Books: Northanger Abbey
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Jane Austen >> Northanger Abbey
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Catherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did not fail her.
With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity,
her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It
was entirely empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she
seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not
one was left unsearched, and in not one was anything found. Well
read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility of false
linings to the drawers did not escape her, and she felt round each
with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the middle alone
remained now unexplored; and though she had "never from the first had
the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the cabinet,
and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus far,
it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was about
it." It was some time however before she could unfasten the door,
the same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner
lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as
hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of
paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently
for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable.
Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale.
She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for
half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters; and while
she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification
of what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line
before she attempted to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it
with alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it
had yet some hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater
difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient
date might occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed
and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more
awful effect. Catherine, for a few moments, was motionless with
horror. It was done completely; not a remnant of light in the wick
could give hope to the rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable
and immovable filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with
sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine trembled
from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like
receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on her
affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat
stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and
groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some
suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To
close her eyes in sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out
of the question. With a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings
in every way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible.
The storm too abroad so dreadful! She had not been used to feel
alarm from wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful
intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully
accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it to be accounted
for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what
means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly
strange that it should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she
had made herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have
neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun's first rays she was
determined to peruse it. But many were the tedious hours which
must yet intervene. She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and
envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, and various
were the noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck
at intervals on her startled ear. The very curtains of her bed
seemed at one moment in motion, and at another the lock of her door
was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to enter. Hollow
murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than once her
blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after hour
passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed
by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER 22
The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight o'clock
the next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she
opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed,
on objects of cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright
morning had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously,
with the consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of
the manuscript; and springing from the bed in the very moment of
the maid's going away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet
which had burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and
flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She
now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal
length with the generality of what she had shuddered over in books,
for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed
sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much less than
she had supposed it to be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its
import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false?
An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all
that was before her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted,
she held a washing-bill in her hand. She seized another sheet,
and saw the same articles with little variation; a third, a fourth,
and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats,
and waistcoats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same
hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters,
hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet,
which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp line,
"To poultice chestnut mare" -- a farrier's bill! Such was the
collection of papers (left perhaps, as she could then suppose, by
the negligence of a servant in the place whence she had taken them)
which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of
half her night's rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not
the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it,
catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against
her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her recent
fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back
could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern,
so habitable! -- Or that she should be the first to possess the
skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!
How could she have so imposed on herself? 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. Impatient 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 door's 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-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her
by Miss Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his
immediate hope of her having been undisturbed by the tempest, with
an arch reference 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 a charming morning after it," she added,
desiring to get rid of the subject; "and storms and sleeplessness
are nothing when they are over. What 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 Milsom 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. Mamma 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; and
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 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 Save. 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 occur of 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 Eleanor.
"Woodston will make but a sombre appearance today."
"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 of you
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. Even 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
of its 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 Morland's eyes a judicious desire of making
use of the present smiling weather. But when did she judge amiss?
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 not it 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 impatience 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.
The whole building enclosed a large court; 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. Allen's, as well her father's, including church-yard and
orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length;
a village of hot-houses 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 he
soon 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 unrivalled 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. Allen,
he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself."
"No, not at all. Mr. Allen 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 other, by its falling short of his plan.
"How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?" describing the
nature of his own as they entered them.
"Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen 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 heartily 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,
Eleanor? 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 of old Scotch
firs; 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 in 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 ought it 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 brothers are 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 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 23
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 at ease, or a conscience void of reproach." 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 pretence 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
eye scarcely discerned the colour of the satin; and all minuteness
of praise, all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the
general: the costliness or elegance of any room's fitting-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 an 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 aright 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 greatcoats.
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