Chapter 20

by Jane Austen

　　Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend,whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her avaluable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoymenttheir own had been gently increased. Her happiness ingoing with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishingit otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one moreweek in Bath themselves, her quitting them now would notlong be felt. Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom Street,where she was to breakfast, and saw her seated with thekindest welcome among her new friends; but so great washer agitation in finding herself as one of the family,and so fearful was she of not doing exactly what was right,and of not being able to preserve their good opinion,that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes,she could almost have wished to return with him toPulteney Street.

　　Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon didaway some of her unpleasant feelings; but still shewas far from being at ease; nor could the incessantattentions of the general himself entirely reassure her.Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether shemight not have felt less, had she been less attended to.His anxiety for her comfort--his continual solicitationsthat she would eat, and his often-expressed fears of herseeing nothing to her taste--though never in her life beforehad she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table--madeit impossible for her to forget for a moment that shewas a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect,and knew not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was notimproved by the general's impatience for the appearanceof his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he expressedat his laziness when Captain Tilney at last came down.She was quite pained by the severity of his father's reproof,which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and muchwas her concern increased when she found herself theprincipal cause of the lecture, and that his tardinesswas chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her.This was placing her in a very uncomfortable situation,and she felt great compassion for Captain Tilney,without being able to hope for his goodwill.

　　He listened to his father in silence, and attemptednot any defence, which confirmed her in fearing that theinquietude of his mind, on Isabella's account, might,by keeping him long sleepless, have been the real causeof his rising late. It was the first time of her beingdecidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be nowable to form her opinion of him; but she scarcelyheard his voice while his father remained in the room;and even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected,she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisperto Eleanor, "How glad I shall be when you are all off."

　　The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clockstruck ten while the trunks were carrying down, and thegeneral had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour.His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to puton directly, was spread out in the curricle in which hewas to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise wasnot drawn out, though there were three people to go in it,and his daughter's maid had so crowded it with parcelsthat Miss Morland would not have room to sit; and, so muchwas he influenced by this apprehension when he handedher in, that she had some difficulty in saving her ownnew writing-desk from being thrown out into the street.At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females,and they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome,highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform ajourney of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northangerfrom Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages.Catherine's spirits revived as they drove from the door;for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with theinterest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before,and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bathwithout any regret, and met with every milestone beforeshe expected it. The tediousness of a two hours'wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be donebut to eat without being hungry, and loiter about withoutanything to see, next followed--and her admiration of thestyle in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaiseand four--postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularlyin their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted,sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience.Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay wouldhave been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charminga man, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits,and scarcely anything was said but by himself;the observation of which, with his discontent at whateverthe inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters,made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him,and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four.At last, however, the order of release was given;and much was Catherine then surprised by the general'sproposal of her taking his place in his son's curriclefor the rest of the journey: "the day was fine,and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the countryas possible."

　　The remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting youngmen's open carriages, made her blush at the mentionof such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it;but her second was of greater deference for GeneralTilney's judgment; he could not propose anythingimproper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes,she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happya being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced herthat a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur,to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business,and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hoursat Petty France. Half the time would have been enoughfor the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horsesdisposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to havehis own carriage lead the way, they could have passed itwith ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricledid not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well--soquietly--without making any disturbance, without paradingto her, or swearing at them: so different from the onlygentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare himwith! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerablecapes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important!To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him,was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.In addition to every other delight, she had now that oflistening to her own praise; of being thanked at least,on his sister's account, for her kindness in thus becomingher visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship,and described as creating real gratitude. His sister,he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no femalecompanion--and, in the frequent absence of her father,was sometimes without any companion at all.

　　"But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not youwith her?"

　　"Northanger is not more than half my home;I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston,which is nearly twenty miles from my father's, and someof my time is necessarily spent there."

　　"How sorry you must be for that!"

　　"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor."

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

　　He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourableidea 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 horrorsthat a building such as 'what one reads about' may produce?Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panelsand tapestry?"

　　"Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened,because there would be so many people in the house--andbesides, it has never been uninhabited and left desertedfor years, and then the family come back to it unawares,without giving any notice, as generally happens."

　　"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore ourway into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embersof a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread our beds on thefloor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.But you must be aware that when a young lady is (bywhatever 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 kindied in it about twenty years before. Can you standsuch a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgiveyou when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--toolofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble raysof a single lamp to take in its size--its walls hungwith 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 heartsink within you?"

