Northanger Abbey
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 as 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