NORTHANGER ABBEY
PART 10
CHAPTER 22
The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at
eight o'clock the next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she
opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded
the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the consciousness of existence,
returned her recollection of the manuscript; and springing from the bed in the
very moment of the maid's going away, she eagerly collected every scattered
sheet which had burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back
to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that
she must not expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what
she had shuddered over in books, for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of
small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much less
than she had supposed it to be at first.
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She
started at its import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her
false? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that
was before her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a
washing-bill in her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles
with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new.
Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two others,
penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure scarcely more interesting, in letters,
hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball. And the larger sheet, which had
enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp line, "To poultice chestnut
mare"—a farrier's bill! Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps,
as she could then suppose, by the negligence of a servant in the place whence
she had taken them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed
her of half her night's rest! She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the
adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye
as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now be
clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript
of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as
that, so modern, so habitable!—Or that she should be the first to possess the
skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!
How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven
forbid that Henry Tilney should ever know her folly! And it was in a great
measure his own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree
with his description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get
rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then
scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them up as nearly as
possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within the
cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever bring
them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to
open, however, was still something remarkable, for she could now manage them
with perfect ease. In this there was surely something mysterious, and she
indulged in the flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility
of the door's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener,
darted into her head, and cost her another blush.
She got away as soon as she could from a room in
which her conduct produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with
all speed to the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss
Tilney the evening before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope of her
having been undisturbed by the tempest, with an arch reference to the character
of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing. For the world would she
not have her weakness suspected, and yet, unequal to an absolute falsehood, was
constrained to acknowledge that the wind had kept her awake a little. "But
we have a charming morning after it," she added, desiring to get rid of
the subject; "and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over.
What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth."
"And how might you learn? By accident or
argument?"
"Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how.
Mrs. Allen used to take pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I
never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally
indifferent about flowers."
"But now you love a hyacinth. So much the
better. You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as
many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always
desirable in your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you
to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love of
a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but
you may in time come to love a rose?"
"But I do not want any such pursuit to get me
out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me,
and in fine weather I am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never
within."
"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you
have learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the
thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing.
Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?"
Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting
an answer by the entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a
happy state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not
advance her composure.
The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on
Catherine's notice when they were seated at table; and, lucidly, it had been
the general's choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste,
confessed it to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the
manufacture of his country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea
was as well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden
or Save. But this was quite an old set, purchased two years ago. The
manufacture was much improved since that time; he had seen some beautiful
specimens when last in town, and had he not been perfectly without vanity of
that kind, might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted, however,
that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting one—though not for
himself. Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not
understand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for
Woodston, where business required and would keep him two or three days. They
all attended in the hall to see him mount his horse, and immediately on
re-entering the breakfast-room, Catherine walked to a window in the hope of
catching another glimpse of his figure. "This is a somewhat heavy call
upon your brother's fortitude," observed the general to Eleanor.
"Woodston will make but a sombre appearance today."
"Is it a pretty place?" asked Catherine.
"What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion,
for ladies can best tell the taste of ladies in regard to places as well as
men. I think it would be acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many
recommendations. The house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east,
with an excellent kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding
which I built and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my
son. It is a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being
chiefly my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad one. Did
Henry's income depend solely on this living, he would not be ill-provided for.
Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger children, I should think
any profession necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could
all wish him disengaged from every tie of business. But though I may not
exactly make converts of you young ladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland,
would agree with me in thinking it expedient to give every young man some
employment. The money is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the
thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as
considerable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his
profession."
The imposing effect of this last argument was equal
to his wishes. The silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.
Something had been said the evening before of her
being shown over the house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and
though Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, it
was a proposal of too much happiness in itself, under any circumstances, not to
be gladly accepted; for she had been already eighteen hours in the abbey, and
had seen only a few of its rooms. The netting-box, just leisurely drawn forth,
was closed with joyful haste, and she was ready to attend him in a moment.
