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And it
was for this that he had madly thrown up his Colonial Office
appointment, for this that he had wasted Ethel's money, for this that he
had burdened his conscience with a world of lies; all to find in the end
that John Cann's secret was hidden under five fathoms of tropical
lagoon, among the scattered and waterlogged ruins of Old Port Royal. His
fortitude forsook him for a single moment, and burying his face in his
two hands, there, under the sweltering midday heat of that deadly
sandbank, he broke down utterly, and sobbed like a child before the very
eyes of the now softened old negro sexton. IV. It was not for long, however. Cecil Mitford had at least one strong
quality--indomitable energy and perseverance. All was not yet lost: if
need were, he would hunt for John Cann's tomb in the very submerged
ruins of Old Port Royal. He looked up once more at the puzzled negro,
and tried to bear this bitter downfall of all his hopes with manful
resignation. At that very moment, a tall and commanding-looking man, of about sixty,
with white hair but erect figure, walked slowly from the cocoa-nut grove
on the sand-spit into the dense and tangled precincts of the cemetery. He was a brown man, a mulatto apparently, but his look and bearing
showed him at once to be a person of education and distinction in his
own fashion. The old sexton rose up respectfully as the stranger
approached, and said to him in a very different tone from that in which
he had addressed Cecil Mitford, "Marnin, sah; marnin, Mr. Barclay. Dis
here buckra gentleman from Englan', him come 'quiring in de cemetry
after de grabe of pusson dat dead before de great earthquake. What for
him come here like-a-dat on fool's errand, eh, sah? What for him not
larn before him come dat Port Royal all gone drowned in de year 1692?" The new-comer raised his hat slightly to Cecil Mitford, and spoke at
once in the grave gentle voice of an educated and cultivated mulatto. "You wanted some antiquarian information about the island, sir; some
facts about some one who died before the Port Royal earthquake? You have
luckily stumbled across the right man to help you; for I think if
anything can be recovered about anybody in Jamaica, I can aid you in
recovering it. Whose grave did you want to see?" Cecil hardly waited to thank the polite stranger, but blurted out at
once, "The grave of John Cann, who died in 1669." The stranger smiled quietly. "What! John Cann, the famous buccaneer?" he
said, with evident delight. "Are you interested in John Cann?" "I am," Cecil answered hastily. "Do you know anything about him?" "I know all about him," the tall mulatto replied. "All about him in
every way. He was not buried at Port Royal at all. He intended to be,
and gave orders to that effect; but his servants had him buried quietly
elsewhere, on account of some dispute with the Governor of the time
being, about some paper which he desired to have placed in his coffin." "Where, where?" Cecil Mitford gasped out eagerly, clutching at this
fresh straw with all the anxiety of a drowning man. "At Spanish Town," the stranger answered calmly. "I know his grave there
well to the present day. If you are interested in Jamaican antiquities,
and would like to come over and see it, I shall be happy to show you the
tomb. That is my name." And he handed Cecil Mitford his card, with all
the courteous dignity of a born gentleman. Cecil took the card and read the name on it: "The Hon. Charles Barclay,
Leigh Caymanas, Spanish Town." How his heart bounded again that minute! Proof was accumulating on proof, and luck on luck! After all, he had
tracked down John Cann's grave; and the paper was really there, buried
in his coffin. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his
damp brow with a feeling of unspeakable relief. Ethel was saved, and
they might still enjoy John Cann's treasure. Mr. Barclay sat down beside him on the stone slab, and began talking
over all he knew about John Cann's life and actions. Cecil affected to
be interested in all he said, though really he could think of one thing
only: the treasure, the treasure, the treasure. But he managed also to
let Mr. Barclay see how much he too knew about the old buccaneer: and
Mr. Barclay, who was a simple-minded learned enthusiast for all that
concerned the antiquities of his native island, was so won over by this
display of local knowledge on the part of a stranger and an Englishman,
that he ended by inviting Cecil over to his house at Spanish Town, to
stop as long as he was able. Cecil gladly accepted the invitation, and
that very afternoon, with a beating heart, he took his place in the
lumbering train that carried him over to the final goal of his Jamaican
expedition. V.
In a corner of the Cathedral graveyard at Spanish Town, overhung by a
big spreading mango tree, and thickly covered by prickly scrub of agave
and cactus, the white-haired old mulatto gentleman led Cecil Mitford up
to a water-worn and weathered stone, on which a few crumbling letters
alone were still visible. Cecil kneeled down on the bare ground,
regardless of the sharp cactus spines that stung and tore his flesh, and
began clearing the moss and lichen away from the neglected monument. Yes, his host was right! right, right, right, indubitably. The first two
letters were IO, then a blank where others were obliterated, and then
came ANN. That stood clearly for IOHN CANN. And below he could slowly
make out the words, "Born at ... vey Tra ... Devon...." with an
illegible date, "Died at P ... Royal, May 12, 1669." Oh, great heavens,
yes. John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! Beyond
any shadow or suspicion of mistake, John Cann and his precious secret
lay buried below that mouldering tombstone. That very evening Cecil Mitford sought out and found the Spanish Town
gravedigger. He was a solemn-looking middle-aged black man, with a keen
smart face, not the wrong sort of man, Cecil Mitford felt sure, for such
a job as the one he contemplated. Cecil didn't beat about the bush or
temporise with him in any way. He went straight to the point, and asked
the man outright whether he would undertake to open John Cann's grave,
and find a paper that was hidden in the coffin. The gravedigger stared
at him, and answered slowly, "I don't like de job, sah; I don't like de
job. Perhaps Massa John Cann's ghost, him come and trouble me for dat: I
don't going to do it. What you gib me, sah; how much you gib me?" Cecil opened his purse and took out of it ten gold sovereigns. "I will
give you that," he said, "if you can get me the paper out of John Cann's
coffin." The negro's eyes glistened, but he answered carelessly, "I don't tink I
can do it. I don't want to open grabe by night, and if I open him by
day, de magistrates dem will hab me up for desecration ob interment. But
I can do dis for you, sah. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
If you like to wait till some buckra
gentleman die--John Cann grabe among de white man side in de
grabeyard--I will dig grabe alongside ob John Cann one day, so let you
come yourself in de night and take what you like out ob him coffin. I
don't go meddle with coffin myself, to make de John Cann duppy trouble
me, and magistrate send me off about me business." It was a risky thing to do, certainly, but Cecil Mitford closed with it,
and promised the man ten pounds if ever he could recover John Cann's
paper. And then he settled down quietly at Leigh Caymanas with his
friendly host, waiting with eager, anxious expectation--till some white
person should die at Spanish Town. What an endless aimless time it seemed to wait before anybody could be
comfortably buried! Black people died by the score, of course: there was
a small-pox epidemic on, and they went to wakes over one another's dead
bodies in wretched hovels among the back alleys, and caught the
infection and sickened and died as fast as the wildest imagination could
wish them: but then, they were buried apart by themselves in the pauper
part of the Cathedral cemetery. Still, no white man caught the
small-pox, and few mulattoes: they had all been vaccinated, and nobody
got ill except the poorest negroes. Cecil Mitford waited with almost
fiendish eagerness to hear that some prominent white man was dead or
dying. A month, six weeks, two months, went slowly past, and still nobody of
consequence in all Spanish Town fell ill or sickened. Talk about
tropical diseases! why, the place was abominably, atrociously,
outrageously healthy. Cecil Mitford fretted and fumed and worried by
himself, wondering whether he would be kept there for ever and ever,
waiting till some useless nobody chose to die. The worst of it all was,
he could tell nobody his troubles: he had to pretend to look unconcerned
and interested, and listen to all old Mr. Barclay's stories about
Maroons and buccaneers as if he really enjoyed them. At last, after Cecil had been two full months at Spanish Town, he heard
one morning with grim satisfaction that yellow fever had broken out at
Port Antonio. Now, yellow fever, as he knew full well, attacks only
white men, or men of white blood: and Cecil felt sure that before long
there would be somebody white dead in Spanish Town. Not that he was
really wicked or malevolent or even unfeeling at heart; but his wild
desire to discover John Cann's treasure had now overridden every better
instinct of his nature, and had enslaved him, body and soul, till he
could think of nothing in any light save that of its bearing on his one
mad imagination. So he waited a little longer, still more eagerly than
before, till yellow fever should come to Spanish Town. Sure enough the fever did come in good time, and the very first person
who sickened with it was Cecil Mitford. That was a contingency he had
never dreamt of, and for the time being it drove John Cann's treasure
almost out of his fevered memory. Yet not entirely, even so, for in his
delirium he raved of John Cann and his doubloons till good old Mr.
Barclay, nursing at his bedside like a woman, as a tender-hearted
mulatto always will nurse any casual young white man, shook his head to
himself and muttered gloomily that poor Mr. Mitford had overworked his
brain sadly in his minute historical investigations. For ten days Cecil Mitford hovered fitfully between life and death, and
for ten days good old Mr. Barclay waited on him, morning, noon, and
night, as devotedly as any mother could wait upon her first-born. At the
end of that time he began to mend slowly; and as soon as the crisis was
over he forgot forthwith all about his illness, and thought once more of
nothing on earth save only John Cann's treasure. Was anybody else ill of
the fever in Spanish Town? Yes, two, but not dangerously. Cecil's face
fell at that saving clause, and in his heart he almost ventured to wish
it had been otherwise. He was no murderer, even in thought; but John
Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! What would
not a man venture to do or pray, in order that he might become the
possessor of John Cann's treasure! As Cecil began to mend, a curious thing happened at Leigh Caymanas,
contrary to almost all the previous medical experience of the whole
Island. Mr. Barclay, though a full mulatto of half black blood, suddenly
sickened with the yellow fever. He had worn himself out with nursing
Cecil, and the virus seemed to have got into his blood in a way that it
would never have done under other circumstances. And when the doctor
came to see him, he declared at once that the symptoms were very
serious. Cecil hated and loathed himself for the thought; and yet, in a
horrid, indefinite way he gloated over the possibility of his kind and
hospitable friend's dying. Mr. Barclay had tended him so carefully that
he almost loved him; and yet, with John Cann's treasure before his very
eyes, in a dim, uncertain, awful fashion, he almost looked forward to
his dying. But where would he be buried? that was the question. Not,
surely, among the poor black people in the pauper corner. A man of his
host's distinction and position would certainly deserve a place among
the most exalted white graves--near the body of Governor Modyford, and
not far from the tomb of John Cann himself. Day after day Mr. Barclay sank slowly but surely, and Cecil, weak and
hardly convalescent himself, sat watching by his bedside, and nursing
him as tenderly as the good brown man had nursed Cecil himself in his
turn a week earlier. The young clerk was no hard-hearted wretch who
could see a kind entertainer die without a single passing pang; he felt
for the grey old mulatto as deeply as he could have felt for his own
brother, if he had had one. Every time there was a sign of suffering or
feebleness, it went to Cecil's heart like a knife--the very knowledge
that on one side of his nature he wished the man to die made him all the
more anxious and careful on the other side to do everything he could to
save him, if possible, or at least to alleviate his sufferings. Poor old
man! it was horrible to see him lying there, parched with fever and
dying by inches; but then--John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! John Cann's treasure! every shade that passed over the good mulatto's
face brought Cecil Mitford a single step nearer to the final enjoyment
of John Cann's treasure. VI. On the evening when the Hon. Charles Barclay died, Cecil Mitford went
out, for the first time after his terrible illness, to speak a few words
in private with the negro sexton. He found the man lounging in the soft
dust outside his hut, and ready enough to find a place for the corpse
(which would be buried next morning, with the ordinary tropical haste),
close beside the spot actually occupied by John Cann's coffin. All the
rest, the sexton said with a horrid grin, he would leave to Cecil. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
At twelve o'clock of a dark moonless night, Cecil Mitford, still weak
and ill, but trembling only from the remains of his fever, set out
stealthily from the dead man's low bungalow in the outskirts of Spanish
Town, and walked on alone through the unlighted, unpaved streets of the
sleeping city to the Cathedral precinct. Not a soul met or passed him on
the way through the lonely alleys; not a solitary candle burned anywhere
in a single window. He carried only a little dark lantern in his hand,
and a very small pick that he had borrowed that same afternoon from the
negro sexton. Stumbling along through the unfamiliar lanes, he saw at
last the great black mass of the gaunt ungainly Cathedral, standing out
dimly against the hardly less black abyss of night that formed the
solemn background. But Cecil Mitford was not awed by place or season; he
could think only of one subject, John Cann's treasure. He groped his way
easily through scrub and monuments to the far corner of the churchyard;
and there, close by a fresh and open grave he saw the well-remembered,
half-effaced letters that marked the mouldering upright slab as John
Cann's gravestone. Without a moment's delay, without a touch of
hesitation, without a single tinge of womanish weakness, he jumped down
boldly into the open grave and turned the light side of his little
lantern in the direction of John Cann's undesecrated coffin. A few strokes of the pick soon loosened the intervening earth
sufficiently to let him get at a wooden plank on the nearer side of the
coffin. It had mouldered away with damp and age till it was all quite
soft and pliable; and he broke through it with his hand alone, and saw
lying within a heap of huddled bones, which he knew at once for John
Cann's skeleton. Under any other circumstances, such a sight, seen in
the dead of night, with all the awesome accessories of time and place,
would have chilled and appalled Cecil Mitford's nervous blood; but he
thought nothing of it all now; his whole soul was entirely concentrated
on a single idea--the search for the missing paper. Leaning over toward
the breach he had made into John Cann's grave, he began groping about
with his right hand on the floor of the coffin. After a moment's search
his fingers came across a small rusty metal object, clasped, apparently,
in the bony hand of the skeleton. He drew it eagerly out; it was a steel
snuff-box. Prising open the corroded hinge with his pocket-knife, he
found inside a small scrap of dry paper. His fingers trembled as he held
it to the dark lantern; oh heavens, success! success! it was, it
was--the missing document! He knew it in a moment by the handwriting and the cypher! He couldn't
wait to read it till he went home to the dead man's house; so he curled
himself up cautiously in Charles Barclay's open grave, and proceeded to
decipher the crabbed manuscript as well as he was able by the lurid
light of the lantern. Yes, yes, it was all right: it told him with
minute and unmistakable detail the exact spot in the valley of the Bovey
where John Cann's treasure lay securely hidden. Not at John Cann's rocks
on the hilltop, as the local legend untruly affirmed--John Cann had not
been such an unguarded fool as to whisper to the idle gossips of Bovey
the spot where he had really buried his precious doubloons--but down in
the valley by a bend of the river, at a point that Cecil Mitford had
known well from his childhood upward. Hurrah! hurrah! the secret was
unearthed at last, and he had nothing more to do than to go home to
England and proceed to dig up John Cann's treasure! So he cautiously replaced the loose earth on the side of the grave, and
walked back, this time bold and erect, with his dark lantern openly
displayed (for it mattered little now who watched or followed him), to
dead Charles Barclay's lonely bungalow. The black servants were crooning
and wailing over their master's body, and nobody took much notice of the
white visitor. If they had, Cecil Mitford would have cared but little,
so long as he carried John Cann's last dying directions safely folded in
his leather pocket-book. Next day, Cecil Mitford stood once more as a chief mourner beside the
grave he had sat in that night so strangely by himself: and before the
week was over, he had taken his passage for England in the Royal Mail
Steamer _Tagus_, and was leaving the cocoa-nut groves of Port Royal well
behind him on the port side. Before him lay the open sea, and beyond it,
England, Ethel, and John Cann's treasure. VII. It had been a long job after all to arrange fully the needful
preliminaries for the actual search after John Cann's buried doubloons. First of all, there was Ethel's interest to pay, and a horrid story for
Cecil to concoct--all false, of course, worse luck to it--about how he
had managed to invest her poor three hundred to the best advantage. Then
there was another story to make good about three months' extra leave
from the Colonial Office. Next came the question of buying the land
where John Cann's treasure lay hidden, and this was really a matter of
very exceptional and peculiar difficulty. The owner--pig-headed
fellow!--didn't want to sell, no matter how much he was offered, because
the corner contained a clump of trees that made a specially pretty
element in the view from his dining-room windows. His dining-room
windows, forsooth! What on earth could it matter, when John Cann's
treasure was at stake, whether anything at all was visible or otherwise
from his miserable dining-room windows? Cecil was positively appalled at
the obstinacy and narrow-mindedness of the poor squireen, who could
think of nothing at all in the whole world but his own ridiculous
antiquated windows. However, in the end, by making his bid high enough,
he was able to induce this obstructive old curmudgeon to part with his
triangular little corner of land in the bend of the river. Even so,
there was the question of payment: absurd as it seemed, with all John
Cann's money almost in his hands, Cecil was obliged to worry and bother
and lie and intrigue for weeks together in order to get that paltry
little sum in hard cash for the matter of payment. Still, he raised it
in the end: raised it by inducing Ethel to sell out the remainder of her
poor small fortune, and cajoling Aunt Emily into putting her name to a
bill of sale for her few worthless bits of old-fashioned furniture. At
last, after many delays and vexatious troubles, Cecil found himself the
actual possessor of the corner of land wherein lay buried John Cann's
treasure. The very first day that Cecil Mitford could call that coveted piece of
ground his own, he could not restrain his eagerness (though he knew it
was imprudent in a land where the unjust law of treasure-trove
prevails), but he must then and there begin covertly digging under the
shadow of the three big willow trees, in the bend of the river. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
He had
eyed and measured the bearings so carefully already that he knew the
very spot to a nail's breadth where John Cann's treasure was actually
hidden. He set to work digging with a little pick as confidently as if
he had already seen the doubloons lying there in the strong box that he
knew enclosed them. Four feet deep he dug, as John Cann's instructions
told him; and then, true to the inch, his pick struck against a solid
oaken box, well secured with clamps of iron. Cecil cleared all the dirt
away from the top, carefully, not hurriedly, and tried with all his
might to lift the box out, but all in vain. It was far too heavy, of
course, for one man's arms to raise: all that weight of gold and silver
must be ever so much more than a single pair of hands could possibly
manage. He must try to open the lid alone, so as to take the gold out, a
bit at a time, and carry it away with him now and again, as he was able,
covering the place up carefully in between, for fear of the Treasury and
the Lord of the Manor. How abominably unjust it seemed to him at that
moment--the legal claim of those two indolent hostile powers! to think
that after he, Cecil Mitford, had borne the brunt of the labour in
adventurously hunting up the whole trail of John Cann's secret, two idle
irresponsible participators should come in at the end, if they could, to
profit entirely by _his_ ingenuity and _his_ exertions! At last, by a great effort, he forced the rusty lock open, and looked
eagerly into the strong oak chest. How his heart beat with slow, deep
throbs at that supreme moment, not with suspense, for he _knew_ he
should find the money, but with the final realization of a great hope
long deferred! Yes, there it lay, in very truth, all before him--great
shining coins of old Spanish gold--gold, gold, gold, arranged in long
rows, one coin after another, over the whole surface of the broad oak
box. He had found it, he had found it, he had really found it! After so
much toilsome hunting, after so much vain endeavour, after so many
heart-breaking disappointments, John Cann's treasure in very truth lay
open there actually before him! For a few minutes, eager and frightened as he was, Cecil Mitford did not
dare even to touch the precious pieces. In the greatness of his joy, in
the fierce rush of his overpowering emotions, he had no time to think of
mere base everyday gold and silver. It was the future and the ideal that
he beheld, not the piled-up heaps of filthy lucre. Ethel was his, wealth
was his, honour was his! He would be a rich man and a great man now and
henceforth for ever! Oh, how he hugged himself in his heart on the wise
successful fraud by which he had induced Ethel to advance him the few
wretched hundreds he needed for his ever-memorable Jamaican journey! How
he praised to himself his own courage, and ingenuity, and determination,
and inexhaustible patience! How he laughed down that foolish conscience
of his that would fain have dissuaded him from his master-stroke of
genius. He deserved it all, he deserved it all! Other men would have
flinched before the risk and expense of the voyage to Jamaica, would
have given up the scent for a fool's errand in the cemetery at Port
Royal, would have shrunk from ransacking John Cann's grave at dead of
night in the Cathedral precincts at Spanish Town, would have feared to
buy the high-priced corner of land at Bovey Tracy on a pure imaginative
speculation. But he, Cecil Mitford, had had the boldness and the
cleverness to do it every bit, and now, wisdom was justified of all her
children. He sat for five minutes in profound meditation on the edge of
the little pit he had dug, gloating dreamily over the broad gold pieces,
and inwardly admiring his own bravery and foresight and indomitable
resolution. What a magnificent man he really was--a worthy successor of
those great freebooting, buccaneering, filibustering Devonians of the
grand Elizabethan era! To think that the worky-day modern world should
ever have tried to doom him, Cecil Mitford, with his splendid enterprise
and glorious potentialities, to a hundred and eighty a year and a
routine clerkship at the Colonial Office! After a while, however, mere numerical cupidity began to get the better
of this heroic mood, and Cecil Mitford turned somewhat languidly to the
vulgar task of counting the rows of doubloons. He counted up the
foremost row carefully, and then for the first time perceived, to his
intense surprise, that the row behind was not gold, but mere silver
Mexican pistoles. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the fact was
unmistakable; there was only one row of yellow gold in the top layer,
and all the rest was merely bright and glittering silver. Strange that
John Cann should have put coins of such small value near the top of his
box: the rest of the gold must certainly be in successive layers down
further. He lifted up the big gold doubloons in the first row, and then,
to his blank horror and amazement, came to--not more gold, not more
silver, but--but--but--ay, incredible as it seemed, appalling,
horrifying--a wooden bottom! Had John Cann, in his care and anxiety, put a layer of solid oak between
each layer of gold and silver? Hardly that, the oak was too thick. In a
moment Cecil Mitford had taken out all the coins of the first tier, and
laid bare the oaken bottom. A few blows of the pick loosened the earth
around, and then, oh horror, oh ghastly disappointment, oh unspeakable
heart-sickening revelation, the whole box came out entire. It was only
two inches deep altogether, including the cover--it was, in fact, a mere
shallow tray or saucer, something like the sort of thin wooden boxes in
which sets of dessert-knives or fish-knives are usually sold for wedding
presents! For the space of three seconds Cecil Mitford could not believe his eyes,
and then, with a sudden flash of awful vividness, the whole terrible
truth flashed at once across his staggering brain. He had found John
Cann's treasure indeed--the John Cann's treasure of base actual reality;
but the John Cann's treasure of his fervid imagination, the John Cann's
treasure he had dreamt of from his boyhood upward, the John Cann's
treasure he had risked all to find and to win, did not exist, could not
exist, and never had existed at all anywhere! It was all a horrible,
incredible, unthinkable delusion! The hideous fictions he had told would
every one be now discovered; Ethel would be ruined; Aunt Emily would be
ruined; and they would both know him, not only for a fool, a dreamer,
and a visionary, but also for a gambler, a thief, and a liar. In his black despair he jumped down into the shallow hole once more, and
began a second time to count slowly over the accursed dollars. The whole
miserable sum--the untold wealth of John Cann's treasure--would amount
altogether to about two hundred and twenty pounds of modern sterling
English money. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Cecil Mitford tore his hair as he counted it in impotent
self punishment; two hundred and twenty pounds, and he had expected at
least as many thousands! He saw it all in a moment. His wild fancy had
mistaken the poor outcast hunted-down pirate for a sort of ideal
criminal millionaire; he had erected the ignorant, persecuted John Cann
of real life, who fled from the king's justice to a nest of chartered
outlaws in Jamaica, into a great successful naval commander, like the
Drake or Hawkins of actual history. The whole truth about the wretched
solitary old robber burst in upon him now with startling vividness; he
saw him hugging his paltry two hundred pounds to his miserly old bosom,
crossing the sea with it stealthily from Jamaica, burying it secretly in
a hole in the ground at Bovey, quarrelling about it with his peasant
relations in England, as the poor will often quarrel about mere trifles
of money, and dying at last with the secret of that wretched sum hidden
in the snuff-box that he clutched with fierce energy even in his
lifeless skeleton fingers. It was all clear, horribly, irretrievably,
unmistakably clear to him now; and the John Cann that he had once
followed through so many chances and changes had faded away at once into
absolute nothingness, now and for ever! If Cecil Mitford had known a little less about John Cann's life and
exploits he might still perhaps have buoyed himself up with the vain
hope that all the treasure was not yet unearthed--that there were more
boxes still buried in the ground, more doubloons still hidden further
down in the unexplored bosom of the little three-cornered field. But the
words of John Cann's own dying directions were too explicit and clear to
admit of any such gloss or false interpretation. "In a strong oaken
chest, bound round with iron, and buried at four feet of depth in the
south-western angle of the Home Croft, at Bovey," said the document,
plainly; there was no possibility of making two out of it in any way. Indeed, in that single minute, Cecil Mitford's mind had undergone a
total revolution, and he saw the John Cann myth for the first time in
his life now in its true colours. The bubble had burst, the halo had
vanished, the phantom had faded away, and the miserable squalid miserly
reality stood before him with all its vulgar nakedness in their place. The whole panorama of John Cann's life, as he knew it intimately in all
its details, passed before his mind's eye like a vivid picture, no
longer in the brilliant hues of boyish romance, but in the dingy sordid
tones of sober fact. He had given up all that was worth having in this
world for the sake of a poor gipsy pirate's penny-saving hoard. A weaker man would have swallowed the disappointment or kept the
delusion still to his dying day. Cecil Mitford was made of stronger
mould. The ideal John Cann's treasure had taken possession of him, body
and soul; and now that John Cann's treasure had faded into utter
nonentity--a paltry two hundred pounds--the whole solid earth had failed
beneath his feet, and nothing was left before him but a mighty blank. A
mighty blank. Blank, blank, blank. Cecil Mitford sat there on the edge
of the pit, with his legs dangling over into the hollow where John
Cann's treasure had never been, gazing blankly out into a blank sky,
with staring blank eyeballs that looked straight ahead into infinite
space and saw utterly nothing. How long he sat there no one knows; but late at night, when the people
at the Red Lion began to miss their guest, and turned out in a body to
hunt for him in the corner field, they found him sitting still on the
edge of the pit he had dug for the grave of his own hopes, and gazing
still with listless eyes into blank vacancy. A box of loose coin lay
idly scattered on the ground beside him. The poor gentleman had been
struck crazy, they whispered to one another; and so indeed he had: not
raving mad with acute insanity, but blankly, hopelessly, and helplessly
imbecile. With the loss of John Cann's treasure the whole universe had
faded out for him into abject nihilism. They carried him home to the inn
between them on their arms, and put him to bed carefully in the old
bedroom, as one might put a new-born baby. The Lord of the Manor, when he came to hear the whole pitiful story,
would have nothing to do with the wretched doubloons; the curse of blood
was upon them, he said, and worse than that; so the Treasury, which has
no sentiments and no conscience, came in at the end for what little
there was of John Cann's unholy treasure. VIII. In the County Pauper Lunatic Asylum for Devon there was one quiet
impassive patient, who was always pointed out to horror-loving visitors,
because he had once been a gentleman, and had a strange romance hanging
to him still, even in that dreary refuge of the destitute insane. The
lady whom he had loved and robbed--all for her own good--had followed
him down from London to Devonshire; and she and her aunt kept a small
school, after some struggling fashion, in the town close by, where many
kind-hearted squires of the neighbourhood sent their little girls, while
they were still very little, for the sake of charity, and for pity of
the sad, sad story. One day a week there was a whole holiday--Wednesday
it was--for that was visiting day at the County Asylum; and then Ethel
Sutherland, dressed in deep mourning, walked round with her aunt to the
gloomy gateway at ten o'clock, and sat as long as she was allowed with
the faded image of Cecil Mitford, holding his listless hand clasped hard
in her pale white fingers, and looking with sad eager anxious eyes for
any gleam of passing recognition in his. Alas, the gleam never came
(perhaps it was better so), Cecil Mitford looked always straight before
him at the blank whitewashed walls, and saw nothing, heard nothing,
thought of nothing, from week's end to week's end. Ethel had forgiven him all; what will not a loving woman forgive? Nay,
more, had found excuses and palliations for him, which quite glossed
over his crime and his folly. He must have been losing his reason long
before he ever went to Jamaica, she said; for in his right mind he would
never have tried to deceive her or himself in the way he had done. Did
he not fancy he was sent out by the Colonial Office, when he had really
gone without leave or mission? And did he not persuade her to give up
her money to him for investment, and after all never invest it? What
greater proofs of insanity could you have than those? And then that
dreadful fever at Spanish Town, and the shock of losing his kind
entertainer, worn out with nursing him, had quite completed the downfall
of his reason. So Ethel Sutherland, in her pure beautiful woman's soul,
went on believing, as steadfastly as ever, in the faith and the goodness
of that Cecil Mitford that had never been. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
_His_ ideal had faded out
before the first touch of disillusioning fact; _hers_ persisted still,
in spite of all the rudest assaults that the plainest facts could make
