NORTHANGER ABBEY
PART 9
CHAPTER 20
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young
friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion,
and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased.
Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it
otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath themselves,
her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom
Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her seated with the kindest welcome
among her new friends; but so great was her 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 to
Pulteney Street.
Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did
away some of her unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease;
nor could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure
her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt
less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort—his continual
solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed fears of her seeing
nothing to her taste—though never in her life before had she beheld half such
variety on a breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a moment
that she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not
how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the general's
impatience for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the displeasure he
expressed at 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 much was her concern increased when she found herself the
principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was 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 attempted
not any defence, which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his
mind, on Isabella's account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been
the real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being decidedly
in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form her opinion of him;
but she scarcely heard 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 whisper to Eleanor, "How glad I shall be
when you are all off."
The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock
struck ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be
out of Milsom Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for
him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to
accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though
there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had so crowded it
with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit; and, so much was he
influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some
difficulty in saving her own new 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 a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of
Northanger from 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 the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey
before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any
regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it. The tediousness of
a two hours' wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to
eat without being hungry, and loiter about without anything to see, next
followed—and her admiration of the style in which they travelled, of the
fashionable chaise and four—postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly
in their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under
this consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the
delay would have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a 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 whatever
the 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's proposal of her taking his place in his son's
curricle for the rest of the journey: "the day was fine, and he was
anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible."
The remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting
young men's open carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and
her first thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference
for General Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything improper for her;
and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry in the
curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her that
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 hours at Petty
France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly
were the light horses disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to
have his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half
a minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry
drove so well—so quietly—without making any disturbance, without parading to
her, or swearing at them: so different from the only gentleman-coachman whom it
was in her power to compare him with! And then his hat sat so well, and the
innumerable capes 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 of listening to
her own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account, for her
kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship,
and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was
uncomfortably circumstanced—she had no female companion—and, in the frequent
absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.
"But how can that be?" said Catherine.
"Are not you with 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 some of 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
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."
He smiled, and said, "You have 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?"
"Oh! yes—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. 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."
"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,
and 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."
"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 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 repassing
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 'Oh! 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. Well, go on."
But Henry was too much amused by the interest he
had raised to be able to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity
either of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy
in the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed
of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her attention had been
fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he related.
"Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into such a chamber as he
had described! She was not at all afraid."
As they drew near the end of their journey, her
impatience for a sight of the abbey—for some time suspended by his conversation
on subjects very different—returned in full force, and every bend in the road
was expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey
stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun
playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so low did the
building stand, that she found herself passing through the great gates of 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 approach which she
certainly had not expected. To pass between lodges of a modern appearance, to
find herself with such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so
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 not long at
leisure, however, for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain, driving full
in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything further, and fixed
all 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 the shelter 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 misery to herself, or one moment's
suspicion of any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice.
The breeze had 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 ready to be shown into the common drawing-room, and
capable of considering where she was.
An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an
abbey! But she doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within
her observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in
all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had
expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted
to 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 them in their
Gothic form with reverential care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed.
To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved—the form of them was Gothic—they
might be even casements—but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an
imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest
stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very
distressing.
The general, perceiving how her eye was employed,
began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity of 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
unworthy her notice—and was proceeding to mention the costly gilding of one in
particular, when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to pronounce it with
surprise within twenty minutes of five! This seemed the word of separation, and
Catherine found herself hurried away by Miss Tilney in such a manner as
convinced her that the strictest punctuality 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 them upon a long, wide gallery. On one side it had a
range of doors, and it was lighted on the other by windows which Catherine had
only time to discover looked into a quadrangle, before Miss Tilney led the way
into a chamber, and scarcely staying to hope she would find it comfortable,
left her with an anxious entreaty that she would make as little alteration as
possible in her dress.
CHAPTER 21
A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine
that her apartment was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm
her by the description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted;
the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those of the
drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest fashion, was
handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room altogether far from
uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on this point, she resolved to
lose no time in particular examination of anything, as she greatly dreaded
disobliging the general by any delay. Her habit therefore was thrown off with
all possible haste, and she was preparing to unpin the linen package, which the
chaise-seat had conveyed for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly
fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the
fireplace. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she
stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed her:
"This is strange indeed! I did not expect such
a sight as this! An immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be
placed here? Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into
it—cost me what it may, I will look into it—and directly too—by daylight. If I
stay till evening my candle may go out." She advanced and examined it
closely: it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised,
about a foot from the ground, on a carved stand of the same. The lock was
silver, though tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect remains of
handles also of silver, broken perhaps prematurely by some strange violence;
and, on the centre of the lid, was a mysterious cipher, in the same metal. Catherine
bent over it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with
certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last
letter to be a T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was a
circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment. If not originally
theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?
Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing
greater; and seizing, with trembling hands, the hasp of the lock, she resolved at
all hazards to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. With difficulty,
for something seemed to resist her efforts, she raised the lid a few inches;
but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door of the room made her,
starting, quit her hold, and the lid closed with alarming violence. This
ill-timed intruder was Miss Tilney's maid, sent by her mistress to be of use to
Miss Morland; and though Catherine immediately dismissed her, it recalled her
to the sense of what she ought to be doing, and forced her, in spite of her
anxious desire to penetrate this mystery, to proceed in her dressing without
further delay. Her progress was not quick, for her thoughts and her eyes were
still bent on the object so well calculated to interest and alarm; and though she
dared not waste a moment upon a second attempt, she could not remain many paces
from the chest. At length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her
toilette seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might
safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate should
be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by supernatural means,
the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this spirit she sprang
forward, and her confidence did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw back
the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton
counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed
possession!
