Northanger Abbey
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, luckily, 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 Sêve. 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 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 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