upon it. Thank heaven for that wonderful idealising power of a good
woman, which enables her to walk unsullied through this sordid world,
unknowing and unseeing. At last one night, one terrible windy night in December, Ethel
Sutherland was wakened from her sleep in the quiet little school-house
by a fearful glare falling fiercely upon her bedroom window. She jumped
up hastily and rushed to the little casement to look out towards the
place whence the glare came. One thought alone rose instinctively in her
white little mind--Could it be at Cecil's Asylum? Oh, horror, yes; the
whole building was in flames, and if Cecil were taken--even poor mad
imbecile Cecil--what, what on earth would then be left her? Huddling on a few things hastily, anyhow, Ethel rushed out wildly into
the street, and ran with incredible speed where all the crowd of the
town was running together, towards the blazing Asylum. The mob knew her
at once, and recognized her sad claim; they made a little lane down the
surging mass for her to pass through, till she stood beside the very
firemen at the base of the gateway. It was an awful sight--poor mad
wretches raving and imploring at the windows, while the firemen plied
their hose and brought their escapes to bear as best they were able on
one menaced tier after another. But Ethel saw or heard nothing, save in
one third floor window of the right wing, where Cecil Mitford stood, no
longer speechless and imbecile, but calling loudly for help, and
flinging his eager arms wildly about him. The shock had brought him back
his reason, for the moment at least: oh, thank God, thank God, he saw
her, he saw her! With a sudden wild cry Ethel burst from the firemen who tried to hold
her back, leaped into the burning building and tore up the blazing
stairs, blinded and scorched, but by some miracle not quite suffocated,
till she reached the stone landing on the third story. Turning along the
well-known corridor, now filled with black wreaths of stifling smoke,
she reached at last Cecil's ward, and flung herself madly, wildly into
his circling arms. For a moment they both forgot the awful death that
girt them round on every side, and Cecil, rising one second superior to
himself, cried only "Ethel, Ethel, Ethel, I love you; forgive me!" Ethel
pressed his hand in hers gently, and answered in an agony of joy, "There
is nothing to forgive, Cecil; I can die happy now, now that I have once
more heard you say you love me, you love me." Hand in hand they turned back towards the blazing staircase, and reached
the window at the end where the firemen were now bringing their
escape-ladder to bear on the third story. The men below beckoned them to
come near and climb out on to the ladder, but just at that moment
something behind seemed incomprehensibly to fascinate and delay Cecil,
so that he would not move a step nearer, though Ethel led him on with
all her might. She looked back to see what could be the reason, and
beheld the floor behind them rent by the flames, and a great gap
spreading downward to the treasurer's room. On the tiled floor a few
dozen pence and shillings and other coins lay, white with heat, among
the glowing rubbish; and the whole mass, glittering like gold in the
fierce glare, seemed some fiery cave filled to the brim with fabulous
wealth. Cecil's eye was riveted upon the yawning gap, and the corners of
his mouth twitched horribly as he gazed with intense interest upon the
red cinders and white hot coin beneath him. Instinctively Ethel felt at
once that all was lost, and that the old mania was once more upon him. Clasping her arm tight round his waist, while the firemen below shouted
to her to leave him and come down as she valued her life, she made one
desperate effort to drag him by main force to the head of the ladder. But Cecil, strong man that he was, threw her weak little arm impetuously
away, as he might have thrown a two-year-old baby's, and cried to her in
a voice trembling with excitement, "See, see, Ethel, at last, at last;
there it is, there it is in good earnest. JOHN CANN'S TREASURE!" Ethel seized his arm imploringly once more. "This way, darling," she
cried, in a voice choked by sobs and half stifled with the smoke. "This
way to the ladder." But Cecil broke from her fiercely, with a wild light in his big blue
eyes, and shouting aloud, "The treasure, the treasure!" leaped with
awful energy into the very centre of the seething fiery abyss. Ethel
fell, fainting with terror and choked by the flames, on to the burning
floor of the third story. The firemen, watching from below, declared
next day that that crazy madman must have died stifled before he touched
the heap of white hot ruins in the central shell, and the poor lady was
insensible or dead with asphyxia full ten minutes before the flames
swept past the spot where her lifeless body was lying immovable. _ISALINE AND I._
I. "Well, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, strolling out into the garden,
"and who is the young _cavalier_ with the black moustache?" "What, monsieur," answered Isaline; "you have seen him? You have been
watching from your window? We did not know you had returned from the
Aiguille." "Oh, yes, I've been back for more than an hour," I replied; "the snow
was so deep on the Col that I gave it up at last, and made up my mind
not to try it without a guide." "I am so glad," Isaline said demurely. "I had such fears for monsieur. The Aiguille is dangerous, though it isn't very high, and I had been
very distractedly anxious till monsieur returned." "Thanks, mademoiselle," I answered, with a little bow. "Your solicitude
for my safety flatters me immensely. But you haven't told me yet who is
the gentleman with the black moustache." Isaline smiled. "His name is M. Claude," she said; "M. Claude Tirard,
you know; but we don't use surnames much among ourselves in the Pays de
Vaud. He is the schoolmaster of the commune." "M. Claude is a very happy man, then," I put in. "I envy his good
fortune." Isaline blushed a pretty blush. "On the contrary," she answered, "he has
just been declaring himself the most miserable of all mankind. He says
his life is not worth having." "They always say that under those peculiar circumstances," I said. "Believe me, mademoiselle, there are a great many men who would be glad
to exchange their own indifferently tolerable lot for M. Claude's
unendurable misery." Isaline said nothing, but she looked at me with a peculiar inquiring
look, as if she would very much like to know exactly what I meant by it,
and how much I meant it. And what _did_ I mean by it? Not very much after all, I imagine; for
when it comes to retrospect, which one of us is any good at analyzing
his own motives? | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
The fact is, Isaline was a very pretty little girl, and
I had nothing else to do, and I might just as well make myself agreeable
to her as gain the reputation of being a bear of an Englishman. Besides,
if there was the safeguard of M. Claude, a real indigenous suitor, in
the background, there wasn't much danger of my polite attentions being
misunderstood. However, I haven't yet told you how I came to find myself on the farm at
Les Pentes at all. This, then, is how it all came about. I was sick of
the Temple; I had spent four or five briefless years in lounging about
Brick Court and dropping in casually at important cases, just to let the
world see I was the proud possessor of a well-curled wig; but even a wig
(which suits my complexion admirably) palls after five years, and I said
to myself that I would really cut London altogether, and live upon my
means somewhere on the Continent. Very small means, to be sure, but
still enough to pull through upon in Switzerland or the Black Forest. So, just by way of experiment as to how I liked it, I packed up my
fishing-rod and my portmanteau (the first the most important), took the
7.18 express from the Gare de Lyon for Geneva, and found myself next
afternoon comfortably seated on the verandah of my favourite hotel at
Vevay. The lake is delightful, that we all know; but I wanted to get
somewhere where there was a little fishing; so I struck back at once
into the mountain country round Château d'Oex and Les Avants, and came
soon upon the exact thing I wanted at Les Pentes. Picture to yourself a great amphitheatre of open alp or mountain pasture
in the foreground, with peaks covered by vivid green pines in the middle
distance, and a background of pretty aiguilles, naked at their base, but
clad near the summit with frozen masses of sparkling ice. Put into the
midst of the amphitheatre a clear green-and-white torrent, with a church
surrounded by a few wooden farmhouses on its slope, and there you have
the commune of Les Pentes. But what was most delightful of all was this,
that there was no hotel, no _pension_, not even a regular lodging-house. I was the first stranger to discover the capabilities of the village,
and I was free to exploit them for my own private advantage. By a stroke
of luck, it so happened that M. Clairon, the richest farmer of the
place, with a pretty old-fashioned Vaudois farmhouse, and a pretty,
dainty little Vaudoise daughter, was actually willing to take me in for
a mere song per week. I jumped at the chance; and the same day saw me
duly installed in a pretty little room, under the eaves of the pretty
little farmhouse, and with the pretty little daughter politely attending
to all my wants. Do you know those old-fashioned Vaudois houses, with their big
gable-ends, their deep-thatched roofs, their cobs of maize, and smoked
hams, and other rural wealth, hanging out ostentatiously under the
protecting ledges? If you don't, you can't imagine what a delightful
time I had of it at Les Pentes. The farm was a large one for the Pays
de Vaud, and M. Clairon actually kept two servants; but madame would
have been scandalized at the idea of letting "that Sara" or "that
Lisette" wait upon the English voyager; and the consequence was that
Mademoiselle Isaline herself always came to answer my little tinkling
hand-bell. It was a trifle awkward, for Mademoiselle Isaline was too
much of a young lady not to be treated with deferential politeness; and
yet there is a certain difficulty in being deferentially polite to the
person who lays your table for dinner. However, I made the best of it,
and I'm bound to say I managed to get along very comfortably. Isaline was one of those pretty, plump, laughing-eyed, dimple-cheeked,
dark little girls that you hardly ever see anywhere outside the Pays de
Vaud. It was almost impossible to look at her without smiling; I'm sure
it was quite impossible for her to look at any one else and not smile at
them. She wore the prettiest little Vaudois caps you ever saw in your
life; and she looked so coquettish in them that you must have been very
hard-hearted indeed if you did not straightway fall head over ears in
love with her at first sight. Besides, she had been to school at
Lausanne, and spoke such pretty, delicate, musical French. Now, my good
mother thought badly of my French accent; and when I told her I meant to
spend a summer month or two in western Switzerland, she said to me, "I
_do_ hope, Charlie dear, you will miss no opportunity of conversing with
the people, and improving yourself in colloquial French a little." I am
certainly the most dutiful of sons, and I solemnly assure you that
whenever I was not fishing or climbing I missed no opportunity
whatsoever of conversing with pretty little Isaline. "Mademoiselle Isaline," I said on this particular afternoon, "I should
much like a cup of tea; can Sara bring me one out here in the garden?" "Perfectly, monsieur; I will bring you out the little table on to the
grass plot," said Isaline. "That will arrange things for you much more
pleasantly." "Not for worlds," I said, running in to get it myself; but Isaline had
darted into the house before me, and brought it out with her own white
little hands on to the tiny lawn. Then she went in again, and soon
reappeared with a Japanese tray--bought at Montreux specially in my
honour--and a set of the funniest little old China tea-things ever
beheld in a London bric-à-brac cabinet. "Won't you sit and take a cup with me, mademoiselle?" I asked. "_Ma foi_, monsieur," answered Isaline, blushing again, "I have never
tasted any except as _pthisane_. But you other English drink it so,
don't you? I will try it, for the rest: one learns always." I poured her out a cup, and creamed it with some of that delicious
Vaudois cream (no cream in the world so good as what you get in the Pays
de Vaud--you see I am an enthusiast for my adopted country--but that is
anticipating matters), and handed it over to her for her approval. She
tasted it with a little _moue_. English-women don't make the _moue_, so,
though I like sticking to my mother tongue, I confess my inability to
translate the word. "Brrrr," she said. "Do you English like that stuff! Well, one must accommodate one's self to it, I suppose;" and to do her
justice, she proceeded to accommodate herself to it with such
distinguished success that she asked me soon for another cup, and drank
it off without even a murmur. "And this M. Claude, then," I asked; "he is a friend of yours? Eh?" "Passably," she answered, colouring slightly. "You see, we have not much
society at Les Pontes. He comes from the Normal School at Geneva. He is
instructed, a man of education. We see few such here. What would you
have?" She said it apologetically, as though she thought she was bound
to excuse herself for having made M. Claude's acquaintance. "But you like him very much?" "Like him? Well, yes; I liked him always well enough. Bat he is too
haughty. He gives himself airs. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
To-day he is angry with me. He has no
right to be angry with me." "Mademoiselle," I said, "have you ever read our Shakespeare?" "Oh, yes, in English I have read him. I can read English well enough,
though I speak but a little." "And have you read the 'Tempest'?" "How? Ariel, Ferdinand, Miranda, Caliban? Oh, yes. It is beautiful." "Well, mademoiselle," I said, "do you remember how Miranda first saw
Ferdinand?" She smiled and blushed again--she was such a little blusher. "I know
what you would say," she said. "You English are blunt. You talk to young
ladies so strangely." "Well, Mademoiselle Isaline, it seems to me that you at Les Pentes are
like Miranda on the island. You see nobody, and there is nobody here to
see you. You must not go and fall in love, like Miranda, with the very
first man you happen to meet with, because he comes from the Normal
School at Geneva. There are plenty of men in the world, believe me,
beside M. Claude." "Ah, but Miranda and Ferdinand both loved one another," said Isaline
archly; "and they were married, and both lived happily ever afterward." I saw at once she was trying to pique me. "How do you know that?" I asked. "It doesn't say so in the play. For all
I know, Ferdinand lost the crown of Naples through a revolution, and
went and settled down at a country school in Savoy or somewhere, and
took to drinking, and became brutally unsociable, and made Miranda's
life a toil and a burden to her. At any rate, I'm sure of one thing; he
wasn't worthy of her." What made me go on in this stupid way? I'm sure I don't know. I
certainly didn't mean to marry Isaline myself: ... at least, not
definitely: and yet when you are sitting down at tea on a rustic garden
seat, with a pretty girl in a charming white crimped cap beside you, and
you get a chance of insinuating that other fellows don't think quite as
much of her as you do, it isn't human nature to let slip the opportunity
of insinuating it. "But you don't know M. Claude," said Isaline practically, "and so you
can't tell whether _he_ is worthy of _me_ or not." "I'm perfectly certain," I answered, "that he can't be, even though he
were a very paragon of virtue, learning, and manly beauty." "If monsieur talks in that way," said Isaline, "I shall have to go back
at once to mamma." "Wait a moment," I said, "and I will talk however you wish me. You know,
you agree to give me instruction in conversational French. That
naturally includes lessons in conversation with ladies of exceptional
personal attractions. I must practise for every possible circumstance of
life.... So you have read Shakespeare, then. And any other English
books?" "Oh, many. Scott, and Dickens, and all, except Byron. My papa says a
young lady must not read Byron. But I have read what he has said of our
lake, in a book of extracts. It is a great pleasure to me to look down
among the vines and chestnuts, there, and to think that our lake, which
gleams so blue and beautiful below, is the most famous in poetry of all
lakes. You know, Jean Jacques says, 'Mon lac est le premier,' and so it
is." "Then you have read Jean Jacques too?" "Oh, mon Dieu, no. My papa says a young lady must especially not read
Jean Jacques. But I know something about him--so much as is
_convenable_. Hold here! do you see that clump of trees down there by
the lake, just above Clarens? That is Julie's grove--'le bosquet de
Julie' we call it. There isn't a spot along the lake that is not thus
famous, that has not its memories and its associations. It is for that
that I could not choose ever to leave the dear old Pays de Vaud." "You would not like to live in England, then?" I asked. (What a fool I
was, to be sure.) "Oh, ma foi, no. That would make one too much shiver, with your chills,
and your fogs, and your winters. I could not stand it. It is cold here,
but at any rate it is sunny.... Well, at least, it would not be
pleasant.... But, after all, that depends.... You have the sun, too,
sometimes, don't you?" "Isaline!" cried madame from the window. "I want you to come and help me
pick over the gooseberries!" And, to say the truth, I thought it quite
time she should go. II. A week later, I met M. Claude again. He was a very nice young fellow,
there was not a doubt of that. He was intelligent, well educated, manly,
with all the honest, sturdy, independent Swiss nature clearly visible in
his frank, bright, open face. I have seldom met a man whom I liked
better at first sight than M. Claude, and after he had gone away I felt
more than a little ashamed of myself to think I had been half trying to
steal away Isaline's heart from this good fellow, without really having
any deliberate design upon it myself. It began to strike me that I had
been doing a very dirty, shabby thing. "Charlie, my boy," I said to myself, as I sat fishing with bottom bait
and dangling my legs over the edge of a pool, "you've been flirting with
this pretty little Swiss girl; and what's worse, you've been flirting in
a very bad sort of way. She's got a lover of her own; and you've been
trying to make her feel dissatisfied with him, for no earthly reason. You've taken advantage of your position and your fancied London airs and
graces to run down by implication a good fellow who really loves her and
would probably make her an excellent husband. Don't let this occur
again, sir." And having thus virtuously resolved, of course I went away
and flirted with Isaline next morning as vigorously as ever. During the following fortnight, M. Claude came often, and I could not
disguise from myself the fact that M. Claude did not quite like me. This
was odd, for I liked him very much. I suppose he took me for a potential
rival: men are so jealous when they are in love. Besides, I observed
that Isaline tried not to be thrown too much with him alone; tried to
include me in the party wherever she went with him. Also, I will freely
confess that I felt myself every day more fond of Isaline's society, and
I half fancied I caught myself trepidating a little inwardly now and
then when she happened to come up to me. Absurd to be so susceptible;
but such is man. One lovely day about this time I set out once more to try my hand (or
rather my feet) alone upon the Aiguille. Isaline put me up a nice little
light lunch in my knapsack, and insisted upon seeing that my alpenstock
was firmly shod, and my pedestrian boots in due climbing order. In fact,
she loudly lamented my perversity in attempting to make the ascent
without a guide; and she must even needs walk with me as far as the
little bridge over the torrent beside the snow line, to point me out the
road the guides generally took to the platform at the summit. For
myself, I was a practised mountaineer, and felt no fear for the result. As I left her for the ice, she stood a long time looking and waving me
the right road with her little pocket-handkerchief; while as long as I
could hear her voice she kept on exhorting me to be very careful. "Ah,
if monsieur would only have taken a guide! | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
You don't know how dangerous
that little Aiguille really is." The sun was shining brightly on the snow; the view across the valley of
the Rhone towards the snowy Alps beyond was exquisite; and the giants of
the Bernese Oberland stood out in gloriously brilliant outline on the
other side against the clear blue summer sky. I went on alone, enjoying
myself hugely in my own quiet fashion, and watching Isaline as she made
her way slowly along the green path, looking round often and again, till
she disappeared in the shadow of the pinewood that girt round the tiny
village. On, farther still, up and up and up, over soft snow for the
most part; with very little ice, till at last, after three hours' hard
climbing, I stood on the very summit of the pretty Aiguille. It was not
very high, but it commanded a magnificent view over either side--the
Alps on one hand, the counterchain of the Oberland on the other, and the
blue lake gleaming and glowing through all its length in its green
valley between them. There I sat down on the pure snow in the glittering
sunlight, and ate the lunch that Isaline had provided for me, with much
gusto. Unfortunately, I also drank the pint of white wine from the head
of the lake--Yvorne, we call it, and I grow it now in my own vineyard at
Pic de la Baume--but that is anticipating again: as good a light wine as
you will get anywhere in Europe in these depressing days of blight and
phylloxera. Now, a pint of _vin du pays_ is not too much under ordinary
circumstances for a strong young man in vigorous health, doing a hard
day's muscular work with legs, arms, and sinews: but mountain air is
thin and exhilarating in itself, and it lends a point to a half-bottle
of Yvorne which the wine's own body does not by any means usually
possess. I don't mean to say so much light wine does one any positive
harm; but it makes one more careless and easy-going; gives one a false
sense of security, and entices one into paying less heed to one's
footsteps or to suspicious-looking bits of doubtful ice. Well, after lunch I took a good look at the view with my field-glass;
and when I turned it towards Les Pentes I could make out our farmhouse
distinctly, and even saw Isaline standing on the balcony looking towards
the Aiguille. My heart jumped a little when I thought that she was
probably looking for me. Then I wound my way down again, not by
retracing my steps, but by trying a new path, which seemed to me a more
practicable one. It was not the one Isaline had pointed out, but it
appeared to go more directly, and to avoid one or two of the very worst
rough-and-tumble pieces. I was making my way back, merrily enough, when suddenly I happened to
step on a little bit of loose ice, which slid beneath my feet in a very
uncomfortable manner. Before I knew where I was, I felt myself sliding
rapidly on, with the ice clinging to my heel; and while I was vainly
trying to dig my alpenstock into a firm snowbank, I became conscious for
a moment of a sort of dim indefinite blank. It was followed by a
sensation of empty space; and then I knew I was falling over the edge of
something. Whrrr, whrrr, whrrr, went the air at my ear for a moment; and the next
thing I knew was a jar of pain, and a consciousness of being enveloped
in something very soft. The jar took away all other feeling for a few
seconds; I only knew I was stunned and badly hurt. After a time, I began
to be capable of trying to realize the position; and when I opened my
eyes and looked around me, I recognized that I was lying on my back, and
that there was a pervading sensation of whiteness everywhere about. In
point of fact, I was buried in snow. I tried to move, and to get on my
legs again, but two things very effectually prevented me. In the first
place, I could not stir my legs without giving myself the most intense
pain in my spine; and in the second place, when I did stir them I
brought them into contact on the one hand with a solid wall of rock, and
on the other hand with vacant space, or at least with very soft snow
unsupported by a rocky bottom. Gradually, by feeling about with my arms,
I began exactly to realize the gravity of the position. I had fallen
over a precipice, and had lighted on a snow-covered ledge half-way down. My back was very badly hurt, and I dared not struggle up on to my legs
for fear of falling off the ledge again on the other side. Besides, I
was half smothered in the snow, and even if anybody ever came to look
for me (which they would not probably do till to-morrow) they would not
be able to see me, because of the deep-covering drifts. If I was not
extricated that night, I should probably freeze to death before morning,
especially after my pint of wine. "Confound that Yvorne!" I said to
myself savagely. "If ever I get out of this scrape I'll never touch a
drop of the stuff again as long as I live." I regret to say that I have
since broken that solemn promise twice daily for the past three years. My one hope was that Isaline might possibly be surprised at my delay in
returning, and might send out one of the guides to find me. So there I lay a long time, unable even to get out of the snow, and with
every movement causing me a horrid pain in my injured back. Still, I
kept on moving my legs every now and then to make the pain shoot, and so
prevent myself from feeling drowsy. The snow half suffocated me, and I
could only breathe with difficulty. At last, slowly, I began to lose
consciousness, and presently I suppose I fell asleep. To fall asleep in
the snow is the first stage of freezing to death. III. Noises above me, I think, on the edge of the precipice. Something coming
down, oh, how slowly. Something comes, and fumbles about a yard or so
away. Then I cry out feebly, and the something approaches. M. Claude's
hearty voice calls out cheerily, "Enfin, le voilà!" and I am saved. They let down ropes and pulled me up to the top of the little crag,
clumsily, so as to cause me great pain: and then three men carried me
home to the farmhouse on a stretcher. M. Claude was one of the three,
the others were labourers from the village. "How did you know I was lost, M. Claude?" I asked feebly, as they
carried me along on the level. He did not answer for a moment; then he said, rather gloomily, in
German, "The Fräulein was watching you with a telescope from Les
Pentes." He did not say Fräulein Isaline, and I knew why at once: he did
not wish the other carriers to know what he was talking about. "And she told you?" I said, in German too. "She sent me. I did not come of my own accord. I came under orders." He
spoke sternly, hissing out his gutturals in an angry voice. "M. Claude," I said, "I have done very wrong, and I ask your
forgiveness. You have saved my life, and I owe you a debt of gratitude
for it. I will leave Les Pentes and the Fräulein to-morrow, or at least
as soon as I can safely be moved." He shook his head bitterly. "It is no use now," he answered, with a
sigh; "the Fräulein does not wish for me. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I have asked her, and she has
refused me. And she has been watching you up and down the Aiguille the
whole day with a telescope. When she saw you had fallen, she rushed out
like one distracted, and came to tell me at the school in the village. It is no use, you have beaten me." "M. Claude," I said, "I will plead for you. I have done you wrong, and I
ask your forgiveness." "I owe you no ill-will," he replied, in his honest, straightforward,
Swiss manner. "It is not your fault if you too have fallen in love with
her. How could any man help it? Living in the same house with her, too! Allons," he went on in French, resuming his alternative tongue (for he
spoke both equally), "we must get on quick and send for the doctor from
Glion to see you." By the time we reached the farmhouse, I had satisfied myself that there
was nothing very serious the matter with me after all. The soft snow had
broken the force of the concussion. I had strained my spine a good deal,
and hurt the tendons of the thighs and back, but had not broken any
bones, nor injured any vital organ. So when they laid me on the
old-fashioned sofa in my little sitting-room, lighted a fire in the wide
hearth, and covered me over with a few rugs, I felt comparatively happy
and comfortable under the circumstances. The doctor was sent for in hot
haste; but on his arrival, he confirmed my own view of the case, and
declared I only needed rest and quiet and a little arnica. I was rather distressed, however, when madame came up to see me an hour
later, and assured me that she and monsieur thought I ought to be moved
down as soon as possible into more comfortable apartments at Lausanne,
where I could secure better attendance. I saw in a moment what that
meant: they wanted to get me away from Isaline. "There are no more
comfortable quarters in all Switzerland, I am sure, madame," I said: but
madame was inflexible. There was an English doctor at Lausanne, and to
Lausanne accordingly I must go. Evidently, it had just begun to strike
those two good simple people that Isaline and I could just conceivably
manage to fall in love with one another. Might I ask for Mademoiselle Isaline to bring me up a cup of tea? Yes,
Isaline would bring it in a minute. And when she came in, those usually
laughing black eyes obviously red with crying, I felt my heart sink
within me when I thought of my promise to M. Claude; while I began to be
vaguely conscious that I was really and truly very much in love with
pretty little Isaline on my own account. She laid the tray on the small table by the sofa, and was going to leave
the room immediately. "Mademoiselle Isaline," I said, trying to raise
myself, and falling back again in pain, "won't you sit with me a little
while? I want to talk with you." "My mamma said I must come away at once," Isaline replied demurely. "She
is without doubt busy and wants my aid." And she turned to go towards
the door. "Oh, do come back, mademoiselle," I cried, raising myself again, and
giving myself, oh, such a wrench in the spine: "don't you see how much
it hurts me to sit up?" She turned back, indecisively, and sat down in the big chair just beyond
the table, handing me the cup, and helping me to cream and sugar. I
plunged at once _in medias res_. "You have been crying, mademoiselle," I said, "and I think I can guess
the reason. M. Claude has told me something about it. He has asked you
for your hand, and you have refused him. Is it not so?" This was a
little bit of hypocrisy on my part, I confess, for I knew what she had
been crying about perfectly: but I wished to be loyal to M. Claude. Isaline blushed and laughed. "I do not cry for M. Claude," she said. "I
may have other matters of my own to cry about. But M. Claude is very
free with his confidences, if he tells such things to a stranger." "Listen to me, Mademoiselle Isaline," I said. "Your father and mother
have asked me to leave here to-morrow and go down to Lausanne. I shall
probably never see you again. But before I go, I want to plead with you
for M. Claude. He has saved my life, and I owe him much gratitude. He
loves you; he is a brave man, a good man, a true and earnest man; why
will you not marry him? I feel sure he is a noble fellow, and he will
make you a tender husband. Will you not think better of your decision? I
cannot bear to leave Les Pentes till I know that you have made him
happy." "Truly?" "Truly." "And you go away to-morrow?" "Yes, to-morrow." "Oh, monsieur!" There isn't much in those two words; but they may be pronounced with a
good deal of difference in the intonation; and Isaline's intonation did
not leave one in much doubt as to how she used them. Her eyes filled
again with tears, and she half started up to go. Ingrate and wretch that
I was, forgetful of my promise to M. Claude, my eyes filled
responsively, and I jumped to catch her and keep her from going, of
course at the expense of another dreadful wrench to my poor back. "Isaline," I cried, unconsciously dropping the mademoiselle, and letting
her see my brimming eyelids far too obviously, "Isaline, do wait awhile,
I implore you, I beseech you! I have something to say to you." She seated herself once more in the big chair. "Well, mon pauvre
monsieur," she cried, "what is it?" "Isaline," I began, trying it over again; "why won't you marry M. Claude?" "Oh, that again. Well," answered Isaline boldly, "because I do not love
him, and I love somebody else. You should not ask a young lady about
these matters. In Switzerland, we do not think it _comme il faut_." "But," I went on, "why do you not love M. Claude? He has every good
quality, and----"
"Every good quality, and--he bores me," answered Isaline. "Monsieur,"
she went on archly, "you were asking me the other day what books I had
read in English. Well, I have read Longfellow. Do you remember Miles
Standish?" I saw what she was driving at, and laughed in spite of myself. "Yes," I
said, "I know what you mean. When John Alden is pleading with Priscilla
on behalf of Miles Standish, Priscilla cuts him short by saying----"
Isaline finished the quotation herself in her own pretty clipped
English, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" I laughed. She laughed. We both looked at one another; and the next
thing I remember was that I had drawn down Isaline's plump little face
close to mine, and was kissing it vigorously, in spite of an acute
darting pain at each kiss all along my spine and into my marrow-bones. Poor M. Claude was utterly forgotten. In twenty minutes I had explained my whole position to Isaline: and in
twenty minutes more, I had monsieur and madame up to explain it all to
them in their turn. Monsieur listened carefully while I told him that I
was an English advocate in no practice to speak of; that I had a few
hundreds a year of my own, partly dependent upon my mother; that I had
thoughts of settling down permanently in Switzerland; and that Isaline
was willing, with her parents' consent, to share my modest competence. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Monsieur replied with true Swiss caution that he would inquire into my
