excited, and what had been terror and dislike before was now absolute aversion—yes, aversion. His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious to her. She had often read of such characters—characters which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn, but here was proof positive of the contrary. She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them directly upon the general, and in spite of all her virtuous indignation, she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with lassitude. The general perceived it, and with a concern for her health, which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent for returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again they parted, but Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round the Abbey till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable. CHAPTER XXIII. An hour passed away before the general came in, spent on the part of his young guest in no very favourable consideration of his character. This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind to tease, or a conscience void of approach. At length he appeared, and whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend's curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject, and her father being, contrary to Catherine's expectations, unprovided with any pretense for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to order refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last ready to escort them. They set forward, and with a grandeur of air, a dignified step which caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through the common drawing-room and one useless antechamber, into a room magnificent both in size and furniture, the real drawing-room used only with company of consequence. It was very noble, very grand, very charming, was all that Catherine had to say. For her indiscriminating eyes scarcely discerned the colour of the satin, and all my newness of praise, all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the General. The costliness or elegance of any room spitting up could be nothing to her. She cared for no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When the General had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every well-known ornament, they proceeded into the library, an apartment in its way of equal magnificence, exhibiting a collection of books on which a humble man might have looked with pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more genuine feeling than before. Gathered all that she could from this storehouse of knowledge by running over the titles of half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the building, she had already visited the greatest part, though on being told that, with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers secreted. It was some relief, however, that they were to return to the rooms in common use, by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which, with occasional passages not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides, and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that she was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to her, by finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the General's private apartment, without comprehending their connection, or being able to turn a right when she left them, and lastly by passing through a dark little room, owning Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns, and great-coats. From the dining-room, of which, though already seen and always to be seen at five o'clock, the General could not forego the pleasure of pacing out the length, for the more certain information of Miss Moreland, as to what she neither doubted nor cared for. They proceeded by quick communication to the kitchen, the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the present. The General's improving hand had not loitered here. Every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre. And when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent. With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey, the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state, been removed by the General's father, and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not only new, but declared itself to be so, intended only for offices, and closed behind stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy, and would willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the General allowed it. But if he had a vanity it was in the arrangement of his offices, and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss Morland's, a view of the accommodations and comforts by which the labours of her inferiors were softened must always be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all, and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity in their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went some patented girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman and disabee sneaked off. Yet this was an abbey. How inexpressively different in these domestic arrangements from such as she had read about, from abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen, and when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself. They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out. Having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, completely and handsomely fitted up. Everything that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these, and being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had been at times honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that hence-forward some of their earliest tenants might be our friends from Fullerton. She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney advancing had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and as Catherine thought rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going, and what was there more to be seen? Had not Miss Moreland already seen all that could be worth her notice? And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who having seen in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something worth her notice, and felt as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house, than see all the finery of all the rest. The general's evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed. Her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here. And what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney's, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out. I was going to take you into what was my mother's room, the room in which she died. Were all her words. But few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain. A room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of contents. She ventured when next alone with Eleanor to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house, and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whatever they should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her, the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. It remains as it was, I suppose, said she, in a tone of feeling. Yes, entirely. And how long ago may it be that your mother died? She has been dead these nine years. And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. You were with her, I suppose, to the last. No, said Miss Tilney, sighing. I was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short, and before I arrived, it was all over. Catherine's blood ran cold, with the horrid suggestions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father? And yet, how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions? And when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour, together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni. Thought could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt—unhappy man. And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly as to catch Miss Tilney's notice. My father, she whispered, often walks about the room in this way, it is nothing unusual. So much the worse, thought Catherine. Such ill-timed exercise was of a peace with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good. After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed, though it was a look from the general not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. I have many pamphlets to finish," said he to Catherine, before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be pouring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meekly employed? My eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for future mischief." But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper pose. To be kept up for hours after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause. Something was to be done which could be done only while the household slept, and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed. Having as was the idea, it was at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children at the time, all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin, jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty, was yet to be unraveled. In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very spot of this unfortunate woman's confinement, might have been within a few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days, for what part of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic division. In the high arched passage paved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she well remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To what might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of this conjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be, as certainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over the suspected range of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of which she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband. On that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility. Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far, but they were supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible. The side of the quadrangle in which she supposed the guilty scene to be acting, being according to her belief just opposite her own, it struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from the general's lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the prison of his wife, and twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared. But all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The various ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be up. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch. But then, when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock struck twelve, and Catherine had been half an hour asleep. End of CHAPTER XXIII. Chapter XXIV of Northanger Abbey. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or eating cold meat at home. And great as was Catherine's curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either by the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination, beyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantly caught and long retained, and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph in which every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears. That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not however that many instances of beings equally hardened and guilt might not be produced. She could remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomever they chose without any feeling of humanity or remorse, till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber? Were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed? What could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a suppositious funeral carried on. The succeeding morning promised something better. The general's early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here, and when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her, and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their first visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance, justifying so far the expectations of its new observer, but they were not in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart, the very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's, the only portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for generations, but here she was obliged to look and consider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in despite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left it unwillingly. Her agitation as they entered the Great Gallery was too much for any endeavour at discourse. She could only look at her companion. Eleanor's countenance was dejected, yet sedate, and its composure spoke her inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her. The name of—Eleanor!—at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye, and when her friend, who with an apologising look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own room, and locking herself in, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment. No summons, however, arrived, and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the Abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company, and she was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in a complementary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his character, making an early occasion of saying to her, My father only wanted me to answer a note. She began to hope that she had either been unseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing occurred to disturb it. In the course of this morning's reflections she came to a resolution of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment which must ring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a daughter, and besides she thought the examination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt, nor could she therefore in her presence search for those proofs of the general's cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress, and as she wished to get it over before Henry's return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high. At four o'clock the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual. It was done, and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought. She hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being, on tiptoe she entered, the room was before her, but it was some minutes before she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot, and agitated every feature. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, a handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with at housemaid's care, a bright bath-stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows. Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them, and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room, but how grossly mistaken in everything else, in Miss Tilney's meaning and her own calculation. This apartment to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end of what the General's father had built. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets, but she had no inclination to open either. And the veil in which Miss Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remained to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper? No. Whatever might have been the General's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly, and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant, but by the General, and he seemed always at hand when least wanted, much worse. She listened, the sound had ceased, and resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened, some one seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of tear not very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave Henry to her view. "'Mr. Tillney!' she exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished, too. "'Good God!' she continued, not attending to his address. "'How came you here? How came you up that staircase?' "'How came I up that staircase?' he replied, greatly surprised. "'Cause it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber. And why should I not come up it?' Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking at her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. "'And may I not in my turn?' said he, as he pushed back the folding doors. Ask how you came here. This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast parlor to your own apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.' "'I have been,' said Catherine, looking down, to see your mother's room. "'My mother's room? Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?' "'No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till to-morrow.' I did not expect to be able to return sooner when I went away, but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know. You were not aware of their leading from the offices in common use.' "'No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.' "'Very. And does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?' "'Oh! No! She showed me over the greatest part on Saturday, and we were coming here to these rooms, but only—' Dropping her voice, your father was with us.' "'And that prevented you,' said Henry, earnestly regarding her. "'Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?' "'No. I only wanted to see—' "'It's not at very late. I must go and dress.' "'It is only a quarter-past four,' showing his watch, "'and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at North Anger must be enough. He could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. "'Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?' "'No. And I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.' "'Promised so faithfully? A faithful promise? That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance, but a faithful promise. The fidelity of promising. It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well-disposed. It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Elinor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at, I suppose.' "'No.' "'It has been your own doing entirely.' Catherine said nothing. After a short silence during which she closely observed her, he added, "'As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character, as described by Elinor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that a virtue can boast an interest such as this—the domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known—to not often create that kind of fervent, relating tenderness, which would prompt a visit like yours. Elinor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal.' "'Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much. But what she did say was very interesting—her dying so suddenly—slowly and with hesitation it was spoken—and you, none of you being at home, and your father, I thought, perhaps had not been very fond of her.' "'And from these circumstances,' he replied, his quick eye fixed on hers, "'you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence, some—' involuntarily,' she shook her head, "'or it may be—' of something still less pardonable.' She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. "'My mother's illness,' he continued, the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered—a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day in short, as soon as she could be prevailed upon, her physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder Frederick and I, we were both at home, saw her repeatedly, and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin. "'But your father,' said Catherine, "'was he afflicted? For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attach to her. He loved her. I am persuaded as well as it was possible for him to. We have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition. And I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear. But though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere, and if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "'I am very glad of it,' said Catherine. It would have been very shocking. If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to— dear Miss Moreland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Moreland, what ideas have you been admitting?' They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame, she ran off to her own room. End of Chapter Twenty-Four