Henry Tilney's Diary (9781101559024) (21 page)

We had reached the end of the gallery, and although I had done my best to be gentle with her, she wept tears of shame and ran off to her own room before I could stop her.

Eleanor coming upon me then, in time to see Catherine running away, was at a loss, and I said, ‘My dear Eleanor, the antiquity of the abbey, together with your account of our dear mother's death and her preserved room, have filled Catherine's head with ideas that would make Mrs Radcliffe blush! She has fancied our father a murderer, and our mother his poor, helpless victim.'

‘Oh no! Oh, Henry, I am sorry for it. I am so used to the abbey myself, and so used to our mother's death, that I never thought what effect it might all have on her.'

‘Should I go after her?'

‘No, leave her alone for a while so that she might compose herself. It is nearly time to dress for dinner and the activity will ensure she does not brood for too long. The idea that our father might be a murderer must have been very unsettling for her. Was she really very upset?'

‘She was, but not about that. She fled in shame, for I had discovered her secret fears and shown them to be absurd.'

‘Then she has been shamed in her own eyes before the man she loves.'

‘Loves? Do you not think you go too far, too fast?' I asked.

‘Do I? I do not think so.'

‘She is very young,' I said, as I gave her my arm and escorted her back to her own room where her maid awaited her.

‘Younger than you, certainly, but not too young to know her own mind, nor too young to fall in love. Or to marry.'

She looked at me expectantly.

‘My thoughts have been tending in that direction,' I admitted, ‘but today's adventure has shown me that she needs to see more of the world before she will be able to accept my hand; or, rather, before I will feel justified in offering it to her. Whilst she still thinks it possible, nay, likely, that a retired general, a respectable man in every way, with neighbours often visiting, can murder his wife and conceal the crime, or imprison his wife and pretend she has died, then she is not old enough for marriage.'

‘Then you do mean to marry her?'

I had not thought it in those words before, but found myself replying, ‘Yes, I do.'

‘And so Catherine, with a pretty face and her worship of you, has done what no other young lady has managed.'

‘My dear Eleanor, what are you suggesting? I hope you are not suggesting that that is all I require from a wife!'

‘Well, is it not?'

‘No – though I will admit that those things are very attractive! But a good heart, a generous disposition, a nature so far removed from falsehood that she can scarcely credit it in her friend, an interest in the world about her and a love of family, these things are necessary.'

‘Oh. I thought all you
really
wanted was a wife who loved Gothic novels!'

‘I am paid for my flippancy, am I not? My chosen bride – if she will have me – loves them so much that she thinks they are real.'

‘If she will have you? I think there is no doubt of that.'

‘Not yet, but there is a danger in my waiting for her to see more of the world. She will see more of the men in it, too, and might find one more to her liking.'

‘If she does that, then she is lacking in taste and we will think of her no more!' she said, as we walked along the corridor. ‘I wonder if Papa will agree to inviting her to London when we go there after Easter. I would like her company. We could go to the galleries and the theatre, walk in the park and visit the shops. If she liked Bath, I am sure she will like London even more.'

‘A good thought. When the time comes I will suggest it.'

‘Papa might suggest it first.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Did you find any evidence of an impressive ancestry?' she asked.

‘No, none at all. I think it must be that he wants you to have a friend, and me to have a compliant wife, for I can see no other reason for it. She talks openly of her family and the Allens, of their small houses and simple ways of going on, and no one could think, from all she says, that she is anything but what she is: a charming girl from the country.'

‘Then let us hope for the best, that our father is mellowing.'

‘Indeed, and if he is, then there is hope for you, too.'

She sighed and shook her head.

‘I would like to think so, but no, it is impossible,' she said quietly.

‘How can you be so sure? Has something happened?'

‘Yes, whilst you were away I had another note.'

‘Ah, yes.'

‘It arrived when I was showing Catherine round the abbey, and our father discovered it. He interrupted me, calling me away from Catherine angrily – and that of course contributed to her fear of him and her belief that he was capable of terrible deeds.'

‘I am sorry for it. I gave the groom instructions to hand the note to no one but yourself.'

‘You must not blame him, it was not his fault.'

We had reached her room, but she could see that I was curious and she explained, ‘Our father was in the stables, making sure that everything was ready to receive our guests, when he saw the groom arriving from Woodston with a note in his hands, and not unnaturally thought it must be for him. But when he took it, he discovered that it was for me. There was nothing in it that anyone could not have seen but he was angry anyway and called me away from Catherine to answer it. He dictated my reply, of course, and had me say that whilst I was grateful that Mr Morris had enjoyed his stay at the abbey there was no need for further thanks and that any future letters should be addressed to my father or brother, and not to myself. Do you think I have been wrong to write to Thomas? I have, at the least, been underhand.'

‘You know my feelings on that score. I think that, having found love, you should hold on to it. I was hoping our father would come round to that way of thinking eventually, but he is more stubborn than I had supposed.'

‘Or more ambitious.'

‘Yes, that too,' I said ‘But Thomas will never accept his dismissal. He will know at once that you did not write the note; or, rather, that you wrote it at our father's dictation.'

‘Yes, he will, but it will make it difficult for him to write to me in the future. It is not fair to use your grooms to deliver the notes, nor for you to risk our father's displeasure.'