statements, and that if they proved to be as represented, and if I
obtained in turn my mother's consent, he would be happy to hand me over
Isaline. "Toutefois," he added quietly, "it will be perhaps better to
rescind your journey to Lausanne. The Glion doctor is, after all, a
sufficiently skilful one." So I waited on in peace at Les Pontes. Madame had insisted upon telegraphing the news of my accident to my
mother, lest it should reach her first in the papers ("Je suis mère
moi-même, monsieur," she said, in justification of her conduct). And
next morning we got a telegram in reply from my mother, who evidently
imagined she must hurry over at once if she wished to see her son alive,
or at least must nurse him through a long and dangerous illness. Considering the injuries were a matter of about three days' sofa, in all
probability, this haste was a little overdone. However, she would arrive
by the very first _rapide_ from Paris; and on the whole I was not sorry,
for I was half afraid she might set her face against my marrying "a
foreigner," but I felt quite sure any one who once saw Isaline could
never resist her. That afternoon, when school was over, M. Claude dropped in to see how I
was getting on. I felt more like a thief at that moment than I ever felt
in my whole life before or since. I knew I must tell him the simple
truth; but I didn't know how to face it. However, as soon as I began, he
saved me the trouble by saying, "You need not mind explaining. Mademoiselle Isaline has told me all. Yon did your best for me, I feel
sure; but she loves you, and she does not love me. We cannot help these
things; they come and go without our being able to govern them. I am
sorry, more than sorry; but I thank you for your kind offices. Mademoiselle Isaline tells me you said all you could on my behalf, and
nothing on your own. Accept my congratulations on having secured the
love of the sweetest girl in all Switzerland." And he shook my hand with
an honest heartiness that cost me several more twinges both in the spine
and the half-guilty conscience. Yet, after all, it was not my fault. "Monsieur Claude," I said, "you are an honest fellow, and a noble
fellow, and I trust you will still let me be your friend." "Naturally," answered M. Claude, in his frank way. "I have only done my
duty. You have been the lucky one, but I must not bear you a grudge for
that; though it has cost my heart a hard struggle;" and, as he spoke,
the tears came for a moment in his honest blue eyes, though he tried to
brush them away unseen. "Monsieur Claude," I said, "you are too generous to me. I can never
forgive myself for this." Before many days my mother came to hand duly; and though her social
prejudices were just a trifle shocked, at first, by the farmhouse, with
its hams and maize, which I had found so picturesque, I judged rightly
that Isaline would soon make an easy conquest of her. My mother readily
admitted that my accent had improved audibly to the naked ear; that
Isaline's manners were simply perfect; that she was a dear, pretty,
captivating little thing; and that on the whole she saw no objections,
save one possible one, to my marriage. "Of course, Charlie," she said,
"the Clairons are Protestants; because, otherwise, I could never think
of giving my consent." This was a poser in its way; for though I knew the village lay just on
the borderland, and some of the people were Catholics while others were
Reformed, I had not the remotest notion to which of the two churches
Isaline belonged. "Upon my soul, mother dear," I said, "it has never
struck me to inquire into Isaline's private abstract opinion on the
subject of the Pope's infallibility or the Geneva Confession. You see,
after all, it could hardly be regarded as an important or authoritative
one. However, I'll go at once and find out." Happily, as it turned out, the Clairons were Reformed, and so my
mother's one objection fell to the ground immediately. M. Clairon's
inquiries were also satisfactory; and the final result was that Isaline
and I were to be quietly married before the end of the summer. The good
father had a nice little vineyard estate at Pic de la Baume, which he
proposed I should undertake to cultivate; and my mother waited to see
us installed in one of the prettiest little toy châlets to be seen
anywhere at the Villeneuve end of the lovely lake. A happier or sweeter
bride than Isaline I defy the whole world, now or ever, to produce. From the day of our wedding, almost, Isaline made it the business of her
life to discover a fitting wife for good M. Claude; and in the end she
succeeded in discovering, I will freely admit (since Isaline is not
jealous), the second prettiest and second nicest girl in the whole Pays
de Vaud. And what is more, she succeeded also in getting M. Claude to
fall head over ears in love with her at first sight; to propose to her
at the end of a week; and to be accepted with effusion by Annette
herself, and with coldness by her papa, who thought the question of
means a trifle unsatisfactory. But Isaline and I arranged that Claude
should come into partnership in our vineyard business on easy terms, and
give up schoolmastering for ever; and the consequence is that he and his
wife have now got the companion châlet to ours, and between our two
local connections, in Switzerland and England, we are doing one of the
best trades in the new export wine traffic of any firm along the lake. Of course we have given up growing Yvorne, except for our own use,
confining ourselves entirely to a high-priced vintage-wine, with very
careful culture, for our English business: and I take this opportunity
of recommending our famous phylloxera-proof white Pic de la Baume,
London Agents ----. But Isaline says that looks too much like an
advertisement, so I leave off. Still, I can't help saying that a dearer
little wife than Isaline, or a better partner than Claude, never yet
fell to any man's lot. They certainly are an excellent people, these
Vaudois, and I think you would say so too if only you knew them as well
as I do. _PROFESSOR MILLITER'S DILEMMA._
The Gospel Evangelists were naturally very proud of Professor Milliter. A small and despised sect, with not many great, not many rich, not many
noble among them, they could comfort themselves at least with the
reflection that they numbered in their fold one of the most learned and
justly famous of modern English scientific thinkers. It is true, their
place of meeting at Mortiscombe was but an upper chamber in a small
cottage; their local congregation consisted of hardly more than three
score members; and their nickname among their orthodox churchy
neighbours was the very opprobrious and very ridiculous one of "the
Shivering Ranters." Still, the Gospel Evangelists felt it was a great
privilege to be permitted the ministrations of so learned and eloquent a
preacher as Professor Milliter. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
The rector of the parish was an Oxford
M.A., of the usual decorously stereotyped conventional pattern; but in
point even of earthly knowledge and earthly consideration, said the
congregation at Patmos Chapel, "he is not worthy to unloose the latchet
of our pastor's shoe." For Professor Milliter was universally allowed to
be the greatest living authority in England on comparative anatomy, the
rising successor of Cuvier, and Owen, and Milne-Edwards, and Carpenter,
in the general knowledge of animal structure. Mortiscombe, as everybody knows, is the favourite little suburban
watering-place, close by the busy streets and noisy wharves of a great
English manufacturing centre. It is at Mortiscombe that the Western
Counties College of Science is situated, away from the smoke and bustle
of the whirring city: and it was in the Western Counties College of
Science that Cyril Milliter ably filled the newly founded chair of
Comparative Anatomy. When he was first appointed, indeed, people
grumbled a little at the idea of a Professor at the College undertaking
every Sunday to preach in a common conventicle to a low assembly of
vulgar fanatics, as in their charitable Christian fashion they loved to
call the Gospel Evangelists. But Cyril Milliter was a man of character
and determination: he had fully made up his own mind upon theological
questions; and having once cast in his lot with the obscure sect of
Gospel Evangelists, to which his parents had belonged before him, he was
not to be turned aside from his purpose by the coarse gibes of the
ordinary public or the cynical incredulity of more cultivated but
scarcely more tolerant polite society. "Not a Gospel Evangelist really
and truly: you must surely be joking, Mr. Milliter," young ladies said
to him at evening parties with undisguised astonishment; "why, they're
just a lot of ignorant mill-hands, you know, who meet together in an
upper room somewhere down in Ford's Passage to hear sermons from some
ignorant lay preacher." "Quite so," Cyril Milliter would answer quietly; "and _I_ am the
ignorant lay preacher who has been appointed to deliver those sermons to
them. I was brought up among the Gospel Evangelists as a child, and now
that I am a man my mature judgment has made me still continue among
them." Mortiscombe is well known to be a very advanced and liberal-minded
place; so, after a time, people ceased to talk about the curious
singularity of Cyril Milliter's Sunday occupation. All through the week
the young professor lectured to his class on dry bones and the other
cheerful stock-in-trade of his own department; and on Sundays he walked
down erect, Bible in hand, to his little meeting-room, and there
fervently expounded the Word, as it approved itself to his soul and
conscience, before the handful of earnest artisans who composed his
faithful but scanty congregation. A fiery and enthusiastic preacher was
Cyril Milliter, devoured with zeal for what seemed to him the right
doctrine. "There is only one thing worth living for in this fallen
world," he used to say to his little group of attentive hearers, "and
that is Truth. Truth, as it reveals itself in the book of nature, must
be our quest during the working week: Truth, as it reveals itself in the
written Word, must be our quest on these happy blessed seventh-day
Sabbaths." There was a high eager light in his eye as he spoke, mingled
with a clear intellectual honesty in his sharply cut features, which
gave at once the stamp of reality to that plain profession of his
simple, manly, earnest creed. One other subject, however, beside the pursuit of truth, just at that
moment deeply interested Cyril Milliter; and that subject assumed bodily
form in the pretty little person of Netta Leaworthy. Right in front of
Cyril, as he expounded the Word every Sunday morning, sat a modest,
demure, dimpled English girl, with a complexion like a blushing
apple-blossom, and a mouth like the sunny side of a white-heart cherry. She was only the daughter of an intelligent mill-hand, a foreman at one
of the great factories in the neighbouring city, was dainty,
whitefingered, sweet-voiced little Netta; but there was a Puritan
freshness and demureness and simplicity about her that fairly won the
heart of the enthusiastic young professor. Society at Mortiscombe had
made itself most agreeable to Cyril Milliter, in spite of his
heterodoxy, as Society always does to eligible young bachelors of good
education; and it had thrown its daughters decorously in his way, by
asking him to all its dinners, dances, and at-homes, with most profuse
and urgent hospitality. But in spite of all the wiles of the most
experienced among Society's mothers, Cyril Milliter had positively had
the bad taste to fix his choice at last upon nobody better than simple,
unaffected, charming little Netta. For one sunny Sunday morning, after worship, Cyril had turned out into
the fields behind the Common, for a quiet stroll among the birds and
flowers: when, close by the stile in the upper meadow, he came
unexpectedly upon Netta Leaworthy, alone upon the grass with her own
fancies. She was pulling an ox-eye daisy carelessly to pieces as he
passed, and he stopped a minute unperceived beside the hedge, to watch
her deft fingers taking out one ray after another quickly from the
blossom to the words of a foolish childish charm. Netta blushed crimson
when she saw she was observed at that silly pastime, and Cyril thought
to himself he had never seen anything in his life more lovely than the
blushing girl at that moment. Learned and educated as he was, he had
sprung himself from among the ranks of the many, and his heart was with
them still rather than with the rich, the noble, and the mighty. "I will
never marry among the daughters of Heth," he said to himself gently, as
he paused beside her: "I will take to myself rather a wife and a
helpmate from among the Lord's own chosen people." "Ah, Miss Leaworthy," he went on aloud, smiling sympathetically at her
embarrassment, "you are following up the last relics of a dying
superstition, are you? 'One for money, two for health, Three for love,
and four for wealth.' Is that how the old saw goes? I thought so. And
which of the four blessings now has your daisy promised you I wonder?" The tone he spoke in was so very different from that which he had just
been using in the chapel at worship that Netta felt instinctively what
it foreboded; and her heart fluttered tremulously as she answered in the
quietest voice she could command, "I haven't finished it yet, Mr.
Milliter; I have made five rounds already, and have a lot of rays left
still in the middle of the daisy." Cyril took it from her, laughingly, and went on with the rhyme--his
conscience upbraiding him in an undertone of feeling meanwhile for such
an unworthy paltering with old-world superstition--till he had gone
twice round the spell, and finished abruptly with "Three for love!" "Love it is!" he cried gaily. "A good omen! | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Miss Leaworthy, we none of
us love superstition: but perhaps after all it is something more than
that; there may be a Hand guiding us from above, even in these everyday
trifles! We must never forget, you know, that every hair of our heads is
numbered." Netta's heart fluttered still more violently within her as he looked at
her so closely. Could it be that really, in spite of everything, the
great, learned, good, clever young professor was going to ask her to be
his wife? Netta had listened to him with joy Sunday after Sunday from
his simple platform pulpit, and had felt in her heart that no man never
expounded the gospel of love as beautifully as he did. She had fancied
sometimes--girls cannot help fancying, be they as modest and retiring as
they may--that he really did like her just a little. And she--she had
admired and wondered at him from a distance. But she could hardly
believe even now that that little vague day-dream which had sometimes
floated faintly before her eyes was going to be actually realized in
good earnest. She could answer nothing, her heart beat so; but she
looked down to the ground with a flushed and frightened look which was
more eloquent in its pretty simplicity than all the resources of the
most copious language. Cyril Milliter's mind, however, was pretty well made up already on this
important matter, and he had been waiting long for just such an
opportunity of asking Netta whether she could love him. And now, even
without asking her, he could feel at once by some subtle inner sense
that his eager question was answered beforehand, and that modest,
maidenly little Netta Leaworthy was quite prepared to love him dearly. For a moment he stood there looking at her intently, and neither of them
spoke. Then Netta raised her eyes from the ground for a second's flash;
and Cyril's glance caught hers one instant before she bent them down
again in haste to play nervously with the mangled daisy. "Netta," he
said, the name thrilling through his very marrow as he uttered it,
"Netta, I love you." She stood irresolute for a while, listening to the beating of her own
heart, and then her eye caught his once more, timidly, but she spoke
never a syllable. Cyril took her wee white hand in his--a lady's hand, if ever you saw
one--and raised it with chivalrous tenderness to his lips. Netta allowed
him to raise it and kiss it without resistance. "Then you will let me
love you?" he asked quickly. Netta still did not answer, but throwing
herself back on the bank by the hedgerow began to cry like a frightened
child. Cyril sat down, all tremulous beside her, took the white hand unresisted
in his, and said to her gently, "Oh, Netta, what is this for?" Then Netta answered with an effort, through her tears, "Mr. Milliter,
Mr. Milliter, how can you ever tell me of this?" "Why not, Netta? Why not, my darling? May I not ask you to be my wife? Will you have me, Netta?" Netta looked at him timidly, with another blush, and said slowly, "No,
Mr. Milliter; I cannot. I must not." "Why not, Netta? Oh, why not? Tell me a reason." "Because it wouldn't be right. Because it wouldn't be fair to you. Because it wouldn't be true of me. You ought to marry a lady--some
one in your own rank of life, you know. It would be wrong to tie
your future down to a poor nameless nobody like me, when you might
marry--marry--almost any lady you chose in all Mortiscombe." "Netta, you pain me. You are wronging me. You know I care nothing for
such gewgaws as birth or wealth or rank or station. I would not marry
one of those ladies even if she asked me. And, as to my own position in
life, why, Netta, my position is yours. My parents were poor God-fearing
people, like your parents; and if you will not love me, then, Netta,
Netta, I say it solemnly, I will never, never marry anybody." Netta answered never a word; but, as any other good girl would do in her
place, once more burst into a flood of tears, and looked at him
earnestly from her swimming eyes in speechless doubt and trepidation. Perhaps it was wrong of Cyril Milliter--on a Sunday, and in the public
pathway too--but he simply put his strong arm gently round her waist,
and kissed her a dozen times over fervidly without let or hindrance. Then Netta put him away from her, not too hastily, but with a lingering
hesitation, and said once more, "But, Mr. Milliter, I can never marry
you. You will repent of this yourself by-and-by at your leisure. Just
think, how could I ever marry you, when I should always be too
frightened of you to call you anything but 'Mr. Milliter!'" "Why, Netta," cried the young professor, with a merry laugh, "if that's
all, you'll soon learn to call me, 'Cyril.'" "To call you 'Cyril,' Mr. Milliter! Oh dear, no, never. Why, I've looked
at you so often in meeting, and felt so afraid of you, because you were
so learned, and wise, and terrible: and I'm sure I should never learn to
call you by your Christian name, whatever happened." "And as you can't do that, you won't marry me! I'm delighted to hear it,
Netta--delighted to hear it; for if that's the best reason you can
conjure up against the match, I don't think, little one, I shall find it
very hard to talk you over." "But, Mr. Milliter, are you quite sure you won't regret it yourself
hereafter? Are you quite sure you won't repent, when you find Society
doesn't treat you as it did, for my sake? Are you quite sure nothing
will rise up hereafter between us, no spectre of class difference, or
class prejudice, to divide our lives and make us unhappy?" "Never!" Cyril Milliter answered, seizing both her hands in his eagerly,
and looking up with an instinctive glance to the open heaven above them
as witness. "Never, Netta, as long as I live and you live, shall any
shadow of such thought step in for one moment to put us asunder." And Netta, too proud and pleased to plead against her own heart any
longer, let him kiss her once again a lover's kiss, and pressed his hand
in answer timidly, and walked back with him blushing towards
Mortiscombe, his affianced bride before the face of high heaven. When Society at Mortiscombe first learnt that that clever young
Professor Milliter was really going to marry the daughter of some
factory foreman, Society commented frankly upon the matter according to
the various idiosyncrasies and temperaments of its component members. Some of it was incredulous; some of it was shocked; some of it was
cynical; some of it was satirical; and some of it, shame to say, was
spitefully free with suggested explanations for such very strange and
unbecoming conduct. But Cyril Milliter himself was such a transparently
honest and straightforward man, that, whenever the subject was alluded
to in his presence, he shamed the cynicism and the spitefulness of
Society by answering simply, "Yes, I'm going to marry a Miss Leaworthy,
a very good and sweet girl, the daughter of the foreman at the Tube
Works, who is a great friend of mine and a member of my little Sunday
congregation." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
And, somehow, when once Cyril Milliter had said that in
his quiet natural way to anybody, however cynical, the somebody never
cared to talk any more gossip thenceforward for ever on the subject of
the professor's forthcoming marriage. Indeed, so fully did the young professor manage to carry public
sentiment with him in the end, that when the wedding-day actually
arrived, almost every carriage in all Mortiscombe was drawn up at the
doors of the small chapel where the ceremony was performed; and young
Mrs. Milliter had more callers during the first fortnight after her
honeymoon than she knew well how to accommodate in their tiny
drawing-room. In these matters, Society never takes any middle course. Either it disapproves of a "mixed marriage" altogether, in which case it
crushes the unfortunate offender sternly under its iron heel; or else it
rapturously adopts the bride into its own magic circle, in which case
she immediately becomes a distinct somebody, in virtue of the very
difference of original rank, and is invited everywhere with
_empressement_ as a perfect acquisition to the local community. This
last was what happened with poor simple blushing little Netta, who found
herself after a while so completely championed by all Mortiscombe that
she soon fell into her natural place in the college circle as if to the
manner born. All nice girls, of whatever class, are potentially ladies
(which is more than one can honestly say for all women of the upper
ranks), and after a very short time Netta became one of the most popular
young married women in all Mortiscombe. When once Society had got over
its first disappointment because Cyril Milliter had not rather married
one of its own number, it took to Netta with the greatest cordiality. After all, there is something so very romantic, you know, in a gentleman
marrying a foreman's daughter; and something so very nice and liberal,
too, in one's own determination to treat her accordingly in every way
like a perfect equal. And yet, happy as she was, Netta could never be absolutely free from a
pressing fear, a doubt that Cyril might not repent his choice, and feel
sorry in the end for not having married a real lady. That fear pursued
her through all her little triumph, and almost succeeded in making her
half jealous of Cyril whenever she saw him talking at all earnestly (and
he was very apt to be earnest) with other women. "They know so much more
than I do," she thought to herself often; "he must feel so much more at
home with them, naturally, and be able to talk to them about so many
things that he can never possibly talk about with poor little me." Poor
girl, it never even occurred to her that from the higher standpoint of a
really learned man like Cyril Milliter the petty smattering of French
and strumming of the piano, wherein alone these grand girls actually
differed from her, were mere useless surface accomplishments, in no way
affecting the inner intelligence or culture, which were the only things
that Cyril regarded in any serious light as worthy of respect or
admiration. As a matter of fact, Netta had learnt infinitely more from
her Bible, her English books, her own heart, and surrounding nature,
than any of these well-educated girls had learnt from their
parrot-trained governesses; and she was infinitely better fitted than
any of them to be a life companion for such a man as Cyril Milliter. For the first seven or eight months of Netta's married life all went
smoothly enough with the young professor and his pretty wife. But at the
end of that time an event came about which gave Netta a great deal of
unhappiness, and caused her for the very first time since she had ever
known him to have serious doubts about Cyril's affection. And this was
just how it all happened. One Sunday morning, in the upper chamber at Patmos, Cyril had announced
himself to preach a discourse in opposition to sundry wicked scientific
theories which were then just beginning seriously to convulse the little
world of religious Mortiscombe. Those were the days when Darwin's
doctrine of evolution had lately managed to filter down little by
little to the level of unintelligent society; and the inquiring
working-men who made up Cyril Milliter's little congregation in the
upper chamber were all eagerly reading the "Origin of Species" and the
"Descent of Man." As for Cyril himself, in his austere fashion, he
doubted whether any good could come even of considering such heterodox
opinions. They were plainly opposed to the Truth, he held, both to the
Truth as expressed in the written Word, and to the Truth as he himself
clearly read it in the great open book of nature. This evolution they
talked about so glibly was a dream, a romance, a mere baseless figment
of the poor fallible human imagination; all the plain facts of science
and of revelation were utterly irreconcilable with it, and in five
years' time it would be comfortably dead and buried for ever, side by
side with a great load of such other vague and hypothetical rubbish. He
could hardly understand, for his part, how sensible men could bother
their heads about such nonsense for a single moment. Still, as many of
his little flock had gone to hear a brilliant young lecturer who came
down from London last week to expound the new doctrine at the Literary
and Philosophical Institute, and as they had been much shaken in their
faith by the lecturer's sophistical arguments and obvious
misrepresentations of scientific principles, he would just lay before
them plainly what science had to say in opposition to these fantastic
and immature theorists. So on Sunday morning next, with Bible in one
hand and roll of carefully executed diagrams in the other (for Cyril
Milliter was no conventional formalist, afraid of shocking the sense of
propriety in his congregation), he went down in militant guise to the
upper chamber and delivered a fervent discourse, intended to smite the
Darwinians hip and thigh with the arms of the Truth--both Scriptural and
scientific--to slay the sophists outright with the sword of the Lord and
of Gideon. Cyril took for his text a single clause from the twenty-first verse of
the first chapter of Genesis--"Every winged fowl after his kind." That,
he said impressively, was the eternal and immutable Truth upon the
matter. He would confine his attention that morning entirely to this one
aspect of the case--the creation of the class of birds. "In the
beginning," the Word told us, every species of bird had been created as
we now see it, perfect and fully organized after its own kind. There was
no room here for their boasted "development," or their hypothetical
"evolution." The Darwinians would fain force upon them some old wife's
tale about a monstrous lizard which gradually acquired wings and
feathers, till at last, by some quaint Ovidian metamorphosis (into such
childish heathenism had we finally relapsed), it grew slowly into the
outward semblance of a crow or an ostrich. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But that was not what the
Truth told them. On the fourth day of creation, simultaneously with the
fish and every living creature that moveth in the ocean, the waters
brought forth "fowl that might fly above the earth in the open firmament
of heaven." Such on this subject was the plain and incontrovertible
statement of the inspired writer in the holy Scripture. And now, how did science confirm this statement, and scatter at once to
the winds the foolish, brain-spun cobwebs of our windy, vaporous, modern
evolutionists? These diagrams which he held before him would
sufficiently answer that important question. He would show them that
there was no real community of structure in any way between the two
classes of birds and reptiles. Let them observe the tail, the wings, the
feathers, the breast-bone, the entire anatomy, and they would see at
once that Darwin's ridiculous, ill-digested theory was wholly opposed to
all the plain and demonstrable facts of nature. It was a very learned
discourse, certainly; very crushing, very overwhelming, very convincing
(when you heard one side only), and not Netta alone, but the whole
congregation of intelligent, inquiring artisans as well, was utterly
carried away by its logic, its clearness, and its eloquent rhetoric. Last of all, Cyril Milliter raised his two white hands solemnly before
him, and uttered thus his final peroration. "In conclusion, what proof can they offer us of their astounding
assertions?" he asked, almost contemptuously. "Have they a single fact,
a single jot or tittle of evidence to put in on this matter, as against
the universal voice of authoritative science, from the days of
Aristotle, of Linnæus, or of Cuvier, to the days of Owen, of Lyell, and
of Carpenter? Not one! Whenever they can show me, living or fossil, an
organism which unites in itself in any degree whatsoever the
characteristics of birds and reptiles--an organism which has at once
teeth and feathers; or which has a long lizard-like tail and true wings;
or which combines the anatomical peculiarities I have here assigned to
the one class with the anatomical peculiarities I have here assigned to
the other: then, and then only, will I willingly accede to their absurd
hypothesis. But they have not done it. They cannot do it. They will
never do it. A great gulf eternally separates the two classes. A vast
gap intervenes impassably between them. That gulf will never be
lessened, that gap will never be bridged over, until Truth is finally
confounded with falsehood, and the plain facts of nature and the Word
are utterly forgotten in favour of the miserable, inconsistent figments
of the poor fallible human imagination." As they walked home from worship that morning, Netta felt she had never
before so greatly admired and wondered at her husband. How utterly he
had crushed the feeble theory of these fanciful system-mongers, how
clearly he had shown the absolute folly of their presumptuous and
arrogant nonsense! Netta could not avoid telling him so, with a flush of
honest pride in her beautiful face: and Cyril flushed back immediately
with conscious pleasure at her wifely trust and confidence. But he was
tired with the effort, he said, and must go for a little walk alone in
the afternoon: a walk among the fields and the Downs, where he could
commune by himself with the sights and sounds of truth-telling nature. Netta was half-piqued, indeed, that he should wish even so to go without
her; but she said nothing: and so after their early dinner, Cyril
started away abstractedly by himself, and took the lane behind the
village that led up by steep inclines on to the heavy moorland with its
fresh bracken and its purple heather. As he walked along hastily, his mind all fiery-full of bones and
fossils, he came at last to the oolite quarry on the broken hillside. Feeling tired, he turned in to rest awhile in the shade on one of the
great blocks of building stone hewn out by the workmen; and by way of
occupation he began to grub away with his knife, half-unconsciously as
he sat, at a long flat slab of slaty shale that projected a little from
the sheer face of the fresh cutting. As he did so, he saw marks of
something very like a bird's feather on its upper surface. The sight
certainly surprised him a little. "Birds in the oolite," he said to
himself quickly; "it's quite impossible! Birds in the oolite! this is
quite a new departure. Besides, such a soft thing as a feather could
never conceivably be preserved in the form of a fossil." Still, the queer object interested him languidly, by its odd and timely
connection with the subject of his morning sermon; and he looked at it
again a little more closely. By Jove, yes, it was a feather, not a doubt
in the world of that now; he could see distinctly the central shaft of a
tail-quill, and the little barbed branches given off regularly on either
side of it. The shale on which it was impressed was a soft, light-brown
mudstone; in fact, a fragment of lithographic slate, exactly like that
employed by lithographers for making pictures. He could easily see how
the thing had happened; the bird had fallen into the soft mud, long ages
since, before the shale had hardened, and the form of its feathers had
been distinctly nature-printed, while it was still moist, upon its
plastic surface. But a bird in the oolite! that was a real discovery;
and, as the Gospel Evangelists were no Sabbatarians, Cyril did not
scruple in the pursuit of Truth to dig away at the thin slab with his
knife, till he egged it out of the rock by dexterous side pressure, and
laid it triumphantly down at last for further examination on the big
stone that stood before him. Gazing in the first delight of discovery at his unexpected treasure, he
saw in a moment that it was a very complete and exquisitely printed
fossil. So perfect a pictorial representation of an extinct animal he
had never seen before in his whole lifetime; and for the first moment or
two he had no time to do anything else but admire silently the exquisite
delicacy and extraordinary detail of this natural etching. But after a
minute, the professional interest again asserted itself, and he began to
look more carefully into the general nature of its curious and
unfamiliar anatomical structure. As he looked, Cyril Milliter felt a horrible misgiving arise suddenly
within him. The creature at which he was gazing so intently was not a
bird, it was a lizard. And yet--no--it was not a lizard--it was a bird. "Why--these are surely feathers--yes, tail feathers--quite
unmistakable.... But they are not arranged in a regular fan; the quills
stand in pairs, one on each side of each joint in a long tail, for all
the world exactly like a lizard's.... Still, it must be a bird; for,
see, these are wings ... and that is certainly a bird's claw.... But