She was gazing on it with the first blush of
surprise when Miss Tilney, anxious for her friend's being ready, entered the
room, and to the rising shame of having harboured for some minutes an absurd
expectation, was then added the shame of being caught in so idle a search.
"That is a curious old chest, is not it?" said Miss Tilney, as
Catherine hastily closed it and turned away to the glass. "It is
impossible to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to be
first put in this room I know not, but I have not had it moved, because I
thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of
it is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it
is at least out of the way."
Catherine had no leisure for speech, being at once
blushing, tying her gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent
dispatch. Miss Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a
minute they ran downstairs together, in an alarm not wholly unfounded, for
General Tilney was pacing the drawing-room, his watch in his hand, and having,
on the very instant of their entering, pulled the bell with violence, ordered
"Dinner to be on table directly!"
Catherine trembled at the emphasis with which he
spoke, and sat pale and breathless, in a most humble mood, concerned for his
children, and detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness
as he looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for so
foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from
haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world: but
Catherine could not at all get over the double distress of having involved her
friend in a lecture and been a great simpleton herself, till they were happily
seated at the dinner-table, when the general's complacent smiles, and a good
appetite of her own, restored her to peace. The dining-parlour was a noble
room, suitable in its dimensions to a much larger drawing-room than the one in
common use, and fitted up in a style of luxury and expense which was almost
lost on the unpractised eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its
spaciousness and the number of their attendants. Of the former, she spoke aloud
her admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance, acknowledged
that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further confessed that, though
as careless on such subjects as most people, he did look upon a tolerably large
eating-room as one of the necessaries of life; he supposed, however, "that
she must have been used to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?"
"No, indeed," was Catherine's honest
assurance; "Mr. Allen's dining-parlour was not more than half as
large," and she had never seen so large a room as this in her life. The general's
good humour increased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple
not to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be more
comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen's house, he was sure, must
be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.
The evening passed without any further disturbance,
and, in the occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive
cheerfulness. It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest
fatigue from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could think of
her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.
The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at
intervals the whole afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and
rained violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest
with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of the
ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first
time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds;
they brought to her recollection a countless variety of dreadful situations and
horrid scenes, which such buildings had witnessed, and such storms ushered in;
and most heartily did she rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her
entrance within walls so solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight
assassins or drunken gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he
had told her that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could
have nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as securely
as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying her
mind, as she proceeded upstairs, she was enabled, especially on perceiving that
Miss Tilney slept only two doors from her, to enter her room with a tolerably
stout heart; and her spirits were immediately assisted by the cheerful blaze of
a wood fire. "How much better is this," said she, as she walked to
the fender—"how much better to find a fire ready lit, than to have to wait
shivering in the cold till all the family are in bed, as so many poor girls
have been obliged to do, and then to have a faithful old servant frightening
one by coming in with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger is what it is! If
it had been like some other places, I do not know that, in such a night as
this, I could have answered for my courage: but now, to be sure, there is
nothing to alarm one."
She looked round the room. The window curtains
seemed in motion. It could be nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating
through the divisions of the shutters; and she stepped boldly forward,
carelessly humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously
behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her, and on
placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest conviction of the wind's
force. A glance at the old chest, as she turned away from this examination, was
not without its use; she scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and
began with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for bed. "She
should take her time; she should not hurry herself; she did not care if she
were the last person up in the house. But she would not make up her fire; that
would seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she
were in bed." The fire therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent
the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of
stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was
struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though
in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before. Henry's
words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation
at first, immediately rushed across her; and though there could be nothing
really in it, there was something whimsical, it was certainly a very remarkable
coincidence! She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not
absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the
handsomest kind; and as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the
effect of gold. The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look
into it; not, however, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but
it was so very odd, after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep
till she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair,
she seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it
resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it
another way; a bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how
strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused a moment in
breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents
against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness of her
situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain,
since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so
mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied
herself to the key, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants
with the determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded
to her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and having
thrown open each folding door, the second being secured only by bolts of less
wonderful construction than the lock, though in that her eye could not discern
anything unusual, a double range of small drawers appeared in view, with some
larger drawers above and below them; and in the centre, a small door, closed
also with a lock and key, secured in all probability a cavity of importance.
Catherine's heart beat quick, but her courage did
not fail her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with
curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth. It was
entirely empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a
third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in
not one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the
possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and she felt
round each with anxious acuteness in vain. The place in the middle alone
remained now unexplored; and though she had "never from the first had the
smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in
the least disappointed at her ill success thus far, it would be foolish not to
examine it thoroughly while she was about it." It was some time however
before she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the
management of this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and
not vain, as hitherto, was her search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll
of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for
concealment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart
fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an
unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain
written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations this
striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to
peruse every line before she attempted to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made
her turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it
had yet some hours to burn; and that she might not have any greater difficulty
in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion, she
hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could
not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few moments, was
motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a remnant of light in the
wick could give hope to the 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.
To be continued
