Though Bath has been very enjoyable – unexpectedly so – I find I am glad to be home.



Sunday 17 March

An interesting service, attended by a full congregation and a large complement of coughs and sneezes, so that I counted myself fortunate if I managed to get out one sentence in ten without interruption. Everything I have learnt about volume and diction has come from other orators but in justice to myself I can say that the art of timing my words to match the gaps in the assorted barks and splutterings of a March congregation is all my own. I believe I will write a paper on it, for I am sure it will be of use to more than myself.

After the service I was presented with the usual collection of pen-wipers, and believe I now have enough to last me the rest of my life.



Monday 18 March

Back to Bath, bearing a note for my sister which had arrived from Mr Morris. She took it upstairs and returned to the drawing room some time later with sparkling eyes that spoke of delights perused and perhaps a few tears shed, too. I am sorry for her. But if my father is prepared to encourage Miss Morland as a friend for her, then there is a chance that in time he will come to see Mr Morris as a possible match, for his attitudes on fortune seem to be mellowing. I hope so. Eleanor has never shown any interest in anyone before, though she has met plenty of young men; indeed, in the last few weeks in Bath she has danced with several dozen. But none of them has aroused her interest in the way that Morris has.

I found myself thinking that my mother would have liked him, for she had a romantic nature to contrast with my father’s worldly air; and then I found myself thinking of their three children, who were a mixture of both, giving that curious blend of idealism coupled with cynicism that infects both Frederick and myself, he with more of the latter since his disappointment and me with more of the former. And Eleanor, hopeful like my mother, but also steeped in my father’s realistic nature, dreaming of her Mr Morris but knowing that Papa will never consent to the match, unless a miracle should happen. And when did a miracle ever happen, except in the pages of a novel? What deus ex machine can save her from the unhappiness of disappointed love? What God, descending on a platform from the back of the stage, can relieve her heartache? Aphrodite, perhaps, to solve the lovers’ obstacles? Ares, maybe, to give my father, the soldier, a change of heart? Or Minerva, goddess of wisdom, to show him the error of his ways.



Tuesday 19 March

Our father has changed the plans again, and we are now to leave Bath on Friday instead of Saturday. The Allens have been asked for their approval of the new day and have given it, so everything is now set for Friday.



Friday 22 March

Miss Morland joined us in Milsom Street for breakfast, as arranged. She was brought to us by Mr Allen. I was glad to see how carefully he watched over, and how he looked about him, to make sure that we were suitable people and that we would do everything in our power to make her stay with us a happy one.

My father was affability itself. Whether it was the thought of returning to the abbey, or whether the waters have really done him good, I do not know, but he was in good spirits and showed to great advantage. He was courteous in his welcome to Miss Morland, saying how grateful Eleanor was to have her company, and he was charming to Mr Allen, who brought Miss Morland to us.

‘We cannot thank you enough for being willing to part with your fair friend,’ he said to Mr Allen. ‘We have seen how her company has brightened your stay in Bath, and we know that you must miss her when we take her away from you.’

‘That we will,’ said Mr Allen. ‘Catherine’s a good girl, and she has made my gout bearable, which is a thing I did not think possible. She is always cheerful and her good humour puts me in a good humour myself. Mrs Allen feels it as much as I do, we have been very glad to have her with us. But young people like to have other young people about them, and we are pleased that she has made such a good friend in Miss Tilney. We will only be in Bath for one more week ourselves and then we will be returning to Fullerton.’

‘We know how important you are in that neighbourhood. Bath’s loss is Fullerton’s gain,’ said my father.

Mr Allen bowed. Then, having satisfied himself that Miss Morland was amongst friends and that she would be well cared for, he said goodbye and took his leave.

‘And now we have you all to ourselves,’ said my father to Miss Morland. ‘We have prepared a small repast, nothing such as you are used to, but a simple meal to set us on our way.’

He led the way into the dining room, where breakfast was set out and where we were, belatedly, joined by Frederick. My father continued to frighten Miss Morland with his deference, in between annoying Frederick by his lectures and worrying Eleanor because she could see that his exaggerated courtesy was making us late. He would not hurry Miss Morland, however, and kept pressing her to eat, so that we did not leave the table until a quarter to ten, and the clock was striking the hour when the trunks were at last carried down to the carriages.

‘Ten o’clock! We should be away!’ he said.

But we were not, and the delays continued whilst he found fault with the seating arrangements in the chaise, giving the maid instructions to move some of the parcels, so that Miss Morland was only just able to prevent him from throwing her writing table out by mistake.

At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and they set off, with my father and myself following in my curricle. We stopped for lunch at Petty France, where my father berated the waiters, complained abut the postilion, and generally made us all uncomfortable, so that scarcely anything was said but by himself. However, he then had a happy thought, and said, ‘The day is fine, and I am anxious for you seeing as much of the country as possible, Miss Morland. Why do you not take my place in the curricle and I will travel with my daughter? You need not have any fear that Henry will overset you. He is a very good driver.’

Miss Morland blushed, but it was soon arranged, and she was sitting in the curricle beside me, beaming with delight.

‘I believe we could have been ready in half the time, had we all travelled by curricle,’ said Miss Morland, as we left the inn. ‘The chaise is very grand, to be sure, but it took a deal of time to ready for the onward journey. I do believe we could pass the chaise in half a minute, if your father was not disposed to travel in front.’

‘Then if you like travelling in it so well, I must take you out often,’ I said. ‘It is the least I can do to thank you for your kindness to Eleanor. It is a sign of real friendship, and I assure you that both Eleanor and I are grateful for it. Eleanor is uncomfortably circumstanced at the Abbey. She has no female companion, and in the frequent absences of my father, she is sometimes without any companion at all.’

‘But how can that be?’ she asked. ‘Are not you with her?’

I explained that Northanger was not more than half my home and that I had an establishment at my own house in Woodston.

‘How sorry you must be for that!’ she said.

‘I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.’

‘Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage house must be very disagreeable.’

I smiled and said that she had formed a very favourable idea of the abbey.

‘To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?’

‘And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as “what one reads about” may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?’ I asked.

‘Oh! yes,’ she said in breathless delight. ‘I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house, and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.’

‘No, certainly. I came back myself last week to give the housekeeper notice of our return. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire, nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber, too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size, its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark-green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?’

‘Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure,’ she said.

‘How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off, you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you. And when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock.’

Her eyes were wide, and she gave a pleasurable shiver.

‘Oh! Mr Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?’

‘Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains, and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy all but the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear – which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.’

‘No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.’

‘What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In re-passing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer, but for some time without discovering anything of importance – perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open – a roll of paper appears – you seize it – it contains many sheets of manuscript – you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher “O Thou! – whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall—” when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.’