here's the head; great heavens! what's this?... A jaw, with teeth in
it...." Cyril Milliter leaned back, distractedly, and held his beating
forehead between his two pale hands. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
To most scientific men it would
have been merely the discovery of an interesting intermediate
organism--something sure to make the reputation of a comparative
anatomist; to him, it was an awful and sudden blow dealt unexpectedly
from the most deadly quarter at all his deepest and most sacred
principles. Religion, honour, Truth, the very fundamental basis of the
universe itself--all that makes life worth living for, all that makes
the world endurable--was bound up implicitly that moment for Cyril
Milliter in the simple question whether the shadowy creature, printed in
faint grey outline on the slab of shaly oolite before him, was or was
not half bird and half lizard. It may have been foolish of him: it may have been wrong: it may have
been madness almost; but at that instant he felt dazzled and stunned by
the crushing weight of the blow thus unexpectedly dealt at his whole
preconceived theory of things, and at his entire mental scheme of
science and theology. The universe seemed to swim aimlessly before him:
he felt the solid ground knocked at once from beneath his feet, and
found himself in one moment suspended alone above an awful abyss, a
seething and tossing abyss of murky chaos. He had pinned all his
tottering faith absolutely on that single frail support; and now the
support had given way irretrievably beneath him, and blank atheism,
nihilism, utter nothingness, stared him desperately in the face. In one
minute, while he held his head tight between his two palms to keep it
from bursting, and looked with a dull, glazed, vacant eye at the ghastly
thing before him--only a few indistinct fossil bones, but to him the
horridest sight he had ever beheld--a whole world of ideas crowded
itself on the instant into his teeming, swimming brain. If we could
compress an infinity of thought into a single second, said Shelley once,
that second would be eternity; and on the brink of such a compressed
eternity Cyril Milliter was then idly sitting. It seemed to him, as he
clasped his forehead tighter and tighter, that the Truth which he had
been seeking, and for which he had been working and fighting so long,
revealed itself to him now and there, at last, in concrete form, as a
visible and tangible Lie. It was no mere petrified lizard that he saw
beneath his eyes, but a whole ruined and shattered system of philosophic
theology. His cosmogony was gone; his cosmos itself was dispersed and
disjointed; creation, nay, the Creator Himself, seemed to fade away
slowly into nonentity before him. He beheld dimly an awful vision of a
great nebulous mist, drifting idly before the angry storm-cyclones of
the masterless universe--drifting without a God or a ruler to guide it;
bringing forth shapeless monstrosities one after another on its wrinkled
surface; pregnant with ravine, and rapine, and cruelty; vast, powerful,
illimitable, awful; but without one ray of light, one gleam of love, one
hope of mercy, one hint of divine purpose anywhere to redeem it. It was
the pessimistic nightmare of a Lucretian system, translated hastily into
terms of Cyril Milliter's own tottering and fading theosophy. He took the thing up again into his trembling hands, and examined it a
second time more closely. No, there could be no shadow of a doubt about
it: his professional skill and knowledge told him that much in a single
moment. Nor could he temporize and palter with the discovery, as some of
his elder brethren would have been tempted to do; his brain was too
young, and fresh, and vigorous, and logical not to permit of ready
modification before the evidence of new facts. Come what might, he must
be loyal to the Truth. This thing, this horrid thing that he held
visibly before him, was a fact, a positive fact: a set of real bones,
representing a real animal, that had once lived and breathed and flown
about veritably upon this planet of ours, and that was yet neither a
true bird nor a true lizard, but a half-way house and intermediate link
between those two now widely divergent classes. Cyril Milliter's mind
was at once too honest and too intelligent to leave room for any doubts,
or evasions, or prevarications with itself upon that fundamental
subject. He saw quite clearly and instantly that it was the very thing
the possibility of whose existence he had so stoutly denied that
self-same morning. And he could not go back upon his own words,
"Whenever they show me an organism which unites in itself the
characteristics of birds and reptiles, then, and then only, will I
accede to their absurd hypothesis." The organism he had asked for lay
now before him, and he knew himself in fact a converted evolutionist,
encumbered with all the other hideous corollaries which his own peculiar
logic had been accustomed to tack on mentally to that hated creed. He
almost felt as if he ought in pure consistency to go off at once and
murder somebody, as the practical outcome of his own theories. For had
he not often boldly asserted that evolutionism was inconsistent with
Theism, and that without Theism, any real morality or any true
right-doing of any kind was absolutely impossible? At last, after long sitting and anxious pondering, Cyril Milliter rose
to go home, carrying a heavy heart along with him. And then the question
began to press itself practically upon him, What could he ever do with
this horrible discovery? His first impulse was to dash the thing to
pieces against the rock, and go away stealthily, saying naught about the
matter to any man. But his inborn reverence for the Truth made him
shrink back in horror, a moment later, from this suggestion of Satan, as
he thought it--this wicked notion of suppressing a most important and
conclusive piece of scientific evidence. His next idea was simply to
leave it where it was, thus shuffling off the responsibility of
publishing it or destroying it upon the next comer who chanced by
accident to enter the quarry. After all, he said to himself,
hypocritically, he wasn't absolutely bound to tell anybody else a word
about it; he could leave it there, and it would be in much the same
position, as far as science was concerned, as it would have been if he
hadn't happened to catch sight of it accidentally as it lay that morning
in the mother stone. But again his conscience told him next moment that
such casuistry was dishonest and unworthy; he had found the thing, and,
come what might, he ought to abide by the awful consequences. If he left
it lying there in the quarry, one of the workmen would probably smash it
up carelessly with a blow of his pick to-morrow morning--this unique
survivor of a forgotten world--and to abandon it to such a fate as that
would be at least as wicked as to break it to pieces himself of set
purpose, besides being a great deal more sneakish and cowardly. No,
whatever else he did, it was at any rate his plain duty to preserve the
specimen, and to prevent it from being carelessly or wilfully destroyed. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
On the other hand, he couldn't bear, either, to display it openly, and
thereby become, as the matter envisaged itself to his mind, a direct
preacher of evolutionism--that is to say, of irreligion and immorality. With what face could he ever rise and exhibit at a scientific meeting
this evident proof that the whole universe was a black chaos, a gross
materialistic blunder, a festering mass of blank corruption, without
purpose, soul, or informing righteousness? His entire moral being rose
up within him in bitter revolt at the bare notion of such cold-blooded
treachery. To give a long-winded Latin classificatory name, forsooth, to
a thing that would destroy the faith of ages! At last, after long
pondering, he determined to carry the slab carefully home inside his
coat, and hide it away sedulously for the present in the cupboard of his
little physiological laboratory. He would think the matter over, he
would take time to consider, he would ask humbly for light and guidance. But of whom? Well, well, at any rate, there was no necessity for
precipitate action. To Cyril Milliter's excited fancy, the whole future
of human thought and belief seemed bound up inextricably at that moment
in the little slab of lithographic slate that lay before him; and he
felt that he need be in no hurry to let loose the demon of scepticism
and sin (as it appeared to him) into the peaceful midst of a still
happily trusting and unsuspecting humanity. He put his hand into his pocket, casually, to pull out his handkerchief
for a covering to the thing, and, as he did so, his fingers happened to
touch the familiar clasp of his little pocket Bible. The touch thrilled
him strangely, and inspired him at once with a fresh courage. After all,
he had the Truth there also, and he couldn't surely be doing wrong in
consulting its best and most lasting interests. It was for the sake of
the Truth that he meant for the present to conceal his compromising
fossil. So he wrapped up the slab as far as he was able in his
handkerchief, and hid it away, rather clumsily, under the left side of
his coat. It bulged a little, no doubt; but by keeping his arm flat to
his side he was able to cover it over decently somehow. Thus he walked
back quickly to Mortiscombe, feeling more like a thief with a stolen
purse in his pocket than he had ever before felt in the whole course of
his earthly existence. When he reached his own house, he would not ring, lest Netta should run
to open the door for him, and throw her arms round him, and feel the
horrid thing (how could he show it even to Netta after this morning's
sermon? ), but he went round to the back door, opened it softly, and
glided as quietly as he could into the laboratory. Not show it to
Netta--that was bad: he had always hitherto shown her and told her
absolutely everything. How about the Truth? He was doing this, he
believed, for the Truth's sake; and yet, the very first thing that it
imposed upon him was the necessity for an ugly bit of unwonted
concealment. Not without many misgivings, but convinced on the whole
that he was acting for the best, he locked the slab of oolite up,
hurriedly and furtively, in the corner cupboard. He had hardly got it safely locked up out of sight, and seated himself
as carelessly as he could in his easy chair, when Netta knocked softly
at the door. She always knocked before entering, by force of habit, for
when Cyril was performing delicate experiments it often disturbed him,
or spoilt the result, to have the door opened suddenly. Netta had seen
him coming, and wondered why he had slunk round by the back door: now
she wondered still more why he did not "report himself," as he used to
call it, by running to kiss her and announce his return. "Come in," he said gravely, in answer to the knock; and Netta entered. Cyril jumped up and kissed her tenderly, but her quick woman's eye saw
at once that there was something serious the matter. "You didn't ring,
Cyril darling," she said, half reproachfully, "and you didn't come to
kiss your wifie." "No," Cyril answered, trying to look quite at his ease (a thing at which
the most innocent man in the world is always the worst possible
performer), "I was in a hurry to get back here, as there was something
in the way of my work I wanted particularly to see about." "Why, Cyril," Netta answered in surprise; "your work! It's Sunday." Cyril blushed crimson. "So it is," he answered hastily; "upon my word,
I'd quite forgotten it. Goodness gracious, Netta, shall I have to go
down to meeting and preach again to those people this evening?" "Preach again? Of course you will, Cyril. You always do, dear, don't
you?" Cyril started back with a sigh. "I can't go to-night, Netta darling," he
said wearily. "I can't preach to-night. I'm too tired and out of
sorts--I'm not at all in the humour for preaching. We must send down
somehow or other, and put off the brethren." Netta looked at him in blank dismay. She felt in her heart there was
something wrong, but she wouldn't for worlds ask Cyril what it was,
unless he chose to tell her of his own accord. Still, she couldn't help
reading in his eyes that there was something the matter: and the more
she looked into them, the more poor Cyril winced and blinked and looked
the other way in the vain attempt to seem unconcerned at her searching
scrutiny. "I'll send Mary down with a little written notice," she said
at last, "to fix on the door: 'Mr. Milliter regrets he will be unable,
through indisposition, to attend worship at Patmos this evening.' Will
that do, Cyril?" "Yes," he answered uneasily. "That'll do, darling. I don't feel quite
well, I'm afraid, somehow, after my unusual exertions this morning." Netta looked at him hard, but said nothing. They went into the drawing-room and for a while they both pretended to
be reading. Then the maid brought up the little tea-tray, and Cyril was
obliged to lay down the book he had been using as a screen for his
crimson face, and to look once more straight across the room at Netta. "Cyril," the little wife began again, as she took over his cup of tea to
his easy chair by the bow window, and set it down quietly on the tiny
round table beside him, "where did you go this afternoon?" "On the Downs, darling." "And whom did you meet there?" "Nobody, Netta." "Nobody, Cyril?" "No, nobody." Netta knew she could trust his word implicitly, and asked him no
further. Still, a dreadful cloud was slowly rising up before her. She
felt too much confidence in Cyril to be really jealous of him in any
serious way; but her fears, womanlike, took that personal shape in
which she fancied somebody or something must be weaning away her
husband's love gradually from her. Had he seen some girl at a distance
on the Downs, some one of the Mortiscombe ladies, with whom perhaps he
had had some little flirtation in the days gone by--some lady whom he
thought now would have made him a more suitable, companionable wife than
poor little Netta? | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Had he wandered about alone, saying to himself that
he had thrown himself away, and sacrificed his future prospects for a
pure, romantic boyish fancy? Had he got tired of her little, simple,
homely ways? Had he come back to the house, heartsick and disappointed,
and gone by himself into the working laboratory on purpose to avoid her? Why was he so silent? Why did he seem so preoccupied? Why would he not
look her straight in the face? Cyril could have done nothing to be
ashamed of, that Netta felt quite sure about, but why did he behave as
if he was ashamed of himself--as if there was something or other in his
mind he couldn't tell her? Meanwhile, poor Cyril was not less unhappy, though in a very different
and more masculine fashion. He wasn't thinking so much of Netta (except
when she looked at him so hard and curiously), but of the broken gods of
his poor little scientific and theological pantheon. He was passing
through a tempest of doubt and hesitation, compelled to conceal it under
the calm demeanour of everyday life. That horrid, wicked,
system-destroying fossil was never for a moment out of his mind. At
times he hated and loathed the godless thing with all the concentrated
force of his ardent nature. Ought he to harbour it under the shelter of
his hospitable roof? Ought he to give it the deadly chance of bearing
its terrible witness before the eyes of an innocent world? Ought he not
to get up rather in the dead of night, and burn it to ashes or grind it
to powder--a cruel, wicked, deceiving, anti-scriptural fossil that it
was? Then again at other times the love of Truth came uppermost once
more to chill his fiery indignation. Could the eternal hills lie to him? Could the evidence of his own senses deceive him? Was not the creature
there palpably and visibly present, a veritable record of real
existence; and ought he not loyally and reverently to accept its
evidence, at whatever violence to his own most cherished and sacred
convictions? If the universe was in reality quite other than what he had
always hitherto thought it; if the doctrines he had first learned and
then taught as certain and holy were proved by plain facts to be mere
ancient and fading delusions, was it not his bounden duty manfully to
resign his life-long day-dream, and to accept the Truth as it now
presented itself to him by the infallible evidence of mute nature, that
cannot possibly or conceivably lie to us? The evening wore away slowly, and Cyril and Netta said little to one
another, each absorbed in their own thoughts and doubts and
perplexities. At last bedtime came, but not much sleep for either. Cyril
lay awake, looking out into the darkness which seemed now to involve the
whole physical and spiritual world; seeing in fancy a vast chaotic
clashing universe, battling and colliding for ever against itself,
without one ray of hope, or light, or gladness left in it anywhere. Netta lay awake, too, wondering what could have come over Cyril; and
seeing nothing but a darkened world, in which Cyril's love was taken
away from her, and all was cold, and dull, and cheerless. Each in
imagination had lost the keystone of their own particular special
universe. Throughout the next week, Cyril went on mechanically with his daily
work, but struggling all the time against the dreadful doubt that was
rising now irresistibly within him. Whenever he came home from college,
he went straight to his laboratory, locked the door, and took the
skeleton out of the cupboard. It was only a very small skeleton indeed,
and a fossil one at that; but if it had been a murdered man, and he the
murderer, it could hardly have weighed more terribly than it actually
did upon Cyril Milliter's mind and conscience. Yet it somehow fascinated
him; and in all his spare time he was working away at the comparative
anatomy of his singular specimen. He had no doubts at all about it now:
he knew it perfectly for what it was--an intermediate form between birds
and reptiles. Meanwhile, he could not dare to talk about it even to
Netta; and Netta, though the feeling that there was something wrong
somewhere deepened upon her daily, would not say a word upon the subject
to Cyril. But she had discovered one thing--that the secret, whatever it
was, lay closed up in the laboratory cupboard; and as her fears
exaggerated her doubts, she grew afraid at last almost to enter the room
which held that terrible, unspeakable mystery. Thus more than a fortnight passed away, and Cyril and Netta grew daily
less and less at home with one another. At last, one evening, when Cyril
seemed gloomier and more silent than ever, Netta could bear the suspense
no longer. Rising up hastily from her seat, without one word of warning,
she went over to her husband with a half-despairing gesture of alarm,
and, flinging her arms around him with desperate force, she cried
passionately through her blinding tears, "Cyril, Cyril, Cyril, you
_must_ tell me all about it." "About what, darling?" Cyril asked, trembling with half-conscious
hypocrisy, for he knew in his heart at once what she meant as well as
she did. "Cyril," she cried again, looking him straight in the face steadily,
"you have a secret that you will not tell me." "Darling," he answered, smoothing her hair tenderly with his hand, "it
is no secret. It is nothing. You would think nothing of it if you knew. It's the merest trifle possible. But I can't tell you. I can _not_ tell
you." "But you must, Cyril," Netta cried bitterly. "You had never any secret
from me, I know, till that dreadful Sunday, when you went out alone, and
wouldn't even let me go with you. Then you came back stealthily by the
back door, and never told me. And you brought something with you: of
that I'm certain. And you've got the something locked up carefully in
the laboratory cupboard. I don't know how I found it all out exactly,
but I have found it out, and I can't bear the suspense any longer, and
so you _must_ tell me all about it. Oh, Cyril, dear Cyril, do, do tell
me all about it!" Cyril faltered--faltered visibly; but even so, he dare not tell her. His
own faith was going too terribly fast already; could he let hers go too,
in one dreadful collapse and confusion? It never occurred to him that
the fossil would mean little or nothing to poor Netta; he couldn't help
thinking of it as though every human being on earth would regard it with
the same serious solemnity and awe as he himself did. "I cannot tell
you, Netta," he said, very gently but very firmly. "No, I dare not tell
you. Some day, perhaps, but not now. I must not tell you." The answer roused all Netta's worst fears more terribly than ever. For a
moment she almost began to doubt Cyril. In her terror and perplexity she
was still too proud to ask him further; and she went back from her
husband, feeling stung and repulsed by his cruel answer, and made as
though she did not care at all for his strange refusal. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
She took up a
scientific paper from the heap on the table, and pretended to begin
reading it. Cyril rose and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away
with an impatient gesture. "Never," she said haughtily. "Never, Cyril,
until you choose to tell me your private secret." Cyril sank back gloomily into his chair, folded his hands into one
another in a despondent fashion, and looked hard at the vacant ceiling
without uttering a single word. As Netta held the paper aimlessly before her that minute, by the merest
chance her eye happened to fall upon her husband's name printed in the
article that lay open casually at the middle page. Even at that supreme
moment of chagrin and torturing doubt, she could not pass by Cyril's
name in print without stopping to read what was said about him. As she
did so, she saw that the article began by hostile criticism of the
position he had taken up on the distinction between birds and reptiles
in a recent paper contributed to the Transactions of the Linnæan
Society. She rose from her place silently, put the paper into his hands
and pointed to the paragraph with her white forefinger, but never
uttered a single syllable. Cyril took it from her mechanically, and read
on, not half thinking what he was reading, till he came to a passage
which attracted his attention perforce, because it ran somewhat after
this fashion--
"Professor Milliter would have written a little less confidently had he
been aware that almost while his words were passing through the press a
very singular discovery bearing upon this exact subject was being laid
before the Academy of Sciences at Berlin. Dr. Hermann von Meyer has just
exhibited to that body a slab of lithographic slate from the famous
oolitic quarry at Solenhofen, containing the impression of a most
remarkable organism, which he has named _Archæopteryx lithographica_. This extraordinary creature has the feathers of a bird with the tail of
a lizard; it is entirely destitute of an _os coccygis_; it has
apparently two conical teeth in the upper jaw; and its foot is that of a
characteristic percher." And so forth for more than a column, full of
those minute anatomical points which Cyril had himself carefully noticed
in the anatomy of his own English specimen. As he read and re-read that awful paragraph, Netta looking on at him
half angrily all the time, he grew more and more certain every moment
that the German professor had simultaneously made the very same
discovery as himself. He drew a long sigh of relief. The worst was over;
the murder was out, then; it was not to be he who should bear the
responsibility of publishing to the world the existence and
peculiarities of that wicked and hateful fossil. A cold-blooded German
geologist had done so already, with no more trace of remorse and
punctiliousness in the business than if it had been the merest old
oyster-shell or spider or commonplace cockroach! He could hardly keep in
his excited feelings; the strain of personal responsibility at least was
lightened; and though the universe remained as black as ever, he could
at any rate wash his own hands of the horrid creature. Unmanly as it may
seem, he burst suddenly into tears, and stepped across the room to throw
his arms round Netta's neck. To his surprise--for he scarcely remembered
that she could not yet realize the situation--Netta repelled him with
both hands stretched angrily before her, palm outwards. "Netta," he said, imploringly, recognizing immediately what it was she
meant, "come with me now into the laboratory, and see what it is that I
have got in the cupboard." Netta, all trembling and wondering, followed him in a perfect flutter of
doubt and anxiety. Cyril slowly unlocked the cupboard, then unfastened a
small drawer, and last of all took out a long flat object, wrapped up
mysteriously in a clean handkerchief. He laid it down reluctantly upon
the table, and Netta, amazed and puzzled, beheld a small smooth slab of
soft clay-stone, scored with what seemed like the fossil marks of a few
insignificant bones and feathers. The little woman drew a long breath. "Well, Cyril?" she said interrogatively, looking at it in a dubious
mood. "Why, Netta," cried her husband, half angry at her incomprehensible
calmness, "don't you see what it is? It's terrible, terrible!" "A fossil, Cyril, isn't it? A bird, I should say." "No, not a bird, Netta; nor yet a lizard; but that half-way thing, that
intermediate link you read about just now over yonder in the paper." "But why do you hide it, Cyril? You haven't taken it anywhere from a
museum." "Oh, Netta! Don't you understand? Don't you see the implications? It's a
creature, half bird and half reptile, and it proves, absolutely proves,
Netta, beyond the faintest possibility of a doubt, that the
evolutionists are quite right--quite scientific. And if it once comes to
be generally recognized, I don't know, I'm sure, what is ever to become
of religion and of science. We shall every one of us have to go and turn
evolutionists!" It is very sad to relate, but poor Netta, her pent-up feelings all let
loose by the smallness of the evil, as it seemed to her, actually began
to smile, and then to laugh merrily, in the very face of this awful
revelation. "Then you haven't really got tired of me, Cyril?" she cried
eagerly. "You're not in love with somebody else? You don't regret ever
having married me?" Cyril stared at her in mute surprise. What possible connection could
these questions have with the momentous principles bound up implicitly
in the nature-printed skeleton of _Archæopteryx lithographica_? It was a
moment or so before he could grasp the association of ideas in her
womanly little brain, and understand the real origin of her natural
wife-like fears and hesitations. "Oh, Cyril," she said again, after a minute's pause, looking at the
tell-tale fossil with another bright girlish smile, "is it only that? Only that wretched little creature? Oh, darling, I am so happy!" And she
threw her arms around his neck of her own accord, and kissed him
fervently twice or thrice over. Cyril was pleased indeed that she had recovered her trust in him so
readily, but amazed beyond measure that she could look at that horrible
anti-scriptural fossil absolutely without the slightest symptom of
flinching. "What a blessed thing it must be," he thought to himself, "to
be born a woman! Here's the whole universe going to rack and ruin,
physically and spiritually, before her very eyes, and she doesn't care a
fig as soon as she's quite satisfied in her own mind that her own
particular husband hasn't incomprehensibly fallen in love with one or
other of the Mortiscombe ladies!" It was gratifying to his personal
feelings, doubtless; but it wasn't at all complimentary, one must admit,
to the general constitution of the universe. "What ought I to do with it, Netta?" he asked her simply, pointing to
the fossil; glad to have any companionship, even if so unsympathetic, in
his hitherto unspoken doubts and difficulties. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"Do with it? Why, show it to the Geological Society, of course, Cyril. It's the Truth, you know, dearest, and why on earth should you wish to
conceal it? The Truth shall make you perfect." Cyril looked at her with mingled astonishment and admiration. "Oh,
Netta," he answered, sighing profoundly, "if only I could take it as
quietly as you do! If only I had faith as a grain of mustard-seed! But I
have been reduced almost to abject despair by this crushing piece of
deadly evidence. It seems to me to proclaim aloud that the evolutionists
are all completely right at bottom, and that everything we have ever
loved and cherished and hoped for, turns out an utter and absolute
delusion." "Then I should say you were still bound, for all that, to accept the
evidence," said Netta quietly. "However, for my part, I may be very
stupid and silly, and all that sort of thing, you know, but it doesn't
seem to me as if it really mattered twopence either way." Cyril looked at her again with fresh admiration. That was a point of
view that had not yet even occurred to him as within the bounds of
possibility. He had gone on repeating over and over again to his
congregation and to himself that if evolution were true, religion and
morality were mere phantoms, until at last he had ceased to think any
other proposition on the subject could be even thinkable. That a man
might instantly accept the evidence of his strange fossil, and yet be
after all an indifferent honest citizen in spite of it, was an idea that
had really never yet presented itself to him. And he blushed now to
think that, in spite of all his frequent professions of utter fidelity,
Netta had proved herself at last more loyal to the Truth in both aspects
than he himself had done. Her simple little womanly faith had never
faltered for a moment in either direction. That night was a very happy one for Netta: it was a somewhat happier one
than of late, even for Cyril. He had got rid of the cloud between
himself and his wife: he had made at least one person a confidante of
his horrid secret: and, above all, he had learnt that some bold and
ruthless German geologist had taken off his own shoulders the
responsibility of announcing the dreadful discovery. Still, it was some time before Cyril quite recovered from the gloomy
view of things generally into which his chance unearthing of the strange
fossil had temporarily thrown him. Two things mainly contributed to this
result. The first was that a few Sundays later he made up his mind he ought in
common honesty to exhibit his compromising fossil to the congregation in
the upper chamber, and make a public recantation of his recent confident
but untenable statements. He did so with much misgiving, impelled by a
growing belief that after all he must trust everything implicitly to the
Truth. It cost him a pang, too, to go back upon his own deliberate
words, so lately spoken; but he faced it out, for the Truth's sake, like
an honest man, as he had always tried to be--save for those few days
when the wicked little slab of slate lay carefully hidden away in the
inmost recesses of the laboratory cupboard. To his immense surprise,
once more, the brethren seemed to think little more of it than Netta
herself had done. Perhaps they were not so logical or thorough-going as
the young professor: perhaps they had more of unquestioning faith:
perhaps they had less of solid dogmatic leaven; but in any case they
seemed singularly little troubled by the new and startling geological
discovery. However, they were all much struck by the professor's honesty
of purpose in making a straightforward recantation of his admitted
blunder; he had acted honest and honourable, they said, like a man, and
they liked him better for it in the end, than if he'd preached, and
hedged, and shilly-shallied to them about it for a whole year of Sundays
together. Now, the mere fact that his good congregation didn't mind the
fossil much reacted healthily on Cyril Milliter, who began to suspect
that perhaps after all he had been exaggerating the religious importance
of speculative opinions on the precise nature of the cosmogony. The second thing was that, shortly after the great discovery, he
happened to make the acquaintance of the brilliant young evolutionist
from London, and found to his surprise that on the whole most of their
opinions agreed with remarkable unanimity. True, the young evolutionist
was not a Gospel Evangelist, and did not feel any profound interest in
the literal or mystical interpretation of the first chapter of Genesis. But in all essentials he was as deeply spiritual as Cyril Milliter
himself; and the more Cyril saw of him and talked with him, the more did
he begin to suspect that the truth may in reality have many facets, and
that all men may not happen to see it in exactly the self-same aspect. It dawned upon him slowly that all the illumination in the world might
not be entirely confined to the narrow circle of the Gospel
Evangelists. Even those terrible evolutionists themselves, it seemed,
were not necessarily wholly given over to cutting throats or robbing
churches. They might have their desires and aspirations, their faith and
their hope and their charity, exactly like other people, only perhaps in
a slightly different and more definite direction. In the end, Cyril and
his former bugbear became bosom friends, and both worked together
amicably side by side in the self-same laboratory at the College of
Science. To this day, Professor Milliter still continues to preach weekly to the
Gospel Evangelists, though both he and they have broadened a good deal,
in a gradual and almost imperceptible fashion, with the general
broadening of ideas and opinions that has been taking place by slow
degrees around us during the last two decades. His views are no doubt a
good deal less dogmatic and a good deal more wide and liberal now than
formerly. Netta and he live happily and usefully together; and over the
mantelpiece of his neat little study, in the cottage at Mortiscombe,
stands a slab of polished slate containing a very interesting oolitic
fossil, of which the professor has learnt at last to be extremely proud,
the first discovered and most perfect existing specimen of _Archæopteryx
lithographica_. He can hardly resist a quiet smile himself, nowadays,
when he remembers how he once kept that harmless piece of pictured stone
wrapt up carefully in a folded handkerchief in his laboratory cupboard
for some weeks together, as though it had been a highly dangerous and
very explosive lump of moral dynamite, calculated to effect at one fell
swoop the complete religious and ethical disintegration of the entire
divine universe. _IN STRICT CONFIDENCE._
I.