‘Then what do you intend to do? End the correspondence?'

‘No, not that. But I do not see a way forward,' she said in dismay. She loosed her arm and stood away from me, looking into my eyes. ‘Do you think Thomas and I will ever be together?'

‘Yes, I am sure of it. When you are twenty-five, you know, you inherit your fortune from our mother, and if my father has not relented by then, you will be the mistress of your own fate.'

‘You are right. I hope it will not come to that. I should not like to be estranged from my family.'

‘And you never will be. At least not from me.'

She took my arm and gave it a grateful squeeze.

‘And from Frederick?' she asked.

‘No, not from Frederick either, though I suspect he will only call on you to annoy our father, instead of any nobler reason.'

‘Well, if so, it is enough. He has still not forgiven our father for interfering in his life, then? You have talked with him more on the subject than I have.'

‘No, he has not forgiven him and I suspect he never will,' I said. ‘It hurt him too deeply.'

‘Then you think Papa was wrong to send him into the library when Miss Orpington was there professing love for his friend, knowing what Frederick would find?'

‘My dear Eleanor, that is a question I cannot answer. If Papa had done nothing, then Frederick might have married her before discovering her true nature, and that would have been a tragedy indeed. As it is, that tragedy was avoided, but another one unfolded. Frederick was too much in love with her to see what he saw and not be deeply hurt. If my father had waited a few weeks, a month even, then Frederick might have begun to suspect for himself, and it would not have come as such a terrible shock.'

‘And the shock, being less, might have been sooner recovered from,' said Eleanor.

‘But who are we to say what might or might not have happened? And anyway, what does it matter? It is done. It cannot be changed.'

‘No, that is the pity of it, for it dealt Frederick a terrible blow and I cannot say that he has ever full recovered,' said Eleanor. ‘I remember Frederick as he was when we were children. He was not as he is now. I wish he could go back to being like that again, for although he was always in trouble it was no more than boyish mischief, and he was never morose.'

There was time for no more. We had to dress for dinner.

‘Be kind to Catherine tonight,' I said to Eleanor as we parted. ‘She was very upset when she left me, ashamed of her thoughts, which cast our father in such a tyrannical light. Yes, I know he can be a tyrant, but fortunately he has not yet taken to murdering anyone!'

She smiled and promised to do everything in her power to make Catherine comfortable.

Half an hour more and I was dressed and ready to go into dinner. Catherine looked up hesitantly as I entered the room. She looked sick and pale. I took pains to set her at her ease, complimenting her dress and diverting her thoughts with an account of my time at Woodston. She smiled at my anecdotes, particularly at the story of the runaway cow, and laughed when she learnt it had tried to eat the silk flowers on Mrs Abercrombie's hat, so that by the end of the evening, her spirits were raised to a modest tranquillity.

The longer she is here, the better she will come to understand the abbey and my family, and I would very much like to take her to Woodston and show her where I live, so that she might come to know it and like it as much as I do. With a father and brother in the church she is well used to parsonages and I believe that, in time, she will come to appreciate the ease and convenience of its newly fitted state, rather than regret its lack of antiquity. Until then, the catacombs beneath the church should be able to satisfy even a lover of
Udolpho
with their dark and dreary passages. I must remember to show them to Catherine!

 

 

 

The morning being fine, I persuaded Catherine and Eleanor to walk with me. I saw that there was still some anxiety on Catherine's part, as if she feared I would raise the subject of her misunderstanding, but I scrupulously avoided any mention of anything that could have called it to mind and talked instead of Bath.

‘Have you had a letter from your brother since you came to the abbey?' I asked.

‘No, but I did not expect one,' she said. ‘James said that he would not reply until his return to Oxford, and Mrs Allen said she would not reply until they had returned to Fullerton. But I am surprised I have not heard from Isabella.'

‘Have you written to her? You know there is paper in the drawing room, with ink and pens and everything you might need? You have only to leave your letters on the table in the hall when you have finished them, and they will be taken to the post with the rest of the mail.'

She thanked me, and said that she had written to Isabella but still not received a reply.

‘It really is unaccountable,' she said. ‘She promised to write to me and let me know how things went on with James, and when she promises a thing, she is scrupulous in performing it, she told me so herself! I cannot think what has happened unless her letter has gone astray.'

‘I have never known a letter go astray before, but it is certainly possible, and if you have Isabella's word for her faithfulness as a correspondent you can surely not need anything else,' I said.

She looked at me doubtfully but I said no more. I leave it to time and experience to teach her the value of the protestations of an Isabella Thorpe.

 

This morning brought a letter from Oxford for Catherine. Knowing how she longed for one, I was happy to hand it to her. She took it eagerly, and sat down to read it. She had not read three lines, however, before her countenance suddenly changed and she let out a cry of sorrowing wonder, showing the letter to contain unpleasant news. Watching her earnestly as she finished, I saw plainly that it had ended no better than it had begun. I was prevented from saying anything by my father's entrance and we went to breakfast directly, but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. My father, between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing her; but to Eleanor and myself her distress was equally visible. As soon as she could, Catherine hurried away to her own room. Eleanor half-rose to follow her, but then thought better of it and sat down again.