Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (35 page)

Catherine blinked them away, and it seemed to her at one point, she could clearly
see
a translucent shape of a woman, made out of milky fog and clad in long white night-garments, that stood nearby, in a posture of sorrow.

Mrs. Tilney’s ghost!

But as soon as the pale figure observed Catherine’s own tearful eye upon her, it seemed to have dissolved into thin air, and was no more.

That does it!
thought Catherine.
That poor woman is as surely deceased, as it is the middle of day!

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 astonishing to Catherine. No wonder the tragic ghost made its appearance now, near her own monument!

However, the world (and the novels) contained many instances of villains equally hardened in guilt. She could remember
dozens
who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime to crime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse . . . till a violent death or a religious retirement closed their black career.

The erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubts of Mrs. Tilney’s actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber, were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed—what could it avail? Catherine had read too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a false funeral carried on.

However, being an
eyewitness
to the actual ghost was utter final proof. And few others had Catherine’s means to
see
.

The succeeding morning promised something better. The general’s early walk was timely here. And when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishment of her promise.

Eleanor was ready to oblige her. And Catherine reminded her of another promise—their first visit was to the
portrait
in her bed-chamber.

The portrait represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensive countenance. But Catherine’s expectations were not in every respect answered. She had expected to see features, hair, complexion, that should be the very image, if not of Henry’s, then of Eleanor’s. But here she was 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.

As she turned her back, she thought she heard a woman’s gentle, ghostly whisper of farewell. . . .

Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for speech. She could only look at her companion. Indeed, how could she even begin to tell her friend that her deceased mother was in the room?

Eleanor’s countenance was dejected, yet sedate. She was clearly inured to all the gloomy objects to which they were advancing.

Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock. Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure—the dreaded figure of the
general
himself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her!

The name of “Eleanor” uttered in his loudest tone, resounded through the building—giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, and to Catherine terror upon terror.

The angels flew about the chamber in agitation, attempting to console both the young women with their calming touch of wings. Catherine was terrified a hundred times more than she had been of the Legion of demons! This,
this
was far more
real!

An urge to hide had been her 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 darted hastily by her—had joined and disappeared with him, Catherine ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself in, believed that she should never have courage to go down again.

Oh dear heaven!

She remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiserating the state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry general. No summons, however, arrived.

At last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend and meet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay
^[28]
with company. Catherine was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make her feel secure at least for the present.

Eleanor, with a noble command of countenance, also reassured her. “My father only wanted me to answer a note.”

Catherine began to hope that she had either been unseen by the general, or her transgression somehow ignored. Thus she dared still to remain in his presence. And after the company left them, nothing violent occurred.

I
n the course of this morning’s reflections, she resolved to make her next attempt on the forbidden door alone.

It would be much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her friend in the danger of a second detection, was unjust. The general’s anger at herself would pale, compared to his fury at his daughter.

Besides, the examination itself would be more satisfactory if pursued by herself. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the ugly suspicions. Nor could she, in her friend’s presence, search for those proofs of the general’s cruelty—some fragmented journal, perhaps, continued to the last gasp. . . .

She knew the way to the apartment quite well. 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, the angels danced overhead in encouraging radiance. At four o’clock, the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.

It was done. Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. She hurried on, slipped noiselessly through the folding doors, and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question.

The lock yielded to her hand, in silence. On tiptoe she entered. The room was before her. But it was some minutes before she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature. . . .

She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment—a handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with a housemaid’s care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows!

Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt seized them. Then, a ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame.

She could not be mistaken as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation! This modern 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 probably into dressing-closets. But she had no inclination to open either. Would the
veil
in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the
volume
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 had certainly too much wit to let them sue for detection.

She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly. And she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when a shadow-light interplay movement in the corner alerted her.

Catherine observed a milk-white translucent form take shape . . . And in seconds a lovely
woman
stood before her, in the dignity of her second bloom, with composed gentle features bearing a fine resemblance to the portrait in Eleanor’s room, and a great, though imperfect, resemblance to the Tilney children.

The ghost was clad in what appeared to be a long white dressing gown suitable for sleeping—or possibly it was a wedding dress—it occurred to Catherine, while shivers started making way down her spine.

But our heroine, as usual, was bravest when the world was most strange around her. And besides, the angels at her side were suitably calm, so there was surely no cause for alarm on her part.

“Pardon me, but are you Mrs. Tilney?” asked Catherine in a polite but shaky voice.

The woman nodded once, very slowly. Her countenance remained placid as though in sleep. But her eyes were distinctly open, pale, watery, and gently trained on Catherine.

“Oh, I am so sorry for your loss!” burst out of Catherine, before she realized how absurd that was to say to someone actually dead, as opposed to their grieving relative. And yet, was it not also true?

But the ghost apparently understood, and continued to watch her, kindly.

Here was Catherine’s chance to ask all manner of things. “Did—did the general—hurt you?”

The ghost’s eyes appeared to fill with tears, glittering in moisture, like a rainbow in the sunlight. She spoke not a word, but this time moved her head negatively side to side.

“Oh!” said Catherine, surprised. “But then, perhaps—he did—he caused your death in any way?”

Again, came the gesture of a “no.”

Oh dear!
thought Catherine.
How wrong again I was!

And then she thought to ask: “Did he
love
you?”

The ghost nodded “yes.”

And did you love him?

Catherine did not even need to voice her thought; the ghost had apparently read her mind—or maybe her heart—and she nodded in affirmative with a slowly blooming smile.

Catherine opened her mouth to ask a great deal more, but in that moment there was definitely the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where—and this time it made her pause and tremble.

To be found here, even by a servant, would be unpleasant. But by the general, much worse!

Catherine threw one look at the ghostly Mrs. Tilney, but she was already dissolving back into the fabric of the air, having apparently accomplished what she had come here for. With a final nod, Henry’s mother gifted Catherine with a glorious smile.

And was gone. . . .

Now Catherine listened—the sound of footfalls had ceased. Resolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.

At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened. Someone ascended the stairs with swift steps—stairs which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery.

She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable (yet perfectly opposite the ethereal
awe
she felt with the ghost), she fixed her eyes on the staircase . . . and in a few moments it gave Henry to her view.

“Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of uncommon 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 the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?”

Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery.

“And may I not, in my turn,” said he, as he pushed back the folding doors, “ask how you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a 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 extraordinary to be seen there?”

Catherine gulped, finding it impossibly hard not to tell all truth. “N-no, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to 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 pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you were not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?”

“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”

“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?”

“Oh, no! She showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were coming here to these rooms—but only”—dropping her voice—“your father was with us.”

“And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”