Harry Pallant was never more desperately in love with his wife Louie
than on the night of that delightful dance at the Vernon Ogilvies'. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
She
wore her pale blue satin, with the low bodice, and her pretty necklet of
rough amber in natural lumps, which her husband had given her for a
birthday present just three days earlier. Harry wasn't rich, and he
wasn't able to do everything that he could have wished for Louie--a
young barrister, with no briefs to speak of, even if he ekes out his
petty professional income with literary work, can't afford to spend very
much in the way of personal adornment upon the ladies of his family--but
he loved his pretty little wife dearly, and nothing pleased him better
than to see Louie admired as she ought to be by other people. And that
evening, to be sure, she was looking her very sweetest and prettiest. Flushed a little with unwonted excitement, in the glow of an innocent
girlish flirtation, as she stood there talking to Hugh Ogilvie in the
dim recess by the door of the conservatory, Harry, watching her
unobserved from a nook of the refreshment-room, thought he had never in
his life seen her look more beautiful or more becomingly animated. Animation suited Louie Pallant, and Hugh Ogilvie thought so too, as he
half whispered his meaningless compliments in her dainty little ear, and
noted the blush that rose quickly to her soft cheek, and the sudden
droop of her long eyelashes above her great open hazel-grey eyes. "Hugh's saying something pretty to Louie, I'm sure," Harry thought to
himself with a smile of pleasure, as he looked across at the sweet
little graceful girlish figure. "I can see it at once in her face, and
in her hands, playing so nervously with the edge of her fan. Dear child,
how she lets one read in her eyes and cheeks her every tiny passing
feeling! Her pretty wee mouth is like an open book! Hugh's telling her
confidentially now that she's the belle of the evening. And so she is;
there's not a doubt about it. Not a girl in the place fit to hold a
candle to my Louie; especially when she blushes--she's sweet when she
blushes. Now she's colouring up again. By Jove, yes, he must be
positively making love to her. There's nothing I enjoy so much as seeing
Louie enjoying herself, and being made much of. Too many girls, bright
young girls, when they marry early, as Louie has done, settle down at
once into household drudges, and never seem to get any happiness worth
mentioning out of their lives in any way. I won't let it be so with
Louie. Dear little soul, she shall flit about as much as she likes, and
enjoy herself as the fancy seizes her, like a little butterfly, just
like a butterfly. I love to see it!" And he hugged one clasped hand upon
the other silently. Whence the astute reader will readily infer that Harry Pallant was still
more or less in love with his wife Louie, although they had been married
for five years and upwards. Presently Louie and Hugh went back into the ballroom, and for the first
time Harry noticed that the music had struck up some minutes since for
the next waltz, for which he was engaged to Hugh's sister, Mrs. Wetherby
Ferrand. He started hastily at the accusing sound, for in watching his
wife he had forgotten his partner. Returning at once in search of Mrs.
Ferrand, he found her sitting disconsolate in a corner waiting for him,
and looking (as was natural) not altogether pleased at his ungallant
treatment. "So you've come at last, Harry!" Mrs. Ferrand said, with evident pique. They had been friends from childhood, and knew one another well enough
to use both their Christian names and the critical freedom of old
intimacy. "Yes, Dora, I've come at last," Harry answered, with an apologetic bow,
as he offered her his arm, "and I'm so sorry I've kept you waiting; but
the fact is I was watching Louie. She's been dancing with Hugh, and she
looks perfectly charming, I think, this evening." Mrs. Ferrand bit her lip. "She does," she answered coldly, with half a
pout. "And you were so busy watching her, it seems, you forgot all about
_me_, Harry." Harry laughed. "It was pardonable under the circumstances, you know,
Dora," he said lightly. "If it had been the other way, now, Louie might
have had some excuse for being jealous." "Who said I was jealous?" Mrs. Ferrand cried, colouring up. "Jealous of
you, indeed! What right have I got to be jealous of you, Harry? She may
dance with Hugh all night long, for all I care for it. She's danced with
him now three times already, and I dare say she'll dance with him as
often again. You men are too conceited. You always think every woman on
earth is just madly in love with you." "My dear child," Harry answered, with a faint curl of his lip, "you
quite misunderstand me. Heaven knows I at least am not conceited. What
on earth have I got to be conceited of? I never thought any woman was in
love with me in all my life except Louie; and what in the name of
goodness even she can find to fall in love with in me--a fellow like
me--positively passes my humble comprehension." "She's going to dance the next waltz but one with Hugh, he tells me,"
Mrs. Ferrand replied drily, as if changing the conversation. "Is she? Hugh's an excellent fellow," Harry answered carelessly, resting
for a moment a little aside from the throng, and singling out Louie at
once with his eye among the whirling dancers. "Ah, there she is, over
yonder. Do you see?--there, with that Captain Vandeleur. How sweetly she
dances, Dora! And how splendidly she carries herself! I declare, she's
the very gracefullest girl in all the room here." Mrs. Ferrand dropped half a mock curtsey. "A polite partner would have
said 'bar one,' Harry," she murmured petulantly. "How awfully in love
with her you are, my dear boy. It must be nice to have a man so
perfectly devoted to one.... And I don't believe either she half
appreciates you. Some women would give their very eyes, do you know, to
be as much loved by any man as she's loved by you, Harry." And she
looked at him significantly. "Well, but Ferrand----"
"Ah, poor Wetherby! Yes, yes; of course, of course, I quite agree with
you. You're always right, Harry. Poor Wetherby is the worthiest of men,
and in his own way does his very best, no doubt, to make me happy. But
there is devotion and devotion, Harry. _Il y a fagots et fagots._ Poor
dear Wetherby is no more capable----"
"Dora, Dora, for Heaven's sake, I beg of you, no confidences. As a legal
man, I must deprecate all confidences, otherwise than strictly in the
way of business. What got us first into this absurd groove, I wonder? Oh
yes, I remember--Louie's dancing. Shall we go on again? You must have
got your breath by this time. Why, what's the matter, Dora? You look
quite pale and flurried." "Nothing, Harry. Nothing--nothing, I assure you. Not quite so tight,
please; go quietly--I'm rather tired.... Yes, that'll do, thank you. The room's so very hot and close this evening. I can hardly breathe, I
feel so stifled. Tight-lacing, I suppose poor dear Wetherby would say. I
declare, Louie isn't dancing any longer. How very odd! She's gone back
again now to sit by Hugh there. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
What on earth can be the reason, I
wonder!" "Captain Vandeleur's such an awfully bad waltzer, you know," Harry
answered unconcernedly. "I dare say she was glad enough to make some
excuse or other to get away from him. The room's so very hot and
stifling." "Oh, you think so," and Dora Ferrand gave a quiet little smile, as one
who sees clearly below the surface. "I dare say. And she's not sorry
either to find some good reason for another ten minutes' chat with Hugh,
I fancy." But Harry, in his innocence, never noticed her plain insinuation. "He's
as blind as a bat," Dora Ferrand thought to herself, half
contemptuously. "Just like poor dear Wetherby! Poor dear Wetherby never
suspects anything! And that girl Louie doesn't half appreciate Harry
either. Just like me, I suppose, with that poor dear stupid old
stockbroker. Stockbroker, indeed! What in the name of all that's
sensible could ever have induced me to go and marry a blind old stick of
a wealthy stockbroker? If Harry and I had only our lives to live
again--but there, what's the use of bothering one's head about it? We've
only got one life apiece, and that we generally begin by making a mull
of." II. Three days later Harry Pallant went down as usual to his rooms in the
Temple, and set to work upon his daily labour. The first envelope he
opened of the batch upon his table was from the editor of the _Young
People's Monitor_. It contained the week's correspondence. Harry
Pallant glanced over the contents hastily, and singled out a few
enclosures from the big budget with languid curiosity. Of course everybody knows the _Young People's Monitor_. It is one of the
most successful among the penny weeklies, and in addition to its
sensational stories and moral essays, it gives advice gratis to all and
sundry in its correspondence columns upon every conceivable subject that
our common peccant or ignorant humanity can possibly inquire about. Now,
Harry Pallant happened to be the particular person employed by the
editor of this omniscient journal to supply the answers to the weekly
shoals of anxious interrogators _de omni scibili_. His legal learning
came in handy for the purpose, and being a practised London journalist
as well, his knowledge of life stood him in good stead at this strange
piece of literary craftsmanship. But the whole affair was "in strict
confidence," as the _Monitor_ announced. It was a point of honour
between himself and the editor that the secret of the correspondence
column should be jealously guarded from all and several; so Harry
Pallant, accustomed, lawyer-like, to keeping secrets, had never
mentioned his connection with the _Monitor_ in this matter even to
Louie. It came as part of his week's work at his chambers in the Temple,
and it was duly finished and sent off to press, without note or comment,
on the same day, in true business-like barrister fashion. The first letter that Harry opened and listlessly glanced through with
his experienced eye was one of the staple _Monitor_ kind--Stella or
Euphemia had quarrelled, in a moment of pique, with her lover, and was
now dying of anxiety to regain his affections. Harry scribbled a few
words of kindly chaff and sound advice in reply upon a blank sheet of
virgin foolscap, and tossed the torn fragments of letter number one into
the capacious mouth of his waste-paper basket. The second letter requested the editor's candid opinion upon a short
set of amateur verses therewith enclosed. Harry's candid opinion,
muttered to himself beneath his moustache, was too unparliamentary for
insertion in full; but he toned its verbal expression down a little in
his written copy, and passed on hastily to the others in order. "Camilla" would like to know, in strict confidence (thrice underlined),
what is the editor's opinion of her style of handwriting. "A Draper's
Assistant" is desirous to learn how the words "heterogeneous" and
"Beethoven" are usually pronounced in the best society. "Senex," having
had a slight difference as to the buttered toast with his present
landlady (in whose house he has lodged for forty years), would be glad
of any advice as to how, at his age, he is to do without her. "H. J. K."
has just read with much surprise a worthless pamphlet, proving that the
inhabitants of the northern divisions of Staffordshire and Warwickshire
are the lost Ten Tribes of Israel, and cannot imagine how this reckless
assertion can be scripturally reconciled with the plain statements of
the prophet Habakkuk, which show that the descendants of Manasseh are
really to be looked for in the county of Sligo. And so forth, though
every variety of male feebleness and feminine futility, in answer to all
which Harry turned off his hasty rejoinder with the dexterous ease
acquired of long practice and familiar experience. At last he came in due course to a small white envelope, of better paper
and style than the others, marked "17" in red pencil on the back in the
formal hand of the systematic editor. He turned it over with mechanical
carelessness. To his immense amusement and no little surprise, he saw at
once, by the writing of the address, that the note came from his own
Louie! What could Louie have to ask of advice or information from the anonymous
editor of the _Young People's Monitor_? He stood for a moment, with a quiet smile playing about his lips,
thinking to himself that he had often wondered whether he should ever
get a letter thus incognito from any person among his private
acquaintances. And now he had got one from Louie herself. How very
funny! How truly ridiculous! And how odd too that she shouldn't even
have told him beforehand she was going to write for counsel or
assistance to the _Young People's Monitor_! And then a strange doubt flashed idly for a moment across his mind--a
doubt that he felt immediately ashamed of. What possible subject could
there be on which Louie could want advice and aid from an editor, a
stranger, an unknown and anonymous impersonal entity, rather than from
him, Harry, her own husband, her natural guide, assistant, and
counsellor? It was odd, very odd--nay, even disquieting. Harry hardly
knew what to make of the unexpected episode. But next moment he had dismissed his doubts, though he stood still
toying with the unopened envelope. He was half afraid to look inside it. Louie had only written, he felt sure, about some feminine trifle or
other, some foolish point of petty etiquette--how to fold napkins
mitre-fashion, or whether "P.P.O." cards should be turned down at the
upper right or the lower left-hand corner--some absurd detail about
which she would have laughed outright at his personal opinion, but would
defer at once to the dignity of print, and the expressed verdict of the
_Young People's Monitor_. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
So great is the power of printer's ink, that
if you say a thing face to face, your own wife even will take no notice
of it; but if you set it up in type anonymously, she, and the world at
large to boot, will treat it like an inspired oracle in stone fallen
down direct from the seventh heaven. And yet somehow Harry Pallant couldn't make up his mind at once to break
open the tiny envelope of that mysterious, incomprehensible letter. At last he broke it, and read it hurriedly. As he did so a terrible,
ominous pang came across his heart, and the writing, familiar as it was,
swam illegibly in dancing lines before his strained and aching vision. "Dear Mr. Editor," the letter began, somewhat shakily, "you give
your advice and assistance to many people. Will you give it to me? Will you help me? Will you save me? "This is my position. I was married young to a man I did not love,
but liked and respected. I thought love would come afterwards. It
never came. On the contrary, the longer I have lived with him the
less I care for him. Not that he is unkind to me--he is good enough
and generous enough in all conscience; but he inspires me with no
affection and no enthusiasm. Till lately this was all I felt. I did
not love him, but I jogged along comfortably somehow. "Now, however, I find to my dismay that I am in love--not with him,
but with another man a hundred times more congenial to my tastes
and feelings in every way. I have done no wrong, but I think of him
and live in him all my time. I cannot for a moment dismiss him from
my thoughts. Oh, what am I to do? Tell me, help me! "I can never love my husband--of that I am certain. I can never
leave off loving the other--of that I am still more confident. Can
you advise me? Can you relieve me? This torture is too terrible. It
is killing me--killing me. "Yours ever, in strict confidence,
"EGERIA." Harry Pallant gazed at that awful accusing letter in blank horror and
speechless bewilderment. He could not even cry or groan. He could not
utter a word or shed a tear. The shock was so sudden, so crushing, so
unexpected, so irretrievable! He had never till that moment in the faintest degree doubted that Louie
loved him as he loved her--devotedly, distractedly. Why, that very morning, before he came away on his journey to the
Temple, Louie had kissed him so tenderly and affectionately, and called
him "darling," and wished he hadn't always to go to that horrid City. How the memory stung him! Yes; that was the hardest thought of all. If Louie wrote it, Louie was a
hypocrite. Not only did she not now love him--not only had she never
loved him, but, lowest depth of misery and shame, she had pretended to
love him when in her heart of hearts she hated and despised him. He
couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. In her own words, it was
too terrible! If Louie wrote it? He turned the letter over once more. Ah, yes, there
was no denying it. It was Louie's handwriting--Louie's, Louie's. His
brain reeled, but he could not doubt it or palter over it for a moment. Not even disguised--her very own handwriting. It was the seal of doom
for him, yet he could not even pretend to disbelieve it. He sat there long, incapable of realizing the full horror of that
crushing, destroying, annihilating disclosure. It was useless trying to
realize it--thank God for that! It so dazed and stunned and staggered
and bewildered him that he fell for a time into a sort of hopeless
lethargy, and felt and saw and thought of nothing. At last he roused himself. He must go out. He rose from the table by the
dingy window, took up his hat dreamily in his hand, and walked down the
stairs, out of the gateway, and into the full tide of life and bustle in
busy Fleet Street. The cooler air upon his forehead and the sight of so many hurrying,
active figures sobered and steadied him. He walked with rapid strides as
far as Charing Cross Station, and then back again. After that, he came
into his chambers once more, sat down resolutely at his table by
himself, and began to write in a trembling shaky hand his answer to
"Egeria." How often he had written a different answer to just the same type of
tragic little letter--an answer of the commonplace conventional
morality, a small set sermon on the duties of wives and the rights of
husbands--as though there was nothing more in that fearful disclosure
than the merest fancy; and now, when at last it touched himself, how
profoundly awful in their mockery of the truth those baldly respectable
answers seemed to him! "EGERIA.--Your letter shall be treated, as you wish, in strict
confidence. No one but ourselves shall ever know of it. You need
not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you. By the
time you read this you will have learnt, or will shortly learn,
that he is not in a position to cause you further discomfort. This
is the only intimation you will receive of his intention. You will
understand what it all means soon after you read this
communication." He rang the hand-bell on the table for his boy, put the answers into a
long blue envelope, and said mechanically in a dry voice, "To the _Young
People's Monitor_. For press immediately." The boy nodded a mute assent,
and took them off to the office in silent obedience. As soon as he was gone Harry Pallant locked the door, flung himself upon
the table with his head buried madly in his arms, and sobbed aloud in
terrible despondency. He had found at least the relief of tears. There was only one comfort. He was fully insured, and Hugh Ogilvie was a
rich man. Louie at least would be well provided for. He cared for
nothing except for Louie. If Louie was happier--happier without him,
what further need had he got for living? He had never thought before of Hugh, but now, now, Dora's words came
back to him at once, and he saw it all--he saw it all plainly. Heaven be praised, they had no children! If they had had children--well,
well, as things now stood, he could do what was best for Louie's
happiness. III. For the next two days Louie could not imagine what sudden change had
come so inexplicably over Harry Pallant. He was quite as tender and as
gentle as ever, but so silent, sad, and incomprehensible. Louie coaxed
him and petted him in vain; the more she made of him the more Harry
seemed to retreat within himself, and the less could she understand what
on earth he was thinking of. On the Thursday night, when Harry came back from his work in the City,
he said to Louie in an off-hand tone, "Louie, I think of running down
to-morrow to dear old Bilborough." "What for, darling?" "Well, you know, I've been fearfully out of sorts lately--worried or
something--and I think three or four days at the seaside would be all
the better for me--and for you too, darling. Let's go to the Red Lion,
Louie. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I've telegraphed down to-night for rooms, and I dare say--I shall
get rid there of whatever's troubling me." The Red Lion at Bilborough was the hotel at which they had passed their
honeymoon, and where they had often gone at various times since for
their summer holiday. Louie was delighted at the proposed trip, and
smoothed her husband's hair softly with her hand. "My darling," she said, "I'm so glad you're going there. I've noticed
for the last few days you looked fagged and worried. But Bilborough's
just the right place. Bilborough always sets you up again." Harry smiled a faint, unhappy smile. "I've no doubt," he answered
evasively, "I shall leave all my trouble behind at Bilborough." They started by the early train next day, Louie hastily packing their
little portmanteau overnight, and got down to Bilborough before noon. As
soon as they were fairly settled in at the Lion, Harry kissed his wife
tenderly, and, with a quiet persistence in his voice said, on a sudden,
"Louie, I think I shall go and have a swim before lunch-time." "A swim, Harry! So soon?--already?" "Yes," Harry answered, with a twitching mouth, and looking at her
nervously. "There's nothing like a swim you know, Louie, to wash away
the cobwebs of London." "Well, don't be long, darling," Louie said, with some undisguised
anxiety. "I've ordered lunch, remember, for one." "For one, Louie?" Harry cried with a start. "Why for one, dearest? I
don't understand you.... Oh, I see. How very stupid of me! Yes, yes,
I'll be back by one o'clock.... That is to say, if I'm not back, don't
you wait lunch for me." He moved uneasily to the door, and then he turned back again with a
timid glance, and drew a newspaper slowly from his pocket. "I've brought
down this morning's _Young People's Monitor_ with me, Louie," he said,
in a tremulous voice, after a short pause. "I know you sometimes like to
see it." He watched her narrowly to observe the effect, but Louie took it from
him without a visible tremor. "Oh, I'm so glad, Harry," she said in her
natural tone, without betraying the least excitement. "How awfully kind
of you to get it for me! There's something in it I wanted to see about." Something in it she wanted to see about! Harry's heart stood still for a
second within him! What duplicity! What temerity! What a terrible
mixture of seeming goodness and perfect composure! And yet it was Louie,
and he couldn't help loving her! He kissed her once more--a long, hard
kiss--upon the forehead, and went out, leaving her there with the paper
clasped tightly in her small white fingers. Though she said nothing he
could see that her fingers trembled as she held it. Yes yes, there could
be no doubt about it; she was eagerly expecting the answer--the fatal
answer--the answer to "Egeria" in the correspondence column. IV. Louie stood long at the window, with the paper still clutched eagerly in
her hand, afraid to open it and read the answer, and yet longing to know
what the _Young People's Monitor_ had to say in reply to "Egeria." So
she watched Harry go down to the bathing machines and enter one--it was
still early in the season, and he had no need to wait; and then she
watched them turning the windlass and letting it run down upon the
shelving beach; and then she watched Harry swimming out and stemming the
waves in his bold, manly fashion--he was a splendid swimmer; and after
that, unable any longer to restrain her curiosity, she tore the paper
open with her finger, and glanced down the correspondence column till
she reached the expected answer to "Egeria." She read it over wondering and trembling, with a sudden awful sense of
the editor's omniscience as she saw the letters "H. P."--her husband's
initials--Harry Pallant. "H. P.!" what could he mean by it? And then a
vague dread came across her soul. What could "Egeria" and the editor of
the _Young People's Monitor_ have to do with Harry Pallant? She read it over again and again. How terrifying! how mysterious! how
dimly incomprehensible! Who on earth could have told the editor--that
impersonal entity--that "Egeria's" letter had any connection with her
own husband, Harry Pallant? And yet he must have known it--evidently
known it. And she herself had never suspected the allusion. Yes, yes, it
was clear to her now; the man about whom "Egeria" had written was
Harry--Harry--Harry--Harry. Could it have been that that had so troubled
him of late? She couldn't bear to distrust Harry; but it must have been
that, and nothing else. Harry was in love with Dora Ferrand; or, if not,
Dora Ferrand was in love with Harry, and Harry knew it, and was afraid
he might yield to her, and had ran away from her accordingly. He had
come to Bilborough on purpose to escape her--to drag himself away from
her--to try to forget her. Oh, Harry, Harry!--and she loved him so
truly. To think he should deceive her--to think he should keep anything
from her! It was too terrible--too terrible! She couldn't bear to think
it, and yet the evidence forced it upon her. But how did the editor ever come to know about it? And what was this
mysterious, awful message that he gave Dora about Harry Pallant? "You need not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you." Why? Did Harry mean to leave London altogether? Was he afraid to trust
himself there with Dora Ferrand? Did he fear that she would steal his
heart in spite of him? Oh, Dora, Dora! the shameless creature! When
Louie came to think it all over, her effrontery and her wickedness were
absolutely appalling. She sat there long, turning the paper over helplessly in her hand,
reading its words every way but the right way, pondering over what Harry
had said to her that morning, putting her own interpretation upon
everything, and forgetting even to unpack her things and make herself
ready for lunch in the coffee-room. Presently, a crowd upon the beach below languidly attracted her passing
attention. The coastguard from the look-out was gesticulating
frantically, and a group of sailors were seizing in haste upon a boat on
the foreshore. They launched it hurriedly and pulled with all their
might outward, the people on the beach gathering thicker meanwhile, and
all looking eagerly towards some invisible object far out to sea, in the
direction of the Race with the dangerous current. Louie's heart sank
ominously within her. At that very moment the chambermaid of the hotel
rushed in with a pale face, and cried out in merciless haste, "Oh,
ma'am, Mrs. Pallant! quick! quick!--he's drowning! he's drowning! Mr.
Pallant's swum too far out, and's got into the Race, and they've put the
boat off to try and save him!" In a second, half the truth flashed terribly upon Louie Pallant's
distracted intelligence. She saw that it was Harry himself who wrote the
correspondence for the _Young People's Monitor_, and that he had swum
out to sea of his own accord to the end of his tether, on purpose to
drown himself as if by accident. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But she didn't yet perceive, obvious as
it seemed, that Harry thought she herself had written "Egeria's" letter
in her own person. She thought still he was in love with Dora, and had
drowned himself because he couldn't tear himself away from her for ever. V.
They brought Harry Pallant ashore, cold and lifeless, and carried him up
in haste to the hotel. There the village doctor saw him at once, and
detected a faint tremor of the heart. At the end of an hour the lungs
began to act faintly of themselves, and the heart beat a little in some
feeble fashion. With care Harry Pallant came round, but it took a week or two before he
was himself again, and Louie nursed him meanwhile in fear and
trembling, with breathless agony. She had one consolation--Harry loved
her. In the long nights the whole truth dawned upon her, clear and
certain. She saw how Harry had opened the letter, had jumped at once to
the natural conclusion, and had tried to drown himself in order to
release her. Oh, why had he not trusted her? Why had he not asked her? A
woman naturally thinks like that; a man knows in his own soul that a man
could never possibly do so. She dared not tell him yet, for fear of a relapse. She could only wait
and watch, and nurse him tenderly. And all the time she knew he
distrusted her--knew he thought her a hypocrite and a traitor. For
Harry's sake she had to bear it. At last, one day, when he was getting very much stronger, and could sit
up in a chair and look bitterly out at the sea, she said to him in a
gentle voice, very tentatively, "Harry, Dora Ferrand and her husband
have gone to spend the summer in Norway." Harry groaned. "How do you know?" he asked. "Has Hugh written to you? What is it to us? Who told you about it?" Louie bit her lip hard to keep back the tears. "Dora telegraphed to me
herself," she answered softly. "She telegraphed to me as soon as
ever"--she hesitated a moment--"as soon as ever she saw your answer to
her in the _Monitor_." Harry's face grew white with horror. "My answer to _her_!" he cried in a
ghastly voice, not caring to ask at the moment how Louie came to know it
was he who wrote the answers in the _Young People's Monitor_. "My answer
to _you_, you mean, Louie. It was your letter--yours, not Dora's. You
can't deceive me. I read it myself. My poor child, I saw your
handwriting." It was an awful thing that, in spite of all, he must have it out with
her against his will; but he would not flinch from it--he would settle
it then and there, once and for ever. She had introduced it herself; she
had brought it down upon her own head. He would not flinch from it. It
was his duty to tell her. Louie laid her hand upon his arm. He did not try to cast it off. "Harry," she said, imploringly, persuasively, "there is a terrible
mistake here--a terrible misunderstanding. It was unavoidable; you could
not possibly have thought otherwise. But oh, Harry, if you knew the
suffering you have brought upon me, you would not speak so, darling--you
would not speak so." Harry turned towards her passionately and eagerly. "Then you didn't want
me to die, Louie?" he cried in a hoarse voice. "You didn't really want
to get rid of me?" Louie withdrew her hand hastily as if she had been stung. "Harry," she
gasped, as well as she was able, "you misunderstood that letter
altogether. It was not mine--it was Dora Ferrand's. Dora wrote it, and I
only copied it. If you will listen a minute I will tell you all, all
about it." Harry flung himself back half incredulously on his chair, but with a
new-born hope lighting up in part the gloom of his recovered existence. "I went over to Dora Ferrand's the day after the Ogilvies' dance," Louie
began tremulously, "and I found Dora sitting in her boudoir writing a
letter. I walked up without being announced, and when Dora saw me she
screamed a little, and then she grew as red as fire, and burst out
crying, and tried to hide the letter she was writing. So I went up to
her and began to soothe her, and asked her what it was, and wanted to
read it. And Dora cried for a long time, and wouldn't tell me, and was
dreadfully penitent, and said she was very, very miserable. So I said,
'Dora, is there anything wrong between you and Mr. Ferrand?' And she
said, 'Nothing, Louie; I give you my word of honour, nothing. Poor
Wetherby's as kind to me as anybody could be. But----' And then she
began crying again as if her heart would burst, worse than ever. And I
took her head on my shoulder, and said to her, 'Dora, is it that you
feel you don't love him?' And Dora was in a dreadfully penitent fit, and
she flung herself away from me, and said to me, 'Oh, Louie, don't touch
me! Don't kiss me! Don't come near me! I'm not fit to associate with a
girl like you, dear.... Oh, Louie, I don't love him; and--what's
worse--I love somebody else, darling.' Well, then, of course, I was
horribly shocked, and I said, 'Dora, Dora, this is awfully wicked of
you!' And Dora cried worse than before, and sobbed away, and wouldn't be
comforted. And there was a copy of the _Monitor_ lying on the table, and
I saw it open at the correspondence, and I said, 'Were you writing for
advice to the _Monitor_, Dora?' And she looked up and nodded 'Yes.' So I
coaxed her and begged her to show me the letter, and at last she showed
it to me; but she wouldn't tell me who she was in love with, Harry; and,
oh, Harry, my darling, my darling, I never so much as dreamt of its
being you, dear--the thought never even crossed my mind. I ran over
everybody I could imagine she'd taken a fancy to, but I never for a
moment thought of you, darling. I suppose, Harry, I loved you too dearly
even to suspect it. And then, I dare say, Dora saw I didn't suspect it;
but, anyhow, she went on and finished the letter--it was nearly done
when I came in to her--and after that she said she couldn't bear to send
it in her own handwriting, for fear anybody should know her and
recognize it. So I said if she liked I'd copy it out for her, for by
that time I was crying just as hard as she was, and so sorry for her and
for poor Mr. Ferrand; and it never struck me that anybody could ever
possibly think that I wrote it about myself. And--and--and that's all,
Harry." Harry listened, conscience-smitten, to the artless recital, which bore
its own truth on the very surface of it, as it fell from Louie's
trembling lips, and then he held her off at arm's length when she tried
to fall upon his neck and kiss him, whispering in a loud undertone, "Oh,
Louie, Louie, don't, don't! I don't deserve it! I have been too
wicked--too mistrustful!" Louie drew forth a letter from her pocket and handed it to him silently. It was in Dora's handwriting. He read it through in breathless anxiety. "Louie,--I dare not call you anything else now. You know it all by
this time. We have heard about Harry's accident from your sister. Nobody but ourselves knows it was not an accident. And I have seen
the answer in the _Monitor_. Of course Harry wrote it. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I see it all
now. You can never forgive me. It is I who have brought all this
misery upon you. I am a wretched woman. Do not reproach me--I
reproach myself more bitterly than anything you could say would
ever reproach me. But don't forgive me and pity me either. If you
forgive me I shall have to kill myself. It's all over now. I will
do the only thing that remains for me--keep out of your way and his
for ever. Poor Wetherby is going to take me for the summer to
Norway, as I telegraphed to you. We are just starting. When we
return we shall winter in Italy. I will leave London in future
altogether. Nobody but our three selves need ever know or suspect
the reason. Harry will recover, and you two will be happy yet. But
I--I shall be as miserable for ever, as I truly deserve to be. "Your wretched friend,
"D. F."