"And when they had gone over the house, he promised himself moreover the
pleasure of accompanying her into the shrubberies and garden." She
curtsied her acquiescence. "But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her
to make those her first object. The weather was at present favourable, and at
this time of year the uncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which
would she prefer? He was equally at her service. Which did his daughter think
would most accord with her fair friend's wishes? But he 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 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 return to the rooms in common use,
by passing through a few of less importance, looking into the court, which,
with occasional passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different
sides; and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that she was
treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells pointed out, and
observing several doors that were neither opened nor explained to her—by
finding herself successively in a billiard-room, and in the general's private
apartment, without comprehending their connection, or being able to turn aright
when she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark little room, owning
Henry's authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.
From the dining-room, of which, though already
seen, and always to be seen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the
pleasure of pacing out the length, for the more certain information of Miss
Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick
communication to the kitchen—the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the
massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the
present. The general's improving hand had not loitered here: every modern
invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this,
their spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had
often produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might
at any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.
With the walls of the kitchen ended all the
antiquity of the abbey; the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of
its decaying state, been removed by the general's father, and the present
erected in its place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was
not only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and
enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought
necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must
have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the purposes of mere domestic
economy; and would willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk
through scenes so fallen, had the general allowed it; but if he had a vanity,
it was in the arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a
mind like Miss Morland's, a view of the accommodations and comforts, by which
the labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he
should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all;
and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity and
their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a
comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here carried on in
appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The number of servants continually
appearing did not strike her less than the number of their offices. Wherever
they went, some pattened girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille
sneaked off. Yet this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these
domestic arrangements from such as she had read about—from abbeys and castles,
in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the
house was to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could
get through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what
was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.
They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase
might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving
might be pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite
direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on
the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown
successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most
completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste could do,
to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and,
being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would
be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to
Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming
a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been honoured,
turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that
henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be "our friends from
Fullerton." She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the
impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and
so full of civility to all her family.
The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which
Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the
point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of
gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as
Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going?—And
what was there more to be seen?—Had not Miss Morland already seen all that
could be worth her notice?—And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of
some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and
the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in
a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and
symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of
something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the
gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than
see all the finery of all the rest. The general's evident desire of preventing
such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be
concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not
mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss
Tilney's, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to
point out: "I was going to take you into what was my mother's room—the
room in which she died—" were all her words; but few as they were, they
conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general
should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room
in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed,
which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.
She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to
express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that
side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they
should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be
watched from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it
was, I suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling.
"Yes, entirely."
"And how long ago may it be that your mother
died?"
"She has been dead these nine years." And
nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally
elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.
"You were with her, I suppose, to the
last?"
"No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I
was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I
arrived it was all over."
Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid
suggestions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible?
Could Henry's father—? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the
blackest suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked
with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent
thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from
all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What
could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every
sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man!
And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so
repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney's notice. "My father," she
whispered, "often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing
unusual."
"So much the worse!" thought Catherine;
such ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his
morning walks, and boded nothing good.
After an evening, the little variety and seeming
length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them,
she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general
not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the
butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was forbidden. The
latter was not going to retire. "I have many pamphlets to finish,"
said he to Catherine, "before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be
poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can
either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will be blinding for the good of
others, and yours preparing by rest for future mischief."
But neither the business alleged, nor the
magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some very
different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept
up for hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very
likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could
be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney
yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of
her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily
followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death
unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be
released. The suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter,
and probably of her other children, at the time—all favoured the supposition of
her imprisonment. Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty—was yet to be
unravelled.
In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it
suddenly struck her as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed
near the very spot of this unfortunate woman's confinement—might have been
within a few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what
part of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore
the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone,
which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she well remembered the doors
of which the general had given no account. To what might not those doors lead?
In support of the plausibility of this conjecture, it further occurred to her
that the forbidden gallery, in which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs.
Tilney, must be, as certainly as her memory could guide her, exactly over this
suspected range of cells, and the staircase by the side of those apartments of
which she had caught a transient glimpse, communicating by some secret means
with those cells, might well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her
husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of
well-prepared insensibility!
Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her
own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they
were supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.
The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed
the guilty scene to be acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite
her own, it struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of light from
the general's lamp might glimmer through the lower windows, as he passed to the
prison of his wife; and, twice before she stepped into bed, she stole gently
from her room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it
appeared; but all abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The various
ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be up. Till
midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock
had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not quite appalled by
darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock struck twelve—and Catherine
had been half an hour asleep.
