Chapter 24

by Jane Austen

　　The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposedexamination of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday,and the whole time between morning and afternoon servicewas required by the general in exercise abroad or eatingcold meat at home; and great as was Catherine's curiosity,her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring themafter dinner, either by the fading light of the sky betweensix and seven o'clock, or by the yet more partial thoughstronger illumination of a treacherous lamp. The day wasunmarked therefore by anything to interest her imaginationbeyond the sight of a very elegant monument to the memoryof Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew.By that her eye was instantly caught and long retained;and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which everyvirtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband,who must have been in some way or other her destroyer,affected her even to tears.

　　That the general, having erected such a monument,should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange,and yet that he could sit so boldly collected within its view,maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around,nay, that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderfulto Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beingsequally hardened in guilt might not be produced. She couldremember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice,going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoeverthey chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse;till a violent death or a religious retirement closedtheir black career. The erection of the monument itselfcould not in the smallest degree affect her doubts ofMrs. Tilney's actual decease. Were she even to descend intothe family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber,were she to behold the coffin in which they were saidto be enclosed--what could it avail in such a case?Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly awareof the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced,and a supposititious funeral carried on.

　　The succeeding morning promised something better.The general's early walk, ill-timed as it was in everyother view, was favourable here; and when she knewhim to be out of the house, she directly proposedto Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise.Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and Catherine remindingher as they went of another promise, their first visitin consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. Itrepresented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensivecountenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of itsnew observer; but they were not in every respect answered,for Catherine had depended upon meeting with features,hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,the very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the onlyportraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking,bearing always an equal resemblance of mother and child.A face once taken was taken for generations. But here shewas obliged to look and consider and study for a likeness.She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest,would have left it unwillingly.

　　Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was toomuch for any endeavour at discourse; she could only lookat her companion. Eleanor's countenance was dejected,yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured to all thegloomy objects to which they were advancing. Again shepassed through the folding doors, again her hand was uponthe important lock, and Catherine, hardly able to breathe,was turning to close the former with fearful caution,when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himselfat the further end of the gallery, stood before her! Thename of "Eleanor" at the same moment, in his loudest tone,resounded through the building, giving to his daughterthe first intimation of his presence, and to Catherineterror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had beenher first instinctive movement on perceiving him,yet she could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye;and when her friend, who with an apologizing look dartedhastily by her, had joined and disappeared with him,she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself in,believed that she should never have courage to godown again. She remained there at least an hour,in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the stateof her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself fromthe angry general to attend him in his own apartment.No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeinga carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldenedto descend and meet him under the protection of visitors.The breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was namedto them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in acomplimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire,as to make her feel secure at least of life for the present.And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which didhonour to her concern for his character, taking an earlyoccasion of saying to her, "My father only wanted meto answer a note," she began to hope that she had eitherbeen unseen by the general, or that from some considerationof policy she should be allowed to suppose herself so.Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence,after the company left them, and nothing occurred todisturb it.

　　In the course of this morning's reflections,she came to a resolution of making her next attempt onthe forbidden door alone. It would be much better in everyrespect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.To involve her in the danger of a second detection,to court her into an apartment which must wring her heart,could not be the office of a friend. The general'sutmost anger could not be to herself what it might be toa daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itselfwould be more satisfactory if made without any companion.It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions,from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hithertohappily exempt; nor could she therefore, in her presence,search for those proofs of the general's cruelty,which however they might yet have escaped discovery,she felt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shapeof some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp.Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress;and as she wished to get it over before Henry's return,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 now two hours above the horizon, and itwould be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlierthan usual.