Harry crumpled up the letter bitterly in his hand. "Poor soul," he said. "Louie, I forgive her. Can I myself ever hope for forgiveness?" Louie flung herself fiercely upon him. "My darling," she cried, "we will
always trust one another in future. You couldn't help it, Harry. It was
impossible for you to have judged otherwise. But oh, my darling, what I
have suffered! Let us forgive her. Harry, and let us love one another
better now." _THE SEARCH PARTY'S FIND._
I can stand it no longer. I must put down my confession on paper, since
there is no living creature left to whom I can confess it. The snow is drifting fiercer than ever to-day against the cabin; the
last biscuit is almost finished; my fingers are so pinched with cold I
can hardly grasp the pen to write with. But I _will_ write, I must
write, and I am writing. I cannot die with the dreadful story
unconfessed upon my conscience. It was only an accident, most of you who read this confession perhaps
will say; but in my own heart I know better than that--I know it was a
murder, a wicked murder. Still, though my hands are very numb, and my head swimming wildly with
delirium, I will try to be coherent, and to tell my story clearly and
collectedly. * * * * *
I was appointed surgeon of the _Cotopaxi_ in June, 1880. I had reasons
of my own--sad reasons--for wishing to join an Arctic expedition. I
didn't join it, as most of the other men did, from pure love of danger
and adventure. I am not a man to care for that sort of thing on its own
account. I joined it because of a terrible disappointment. For two years I had been engaged to Dora--I needn't call her anything
but Dora; my brother, to whom I wish this paper sent, but whom I
daren't address as "Dear Arthur"--how could I, a murderer?--will know
well enough who I mean; and as to other people, it isn't needful they
should know anything about it. But whoever you are, whoever finds this
paper, I beg of you, I implore you, I adjure you, do not tell a word of
it to Dora. I cannot die unconfessed, but I cannot let the confession
reach _her_; if it does, I know the double shock will kill her. Keep it
from her. Tell her only he is dead--dead at his post, like a brave man,
on the _Cotopaxi_ exploring expedition. For mercy's sake don't tell her
that he was murdered, and that I murdered him. I had been engaged, I said, two years to Dora. She lived in Arthur's
parish, and I loved her--yes, in those days I loved her purely,
devotedly, innocently. I was innocent then myself, and I really believe
good and well-meaning. I should have been genuinely horrified and
indignant if anybody had ventured to say that I should end by committing
a murder. It was a great grief to me when I had to leave Arthur's parish, and my
father's parish before him, to go up to London and take a post as
surgeon to a small hospital. I couldn't bear being so far away from
Dora. And at first Dora wrote to me almost every day with the greatest
affection. (Heaven forgive me, if I still venture to call her Dora! her,
so good and pure and beautiful, and I, a murderer.) But, after a while,
I noticed slowly that Dora's tone seemed to grow colder and colder, and
her letters less and less frequent. Why she should have begun to cease
loving me, I cannot imagine; perhaps she had a premonition of what
possibility of wickedness was really in me. At any rate, her coldness
grew at last so marked that I wrote and asked Arthur whether he could
explain it. Arthur answered me, a little regretfully, and with brotherly
affection (he is a good fellow, Arthur), that he thought he could. He
feared--it was painful to say so--but he feared Dora was beginning to
love a newer lover. A young man had lately come to the village of whom
she had seen a great deal, and who was very handsome and brave and
fascinating. Arthur was afraid he could not conceal from me his
impression that Dora and the stranger were very much taken with one
another. At last, one morning, a letter came to me from Dora. I can put it in
here, because I carried it away with me when I went to Hammerfest to
join the _Cotopaxi_, and ever since I have kept it sadly in my private
pocket-book. "Dear Ernest" (she had always called me Ernest since we had been
children together, and she couldn't leave it off even now when she
was writing to let me know she no longer loved me), "Can you
forgive me for what I am going to tell you? I thought I loved you
till lately; but then I had never discovered what love really
meant. I have discovered it now, and I find that, after all, I only
liked you very sincerely. You will have guessed before this that I
love somebody else, who loves me in return with all the strength of
his whole nature. I have made a grievous mistake, which I know will
render you terribly unhappy. But it is better so than to marry a
man whom I do not really love with all my heart and soul and
affection; better in the end, I am sure, for both of us. I am too
much ashamed of myself to write more to you. Can you forgive me? "Yours,
"DORA." I could not forgive her then, though I loved her too much to be angry; I
was only broken-hearted--thoroughly stunned and broken-hearted. I can
forgive her now, but she can never forgive me, Heaven help me! I only wanted to get away, anywhere, anywhere, and forget all about it
in a life of danger. So I asked for the post of surgeon to Sir Paxton
Bateman's _Cotopaxi_ expedition a few weeks afterwards. They wanted a
man who knew something about natural history and deep-sea dredging, and
they took me on at once, on the recommendation of a well-known man of
science! The very day I joined the ship at Hammerfest, in August, I noticed
immediately there was one man on board whose mere face and bearing and
manner were at first sight excessively objectionable to me. He was a
handsome young fellow enough--one Harry Lemarchant, who had been a
planter in Queensland, and who, after being burned up with three years
of tropical sunshine was anxious to cool himself apparently by a long
winter of Arctic gloom. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Handsome as he was, with his black moustache and
big dark eyes rolling restlessly, I took an instantaneous dislike to his
cruel thin lip and cold proud mouth the moment I looked upon him. If I
had been wise, I would have drawn back from the expedition at once. It
is a foolish thing to bind one's self down to a voyage of that sort
unless you are perfectly sure beforehand that you have at least no
instinctive hatred of any one among your messmates in that long forced
companionship. But I wasn't wise, and I went on with him. From the first moment, even before I had spoken to him, I disliked
Lemarchant; very soon I grew to hate him. He seemed to me the most
recklessly cruel and devilish creature (God forgive me that I should say
it!) I had ever met with in my whole lifetime. On an Arctic expedition,
a man's true nature soon comes out--mine did certainly--and he lets his
companions know more about his inner self in six weeks than they could
possibly learn about him in years of intercourse under other
circumstances. And the second night I was on board the _Cotopaxi_ I
learnt enough to make my blood run cold about Harry Lemarchant's ideas
and feelings. We were all sitting on deck together, those of us who were not on duty,
and listening to yarns from one another, as idle men will, when the
conversation happened accidentally to turn on Queensland, and Lemarchant
began to enlighten us about his own doings when he was in the colony. He
boasted a great deal about his prowess as a disperser of the black
fellows, which he seemed to consider a very noble sort of occupation. There was nobody in the colony, he said, who had ever dispersed so many
blacks as he had; and he'd like to be back there, dispersing again, for,
in the matter of sport, it beat kangaroo-hunting, or any other kind of
shooting he had ever yet tried his hand at, all to pieces. The second-lieutenant, Hepworth Paterson, a nice kind-hearted young
Scotchman, looked up at him a little curiously, and said, "Why, what do
you mean by dispersing, Lemarchant? Driving them off into the bush, I
suppose: isn't that it? Not much fun in that, that I can see, scattering
a lot of poor helpless black naked savages." Lemarchant curled his lip contemptuously (he didn't think much of
Paterson, because his father was said to be a Glasgow grocer), and
answered in his rapid, dare-devil fashion: "No fun! Isn't there, just! that's all you know about it, my good fellow. Now I'll give you one
example. One day, the inspector came in and told us there were a lot of
blacks camping out on our estate down by the Warramidgee river. So we
jumped on our horses like a shot, went down there immediately, and began
dispersing them. We didn't fire at them, because the grass and ferns and
things were very high, and we might have wasted our ammunition; but we
went at them with native spears, just for all the world like
pig-sticking. You should have seen those black fellows run for their
lives through the long grass--men, women, and little ones together. We
rode after them, full pelt; and as we came up with them, one by one, we
just rolled them over, helter-skelter, as if they'd been antelopes or
bears or something. By-and-by, after a good long charge or two, we'd
cleared the place of the big blacks altogether; but the gins and the
children, some of them, lay lurking in among the grass, you know, and
wouldn't come out and give us fair sport, as they ought to have done,
out in the open: children will pack, you see, whenever they're hard
driven, exactly like grouse, after a month or two's steady shooting. Well, to make them start and show game, of course we just put a match to
the grass; and in a minute the whole thing was in a blaze, right down
the corner to the two rivers. So we turned our horses into the stream,
and rode alongside, half a dozen of us on each river; and every now and
then, one of the young ones would break cover, and slide out quietly
into the stream, and try to swim across without being perceived, and get
clean away into the back country. Then we just made a dash at them with
the pig-spears; and sometimes they'd dive--and precious good divers they
are, too, those Queenslanders, I can tell you; but we waited around till
they came up again, and then we stuck them as sure as houses. That's
what we call dispersing the natives over in Queensland: extending the
blessings of civilization to the unsettled parts of the back country." He laughed a pleasant laugh to himself quietly as he finished this
atrocious, devilish story, and showed his white teeth all in a row, as
if he thought the whole reminiscence exceedingly amusing. Of course, we were all simply speechless with horror and astonishment. Such deliberate brutal murderousness--gracious heavens! what am I
saying? I had half forgotten for the moment that I, too, am a murderer. "But what had the black fellows done to you?" Paterson asked with a tone
of natural loathing, after we had all sat silent and horror-stricken in
a circle for a moment. "I suppose they'd been behaving awfully badly to
some white people somewhere--massacring women or something--to get your
blood up to such a horrid piece of butchery." Lemarchant laughed again, a quiet chuckle of conscious superiority, and
only answered: "Behaving badly! Massacring white women! Lord bless your
heart, I'd like to see them! Why, the wretched creatures wouldn't ever
dare to do it. Oh, no, nothing of that sort, I can tell you. And our
blood wasn't up either. We went in for it just by way of something to
do, and to keep our hands in. Of course you can't allow a lot of lazy
hulking blacks to go knocking around in the neighbourhood of an estate,
stealing your fowls and fruit and so forth, without let or hindrance. It's the custom in Queensland to disperse the black fellows. I've often
been out riding with a friend, and I've seen a nigger skulking about
somewhere down in a hollow among the tree-ferns; and I've just drawn my
six-shooter, and said to my friend, 'You see me disperse that confounded
nigger!' and I've dispersed him right off--into little pieces, too, you
may take your oath upon it." "But do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lemarchant," Paterson said, looking a
deal more puzzled and shocked, "that these poor creatures had been doing
absolutely nothing?" "Well, now, that's the way of all you home-sticking sentimentalists,"
Lemarchant went on, with an ugly simper. "You want to push on the
outskirts of civilization and to see the world colonized, but you're too
squeamish to listen to anything about the only practicable civilizing
and colonizing agencies. It's the struggle for existence, don't you see:
the plain outcome of all the best modern scientific theories. The black
man has got to go to the wall; the white man, with his superior moral
and intellectual nature, has got to push him there. At bottom, it's
nothing more than civilization. Shoot 'em off at once, I say, and get
rid of 'em forthwith and for ever." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"Why," I said, looking at him, with my disgust speaking in my face
(Heaven forgive me! ), "I call it nothing less than murder." Lemarchant laughed, and lit his cigar; but after that, somehow, the
other men didn't much care to talk to him in an ordinary way more than
was necessary for the carrying out of the ship's business. And yet he was a very gentlemanly fellow, I must admit, and well read
and decently educated. Only there seemed to be a certain natural
brutality about him, under a thin veneer of culture and good breeding,
that repelled us all dreadfully from the moment we saw him. I dare say
we shouldn't have noticed it so much if we hadn't been thrown together
so closely as men are on an Arctic voyage, but then and there it was
positively unendurable. We none of us held any communications with him
whenever we could help it; and he soon saw that we all of us thoroughly
disliked and distrusted him. That only made him reckless and defiant. He knew he was bound to go the
journey through with us now, and he set to work deliberately to shock
and horrify us. Whether all the stories he told us by the ward-room fire
in the evenings were true or not, I can't tell you--I don't believe they
all were; but at any rate he made them seem as brutal and disgusting as
the most loathsome details could possibly make them. He was always
apologizing--nay, glorying--in bloodshed and slaughter, which he used to
defend with a show of cultivated reasoning that made the naked brutality
of his stories seem all the more awful and unpardonable at bottom. And
yet one couldn't deny, all the time, that there was a grace of manner
and a show of polite feeling about him which gave him a certain external
pleasantness, in spite of everything. He was always boasting that women
liked him; and I could easily understand how a great many women who saw
him only with his company manners might even think him brave and
handsome and very chivalrous. I won't go into the details of the expedition. They will be found fully
and officially narrated in the log, which I have hidden in the captain's
box in the hut beside the captain's body. I need only mention here the
circumstances immediately connected with the main matter of this
confession. * * * * *
One day, a little while before we got jammed into the ice off the Liakov
Islands, Lemarchant was up on deck with me, helping me to remove from
the net the creatures that we had dredged up in our shallow soundings. As he stooped to pick out a _Leptocardium boreale_, I happened to
observe that a gold locket had fallen out of the front of his waistcoat,
and showed a lock of hair on its exposed surface. Lemarchant noticed it
too, and with an awkward laugh put it back hurriedly. "My little girl's
keepsake!" he said in a tone that seemed to me disagreeably flippant
about such a subject. "She gave it to me just before I set off on my way
to Hammerfest." I started in some astonishment. He had a little girl then--a sweetheart
he meant, obviously. If so, Heaven help her! poor soul, Heaven help her! For any woman to be tied for life to such a creature as that was really
quite too horrible. I didn't even like to think upon it. I don't know what devil prompted me, for I seldom spoke to him, even
when we were told off on duty together; but I said at last, after a
moment's pause, "If you are engaged to be married, as I suppose you are
from what you say, I wonder you could bear to come away on such a long
business as this, when you couldn't get a word or a letter from the lady
you're engaged to for a whole winter." He went on picking out the shells and weeds as he answered in a
careless, jaunty tone, "Why, to tell you the truth, Doctor, that was
just about the very meaning of it. We're going to be married next
summer, you see, and for reasons of her papa's--the deuce knows
what!--my little girl couldn't possibly be allowed to marry one week
sooner. There I'd been, knocking about and spooning with her violently
for three months nearly; and the more I spooned, and the more tired I
got of it, the more she expected me to go on spooning. Well, I'm not the
sort of man to stand billing and cooing for a whole year together. At
last the thing grew monotonous. I wanted to get an excuse to go off
somewhere, where there was some sort of fun going on, till summer came,
and we could get spliced properly (for she's got some tin, too, and I
didn't want to throw her over); but I felt that if I'd got to keep on
spooning and spooning for a whole winter, without intermission, the
thing would really be one too many for me, and I should have to give it
up from sheer weariness. So I heard of this precious expedition, which
is just the sort of adventure I like; I wrote and volunteered for it;
and then I managed to make my little girl and her dear papa believe that
as I was an officer in the naval reserve I was compelled to go when
asked, willy-nilly. 'It's only for half a year, you know, darling,' and
all that sort of thing--you understand the line of country; and
meanwhile I'm saved the bother of ever writing to her, or getting any
letters from her either, which is almost in its way an equal nuisance." "I see," said I shortly. "Not to put too fine a point upon it, you
simply lied to her." "Upon my soul," he answered, showing his teeth again, but this time by
no means pleasantly, "you fellows on the _Cotopaxi_ are really the
sternest set of moralists I ever met with outside a book of sermons or a
Surrey melodrama. You ought all to have been parsons, every man Jack of
you; that's just about what you're fit for." * * * * *
On the fourteenth of September we got jammed in the ice, and the
_Cotopaxi_ went to pieces. You will find in the captain's log how part
of us walked across the pack to the Liakov Islands, and settled
ourselves here on Point Sibiriakoff in winter quarters. As to what
became of the other party, which went southwards to the mouth of the
Lena, I know nothing. It was a hard winter, but by the aid of our stores and an occasional
walrus shot by one of the blue-jackets, we managed to get along till
March without serious illness. Then, one day, after a spell of terrible
frost and snow, the Captain came to me, and said, "Doctor, I wish you'd
come and see Lemarchant, in the other hut here. I'm afraid he's got a
bad fever." I went to see him. So he had. A raging fever. Fumbling about among his clothes to lay him down comfortably on the
bearskin (for of course we had saved no bedding from the wreck), I
happened to knock out once more the same locket that I had seen when he
was emptying the drag-net. There was a photograph in it of a young lady. The seal-oil lamp didn't give very much light in the dark hut (it was
still the long winter night on the Liakov Islands), but even so I
couldn't help seeing and recognizing the young lady's features. Great
Heaven support me! uphold me! I reeled with horror and amazement. It was
Dora. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Yes; his little girl, that he spoke of so carelessly, that he lied to so
easily, that he meant to marry so cruelly, was my Dora. I had pitied the woman who was to be Harry Lemarchant's wife even when I
didn't know who she was in any way; I pitied her terribly, with all my
heart, when I knew that she was Dora--my own Dora. If I have become a
murderer, after all, it was to save Dora--to save Dora from that
unutterable, abominable ruffian. I clutched the photograph in the locket eagerly, and held it up to the
man's eyes. He opened them dreamily. "Is that the lady you are going to
marry?" I asked him, with all the boiling indignation of that terrible
discovery seething and burning in my very face. He smiled, and took it all in in half a minute. "It is," he answered, in
spite of the fever, with all his old dare-devil carelessness. "And now I
recollect they told me the fellow she was engaged to was a doctor in
London, and a brother of the parson. By Jove, I never thought of it
before that your name, too, was actually Robinson. That's the worst of
having such a deuced common name as yours; no one ever dreams of
recognizing your relations. Hang it all, if you're the man, I suppose
now, out of revenge, you'll be wanting next to go and poison me." "You judge others by yourself, I'm afraid," I answered sternly. Oh, how
the words seem to rise up in judgment against me at last, now the
dreadful thing is all over! I doctored him as well as I was able, hoping all the time in my inmost
soul (for I will confess all now) that he would never recover. Already
in wish I had become a murderer. It was too horrible to think that such
a man as that should marry Dora. I had loved her once and I loved her
still; I love her now; I shall always love her. Murderer as I am, I say
it nevertheless, I shall always love her. But at last, to my grief and disappointment, the man began to mend and
get better. My doctoring had done him good; and the sailors, though even
they did not love him, had shot him once or twice a small bird, of which
we made fresh soup that seemed to revive him. Yes, yes, he was coming
round; and my cursed medicines had done it all. He was getting well, and
he would still go back to marry Dora. The very idea put me into such a fever of terror and excitement that at
last I began to exhibit the same symptoms as Lemarchant himself had
done. The Captain saw I was sickening, and feared the fever might prove
an epidemic. It wasn't: I knew that. Mine was brain, Lemarchant's was
intermittent; but the Captain insisted upon disbelieving me. So he put
me and Lemarchant into the same hut, and made all the others clear out,
so as to turn it into a sort of temporary hospital. Every night I put out from the medicine-chest two quinine powders
apiece, for myself and Lemarchant. One night, it was the 7th of April (I can't forget it), I woke feebly
from my feverish sleep, and noticed in a faint sort of fashion that
Lemarchant was moving about restlessly in the cabin. "Lemarchant," I cried authoritatively (for as surgeon I was, of course,
responsible for the health of the expedition), "go back and lie down
upon your bearskin this minute! You're a great deal too weak to go
getting anything for yourself as yet. Go back this minute, sir, and if
you want anything, I'll pull the string, and Paterson'll come and see
what you're after." For we had fixed up a string between the two huts,
tied to a box at the end, as a rough means of communication. "All right, old fellow," he answered, more cordially than I had ever yet
heard him speak to me. "It's all square, I assure you. I was only seeing
whether you were quite warm and comfortable on your rug there." "Perhaps," I thought, "the care I've taken of him has made him really
feel a little grateful to me." So I dozed off and thought nothing more
at the moment about it. Presently, I heard a noise again, and woke up quietly, without starting,
but just opened my eyes and peered about as well as the dim light of the
little oil-lamp would allow me. To my great surprise, I could make out somehow that Lemarchant was
meddling with the bottles in the medicine-chest. "Perhaps," thought I again, "he wants another dose of quinine. Anyhow,
I'm too tired and sleepy to ask him anything just now about it." I knew he hated me, and I knew he was unscrupulous, but it didn't occur
to me to think he would poison the man who had just helped him through a
dangerous fever. At four I woke, as I always did, and proceeded to take one of my
powders. Curiously enough, before I tasted it, the grain appeared to me
to be rather coarser and more granular than the quinine I had originally
put there. I took a pinch between my finger and thumb, and placed it on
my tongue by way of testing it. Instead of being bitter, the powder, I
found, was insipid and almost tasteless. Could I possibly in my fever and delirium (though I had not consciously
been delirious) have put some other powder instead of the quinine into
the two papers? The bare idea made me tremble with horror. If so, I
might have poisoned Lemarchant, who had taken one of his powders
already, and was now sleeping quietly upon his bearskin. At least, I
thought so. Glancing accidentally to his place that moment, I was vaguely conscious
that he was not really sleeping, but lying with his eyes held half open,
gazing at me cautiously and furtively through his closed eyelids. Then the horrid truth flashed suddenly across me. Lemarchant was trying
to poison me. Yes, he had always hated me; and now that he knew I was Dora's discarded
lover, he hated me worse than ever. He had got up and taken a bottle
from the medicine-chest, I felt certain, and put something else instead
of my quinine inside my paper. I knew his eyes were fixed upon me then, and for the moment I
dissembled. I turned round and pretended to swallow the contents of the
packet, and then lay down upon my rug as if nothing unusual had
happened. The fever was burning me fiercely, but I lay awake, kept up
by the excitement, till I saw that he was really asleep, and then I once
more undid the paper. Looking at it closely by the light of the lamp, I saw a finer powder
sticking closely to the folded edges. I wetted my finger, put it down
and tasted it. Yes, that was quite bitter. That was quinine, not a doubt
about it. I saw at once what Lemarchant had done. He had emptied out the quinine
and replaced it by some other white powder, probably arsenic. But a
little of the quinine still adhered to the folds in the paper, because
he had been obliged to substitute it hurriedly; and that at once proved
that it was no mistake of my own, but that Lemarchant had really made
the deliberate attempt to poison me. This is a confession, and a confession only, so I shall make no effort
in any way to exculpate myself for the horrid crime I committed the next
moment. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
True, I was wild with fever and delirium; I was maddened with
the thought that this wretched man would marry Dora; I was horrified at
the idea of sleeping in the same room with him any longer. But still, I
acknowledge it now, face to face with a lonely death upon this frozen
island, it was murder--wilful murder. I meant to poison him, and I did
it. "He has set this powder for me, the villain," I said to myself, "and now
I shall make him take it without knowing it. How do I know that it's
arsenic or anything else to do him any harm? His blood be upon his own
head, for aught I know about it. What I put there was simply quinine. If
anybody has changed it, he has changed it himself. The pit that he dug
for another, he himself shall fall therein." I wouldn't even test it, for fear I should find it was arsenic, and be
unable to give it to him innocently and harmlessly. I rose up and went over to Lemarchant's side. Horror of horrors, he was
sleeping soundly! Yes, the man had tried to poison me; and when he
thought he had seen me swallow his poisonous powder, so callous and
hardened was his nature that he didn't even lie awake to watch the
effect of it. He had dropped off soundly, as if nothing had happened,
and was sleeping now, to all appearance, the sleep of innocence. Being
convalescent, in fact, and therefore in need of rest, he slept with
unusual soundness. I laid the altered powder quietly by his pillow, took away his that I
had laid out in readiness for him, and crept back to my own place
noiselessly. There I lay awake, hot and feverish, wondering to myself
hour after hour when he would ever wake and take it. At last he woke, and looked over towards me with unusual interest. "Hullo, Doctor," he said quite genially, "how are you this morning, eh? getting on well, I hope." It was the first time during all my illness
that he had ever inquired after me. I lied to him deliberately to keep the delusion up. "I have a terrible
grinding pain in my chest," I said, pretending to writhe. I had sunk to
his level, it seems. I was a liar and a murderer. He looked quite gay over it, and laughed. "It's nothing," he said,
grinning horribly. "It's a good symptom. I felt just like that myself,
my dear fellow, when I was beginning to recover." Then I knew he had tried to poison me, and I felt no remorse for my
terrible action. It was a good deed to prevent such a man as that from
ever carrying away Dora--my Dora--into a horrid slavery. Sooner than
that he should marry Dora, I would poison him--I would poison him a
thousand times over. He sat up, took the spoon full of treacle, and poured the powder as
usual into the very middle of it. I watched him take it off at a single
gulp without perceiving the difference, and then I sank back exhausted
upon my roll of sealskins. * * * * *
All that day I was very ill; and Lemarchant, lying tossing beside me,
groaned and moaned in a fearful fashion. At last the truth seemed to
dawn upon him gradually, and he cried aloud to me: "Doctor, Doctor,
quick, for Heaven's sake! you must get me out an antidote. The powders
must have got mixed up somehow, and you've given me arsenic instead of
quinine, I'm certain." "Not a bit of it, Lemarchant," I said, with some devilish malice; "I've
given you one of my own packets, that was lying here beside my pillow." He turned as white as a sheet the moment he heard that, and gasped out
horribly, "That--that--why, that was arsenic!" But he never explained in
a single word how he knew it, or where it came from. I knew. I needed no
explanation, and I wanted no lies, so I didn't question him. I treated him as well as I could for arsenic poisoning, without saying a
word to the captain and the other men about it; for if he died, I said,
it would be by his own act, and if my skill could still avail, he should
have the benefit of it; but the poison had had full time to work before
I gave him the antidote, and he died by seven o'clock that night in
fearful agonies. Then I knew that I was really a murderer. My fingers are beginning to get horribly numb, and I'm afraid I shan't
be able to write much longer. I must be quick about it, if I want to
finish this confession. * * * * *
After that came my retribution. I have been punished for it, and
punished terribly. As soon as they all heard Lemarchant was dead--a severe relapse, I
called it--they set to work to carry him out and lay him somewhere. Then
for the first time the idea flashed across my mind that they couldn't
possibly bury him. The ice was too deep everywhere, and underneath it
lay the solid rock of the bare granite islands. There was no snow even,
for the wind swept it away as it fell, and we couldn't so much as
decently cover him. There was nothing for it but to lay him out upon the
icy surface. So we carried the stark frozen body, with its hideous staring eyes wide
open, out by the jutting point of rock behind the hut, and there we
placed it, dressed and upright. We stood it up against the point exactly
as if it were alive, and by-and-by the snow came and froze it to the
rock; and there it stands to this moment, glaring for ever fiercely upon
me. Whenever I went in or out of the hut, for three long months, that
hideous thing stood there staring me in the face with mute indignation. At night, when I tried to sleep, the murdered man stood there still in
the darkness beside me. O God! I dared not say a word to anybody: but I
trembled every time I passed it, and I knew what it was to be a
murderer. In May, the sun came back again, but still no open water for our one
boat. In June, we had the long day, but no open water. The captain began
to get impatient and despondent, as you will read in the log: he was
afraid now we might never get a chance of making the mouth of the Lena. By-and-by, the scurvy came (I have no time now for details, my hands are
so cramped with cold), and then we began to run short of provisions. Soon I had them all down upon my hands, and presently we had to place
Paterson's corpse beside Lemarchant's on the little headland. Then they
sank, one after another--sank of cold and hunger, as you will read in
the log--till I alone, who wanted least to live, was the last left
living. I was left alone with those nine corpses propped up awfully against the
naked rock, and one of the nine the man I had murdered. May Heaven forgive me for that terrible crime; and for pity's sake,
whoever you may be, keep it from Dora--keep it from Dora! My brother's address is in my pocket-book. The fever and remorse alone have given me strength to hold the pen. My
hands are quite numbed now. I can write no longer. * * * * *
There the manuscript ended. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Heaven knows what effect it may have upon
all of you, who read it quietly at home in your own easy-chairs in
England; but we of the search party, who took those almost illegible
sheets of shaky writing from the cold fingers of the one solitary corpse
within the frozen cabin on the Liakov Islands--we read them through with
such a mingled thrill of awe and horror and sympathy and pity as no one
can fully understand who has not been upon an Arctic expedition. And
when we gathered our sad burdens up to take them off for burial at home,
the corpse to which we gave the most reverent attention was certainly
that of the self-accused murderer. _HARRY'S INHERITANCE._
I. Colonel Sir Thomas Woolrych, K.C.B. (retired list), was a soldier of the
old school, much attached to pipe-clay and purchase, and with a low
opinion of competitive examinations, the first six books of Euclid, the