　　"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure."

　　"How fearfully will you examine the furniture ofyour apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables,toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhapsthe remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderouschest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplacethe portrait of some handsome warrior, whose featureswill so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not beable to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile,no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you ingreat agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reasonto suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit isundoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not havea single domestic within call. With this parting cordialshe curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her recedingfootsteps 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."

　　"Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just likea book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sureyour housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?"

　　"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur thefirst night. After surmounting your unconquerable horrorof the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours'unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthestthe third night after your arrival, you will probablyhave a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seemto shake the edifice to its foundation will roll roundthe neighbouring mountains--and during the frightfulgusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably thinkyou discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one partof the hanging more violently agitated than the rest.Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourablea moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise,and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed toexamine this mystery. After a very short search,you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfullyconstructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and onopening 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 yourlamp in your hand, will pass through it into a smallvaulted room."

　　"No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to doany such thing."

　　"What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understandthat there is a secret subterraneous communication betweenyour apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely twomiles 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 perceivinganything very remarkable in either. In one perhapsthere 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 returntowards your own apartment. In repassing through the smallvaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towardsa large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which,though narrowly examining the furniture before, you hadpassed 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 withoutdiscovering anything of importance--perhaps nothingbut a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however,by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment willopen--a roll of paper appears--you seize it--it containsmany sheets of manuscript--you hasten with the precioustreasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you beenable to decipher 'Oh! Thou--whomsoever thou mayst be,into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matildamay fall'--when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket,and leaves you in total darkness."

　　"Oh! No, no--do not say so. Well, go on."

　　But Henry was too much amused by the interest hehad raised to be able to carry it farther; he couldno longer command solemnity either of subject or voice,and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in theperusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself,grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assurehim that her attention had been fixed without the smallestapprehension of really meeting with what he related."Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into sucha chamber as he had described! She was not at all afraid."

　　As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatiencefor a sight of the abbey--for some time suspended by hisconversation on subjects very different--returned in full force,and every bend in the road was expected with solemn aweto afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone,rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beamsof the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its highGothic windows. But so low did the building stand,that she found herself passing through the great gatesof the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger,without having discerned even an antique chimney.

　　She knew not that she had any right to be surprised,but there was a something in this mode of approachwhich she certainly had not expected. To pass betweenlodges of a modern appearance, to find herself with suchease in the very precincts of the abbey, and drivenso rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel,without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity of any kind,struck her as odd and inconsistent. She was notlong at leisure, however, for such considerations.A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her face, made itimpossible for her to observe anything further, and fixedall her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet;and she was actually under the abbey walls, was springing,with Henry's assistance, from the carriage, was beneath theshelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall,where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her,without feeling one awful foreboding of future miseryto herself, or one moment's suspicion of any past scenesof horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breezehad not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her;it had wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain;and having given a good shake to her habit, she was readyto be shown into the common drawing-room, and capableof considering where she was.

　　An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be reallyin an abbey! But she doubted, as she looked roundthe room, whether anything within her observation wouldhave given her the consciousness. The furniture wasin all the profusion and elegance of modern taste.The fireplace, where she had expected the ample widthand ponderous carving of former times, was contractedto a Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble,and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china.The windows, to which she looked with peculiar dependence,from having heard the general talk of his preserving themin their Gothic form with reverential care, were yet lesswhat her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointedarch was preserved--the form of them was Gothic--theymight be even casements--but every pane was so large,so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hopedfor the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work,for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference wasvery distressing.

　　The general, perceiving how her eye was employed,began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicityof the furniture, where everything, being for daily use,pretended only to comfort, etc.; flattering himself, however,that there were some apartments in the Abbey not unworthyher notice--and was proceeding to mention the costlygilding of one in particular, when, taking out his watch,he stopped short to pronounce it with surprise withintwenty minutes of five! This seemed the word of separation,and Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss Tilneyin such a manner as convinced her that the strictestpunctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.

　　Returning through the large and lofty hall,they ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which,after many flights and many landing-places, brought themupon a long, wide gallery. On one side it had a rangeof doors, and it was lighted on the other by windowswhich Catherine had only time to discover lookedinto a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the wayinto a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she wouldfind it comfortable, left her with an anxious entreatythat she would make as little alteration as possiblein her dress.