　　It was done; and Catherine found herself alonein the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike.It was no time for thought; she hurried on, slipped withthe least possible noise through the folding doors,and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forwardto the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand,and, luckily, with no sullen sound that could alarma human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room wasbefore her; but it was some minutes before she couldadvance another step. She beheld what fixed her tothe 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 brightBath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs,on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily pouredthrough two sash windows! Catherine had expectedto have her feelings worked, and worked they were.Astonishment and doubt first seized them; and a shortlysucceeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotionsof shame. She could not be mistaken as to the room;but how grossly mistaken in everything else!--in MissTilney's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment,to which she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful,proved to be one end of what the general's father had built.There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probablyinto dressing-closets; but she had no inclination toopen either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney hadlast walked, or the volume in which she had last read,remain to tell what nothing else was allowed to whisper?No: whatever might have been the general's crimes, he hadcertainly too much wit to let them sue for detection.She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe inher own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly;and she was on the point of retreating as softly as shehad entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardlytell where, made her pause and tremble. To be found there,even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the general(and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), muchworse! She listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving notto lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened;someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs,by the head of which she had yet to pass before shecould gain the gallery. She bad no power to move.With a feeling of terror not very definable, she fixedher eyes on the staircase, and in a few moments it gaveHenry to her view. "Mr. Tilney!" she exclaimed in a voiceof more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too."Good God!" 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. "Because it is my nearest way from thestable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?"

　　Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and couldsay no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenancefor that explanation which her lips did not afford.She moved on towards the gallery. "And may I not, in my turn,"said he, as be pushed back the folding doors, "ask how youcame here? This passage is at least as extraordinarya road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment,as that staircase can be from the stables to mine."

　　"I have been," said Catherine, looking down,"to see your mother's room."

　　"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinaryto be seen there?"

　　"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not meanto come back till tomorrow."

　　"I did not expect to be able to return sooner,when I went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasureof finding nothing to detain me. You look pale. I amafraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.Perhaps you did not know--you were not aware of their leadingfrom the offices in common use?"

　　"No, I was not. You have had a very fine dayfor your ride."

　　"Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your wayinto an the rooms in the house by yourself?"

　　"Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part onSaturday--and we were coming here to these rooms--butonly"--dropping her voice--"your father was with us."

　　"And that prevented you," said Henry, earnestlyregarding her. "Have you looked into all the rooms inthat passage?"

　　"No, I only wanted to see-- Is not it very late? Imust go and dress."

　　"It is only a quarter past four" showing hiswatch--"and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no roomsto prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough."

　　She could not contradict it, and therefore sufferedherself to be detained, though her dread of further questionsmade her, for the first time in their acquaintance,wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery."Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?"

　　"No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promisedso faithfully to write directly."

　　"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! Thatpuzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance.But a faithful promise--the fidelity of promising! Itis 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 thedressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes meas the most comfortable apartment in the house, and Irather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own.She sent you to look at it, I suppose?"

　　"No."

　　"It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine saidnothing. After a short silence, during which he had closelyobserved her, he added, "As there is nothing in the roomin itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceededfrom a sentiment of respect for my mother's character,as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory.The world, I believe, never saw a better woman.But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest suchas this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a personnever known do not often create that kind of fervent,venerating tenderness which would prompt a visitlike 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 very interesting. Her dyingso suddenly" (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken),"and you--none of you being at home--and your father,I thought--perhaps had not been very fond of her."

　　"And from these circumstances," he replied (his quickeye fixed on hers), "you infer perhaps the probabilityof some negligence--some"--(involuntarily she shook herhead)--"or it may be--of something still less pardonable."She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she hadever done before. "My mother's illness," he continued,"the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden.The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered,a bilious fever--its cause therefore constitutional.On the third day, in short, as soon as she could beprevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man,and one in whom she had always placed great confidence.Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were calledin the next day, and remained in almost constant attendancefor four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died.During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (wewere both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our ownobservation can bear witness to her having receivedevery possible attention which could spring from theaffection of those about her, or which her situationin life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and atsuch a distance as to return only to see her mother inher coffin."

　　"But your father," said Catherine, "was he afflicted?"

　　"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposinghim not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded,as well as it was possible for him to--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 have had much to bear, but thoughhis temper injured her, his judgment never did.His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently,he was truly afflicted by her death."

　　"I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it wouldhave been very shocking!"

　　"If I understand you rightly, you had formed asurmise of such horror as I have hardly words to-- DearMiss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicionsyou have entertained. What have you been judging from?Remember the country and the age in which we live.Remember that we are English, that we are Christians.Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable,your own observation of what is passing around you.Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Doour laws connive at them? Could they be perpetratedwithout being known, in a country like this, where socialand literary intercourse is on such a footing, where everyman is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies,and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? DearestMiss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"

　　They had reached the end of the gallery, and withtears of shame she ran off to her own room.