local military centres, the territorial titles of regiments, the latest
regulation pattern in half-dress buttons, and most other confounded
new-fangled radical fal-lal and trumpery in general. Sir Thomas believed
as firmly in the wisdom of our ancestors as he distrusted the wisdom of
our nearest descendants, now just attaining to years of maturity and
indiscretion. Especially had he a marked dislike for this nasty modern
shopkeeping habit of leaving all your loose money lying idly at your
banker's, and paying everybody with a dirty little bit of crumpled
paper, instead of pulling out a handful of gold, magnificently, from
your trousers pocket, and flinging the sovereigns boldly down before you
upon the counter like an officer and a gentleman. Why should you let one
of those bloated, overfed, lazy banker-fellows grow rich out of
borrowing your money from you for nothing, without so much as a
thank-you, and lending it out again to some other poor devil of a
tradesman (probably in difficulties) at seven per cent. on short
discount? No, no; that was not the way Sir Thomas Woolrych had been
accustomed to live when he was an ensign (sub-lieutenant they positively
call it nowadays) at Ahmednuggur, in the North-West Provinces. In those
days, my dear sir, a man drew his monthly screw by pay-warrant, took the
rupees in solid cash, locked them up carefully in the desk in his
bungalow, helped himself liberally to them while they lasted, and gave
IOU's for any little trifle of cards or horses he might happen to have
let himself in for meanwhile with his brother-officers. IOU's are of
course a gentlemanly and recognized form of monetary engagement, but for
bankers' cheques Sir Thomas positively felt little less than contempt
and loathing. Nevertheless, in his comfortable villa in the park at Cheltenham (called
Futteypoor Lodge, after that famous engagement during the Mutiny which
gave the Colonel his regiment and his K.C.B.-ship) he stood one evening
looking curiously at his big devonport, and muttered to himself with
more than one most military oath, "Hanged if I don't think I shall
positively be compelled to patronize these banker-fellows after all. Somebody must have been helping himself again to some of my sovereigns." Sir Thomas was not by nature a suspicious man--he was too frank and
open-hearted himself to think ill easily of others--but he couldn't
avoid feeling certain that somebody had been tampering unjustifiably
with the contents of his devonport. He counted the rows of sovereigns
over once more, very carefully; then he checked the number taken out by
the entry in his pocket-book; and then he leaned back in his chair with
a puzzled look, took a meditative puff or two at the stump of his cigar,
and blew out the smoke, in a long curl that left a sort of pout upon his
heavily moustached lip as soon as he had finished. Not a doubt in the
world about it--somebody must have helped himself again to a dozen
sovereigns. It was a hateful thing to put a watch upon your servants and dependents,
but Sir Thomas felt he must really do it. He reckoned up the long rows
a third time with military precision, entered the particulars once more
most accurately in his pocket-book, sighed a deep sigh of regret at the
distasteful occupation, and locked up the devonport at last with the air
of a man who resigns himself unwillingly to a most unpleasant duty. Then
he threw away the fag-end of the smoked-out cigar, and went up slowly to
dress for dinner. Sir Thomas's household consisted entirely of himself and his nephew
Harry, for he had never been married, and he regarded all womankind
alike from afar off, with a quaint, respectful, old-world chivalry; but
he made a point of dressing scrupulously every day for dinner, even when
alone, as a decorous formality due to himself, his servants, society,
the military profession, and the _convenances_ in general. If he and his
nephew dined together they dressed for one another; if they dined
separately they dressed all the same, for the sake of the institution. When a man once consents to eat his evening meal in a blue tie and a
morning cutaway, there's no drawing a line until you finally find him an
advanced republican and an accomplice of those dreadful War Office
people who are bent upon allowing the service to go to the devil. If
Colonel Sir Thomas Woolrych, K.C.B., had for a single night been guilty
of such abominable laxity, the whole fabric of society would have
tottered to its base, and gods and footmen would have felt instinctively
that it was all up with the British constitution. "Harry," Sir Thomas said, as soon they sat down to dinner together, "are
you going out anywhere this evening, my boy?" Harry looked up a little surlily, and answered after a moment's
hesitation, "Why, yes, uncle, I thought--I thought of going round and
having a game of billiards with Tom Whitmarsh." Sir Thomas cleared his throat, and hemmed dubiously. "In that case," he
said at last, after a short pause, "I think I'll go down to the club
myself and have a rubber. Wilkins, the carriage at half-past nine. I'm
sorry, Harry, you're going out this evening." "Why so, uncle? It's only just round to the Whitmarshes', you know." Sir Thomas shut one eye and glanced with the other at the light through
his glass of sherry, held up between finger and thumb critically and
suspiciously. "A man may disapprove _in toto_ of the present system of
competitive examinations for the army," he said slowly; "for my part, I
certainly do, and I make no secret of it; admitting a lot of butchers
and bakers and candlestick makers plump into the highest ranks of the
service: no tone, no character, no position, no gentlemanly feeling; a
great mistake--a great mistake; I told them so at the time. I said to
them, 'Gentlemen, you are simply ruining the service.' But they took no
notice of me; and what's the consequence? Competitive examination has
been the ruin of the service, exactly as I told them. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Began with that;
then abolition of purchase; then local centres; then that abominable
strap with the slip buckle--there, there, Harry, upon my soul, my boy, I
can't bear to think of it. But a man may be opposed, as I said, to the
whole present system of competitive examination, and yet, while that
system still unfortunately continues to exist (that is to say, until a
European War convinces all sensible people of the confounded folly of
it), he may feel that his own young men, who are reading up for a direct
commission, ought to be trying their hardest to get as much of this
nonsensical humbug into their heads as possible during the time just
before their own examinations. Now, Harry, I'm afraid you're not reading
quite as hard as you ought to be doing. The crammer's all very well in
his way, of course, but depend upon it, the crammer by himself won't get
you through it. What's needed is private study." Harry turned his handsome dark eyes upon his uncle--a very dark, almost
gipsy-looking face altogether, Harry's--and answered deprecatingly,
"Well, sir, and don't I go in for private study? Didn't I read up
_Samson Agonistes_ all by myself right through yesterday?" "I don't know what Samson Something-or-other is," the old gentleman
replied testily. "What the dickens has Samson Something-or-other got to
do with the preparation of a military man, I should like to know, sir?" "It's the English Literature book for the exam., you know," Harry
answered, with a quiet smile. "We've got to get it up, you see, with all
the allusions and what-you-may-call-its, for direct commission. It's a
sort of a play, I think I should call it, by John Milton." "Oh, it's the English Literature, is it?" the old Colonel went on,
somewhat mollified. "In my time, Harry, we weren't expected to know
anything about English literature. The Articles of War, and the
Officer's Companion, By Authority, that was the kind of literature we
used to be examined in. But nowadays they expect a soldier to be read up
in Samson Something-or-other, do they really? Well, well, let them have
their fad, let them have their fad, poor creatures. Still, Harry, I'm
very much afraid you're wasting your time, and your money also. If I
thought you only went to the Whitmarshes' to see Miss Milly, now, I
shouldn't mind so much about it. Miss Milly is a very charming, sweet
young creature, certainly--extremely pretty, too, extremely pretty--I
don't deny it. You're young yet to go making yourself agreeable, my boy,
to a pretty girl like that; you ought to wait for that sort of thing
till you've got your majority, or at least, your company--a young man
reading for direct commission has no business to go stuffing his head
cram full with love and nonsense. No, no; he should leave it all free
for fortification, and the general instructions, and Samson
Something-or-other, if soldiers can't be made nowadays without English
literature. But still, I don't so much object to that, I say--a sweet
girl, certainly, Miss Milly--what I do object to is your knocking about
so much at billiard-rooms, and so forth, with that young fellow
Whitmarsh. Not a very nice young fellow, or a good companion for you
either, Harry. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, my boy, he makes you spend a
great deal too much money." "I've never yet had to ask you to increase my allowance, sir," the young
man answered haughtily, with a curious glance sideways at his uncle. "Wilkins," Sir Thomas put in, with a nod to the butler, "go down and
bring up a bottle of the old Madeira. Harry, my boy, don't let us
discuss questions of this sort before the servants. My boy, I've never
kept you short of money in any way, I hope; and if I ever do, I trust
you'll tell me of it, tell me of it immediately." Harry's dark cheeks burned bright for a moment, but he answered never a
single word, and went on eating his dinner silently, with a very
hang-dog look indeed upon his handsome features. II. At half-past nine Sir Thomas drove down to the club, and, when he
reached the door, dismissed the coachman. "I shall walk back, Morton,"
he said. "I shan't want you again this evening. Don't let them sit up
for me. I mayn't be home till two in the morning." But as soon as the coachman had had full time to get back again in
perfect safety, Sir Thomas walked straight down the club steps once
more, and up the Promenade, and all the way to Futteypoor Lodge. When he
got there, he opened the door silently with his latch-key, shut it again
without the slightest noise, and walked on tip-toe into the library. It
was an awkward sort of thing to do, certainly, but Sir Thomas was
convinced in his own mind that he ought to do it. He wheeled an easy
chair into the recess by the window, in front of which the curtains were
drawn, arranged the folds so that he could see easily into the room by
the slit between them, and sat down patiently to explore this mystery to
the very bottom. Sir Thomas was extremely loth in his own mind to suspect anybody; and
yet it was quite clear that some one or other must have taken the
missing sovereigns. Twice over money had been extracted. It couldn't
have been cook, of that he felt certain; nor Wilkins either. Very
respectable woman, cook--very respectable butler, Wilkins. Not Morton;
oh dear no, quite impossible, certainly not Morton. Not the housemaid,
or the boy: obviously neither; well-conducted young people, every one of
them. But who the dickens could it be then? for certainly somebody had
taken the money. The good old Colonel felt in his heart that for the
sake of everybody's peace of mind it was his bounden duty to discover
the real culprit before saying a single word to anybody about it. There was something very ridiculous, of course, not to say undignified
and absurd, in the idea of an elderly field officer, late in Her
Majesty's service, sitting thus for hour after hour stealthily behind
his own curtains, in the dark, as if he were a thief or a burglar,
waiting to see whether anybody came to open his devonport. Sir Thomas
grew decidedly wearied as he watched and waited, and but for his strong
sense of the duty imposed upon him of tracking the guilty person, he
would once or twice in the course of the evening have given up the quest
from sheer disgust and annoyance at the absurdity of the position. But
no; he must find out who had done it: so there he sat, as motionless as
a cat watching a mouse-hole, with his eye turned always in the direction
of the devonport, through the slight slit between the folded curtains. Ten o'clock struck upon the clock on the mantelpiece--half-past
ten--eleven. Sir Thomas stretched his legs, yawned, and muttered
audibly, "Confounded slow, really." Half-past eleven. Sir Thomas went
over noiselessly to the side table, where the decanters were standing,
and helped himself to a brandy and seltzer, squeezing down the cork of
the bottle carefully with his thumb, to prevent its popping, till all
the gas had escaped piecemeal. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Then he crept back, still noiselessly,
feeling more like a convicted thief himself than a Knight Commander of
the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, and wondering when the deuce this
pilfering lock-breaker was going to begin his nightly depredations. Not
till after Harry came back most likely. The thief, whoever he or she
was, would probably be afraid to venture into the library while there
was still a chance of Harry returning unexpectedly and disturbing the
whole procedure. But when once Harry had gone to bed, they would all
have heard from Morton that Sir Thomas was going to be out late, and the
thief would then doubtless seize so good an opportunity of helping
himself unperceived to the counted sovereigns. About half past eleven, there was a sound of steps upon the garden-walk,
and Harry's voice could be heard audibly through the half-open window. The colonel caught the very words against his will. Harry was talking
with Tom Whitmarsh, who had walked round to see him home; his voice was
a little thick, as if with wine, and he seemed terribly excited (to
judge by his accent) about something or other that had just happened. "Good night, Tom," the young man was saying, with an outward show of
carelessness barely concealing a great deal of underlying irritation. "I'll pay you up what I lost to-morrow or the next day. You shall have
your money, don't be afraid about it." "Oh, it's all right," Tom Whitmarsh's voice answered in an off-hand
fashion. "Pay me whenever you like, you know, Woolrych. It doesn't
matter to me when you pay me, this year or next year, so long as I get
it sooner or later." Sir Thomas listened with a sinking heart. "Play," he thought to himself. "Play, play, play, already! It was his father's curse, poor fellow, and
I hope it won't be Harry's. It's some comfort to think, anyhow, that
it's only billiards." "Well, good night, Tom," Harry went on, ringing the bell as he spoke. "Good night, Harry. I hope next time the cards won't go so persistently
against you." The cards! Phew! That was bad indeed. Sir Thomas started. He didn't
object to a quiet after-dinner rubber on his own account, naturally: but
this wasn't whist; oh, no; nothing of the sort. This was evidently
serious playing. He drew a long breath, and felt he must talk very
decidedly about the matter to Harry to-morrow morning. "Is my uncle home yet, Wilkins?" "No, sir; he said he wouldn't be back probably till two o'clock, and we
wasn't to sit up for him." "All right then. Give me a light for a minute in the library. I'll take
a seltzer before I go upstairs, just to steady me." Sir Thomas almost laughed outright. This was really too ridiculous. Suppose, after all the waiting, Harry was to come over and discover him
sitting there in the darkness by the window, what a pretty figure he
would cut before him. And besides, the whole thing would have to come
out then, and after all the thief would never be discovered and
punished. The Colonel grew hot and red in the face, and began to wish to
goodness he hadn't in the first place let himself in, in any way, for
this ridiculous amateur detective business. But Harry drank his seltzer standing by the side table, with no brandy,
either; that was a good thing, no brandy. If he'd taken brandy, too, in
his present excited condition, when he'd already certainly had quite as
much as was at all good for him, Sir Thomas would have been justly and
seriously angry. But, after all, Harry was a good boy at bottom, and
knew how to avoid such ugly habits. He took his seltzer and his bedroom
candle. Wilkins turned out the light in the room, and Harry went
upstairs by himself immediately. Then Wilkins turned the key in the library door, and the old gentleman
began to reflect that this was really a most uncomfortable position for
him to be left in. Suppose they locked him in there till to-morrow
morning! Ah! happy thought; if the worst came to the worst he could get
out of the library window and let himself in at the front door by means
of his latch-key. The servants all filed upstairs, one by one, in an irregular procession;
their feet died away gradually upon the upper landings, and a solemn
silence came at last over the whole household. Sir Thomas's heart began
to beat faster: the excitement of plot interest was growing stronger
upon him. This was the time the thief would surely choose to open the
devonport. He should know now within twenty minutes which it was of all
his people, whom he trusted so implicitly, that was really robbing him. And he treated them all so kindly, too. Ha, the rascal! he should catch
it well, that he should, whoever he was, as soon as ever Sir Thomas
discovered him. Not if it were Wilkins, though; not if it were Wilkins. Sir Thomas hoped
it wasn't really that excellent fellow Wilkins. A good old tried and
trusty servant. If any unexpected financial difficulties----
Hush, hush! Quietly now. A step upon the landing. Coming down noiselessly, noiselessly, noiselessly. Not Wilkins; not
heavy enough for him, surely; no, no, a woman's step, so very light, so
light and noiseless. Sir Thomas really hoped in his heart it wasn't that
pretty delicate-looking girl, the new housemaid. If it was, by Jove,
yes, he'd give her a good lecture then and there, that very minute,
about it, offer to pay her passage quietly out to Canada, and--recommend
her to get married decently, to some good young fellow, on the earliest
possible opportunity. The key turned once more in the lock, and then the door opened
stealthily. Somebody glided like a ghost into the middle of the room. Sir Thomas, gazing intently through the slit in the curtains, murmured
to himself that now at last he should fairly discover the confounded
rascal. Ha! How absurd! He could hardly help laughing once more at the
ridiculous collapse to his high-wrought expectations. And yet he
restrained himself. It was only Harry! Harry come down, candle in hand,
no doubt to get another glass of seltzer. The Colonel hoped not with
brandy. No; not with brandy. He put the glass up to his dry lips--Sir
Thomas could see they were dry and feverish even from that distance;
horrid thing, this gambling!--and he drained it off at a gulp, like a
thirsty man who has tasted no liquor since early morning. Then he took up his candle again, and turned--not to the door. Oh, no. The old gentleman watched him now with singular curiosity, for he was
walking not to the door, but over in the direction of the suspected
devonport. Sir Thomas could hardly even then guess at the truth. It
wasn't, no it wasn't, it couldn't be Harry! not Harry that ... that
borrowed the money! The young man took a piece of stout wire from his pocket with a terrible
look of despair and agony. Sir Thomas's heart melted within him as he
beheld it. He twisted the wire about in the lock with a dexterous
pressure, and it opened easily. Sir Thomas looked on, and the tears rose
into his eyes slowly by instinct; but he said never a word, and watched
intently. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Harry held the lid of the devonport open for a moment with one
hand, and looked at the rows of counted gold within. The fingers of the
other hand rose slowly and remorsefully up to the edge of the desk, and
there hovered in an undecided fashion. Sir Thomas watched still, with
his heart breaking. Then for a second Harry paused. He held back his
hand and appeared to deliberate. Something within seemed to have
affected him deeply. Sir Thomas, though a plain old soldier, could read
his face well enough to know what it was; he was thinking of the kind
words his uncle had said to him that very evening as they sat together
down there at dinner. For half a minute the suspense was terrible. Then, with a sudden
impulse, Harry shut the lid of the devonport down hastily; flung the
wire with a gesture of horror and remorse into the fireplace; took up
his candle wildly in his hand; and rushed from the room and up the
stairs, leaving the door open behind him. Then Sir Thomas rose slowly from his seat in the window corner; lighted
the gas in the centre burner; unlocked the devonport, with tears still
trickling slowly down his face; counted all the money over carefully to
make quite certain; found it absolutely untouched; and flung himself
down upon his knees wildly, between shame, and fear, and relief, and
misery. What he said or what he thought in that terrible moment of
conflicting passions is best not here described or written; but when he
rose again his eyes were glistening, more with forgiveness than with
horror (anger there never had been); and being an old-fashioned old
gentleman, he took down his big Bible from the shelf, just to reassure
himself about a text which he thought he remembered somewhere in Luke:
"Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over
ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance." "Ah, yes," he
said to himself; "he repented; he repented. He didn't take it. He felt
he couldn't after what I said to him." And then, with the tears still
rolling silently down his bronzed checks, he went up stairs to bed, but
not to sleep; for he lay restless on his pillow all night through with
that one terrible discovery weighing like lead upon his tender old
bosom. III. Next morning, after breakfast, Sir Thomas said in a quiet tone of
command to Harry, "My boy, I want to speak to you for a few minutes in
the library." Harry's cheek grew deadly pale and he caught his breath with difficulty,
but he followed his uncle into the library without a word, and took his
seat at the table opposite him. "Harry," the old soldier began, as quietly as he was able, after an
awkward pause, "I want to tell you a little--a little about your father
and mother." Harry's face suddenly changed from white to crimson, for he felt sure
now that what Sir Thomas was going to talk about was not the loss of the
money from the devonport a week earlier; and on the other hand, though
he knew absolutely nothing about his own birth and parentage, he knew at
least that there must have been some sort of mystery in the matter, or
else his uncle would surely long since have spoken to him quite freely
of his father and mother. "My dear boy," the Colonel went on again, in a tremulous voice, "I think
the time has now come when I ought to tell you that you and I are no
relations by blood; you are--you are my nephew by adoption only." Harry gave a sudden start of surprise, but said nothing. "The way it all came about," Sir Thomas went on, playing nervously with
his watch-chain, "was just this. I was in India during the Mutiny, as
you know, and while I was stationed at Boolundshahr, in the North-West
Provinces, just before those confounded niggers--I mean to say, before
the sepoys revolted, your father was adjutant of my regiment at the
same station. He and your mother--well, Harry, your mother lived in a
small bungalow near the cantonments, and there you were born; why,
exactly eight months before the affair at Meerut, you know--the
beginning of the Mutiny. Your father, I'm sorry to say, was a man very
much given to high play--in short, if you'll excuse my putting it so, my
boy, a regular gambler. He owed money to almost every man in the
regiment, and amongst others, if I must tell you the whole truth, to me. In those days I sometimes played rather high myself, Harry; not so high
as your poor father, my boy, for I was always prudent, but a great deal
higher than a young man in a marching regiment has any right to do--a
great deal higher. I left off playing immediately after what I'm just
going to tell you; and from that day to this, Harry, I've never touched
a card, except for whist or cribbage, and never will do, my boy, if I
live to be as old as Methuselah." The old man paused and wiped his brow for a second with his capacious
handkerchief, while Harry's eyes, cast down upon the ground, began to
fill rapidly with something or other that he couldn't for the life of
him manage to keep out of them. "On the night before the news from Meerut arrived," the old soldier went
on once more, with his eye turned half away from the trembling lad, "we
played together in the major's rooms, your father and I, with a few
others; and before the end of the evening your father had lost a large
sum to one of his brother-officers. When we'd finished playing, he came
to me to my quarters, and he said 'Woolrych, this is a bad job. I
haven't got anything to pay McGregor with.' "'All right, Walpole,' I answered him--your father's name was Captain
Walpole, Harry--'I'll lend you whatever's necessary.' "'No, no, my dear fellow,' he said, 'I won't borrow and only get myself
into worse trouble. I'll take a shorter and easier way out of it all,
you may depend upon it.' "At the moment I hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, and so I said
no more to him just then about it. But three minutes after he left my
quarters I heard a loud cry, and saw your father in the moonlight out in
the compound. He had a pistol in his hand. Next moment, the report of a
shot sounded loudly down below in the compound, and I rushed out at once
to see what on earth could be matter. "Your father was lying in a pool of blood, just underneath a big
mango-tree beside the door, with his left jaw shattered to pieces, and
his brain pierced through and through from one side to the other by a
bullet from the pistol. "He was dead--stone dead. There was no good doctoring him. We took him
up and carried him into the surgeon's room, and none of us had the
courage all that night to tell your mother. "Next day, news came of the rising at Meerut. "That same night, while we were all keeping watch and mounting guard,
expecting our men would follow the example of their companions at
head-quarters, there was a sudden din and tumult in the lines, about
nine in the evening, when the word was given to turn in, and McGregor,
coming past me, shouted at the top of his voice, 'It's all up, Woolrych. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
These black devils have broken loose at last, and they're going to fire
the officers' quarters.' "Well, Harry, my boy, I needn't tell you all about it at full length
to-day; but in the end, as you know, we fought the men for our own
lives, and held our ground until the detachment came from Etawah to
relieve us. However, before we could get to the Bibi's bungalow--the
sepoys used to call your mother the Bibi, Harry--those black devils had
broken in there, and when next morning early I burst into the ruined
place, with three men of the 47th and a faithful havildar, we found
your poor mother--well, there, Harry, I can't bear to think of it, even
now, my boy: but she was dead, too, quite dead, with a hundred
sabre-cuts all over her poor blood-stained, hacked-about body. And in
the corner, under the cradle, the eight-month-old baby was lying and
crying--crying bitterly; that was you, Harry." The young man listened intently, with a face now once more ashy white,
but still he answered absolutely nothing. "I took you in my arms, my boy," the old Colonel continued in a softer
tone; "and as you were left all alone in the bungalow there, with no
living soul to love or care for you, I carried you away in my arms
myself, to my own quarters. All through the rest of that terrible
campaign I kept you with me, and while I was fighting at Futteypoor, a
native ayah was in charge of you for me. Your poor father had owed me a
trifling debt, and I took you as payment in full, and have kept you with
me as my nephew ever since. That is all your history, Harry." The young man drew a deep breath, and looked across curiously to the
bronzed face of the simple old officer. Then he asked, a little huskily,
"And why didn't my father's or mother's relations reclaim me, sir? Do
they know that I am still living?" Sir Thomas coughed, and twirled his watch-chain more nervously and
uneasily than ever. "Well, you see, my boy," he answered at last, after
a long pause, "your mother--I must tell you the whole truth now,
Harry--your mother was a Eurasian, a half-caste lady--very light, almost
white, but still a half-caste, you know, and--and--well, your father's
family--didn't exactly acknowledge the relationship, Harry." Harry's face burnt crimson once more, and the hot blood rushed madly to
his cheeks, for he felt in a moment the full force of the meaning that
the Colonel wrapped up so awkwardly in that one short embarrassed
sentence. There was another long pause, during which Harry kept his burning eyes
fixed fast upon Sir Thomas, and Sir Thomas looked down uncomfortably at
his boots and said nothing. Then the young man found voice again feebly
to ask, almost in a whisper, one final question. "Had you ... had you any particular reason for telling me this story
about my birth and my parents at this exact time ... just now, uncle?" "I had, Harry. I--I have rather suspected of late ... that ... that you
are falling somehow into ... into your poor father's unhappy vice of
gambling. My boy, my boy, if you inherit his failings in that direction,
I hope his end will be some warning to you to desist immediately." "And had you ... any reason to suspect me of ... of any other fault ...
of ... of any graver fault ... of anything really very serious, uncle?" The Colonel held his head between his hands, and answered very slowly,
as if the words were wrung from him by torture: "If you hadn't yourself
asked me the question point-blank, Harry, I would never have told you
anything about it. Yes, my boy, my dear boy, my poor boy; I know it all
... all ... all ... absolutely." Harry lifted up his voice in one loud cry and wail of horror, and darted
out of the room without another syllable. "I know that cry," the Colonel said in his own heart, trembling. "I have
heard it before! It's the very cry poor Walpole gave that night at
Boolundshahr, just before he went out and shot himself!" IV. Harry had rushed out into the garden; of that, Sir Thomas felt certain. He followed him hastily, and saw him by the seat under the lime-trees in
the far corner; he had something heavy in his right hand. Sir Thomas
came closer and saw to his alarm and horror that it was indeed the small
revolver from the old pistol-stand on the wall of the vestibule. Even as the poor old soldier gazed, half petrified, the lad pushed a
cartridge home feverishly into one of the chambers, and raised the
weapon, with a stern resolution, up to his temple. Sir Thomas recognized
in that very moment of awe and terror that it was the exact attitude and
action of Harry's dead father. The entire character and tragedy seemed
to have handed itself down directly from father to son without a single
change of detail or circumstance. The old man darted forward with surprising haste, and caught Harry's
hand just as the finger rested upon the trigger. "My boy! my boy!" he cried, wrenching the revolver easily from his
trembling grasp, and flinging it, with a great curve, to the other end
of the garden. "Not that way! Not that way! I haven't reproached you
with one word, Harry; but this is a bad return, indeed, for a life
devoted to you. Oh, Harry! Harry! not by shuffling off your
responsibilities and running away from them like a coward, not by that
can you ever mend matters in the state you have got them into, but by
living on, and fighting against your evil impulses and conquering them
like a man--that's the way, the right way, to get the better of them. Promise me, Harry, promise me, my boy, that whatever comes you won't
make away with yourself, as your father did; for my sake, live on and do
better. I'm an old man, an old man, Harry, and I have but you in the
world to care for or think about. Don't let me be shamed in my old age
by seeing the boy I have brought up and loved as a son dying in
disgrace, a poltroon and a coward. Stand by your guns, my boy; stand by
your guns, and fight it out to the last minute." Harry's arm fell powerless to his side, and he broke down utterly, in
his shame and self-abasement flinging himself wildly upon the seat
beneath the lime-trees and covering his face with his hands to hide the
hot tears that were bursting forth in a feverish torrent. "I will go," he said at last, in a choking voice, "I will go, uncle, and
talk to Milly." "Do," the Colonel said, soothing his arm tenderly. "Do, my boy. She's a
good girl, and she'll advise you rightly. Go and speak to her; but
before you go, promise me, promise me." Harry rose, and tried to shake off Sir Thomas's heavy hand, laid with a
fatherly pressure upon his struggling shoulder. But he couldn't; the old
soldier was still too strong for him. "Promise me," he said once more
caressingly, "promise me; promise me!" Harry hesitated for a second, in his troubled mind; then, with an
effort, he answered slowly, "I promise, uncle." Sir Thomas released him, and he rushed wildly away. "Remember," the
Colonel cried aloud, as he went in at the open folding windows,
"remember, Harry, you are on your honour. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
If you break parole I shall
think very badly, very badly indeed, of you." But as the old man turned back sadly into his lonely library, he thought
to himself, "I wonder whether I oughtn't to have dealt more harshly with
him! I wonder whether I was right in letting him off so easily for two
such extremely--such extremely grave breaches of military discipline!" V.
