Henry Tilney's Diary (9781101559024) (6 page)

‘It is possible, of course, that you will meet someone like Hippolitus,' I said, as we went upstairs. ‘I do not quite despair of it. But I fear it is more likely that you will marry a man who appears to be good and wealthy, but turns out to be poor and villainous.'

She nodded.

‘I dare say, once we are married, he will reveal that he is in fact a pauper, rob me of my small marriage portion and then lock me in a dungeon. And yet I must marry.'

‘Why?'

‘I cannot live here all my life,' she said.

‘That is true enough. But I will have a living when I go into the church. You can come and live with me.'

‘That idea suits you now,' she said, ‘but when you have met your heroine, the two of you will not want a third.'

‘My wife will love you as I do.'

‘No, she will only pretend,' said Eleanor. ‘But she will secretly resent me. When you are away she will slowly poison me, or lock me in the attic—'

‘Or both.'

‘Very likely. And when you return to the parsonage she will say that I have been called away to nurse an old schoolfriend.'

‘I will accept her story. But then I will start to hear strange noises. I will ask her about the groaning coming from the attic....'

‘. . . and she will say it is the second housemaid, who has a toothache.'

‘And I will believe her. I will only discover that it is you, my dear sister, when it is too late. Thinking at last that there is something very strange about so prolonged a toothache, I will unlock the attic door....'

‘. . . where nothing but my skeleton will remain to greet you.'

‘Alas, what a cruel fate awaits you, dear Eleanor. But an even crueller fate will await you this evening if you are late, so hurry up and get ready.'

She disappeared into her room, and I disappeared into mine, both of us emerging in good time to welcome our guests.

Frederick earned Mama's gratitude by pretending not to recognize Eleanor in her grown-up dress, and saying, ‘I beg your pardon, Mama, I did not know that our guests had started to arrive. And who is this beauty?'

Eleanor wriggled in delight, and said, ‘It's me!'

At which Frederick pretended astonishment and told her she would outshine every other lady at the table.

Papa looked her up and down with a critical eye but then said, ‘You will do very well,' which pleased her greatly.

Our guests began to arrive and they all greeted her with a friendly air. Pen Maple told her how pretty she looked and Charles Plainter said she was an adornment to the gathering.

To Eleanor, the meal was the most interesting imaginable; to the rest of us I fear it was dull. Penelope was in good spirits and sought to entertain Frederick, who made an effort to exert himself to begin with but then relapsed into silence, at which Penelope exchanged a glance with her mama and reconciled herself to entertaining an elderly dowager; Papa spoke at great length of his many improvements, which interested our guests for about five minutes and then steadily drove them into a stupor; Mama seemed unwell and although she was a perfect hostess she lacked her usual vitality; Charles drummed his fingers on the table until his mother caught his eye, whilst I endeavoured to entertain our guests, with small success.

I was grateful to leave the company after supper, and as I left the room, Charles said to me in an aside, ‘I envy you, Henry, I wish I could escape. Supper parties are the most tedious affairs.'

I am of Charles's and Stewart's opinion: give me my dogs and my horses and I am happy, but make me endure another such supper party and I will be tempted to leave for Calabria.

 

 

 

Mama was tired and spent the day in bed; Eleanor was dull, a reaction to the excitement of last night; Frederick went out as soon as we returned from church without saying where he was going; Papa amused himself by showing his many improvements to his friend, who dealt with this imposition by talking of his own improvements whilst taking no notice of anything my father said. In this way they were both happy. I made the most of my last few days of freedom and went out with my dogs.

Only a few more days and I will have to return to school.

 

 

 

Mama was much recovered, and saw to the household as usual. She gave instructions for the packing of my boxes and went through all my clothes herself to make sure they would last me the term. I am sorry to be leaving Northanger and my family, but looking forward to seeing my friends again.

When the ladies had withdrawn after dinner, Papa gave me his fatherly advice for the coming term: that is, not to spend more than my allowance, and to behave like a gentleman. Since I have never done the former, and have always done the latter, his advice was unnecessary, but nevertheless it was well meant.

Eleanor presented me with the handkerchief, which she has now finished hemming.

‘I did not know this was for me.'

‘Neither did I! I did not know if I would finish it in time, but now that it is done, I give it to you with love and thanks. It will be very dull here without you.'

‘You still have Mama.'

