Henry Tilney's Diary

  I found myself thinking that my mother would have liked him, for she had a romantic nature to contrast with my father’s worldly air; and then I found myself thinking of their three children, who were a mixture of both, giving that curious blend of idealism coupled with cynicism that infects both Frederick and myself, he with more of the latter since his disappointment and me with more of the former. And Eleanor, hopeful like my mother, but also steeped in my father’s realistic nature, dreaming of her Mr Morris but knowing that Papa will never consent to the match, unless a miracle should happen. And when did a miracle ever happen, except in the pages of a novel? What deus ex machine can save her from the unhappiness of disappointed love? What God, descending on a platform from the back of the stage, can relieve her heartache? Aphrodite, perhaps, to solve the lovers’ obstacles? Ares, maybe, to give my father, the soldier, a change of heart? Or Minerva, goddess of wisdom, to show him the error of his ways.

  Tuesday 19 March

  Our father has changed the plans again, and we are now to leave Bath on Friday instead of Saturday. The Allens have been asked for their approval of the new day and have given it, so everything is now set for Friday.

  Friday 22 March

  Miss Morland joined us in Milsom Street for breakfast, as arranged. She was brought to us by Mr Allen. I was glad to see how carefully he watched over, and how he looked about him, to make sure that we were suitable people and that we would do everything in our power to make her stay with us a happy one.

  My father was affability itself. Whether it was the thought of returning to the abbey, or whether the waters have really done him good, I do not know, but he was in good spirits and showed to great advantage. He was courteous in his welcome to Miss Morland, saying how grateful Eleanor was to have her company, and he was charming to Mr Allen, who brought Miss Morland to us.

  ‘We cannot thank you enough for being willing to part with your fair friend,’ he said to Mr Allen. ‘We have seen how her company has brightened your stay in Bath, and we know that you must miss her when we take her away from you.’

  ‘That we will,’ said Mr Allen. ‘Catherine’s a good girl, and she has made my gout bearable, which is a thing I did not think possible. She is always cheerful and her good humour puts me in a good humour myself. Mrs Allen feels it as much as I do, we have been very glad to have her with us. But young people like to have other young people about them, and we are pleased that she has made such a good friend in Miss Tilney. We will only be in Bath for one more week ourselves and then we will be returning to Fullerton.’

  ‘We know how important you are in that neighbourhood. Bath’s loss is Fullerton’s gain,’ said my father.

  Mr Allen bowed. Then, having satisfied himself that Miss Morland was amongst friends and that she would be well cared for, he said goodbye and took his leave.

  ‘And now we have you all to ourselves,’ said my father to Miss Morland. ‘We have prepared a small repast, nothing such as you are used to, but a simple meal to set us on our way.’

  He led the way into the dining room, where breakfast was set out and where we were, belatedly, joined by Frederick. My father continued to frighten Miss Morland with his deference, in between annoying Frederick by his lectures and worrying Eleanor because she could see that his exaggerated courtesy was making us late. He would not hurry Miss Morland, however, and kept pressing her to eat, so that we did not leave the table until a quarter to ten, and the clock was striking the hour when the trunks were at last carried down to the carriages.

  ‘Ten o’clock! We should be away!’ he said.

  But we were not, and the delays continued whilst he found fault with the seating arrangements in the chaise, giving the maid instructions to move some of the parcels, so that Miss Morland was only just able to prevent him from throwing her writing table out by mistake.

  At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and they set off, with my father and myself following in my curricle. We stopped for lunch at Petty France, where my father berated the waiters, complained abut the postilion, and generally made us all uncomfortable, so that scarcely anything was said but by himself. However, he then had a happy thought, and said, ‘The day is fine, and I am anxious for you seeing as much of the country as possible, Miss Morland. Why do you not take my place in the curricle and I will travel with my daughter? You need not have any fear that Henry will overset you. He is a very good driver.’

  Miss Morland blushed, but it was soon arranged, and she was sitting in the curricle beside me, beaming with delight.

  ‘I believe we could have been ready in half the time, had we all travelled by curricle,’ said Miss Morland, as we left the inn. ‘The chaise is very grand, to be sure, but it took a deal of time to ready for the onward journey. I do believe we could pass the chaise in half a minute, if your father was not disposed to travel in front.’

  ‘Then if you like travelling in it so well, I must take you out often,’ I said. ‘It is the least I can do to thank you for your kindness to Eleanor. It is a sign of real friendship, and I assure you that both Eleanor and I are grateful for it. Eleanor is uncomfortably circumstanced at the Abbey. She has no female companion, and in the frequent absences of my father, she is sometimes without any companion at all.’

  ‘But how can that be?’ she asked. ‘Are not you with her?’

  I explained that Northanger was not more than half my home and that I had an establishment at my own house in Woodston.

  ‘How sorry you must be for that!’ she said.

  ‘I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.’

  ‘Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage house must be very disagreeable.’

  I smiled and said that she had formed a very favourable idea of the abbey.

  ‘To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?’

  ‘And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as “what one reads about” may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh! yes,’ she said in breathless delight. ‘I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house, and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.’

  ‘No, certainly. I came back myself last week to give the housekeeper notice of our return. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire, nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber, too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size, its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark-green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?’

  ‘Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure,’ she said.

  ‘How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, an
d drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off, you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you. And when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock.’

  Her eyes were wide, and she gave a pleasurable shiver.

  ‘Oh! Mr Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?’

  ‘Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains, and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy all but the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear – which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.’

  ‘No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.’

