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 in guilt might not be produced. She
could remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice,
going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever 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 supposititious 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 spite
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 apologizing 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 complimentary
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, taking 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 wring 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, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as
unoccupied with an 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, in 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.
Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume
in which she had last read, remain 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; someone 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 terror not very definable, she fixed her
eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gave Henry to her
view. "Mr. Tilney!" 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.
"Because 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 in 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-parlour to your 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
tomorrow."
"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 -- Is not it 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 Northanger must be enough."
She 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
Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at
it, I suppose?"
"No."
"It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine said nothing.
After a short silence, during which he had 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 Eleanor, which does honour
to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman.
But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this.
The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not
often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would
prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, 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 on, a 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
attached 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 Morland, 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
Morland, 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.