CHAPTER 24
The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of themysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and the whole time between morningand afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad oreating cold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity, hercourage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, eitherby the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock, or by theyet more partial though stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp.The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imaginationbeyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memory of Mrs.Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eyewas instantly caught and long retained; and the perusal of the highlystrained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by theinconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other herdestroyer, affected her even to tears.
That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to faceit, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that he could sit so boldlycollected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look sofearlessly around, nay, that he should even enter the church, seemedwonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beingsequally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She could rememberdozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime tocrime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanityor remorse; till a violent death or a religious retirement closed theirblack career. The erection of the monument itself could not in thesmallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney's actual decease. Wereshe even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposedto slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were said tobe enclosed--what could it avail in such a case? Catherine had read toomuch not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figuremight be introduced, and a supposititious funeral carried on.
The succeeding morning promised something better. The general's earlywalk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, was favourable here; andwhen she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to MissTilney the accomplishment of her promise. Eleanor was ready to obligeher; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, theirfirst visit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. Itrepresented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance,justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they werenot in every respect answered, for Catherine had depended upon meetingwith features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,the very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the only portraits ofwhich she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equalresemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken forgenerations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and studyfor a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have leftit unwillingly.
Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for anyendeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor'scountenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inuredto all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again she passedthrough the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock,and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the formerwith fearful caution, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the generalhimself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of”Eleanor” at the same moment, in his loudest tone, resounded through thebuilding, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence,and to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had beenher first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she couldscarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with anapologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappearedwith him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herselfin, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. Sheremained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeplycommiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summonsherself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment. Nosummons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive upto the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under theprotection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; andshe was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, ina complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as tomake her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor,with a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for hischaracter, taking an early occasion of saying to her, ”My father onlywanted me to answer a note,” she began to hope that she had either beenunseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy sheshould be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared stillto remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothingoccurred to disturb it.
In the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a resolutionof making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be muchbetter in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her intoan apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of afriend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself what it mightbe to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itselfwould be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would beimpossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the otherhad, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could shetherefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the general'scruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she feltconfident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmentedjournal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she wasnow perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry'sreturn, 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 nowtwo hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dresshalf an hour earlier than usual.
It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before theclocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurriedon, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors,and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one inquestion. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullensound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the roomwas before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance anotherstep. 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 beamsof a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows! Catherine hadexpected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishmentand doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of commonsense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistakenas to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!--in MissTilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, to which shehad given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one endof what the general's father had built. There were two other doors inthe chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had noinclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had lastwalked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell whatnothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been thegeneral's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue fordetection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in herown room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was onthe point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound offootsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble.To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by thegeneral (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse!She listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose amoment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a doorunderneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascendthe stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she couldgain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terrornot very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a fewmoments it gave Henry to her view. ”Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in avoice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. ”GoodGod!” 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. ”Becauseit is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and whyshould I not come up it?”
Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. Heseemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which herlips 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 youcame here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from thebreakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from thestables to mine.”
”I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, ”to see your mother'sroom.”
”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 tilltomorrow.”
”I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; butthree hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. Youlook 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 theoffices 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 inthe house by yourself?”
”Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday--and we werecoming here to these rooms--but only”--dropping her voice--”your fatherwas with us.”
”And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. ”Have youlooked 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 nowin Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northangermust be enough.”
She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to bedetained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the firsttime in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up thegallery. ”Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”
”No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully towrite directly.”
”Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I haveheard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise--the fidelityof promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it candeceive 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, andI rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sentyou to look at it, I suppose?”
”No.”
”It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. After ashort silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, ”Asthere is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this musthave proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character,as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, Ibelieve, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue canboast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of aperson never known do not often create that kind of fervent, veneratingtenderness 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 veryinteresting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, and with hesitation itwas spoken), ”and you--none of you being at home--and your father, Ithought--perhaps had not been very fond of her.”
”And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eyefixed on hers), ”you infer perhaps the probability of somenegligence--some”--(involuntarily she shook her head)--”or it may be--ofsomething still less pardonable.” She raised her eyes towards himmore fully than she had ever done before. ”My mother's illness,” hecontinued, ”the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The maladyitself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever--itscause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon asshe could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectableman, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon hisopinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, andremained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On thefifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I(we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observationcan bear witness to her having received every possible attentionwhich could spring from the affection of those about her, or which hersituation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such adistance 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 attachedto her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for himto--we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition--andI will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often havehad much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment neverdid. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was trulyafflicted by her death.”
”I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; ”it would have been veryshocking!”
”If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror asI have hardly words to--Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful natureof the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we areEnglish, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, yourown sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passingaround you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do ourlaws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, ina country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such afooting, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntaryspies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest MissMorland, what ideas have you been admitting?”
They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ranoff to her own room.