At
last, however, the order of release was given; and much was Catherine
then surprised by the General’s proposal of her taking his place in his
son’s curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he
was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”

The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion, respecting young men’s open
carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first
thought was to decline it; but her second was of greater deference for
General Tilney’s judgment; he could not propose anything improper for
her; and, in the course of a few minutes, she found herself with Henry
in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. A very short trial
convinced her that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;
the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur, to be sure, but it
was a heavy and troublesome business, and she could not easily forget
its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have
been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed to move, that, had not the General chosen to have his own
carriage lead the way, they could have passed it with ease in half a
minute. But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses;
Henry drove so well—so quietly—without making any disturbance, without
parading to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only
gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him with! and
then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat
looked so becomingly important! to be driven by him, next to being
dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In
addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her
own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister’s account, for her
kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real
friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he
said, was uncomfortably circumstanced—she had no female companion—and,
in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any
companion at all. “But how can that be?” said Catherine. “Are not you with her?”

“Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my
father’s, and some of my time is necessarily spent there.”

“How sorry you must be for that!”

“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.”

He smiled, and said, “You have 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?”

“Oh! yes—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. 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.”

“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.”

“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 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?