  ‘What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In re-passing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer, but for some time without discovering anything of importance – perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open – a roll of paper appears – you seize it – it contains many sheets of manuscript – you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher “O Thou! – whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall—” when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.’

  ‘Oh! No, no, do not say so,’ she said, all agog, and hanging on every word. ‘Well, go on.’

  But it was no good. I could not go on, I was too busy laughing.

  ‘You will have to use your own imagination!’ I said.

  She came back from her horrid visions to reality and tried to pretend that she had not been carried away, and said she was sure that Eleanor would never put her in such a chamber. And then, to prove that she had never taken any of it seriously, she remarked on the fields and the country lanes, and talked of nothing but commonplaces until we drew near the abbey.

  Upon my remarking that we were entering into the neighbourhood, however, her excitement began to grow. She looked ahead eagerly, craning her neck around corners in an effort to catch an early glimpse of it.

  ‘We will be seeing it at any moment,’ she said.

  ‘No, not until we pass through the gates of the lodge,’ I said. ‘It sits very low to the ground and cannot be seen from any great distance.’

  ‘We must surely see a chimney.’

  Alas! I knew it was not the case but I did not like to disappoint her, and the final stages of the journey were passed by her in a state of pleasurable excitement which I found entrancing.

  As we passed by the lodge I saw a look of surprise cross her face, for there is no denying it, the lodge has a modern appearance, and she was no less surprised by the well-kept drive, which allowed us to pass smoothly along it, instead of enveloping us in overhanging branches and mossy creepers.

  The weather sprang to her aid, however, and a sudden scud of rain added a semblance of horror as we pulled up before the abbey, though the horror was only that it might ruin her new straw bonnet, instead of leading to a fearful presentiment that she would be abducted by banditti or harsh-voiced mercenaries.

  I helped her down from the carriage, my hands closing about her waist with a satisfying feeling of pleasure. She was soon beneath the shelter of the old porch, and then passing into the hall, where Eleanor and my father were waiting to welcome her.

  I watched with amusement as we went into the drawing room and she saw the modern furniture and the Rumford fireplace, with its slabs of marble instead of ponderous stone, and the pretty English china instead of two-handed axes and rusting shields.

  My father, misunderstanding her air of disappointment, immediately began to apologize for the room, whilst taking out his watch, a habit of his, and saying with surprise, ‘But it is within twenty minutes of five!’

  Eleanor and I knew at once what that meant: it was time to dress for dinner. Eleanor hurried Miss Morland upstairs. I retired to my own room, amusing myself by imagining Miss Morland’s feelings at being in a real abbey, with its broad staircases of shining oak, its wide galleries and its quadrangles; though these could be but a poor substitute for dungeons, cells and secret passages.

  I was soon dressed, and met Eleanor on the landing as I was on my way down to dinner. She was walking there, looking anxious.

  ‘Miss Morland has not yet come out of her room, and you know how Father is about punctuality,’ she said in dismay.

  ‘Then go in, and see if she is ready.’

  ‘Yes, I think I must. I do not want to hurry her, but . . .’

  And so saying, she disappeared into Miss Morland’s room. I went downstairs to find my father pacing the drawing room and looking at his pocket watch.

  ‘Where are they?’ he demanded irascibly.

  ‘They will be here directly,’ I said. ‘Ladies, you know, take longer to dress than gentlemen.’

  ‘It is a confounded nuisance,’ he said, as though he had an appointment, when in fact there was no need whatsoever for dinner to be served at that minute, other than his love of running the house with the precision of a military campaign.

  Eleanor and Miss Morland appeared a few minutes later. My father’s irritation did not noticeably subside and he barked, ‘Dinner to be on the table at once!’ to the footman. He offered Miss Morland his arm and, leaving me to escort Eleanor, he went through to the dining room.

  ‘I hope we are not to have this every night,’ I said to Eleanor, thinking that Miss Morland looked frightened.

  ‘I think Catherine will never dare be late again,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘You must send your maid to help her tomorrow night,’ I said, ‘for she has not brought one with her and it must be difficult for her to dress on her own.’

  ‘I did, but she sent Annie away. She was busy examining her room when I went in, and small wonder, for it is all new to her. She was fascinated by the old chest. It is a curious object, I suppose—’

  She looked at me curiously as I began to laugh.

  ‘Depend upon it, she was thinking it hid some fiendish secret: a body, p
erhaps, or a mound of jewels!’ I said.

  Eleanor smiled and replied, ‘Henry, no!’

  ‘Why not? She is excited at being in an abbey, and she would not be a heroine if she did not entertain such a notion for a minute, at least.’

  ‘Then she must have been sadly disappointed, for she found nothing but linen!’ said Eleanor with a laugh. Then, more seriously, ‘And is she a heroine?’

  ‘She is most certainly that. But, I take it, you mean, is she my heroine?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘As to that, I cannot say. I like her.’ My eyes lingered on her as she took her place at table. ‘Yes, I like her very much. But I have seen her very little as yet, you know. One can never know someone by dancing with them at assemblies and the like. Here, where I will see her day by day for the next few weeks, I will be able to see if the liking is just that, or anything more.’

  ‘And she will be able to see you.’

  ‘Also important,’ I said. ‘I want no unwilling bride, however much such creatures might amuse me in a novel; for whilst it is very pleasant to read about young ladies incarcerated in castles, with devious guardians and sinister suitors forcing them into horrible marriages, it is not so pleasant in real life. Then it is better to be surrounded by friends, and to laugh a great deal.’

  There was time for no more. We took our places at table and the soup was immediately served.

  ‘This is a very spacious room,’ said Miss Morland, looking about her.