‘Yes, I know, and I am thankful for it.'

I took the handkerchief with many thanks and put it in my trunk. So tomorrow it is back to school for me, and I will not see the abbey again until the summer.

 

This is not the homecoming I expected. The abbey is hushed, the servants walk about with frightened faces and Papa gives them contradictory instructions every half-hour. Mama was taken ill yesterday and is in bed. She refuses to let Papa send for Mr Leith, the physician, but if she is no better by tomorrow, Papa means to send for him anyway.

 

I am glad Mr Leith is here, and I am persuaded that Mama is glad, too, for she likes him and she trusts him. He spent the morning with her, but this afternoon he found me in the library and told me that she was asking for me.

‘She is very weak,' he said. ‘Her bilious attacks are severe and almost constant. She is enjoying a brief respite at the moment but I fear it will not last long. I cannot disguise from you the seriousness of her condition. Say nothing to distress her. Speak quietly and do not let her tire herself. Your brother is with her at the moment, but you may go up in a few minutes. It is unfortunate that your sister is away from home. She is visiting your aunt, I understand?'

‘Yes. I had a letter from her this morning,' I said. ‘I will read it to Mama.'

‘Good. Well, I think you may go up.'

I went upstairs. As I approached Mama's room, Frederick was just coming out. He was visibly upset. I started to speak but the words died on my lips. He looked at me sorrowfully and then stood back to let me pass.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. I went over to the bed and was shocked to see how drawn she looked. But she smiled when she saw me and I did what I could to lift her spirits, entertaining her with a few tales of school and then reading her Eleanor's letter.

‘I am so glad I sent her to stay with your Aunt Ann,' said Mama, sinking back on her pillows. ‘It is not easy for her here, being the only girl, and when you and Frederick are away it is even more difficult, for she is very much on her own. This stupid illness of mine has made it impossible for me to spend as much time with her as I would wish. So I was very pleased when your Aunt Ann invited her to stay, though Scotland is such a long way away. But it seems the journey was worth the effort, for she is evidently having fun with her cousins. It does me good to hear of her trimming bonnets and looking through fashion plates like other girls of her age.'

She gave a wan smile, but then her face contorted and she waved me away. The sound of her illness followed me out of the room.

 

Mr Leith called in two of his colleagues this morning and all three of them remained in almost constant attendance on Mama, doing what they could to alleviate her suffering, which was intense. They became more and more concerned as the day wore on, until at last they told Papa that Eleanor should be sent for, if he wanted her to have a chance of seeing her mother again. Papa sent a letter at once, and then paced the garden without once looking at any of the transformations he had wrought. I went into the chapel and, being unable to help Mama in any other way, I prayed.

 

It is as I feared. Mama's attack of the bilious fever was much worse this time and she suffered a seizure in the early hours of this morning. Though I can scarcely believe it, she is dead. The abbey is in mourning. The servants weep quietly and Papa is seriously affected. Frederick is subdued and I feel lost. But it is even worse for Eleanor. Poor child! To be away from home at such a time. There is now no chance of her seeing our mother again, unless it is to see her in her coffin.

 

Eleanor is home, the funeral is over, and the household is returning to normal, if anything can ever be considered normal again.

I am worried about Eleanor. I picked up our copy of
A Sicilian Romance
today and found that Eleanor had turned back the corner of one of the pages we had already read:

Slipped inside the pages at that point was a small miniature of our mother.

I did not like to mention the matter to our father, but I was glad when he told me that Mrs Hughes has offered to visit. Mrs Hughes, being Mama's oldest friend, will know what to do.

 

 

 

Mrs Hughes arrived this afternoon, full of sympathy and maternal solicitude. She radiated comfort and we were all glad of her presence, Eleanor particularly so. The two of them hugged, and Mrs Hughes listened to all my sister's heartfelt grief with tender pity.

When I could speak to her alone, I showed her the novel. She read the passage and said, ‘It is not to be wondered at, but she will feel better now that I am here. I do not think she should read any more Gothic novels, however, at least not for the time being. Motherless heroines are all very well when they are a long way away, but at the moment they are too close to real life for comfort. Some company is what your sister needs, to take her out of her sad thoughts. I will stay for as long as I can, but I think that school would be a good thing. It will give her cheerful companions of her own age. The abbey will be very lonely for her otherwise. I will speak to your papa about it.'