Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (34 page)

But grotesque 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. Nor could she overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers
secreted
.

It was a relief, however, that they were to return to the main rooms by passing through a few of less importance—rooms looking into the court, which, with occasional intricate passages, connected the different sides.

Catherine was further gratified by being told she was treading where had once been a
cloister.
Traces of cells were pointed out. She observed several mysterious doors that were neither opened nor explained to her.

Then she found herself 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. At last she passed through Henry’s dark little room, strewed with his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.

From the dining-room they proceeded 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.

With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey. The fourth side of the quadrangle—on account of its decaying state—had been removed by the general’s father, and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable, ancient, and delightfully
secret,
ceased here. The new building was intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards.

In her mind, Catherine raved at the hand which had swept away the priceless old structures. She would willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so tragically fallen and replaced with such heartless modern comfort. But the general’s vanity was strongest here in these offices, and he made no apology for leading her on.

They took a brief survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond expectation—it grandly surpassed anything that had been at home in Fullerton. The number of servants continually appearing impressed her likewise. 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! In abbeys and castles, each 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. Could it be they employed
supernatural
help?

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. Everything that money and taste could do, had been bestowed on these, elegantly 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 turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that some of their earliest guest 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. She passed through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery. . . .

Suddenly the general came forward and called her hastily, and rather angrily back. “Where was she going? What was there more to be seen? Had not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth her notice? 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! Indeed, as she unwillingly turned back, she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest! Oh, were there not strange ghostly whispers and sighs coming from that direction?

The general’s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant.
Something
was certainly to be concealed. Her fancy could not mislead her here. And
what
that
something
was, Miss Tilney pointed out: “I was going to take you into what was my mother’s room—the room in which she
died
—”

Her few words 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.”

Oh dear!
Catherine’s heart pounded. “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 in horrid novels 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. 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 there were signs to justify even the blackest suspicions!

She saw
him
in the evening, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow. And she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni!
^[27]
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 his
strange
morning walks, and boded nothing good.

A
fter a long dull evening during which Catherine regretted Henry’s absence, she was heartily glad to be dismissed.

A look from the general not designed for her observation 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, “for some hours, before I can close my eyes.”

But the alleged business could not win Catherine from thinking that some very different
object
must occasion this behavior. 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. Surely, 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 notion of her imprisonment. Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty—was yet to be unraveled.

And then it suddenly occurred to Catherine—in all this time, she had never seen General Tilney directly guarded by an angel of his own! She had been so accustomed to seeing everyone’s angels moving about freely, sometimes out of sight, and yet everpresent, that she had
assumed
that when she did not observe an angel on the general’s shoulder or around his forehead, it might have been on the mantel or hidden in back of his chair, or—

But he had no angel.

The general had no angel to call his own, just as the nephilim had not. How did she miss noticing this for so long?

Oh dear heavens!
Did this mean that he was something other than human? Was he an Udolpho villain of the supernatural, infernal kind, tormenting his poor wife?

In revolving these horrifying matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck Catherine 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?

It further occurred to her that the forbidden gallery, in which sat the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney, must be exactly
over
this suspected range of cells. And the barely glimpsed staircase nearby (communicating by some
secret means
with those cells) might have assisted the barbarous proceedings of her husband. Down that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of well-prepared insensibility!

Catherine sometimes wondered at the boldness of her own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far. But here they were supported by unshakable evidence.

The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the ongoing evil was being perpetrated, must be just opposite her own. If watched closely, 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 naturally his passage would be accompanied by moaning ghosts rattling their tedious chains . . .

Twice before she stepped into bed, Catherine stole gently from her room to the corresponding window in the gallery, to see if the
lamp
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 and any chronic demon presences it was likely to contain) steal out and look once more.

The clock struck twelve—and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.

The twelve angels lovingly surrounding her gently fanned her brow and breathed dulcet sighs of relief.

T
he next day afforded no opportunity for the examination of the mysterious apartments.

It was Sunday, and the whole time between morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or eating cold meat at home. During her many glimpses of him, Catherine made it a point each time to observe very closely for any sign of his own angel—and now she was certain, indeed, unless his angel stayed hidden in a pocket, he
had
none.

As for the forbidden apartments, despite her great curiosity, her courage was not equal to exploring them after dinner—either by the fading light of the sky, or by the stronger illumination of a treacherous lamp.

The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination beyond the sight of a very elegant
monument
to the memory of 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 every virtue was ascribed to her by the inconsolable husband (who must have been her destroyer!)—affected her even to tears.