"Then you think, Milly, that's what I ought to do? You think I'd better
go and never come back again till I feel quite sure of myself?" "I think so, Harry, I think so.... I think so.... And yet ... it's very
hard not to see you for so long, Harry." "But I shall write to you every day, Milly, however long it may be; and
if I conquer myself, why, then, Milly, I shall feel I can come back fit
to marry you. I'm not fit now, and unless I feel that I've put myself
straight with you and my uncle, I'll never come back again--never,
never, never!" Milly's lip trembled, but she only answered bravely, "That's well,
Harry; for then you'll make all the more effort, and for my sake I'm
sure you'll conquer. But, Harry, I wish before you go you'd tell me
plainly what else it is that you've been doing besides playing and
losing your uncle's money." "Oh, Milly, Milly, I can't--I mustn't. If I were to tell you that you
could never again respect me--you could never love me." Milly was a wise girl, and pressed him no further. After all, there are
some things it is better for none of us to know about one another, and
this thing was just one of them. So Harry Walpole went away from Cheltenham, nobody knew whither, except
Milly; not daring to confide the secret of his whereabouts even to his
uncle, nor seeing that sole friend once more before he went, but going
away that very night, on his own resources, to seek his own fortune as
best he might in the great world of London. "Tell my uncle why I have
gone," he said to Milly; "that it is in order to conquer myself; and
tell him that I'll write to you constantly, and that you will let him
know from time to time whether I am well and making progress." It was a hard time for poor old Sir Thomas, no doubt, those four years
that Harry was away from him, he knew not where, and he was left alone
by himself in his dreary home; but he felt it was best so; he knew Harry
was trying to conquer himself. How Harry lived or what he was doing he
never heard; but once or twice Milly hinted to him that Harry seemed
sorely in want of money, and Sir Thomas gave her some to send him, and
every time it was at once returned, with a very firm but gentle message
from Harry to say that he was able, happily, to do without it, and would
not further trouble his uncle. It was only from Milly that Sir Thomas
could learn anything about his dear boy, and he saw her and asked her
about him so often that he learned at last to love her like a daughter. Four years rolled slowly away, and at the end of them Sir Thomas was one
day sitting in his little library, somewhat disconsolate, and reflecting
to himself that he ought to have somebody living with him at his time of
life, when suddenly there came a ring and a knock that made him start
with surprise and pleasure, for he recognized them at once as being
Harry's. Next moment, the servant brought him a card, on which was
engraved in small letters, "Dr. H. Walpole," and down in the left-hand
corner, "Surrey Hospital." Sir Thomas turned the card over and over with a momentary feeling of
disappointment, for he had somehow fancied to himself that Harry had
gone off covering himself with glory among Zulus or Afghans, and he
couldn't help feeling that beside that romantic dream of soldierly
rehabilitation a plain doctor's life was absurdly prosaic. Next moment,
Harry himself was grasping his hand warmly, and prose and poetry were
alike forgotten in that one vivid all-absorbing delight of his boy
recovered. As soon as the first flush of excitement was fairly over, and Harry had
cried regretfully, "Why, uncle, how much older you're looking!" and Sir
Thomas had exclaimed in his fatherly joy, "Why, Harry, my boy, what a
fine fellow you've turned out, God bless me!" Harry took a little bank
bag of sovereigns from his coat pocket and laid it down, very red, upon
the corner of the table. "These are yours, uncle," he said simply. Sir Thomas's first impulse was to say, "No, no, my boy; keep them, keep
them, and let us forget all about it," but he checked himself just in
time, for he saw that the best thing all round was to take them quietly
and trouble poor Harry no more with the recollection. "Thank you, my
boy," the old soldier answered, taking them up and pocketing them as
though it were merely the repayment of an ordinary debt. ("The School
for the Orphan Children of Officers in the Army will be all the richer
for it," he thought to himself) "And now tell me, Harry, how have you
been living, and what have you been doing ever since I last saw you?" "Uncle," Harry cried--he hadn't unlearnt to think of him and call him by
that fond old name, then--"uncle, I've been conquering myself. From the
day I left you I've never touched a card once--not once, uncle." "Except, I suppose, for a quiet rubber?" the old Colonel put in softly. "Not even for a rubber, uncle," Harry answered, half smiling; "nor a cue
nor a dice-box either, nor anything like them. I've determined to steer
clear of all the dangers that surround me by inheritance, and I'm not
going to begin again as long as I live, uncle." "That's well, Harry, that's well. And you didn't go in for a direct
commission, then? I was in hopes, my boy, that you would still, in spite
of everything, go into the Queen's service." Harry's face fell a little. "Uncle," he said, "I'm sorry to have
disappointed you; sorry to have been compelled to run counter to any
little ambitions you might have had for me in that respect; but I felt,
after all you told me that day, that the army would be a very dangerous
profession for me; and though I didn't want to be a coward and run away
from danger, I didn't want to be foolhardy and heedlessly expose myself
to it. So I thought on the whole it would be wiser for me to give up the
direct commission business altogether, and go in at once for being a
doctor. It was safer, and therefore better in the end both for me and
for you, uncle." Sir Thomas took the young man's hand once more, and pressed it gently
with a fatherly pressure. "My boy," he said, "you are right, quite
right--a great deal more right, indeed, than I was. But how on earth
have you found money to keep yourself alive and pay for your education
all these years--tell me Harry?" Harry's face flushed up again, this time with honest pride, as he
answered bravely, "I've earned enough by teaching and drawing to pay my
way the whole time, till I got qualified. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I've been qualified now for
nine months, and got a post as house-surgeon at our hospital; but I've
waited to come and tell you till I'd saved up that money, you know, out
of my salary, and now I'm coming back to settle down in practice here,
uncle." Sir Thomas said nothing, but he rose from his chair and took both
Harry's hands in his with tears. For a few minutes, he looked at him
tenderly and admiringly, then he said in his simple way, "God bless you! God bless you! I couldn't have done it myself, my boy. I couldn't have
done it myself, Harry." There was a minute's pause, and then Sir Thomas began again, "What a
secretive little girl that dear little Miss Milly must be, never to have
told me a word of all this, Harry. She kept as quiet about all details
as if she was sworn to the utmost secrecy." Harry rose and opened the library door. "Milly!" he called out, and a
light little figure glided in from the drawing-room opposite. "We expect to be married in three weeks, uncle--as soon as the banns can
be published," Harry went on, presenting his future wife as it were to
the Colonel. "Milly's money will just be enough for us to live upon
until I can scrape together a practice, and she has confidence enough
in me to believe that in the end I shall manage to get one." Sir Thomas drew her down to his chair and kissed her forehead. "Milly,"
he said, softly, "you have chosen well. Harry, you have done wisely. I
shall have two children now instead of one. If you are to live near me I
shall be very happy. But, Harry, you have proved yourself well. Now you
must let me buy you a practice." THE END. [Illustration]
_September_, 1886. [Illustration]
_A List of Books_
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THE NIGHT WIRE
By H. F. Arnold
“New York, September 30 CP FLASH
“Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end came suddenly as the
ambassador was alone in his study....”
There’s something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here
on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a
civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore--they’re
your next-door neighbors after the street lights go dim and the world
has gone to sleep. Along in the quiet hours between 2 and 4, the receiving operators doze
over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and
suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with
a casualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down
almost in his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger. Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You’ve heard of
someone you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe
they’ve been promoted, but more probably they’ve been murdered or
drowned. Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way
out. Made it interesting enough to get in the news. But that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and
tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed. Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night and I
haven’t got over it yet. I wish I could. You see, I handle the night manager’s desk in a western seaport town;
what the name is, doesn’t matter. There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow
named John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a
sober, hard-working sort. He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a
“double” man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and
type the stories on different typewriters at the same time. He was one
of the three men I ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after
hour, and never make a mistake. Generally we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was
late and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations
would open a second wire and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a
wizard, a mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but
was without imagination. On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was
the first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself,
and I had known him for three years. It was at just 3 o’clock and we were running only one wire. I was
nodding over reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him
when he spoke. “Jim,” he said, “does it feel close in here to you?”
“Why, no, John,” I answered, “but I’ll open a window if you like.”
“Never mind,” he said. “I reckon I’m just a little tired.”
That was all that was said and I went on working. Every ten minutes or
so I would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up
neatly beside his typewriter as the messages were printed out in
triplicate. It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had
opened up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it
was a little unusual, as there was nothing very “hot” coming in. On my
next trip I picked up the copy from both machines and took it back to
my desk to sort out the duplicates. The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just
looked over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I
remember it particularly because the story was from a town I had never
heard of: “Xebico.” Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it
from our files:
“Xebico Sept. 16 CP BULLETIN
“The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over the
town at 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has stopped and
the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary
intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing
heavier. “Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the
local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred
before in the history of the city. “At 7 p. m. last night municipal authorities--(more)”
That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau
headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name
of the town. It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another
batch of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched
his green electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and
hit only the top of the two typewriters. Only the usual stuff was in the right hand pile, but the left hand
batch carried another story from “Xebico.” All press dispatches come
in “takes,” meaning that parts of many different stories are strung
along together, perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming
through at a time. This second story was marked “add fog.” Here is the
copy;
“At 7 p. m. the fog had increased noticeably. All lights were now
invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness. “As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied by a
sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced here.”
Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the
initials of the operator, JM. There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here
it is:
“2nd add Xebico Fog
“Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly. Among the
most unusual is that of the sexton of the local church, who groped
his way to headquarters in a hysterical condition and declared
that the fog originated in the village churchyard. “‘It was first visible in the shape of a soft gray blanket
clinging to the earth above the graves,’ he stated. ‘Then it began
to rise, higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow
it in billows, which split up and then joined together again. “‘Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into queer
forms and figures. And then--in the very thick midst of the
mass--something moved. “‘I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I heard
screams coming from the houses bordering on the graveyard.’
“Although the sexton’s story is generally discredited, a party has
left to investigate. Immediately after telling his story, the
sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital, unconscious.”
Queer story, wasn’t it? Not that we aren’t used to it, for a lot of
unusual stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other,
perhaps because it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made
a great impression on me. It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of
copy. Morgan did not move and the only sound in the room was the
tap-tap of the sounders. It was ominous, nerve-racking. There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seized on
it anxiously. | Arnold, H. F. (Henry Ferris) - The night wire |
“New Lead Xebico Fog CP
“The rescue party which went out at 11 p. m. to investigate a
weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late yesterday,
has shrouded the city in darkness, has failed to return. Another
and larger party has been dispatched. “Meanwhile the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. It seeps
through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmosphere with a
terribly depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying,
bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead. “Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered in the
local church, where the priests are holding services of prayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk and children are alike
terrified and many are almost beside themselves with fear. “Mid the wisps of vapor which partially veil the church
auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his flock. The audience alternately wail and cross themselves. “From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of unknown
voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced minor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind whistling through a
gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm and there is no wind. The
second rescue party--(more)”
I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires have
been known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair
and walked to the window. Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me
did I see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination. In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the
tempo of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His
head sunk between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the
typewriters with one finger of each hand. He looked asleep. Maybe he was--but no, endlessly, efficiently, the two
machines rattled off line after line, as relentless and effortless as
death itself. There was something about the monotonous movement of the
typewriter keys that fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his
chair reading over his shoulder the type as it came into being, word
by word. Ah, here was another:
“Flash Xebico CP
“There will be no more bulletins from this office. The impossible
has happened. No messages have come into this room for twenty
minutes. We are cut off from the outside and even the streets
below us. “I will stay with the wire until the end. “It is the end, indeed. Since 4 p. m. yesterday the fog has hung
over the city. Following reports from the sexton of the local
church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate conditions
on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has ever returned nor
was any word received from them. It is quite certain now that they
will never return. “From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me. From
the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly the
entire city can be seen. Now I can see only a thick blanket of
blackness where customarily are lights and life. “I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly from the
outskirts of the city are the death cries of the inhabitants. They
are constantly increasing in volume and are approaching the center
of the city. “The fog yet hangs over everything. If possible, it is even
heavier than before. But the conditions have changed. Instead of
an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, now swirls and
writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost human agony. Now
and again the mass parts and I catch a brief glimpse of the
streets below. “People are running to and fro, screaming in despair. A vast
bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the
immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds. “The fog has again swept over the city and the whistling is coming
closer and closer. “It is now directly beneath me. “God! An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a glimpse of the
streets below. “The fog is not simply vapor--it lives. By the side of each
moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of
strange and varicolored hues. How the shapes cling! Each to a
living thing! “The men and women are down. Flat on their faces. The fog figures
caress them lovingly. They are kneeling beside them. They are--but
I dare not tell it. “The prone and writhing bodies have been stripped of their
clothing. They are being consumed--piecemeal. “A merciful wall of hot, steamy vapor has swept over the whole
scene. I can see no more. “Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors. It seems to be
lighted by internal fires. No, it isn’t. I have made a mistake. The colors are from above, reflections from the sky. “Look up! Look up! The whole sky is in flames. Colors as yet
unseen by man or demon. The flames are moving, they have started
to intermix, the colors rearrange themselves. They are so
brilliant that my eyes burn, yet they are a long way off. “Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out, twisting in
intricate designs and patterns. The lights are racing each with
each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance. “I have made a discovery. There is nothing harmful in the lights. They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness. But by
their very strength, they hurt. “As I look they are swinging closer and closer, a million miles at
each jump. Millions of miles with the speed of light. Aye, it is
light, the quintessence of all light. Beneath it the fog melts
into a jeweled mist, radiant, rainbow-colored of a thousand varied
spectrums. “I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people! The
lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am enveloped. I----”
The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead. Beneath my
eyes in the narrow circle of light from under the green lampshade, the
black printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the
page. The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely
impressive. Powerful. I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his
sides while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the
lampshade back, throwing the light squarely in his face. His eyes were
staring, fixed. Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him
and called Chicago on the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its
answer. Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire
Two had not been used throughout the evening. “Morgan!” I shouted. “Morgan! Wake up, it isn’t true. Someone has been
hoaxing us. Why----” In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder. It
was only then that I understood. The body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be
that his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to
record impressions even after the end? | Arnold, H. F. (Henry Ferris) - The night wire |
I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the night shift. Search in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it was
that killed John Morgan will forever remain a mystery. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 1926 issue | Arnold, H. F. (Henry Ferris) - The night wire |
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1954. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed. RING ONCE FOR DEATH
BY ROBERT ARTHUR
Illustrator: Ernie Barth
_The power of the old gods was certainly nothing for Mark
and Edith--a modern, twentieth-century couple--to worry
about. After all--everybody dies!_
* * * * *
[Illustration:]
Twenty years had left no trace inside Sam Kee's little shop on Mott
Street. There were the same dusty jars of ginseng root and tigers'
whiskers, the same little bronze Buddahs, the same gim-cracks mixed
with fine jade. Edith Williams gave a little murmur of pleasure as the
door shut behind them. "Mark," she said, "it hasn't changed! It doesn't look as if a thing
had been sold since we were here on our honeymoon." "It certainly doesn't," Dr. Mark Williams agreed, moving down the
narrow aisle behind her. "If someone hadn't told us Sam Kee was dead,
I'd believe we'd stepped back twenty years in time, like they do in
those scientific stories young David reads." "We must buy something," his wife said. "For a twentieth anniversary
present for me. Perhaps a bell?" From the shadowy depths of the shop a young man emerged, American in
dress and manner despite the Oriental contours of his face and eyes. "Good evening," he said. "May I show you something?" "We think we want a bell," Dr. Williams chuckled. "But we aren't quite
sure. You're Sam Kee's son?" "Sam Kee, junior. My honored father passed to the halls of his
ancestors five years ago. I could just say that he died--" black eyes
twinkled--"but customers like the more flowery mode of speech. They
think it's quaint." "I think it's just nice, and not quaint at all," Edith Williams
declared. "We're sorry your father is dead. We'd hoped to see him
again. Twenty years ago when we were a very broke young couple on a
honeymoon he sold us a wonderful rose-crystal necklace for half
price." "I'm sure he still made a profit." The black eyes twinkled again. "But
if you'd like a bell, here are small temple bells, camel bells, dinner
bells...."
But even as he spoke, Edith Williams' hand darted to something at the
back of the shelf. "A bell carved out of crystal!" she exclaimed. "And rose-crystal at
that. What could be more perfect? A rose-crystal wedding present and a
rose-crystal anniversary present!" The young man half stretched out his hand. "I don't think you want that," he said. "It's broken." "Broken?" Edith Williams rubbed off the dust and held the lovely
bell-shape of crystal, the size of a pear, to the light. "It looks
perfect to me." "I mean it is not complete." Something of the American had vanished
from the young man. "It has no clapper. It will not ring." "Why, that's right." Mark Williams took the bell. "The clapper's
missing." "We can have another clapper made," his wife declared. "That is, if
the original can't be found?" The young Chinese shook his head. "The bell and the clapper were deliberately separated by my father
twenty years ago." He hesitated, then added: "My father was afraid of
this bell." "Afraid of it?" Mark Williams raised his eyebrows. The other hesitated again. "It will probably sound like a story for tourists," he said. "But my
father believed it. This bell was supposedly stolen from the temple of
a sect of Buddhists somewhere in the mountains of China's interior. Just as many Occidentals believe that the Christian Judgement Day will
be heralded by a blast on St. Peter's trumpet, so this small sect is
said to believe that when a bell like this one is rung, a bell carved
from a single piece of rose crystal, and consecrated by ceremonies
lasting ten years, any dead within sound of it will rise and live
again." "Heavenly!" Edith Williams cried. "And no pun intended. Mark, think
what a help this bell will be in your practise when we make it ring
again!" To the Chinese she added, smiling: "I'm just teasing him. My
husband is really a very fine surgeon." The other bowed his head. "I must tell you," he said, "you will not be able to make it ring. Only the original clapper, carved from the same block of rose crystal,
will ring it. That is why my father separated them." Again he hesitated. "I have told you only half of what my father told me. He said that,
though it defeats death, Death can not be defeated. Robbed of his
chosen victim, he takes another in his place. Thus when the bell was
used in the temple of its origin--let us say when a high priest or a
chief had died--a slave or servant was placed handy for Death to take
when he had been forced to relinquish his grasp upon the important
one." He smiled, shook his head. "There," he said. "A preposterous story. Now if you wish it, the bell
is ten dollars. Plus, of course, sales tax." "The story alone is worth more," Dr. Williams declared. "I think we'd
better have it sent, hadn't we, Edith? It'll be safer in the mail than
in our suitcase." "Sent?" His wife seemed to come out of some deep feminine meditation. "Oh, of course. And as for its not ringing--I shall make it ring. I
know I shall." "If the story is true," Mark Williams murmured, "I hope not...."
* * * * *
The package came on a Saturday morning, when Mark Williams was
catching up on the latest medical publications in his untidy,
book-lined study. He heard Edith unwrapping paper in the hall outside. Then she came in with the rose-crystal bell in her hands. "Mark, it's here!" she said. "Now to make it ring." She plumped herself down beside his desk. He took the bell and reached
for a silver pencil. "Just for the sake of curiosity," he remarked, "and not because I
believe that delightful sales talk we were given, let's see if it will
ring when I tap. It should, you know." He tapped the lip of the bell. A muted _thunk_ was the only response. Then he tried with a coin, a paper knife, and the bottom of a glass. In each instance the resulting sound was nothing like a bell ringing. "If you've finished, Mark," Edith said then, with feminine tolerance,
"let me show you how it's done." "Gladly," her husband agreed. She took the bell and turned away for a
moment. Then she shook the bell vigorously. A clear, sweet ringing
shivered through the room--so thin and etherial that small involuntary
shivers crawled up his spine. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "How did you do that?" "I just put the clapper back in place with some thread," Edith told
him. "The clapper?" He struck his forehead with his palm. "Don't tell
me--the crystal necklace we bought twenty years ago!" "Of course." Her tone was composed. | Arthur, Robert - Ring Once for Death |
"As soon as young Sam Kee told us
about his father's separating the clapper and the bell, I remembered
the central crystal pendant on my necklace. It _is_ shaped like a bell
clapper--we mentioned it once. "I guessed right away we had the missing clapper. But I didn't say so. I wanted to score on you, Mark--" she smiled affectionately at
him--"and because, you know, I had a queer feeling Sam Kee, junior,
wouldn't let us have the bell if he guessed we had the clapper." "I don't think he would." Mark Williams picked up his pipe and rubbed
the bowl with his thumb. "Yet he didn't really believe that story he
told us any more than we do." "No, but his father did. And if old Sam Kee had told it to
us--remember how wrinkled and wise he seemed?--I do believe we'd have
believed the story." "You're probably right." Dr. Williams rang the bell and waited. The
thin, sweet sound seemed to hang in the air a long moment, then was
gone. "Nope," he said. "Nothing happened. Although, of course, that may be
because there was no deceased around to respond." "I'm not sure I feel like joking about the story." A small frown
gathered on Edith's forehead. "I had planned to use the bell as a
dinner bell and to tell the story to our guests. But now--I'm not
sure." Frowning, she stared at the bell until the ringing of the telephone in
the hall brought her out of her abstraction. "Sit still, I'll answer." She hurried out. Dr. Williams, turning the
rose crystal bell over in his hand, could hear the sudden tension in
her voice as she answered. He was on his feet when she reentered. "An emergency operation at the hospital," she sighed. "Nice young
man--automobile accident. Fracture of the skull, Dr. Amos says. He
wouldn't have disturbed you but you're the only brain man in town,
with Dr. Hendryx away on vacation." "I know." He was already in the hall, reaching for his hat. "Man's
work is from sun to sun, but a doctor's work is never done," he
misquoted. "I'll drive you." Edith followed him out. "You sit back and relax for
another ten minutes...."
* * * * *
Two hours later, as they drove homeward, the traffic was light, which
was fortunate. More than once Mark, in a frowning abstraction, found
himself on the left of the center line and had to pull back into his
own lane. He had lost patients before, but never without a feeling of personal
defeat. Edith said he put too much of himself into every operation. Perhaps he did. And yet--No, there was every reason why the young man
should have lived. Yet, just as Mark Williams had felt that he had
been successful, the patient had died. In twenty years of marriage, Edith Williams had learned to read his
thoughts at times. Now she put a hand comfortingly on his arm. "These things happen, darling," she said. "You know that. A doctor can
only do so much. Some of the job always remains in the hands of
Nature. And she does play tricks at times." "Yes, confound it, I know it," her husband growled. "But I resent
losing that lad. There was no valid reason for it--unless there was
some complication I overlooked." He shook his head, scowling. "I
ordered an autopsy but--Yes, I'm going to do that autopsy myself. I'm
going to turn back and do it now. I have to know!" He pulled abruptly to the left to swing into a side road and turn. Edith Williams never saw the car that hit them. She heard the frantic
blare of a horn and a scream of brakes, and in a frozen instant
realized that there had been someone behind them, about to pass. Then
the impact came, throwing her forward into the windshield and
unconsciousness. * * * * *
Edith Williams opened her eyes. Even before she realized that she was
lying on the ground and that the figure bending over her was a State
Trooper, she remembered the crash. Her head hurt but there was no
confusion in her mind. Automatically, even as she tried to sit up, she
accepted the fact that there had been a crash, help had come, and she
must have been unconscious for several minutes at least. "Hey, lady, take it easy!" the Trooper protested. "You had a bad bump. You got to lie still until the ambulance gets here. It'll be along in
five minutes." "Mark," Edith said, paying no attention. "My husband! Is he all
right?" "Now lady, please. He's being taken care of. You--"
But she was not listening. Holding to his arm she pulled herself to a
sitting position. She saw their car on its side some yards away, other
cars pulled up around them, a little knot of staring people. Saw them
and dismissed them. Her gaze found her husband, lying on the ground a
few feet away, a coat folded beneath his head. Mark was dead. She had been a doctor's wife for twenty years, and
before that a nurse. She knew death when she saw it. "Mark." The word was spoken to herself, but the Trooper took it for a
question. "Yes, lady," he said. "He's dead. He was still breathing when I got
here, but he died two, three minutes ago." She got to her knees. Her only thought was to reach his side. She
scrambled across the few feet of ground to him still on her knees and
crouched beside him, fumbling for his pulse. There was none. There was
nothing. Just a man who had been alive and now was dead. Behind her she heard a voice raised. She turned. A large, disheveled
man was standing beside the Trooper, talking loudly. "Now listen, officer," he was saying, "I'm telling you again, it
wasn't my fault. The guy pulled sharp left right in front of me. Not a
thing I could do. It's a wonder we weren't all three of us killed. You
can see by the marks on their car it wasn't my fault--"
Edith Williams closed her mind to the voice. She let Mark's hand lie
in her lap as she fumbled in her bag, which was somehow still clutched
in her fingers. She groped for a handkerchief to stem the tears which
would not be held back. Something was in the way--something smooth and
hard and cold. She drew it out and heard the thin, sweet tinkle of the
crystal bell. She must have dropped it automatically into her bag as
they were preparing to leave the house. The hand in her lap moved. She gasped and bent forward as her
husband's eyes opened. "Mark!" she whispered. "Mark, darling!" "Edith," Mark Williams said with an effort. "Sorry--damned careless of
me. Thinking of the hospital...."
"You're alive!" she said. "You're _alive_! Oh, darling, darling, lie
still, the ambulance will be here any second." "Ambulance?" he protested. "I'm all right now. Help me--sit up." "But Mark----"
"Just a bump on the head." He struggled to sit up. The State Trooper
came over. "Easy, buddy, easy," he said, his voice awed. "We thought you were
gone. Now let's not lose you a second time." His mouth was tight. "Hey, I'm sure glad you're all right!" the red-faced man said in a
rush of words. "Whew, fellow, you had me all upset, even though it
wasn't my fault. I mean, how's a guy gonna keep from hitting you
when--when----"
"Catch him!" Mark Williams cried, but the Trooper was too late. | Arthur, Robert - Ring Once for Death |
The
other man plunged forward to the ground and lay where he had fallen
without quivering. * * * * *
The clock in the hall struck two with muted strokes. Cautiously Edith
Williams rose on her elbow and looked down at her husband's face. His
eyes opened and looked back at her. "You're awake," she said, unnecessarily. "I woke up a few minutes ago," he answered. "I've been lying
here--thinking." "I'll get you another phenobarbital. Dr. Amos said for you to take
them and sleep until tomorrow." "I know. I'll take one presently. You know--hearing that clock just
now reminded me of something." "Yes?" "Just before I came to this afternoon, after the crash, I had a
strange impression of hearing a bell ring. It sounded so loud in my
ears I opened my eyes to see where it was." "A--bell?" "Yes. Just auditory hallucination, of course." "But Mark--"
"Yes?" "A--a bell did ring. I mean, I had the crystal bell in my bag and it
tinkled a little. Do you suppose--"
"Of course not." But though he spoke swiftly he did not sound
convincing. "This was a loud bell. Like a great gong." "But--I mean, Mark darling--a moment earlier you--had no pulse." "No pulse?" "And you weren't--breathing. Then the crystal bell tinkled and
you--you...."
"Nonsense! I know what you're thinking and believe me--it's nonsense!" "But Mark." She spoke carefully. "The driver of the other car. You had
no sooner regained consciousness than he--"
"He had a fractured skull!" Dr. Williams interrupted sharply. "The
ambulance intern diagnosed it. Skull fractures often fail to show
themselves and then--bingo, you keel over. That's what happened. Now
let's say no more about it." "Of course." In the hall, the clock struck the quarter hour. "Shall I
fix the phenobarbital now?" "Yes--no. Is David home?" She hesitated. "No, he hasn't got back yet." "Has he phoned? He knows he's supposed to be in by midnight at the
latest." "No, he--hasn't phoned. But there's a school dance tonight." "That's no excuse for not phoning. He has the old car, hasn't he?" "Yes. You gave him the keys this morning, remember?" "All the more reason he should phone." Dr. Williams lay silent a
moment. "Two o'clock is too late for a 17-year-old boy to be out." "I'll speak to him. He won't do it again. Now please, Mark, let me get
you the phenobarbital. I'll stay up until David--"
* * * * *
The ringing phone, a clamor in the darkness, interrupted her. Mark
Williams reached for it. The extension was beside his bed. "Hello," he said. And then, although she could not hear the answering
voice, she felt him stiffen. And she knew. As well as if she could
hear the words she knew, with a mother's instinct for disaster. "Yes," Dr. Williams said. "Yes ... I see ... I understand ... I'll
come at once.... Thank you for calling." He slid out of bed before she could stop him. "An emergency call." He spoke quietly. "I have to go." He began to
throw on his clothes. "It's David," she said. "Isn't it?" She sat up. "Don't try to keep me
from knowing. It's about David." "Yes," he said. His voice was very tired. "David is hurt. I have to go
to him. An accident." "He's dead." She said it steadily. "David's dead, isn't he, Mark?" He came over and sat beside her and put his arms around her. "Edith," he said. "Edith--Yes, he's dead. Forty minutes ago. The
car--went over a curve. They have him--at the County morgue. They want
me to--identify him. Identify him. Edith! You see, the car caught
fire!" "I'm coming with you," she said. "I'm coming with you!" * * * * *
The taxi waited in a pool of darkness between two street lights. The
long, low building which was the County morgue, a blue lamp over its
door, stood below the street level. A flight of concrete steps went
down to it from the sidewalk. Ten minutes before, Dr. Mark Williams
had gone down those steps. Now he climbed back up them, stiffly,
wearily, like an old man. Edith was waiting in the taxi, sitting forward on the edge of the
seat, hands clenched. As he reached the last step she opened the door
and stepped out. "Mark," she asked shakily, "was it--"
"Yes, it's David." His voice was a monotone. "Our son. I've completed
the formalities. For now the only thing we can do is go home." "I'm going to him!" She tried to pass. He caught her wrist. Discretely
the taxi driver pretended to doze. "No, Edith! There's no need. You mustn't--see him!" "He's my son!" she cried. "Let me go!" "No! What have you got under your coat?" "It's the bell, the rose-crystal bell!" she cried. "I'm going to ring
it where David can hear!" Defiantly she brought forth her hand, clutching the little bell. "It
brought you back, Mark! Now it's going to bring back David!" "Edith!" he said in horror. "You mustn't believe that's possible. You
can't. Those were coincidences. Now let me have it." "No! I'm going to ring it." Violently she tried to break out of his
grip. "I want David back! I'm going to ring the bell!" She got her hand free. The crystal bell rang in the quiet of the early
morning with an eerie thinness, penetrating the silence like a silver
knife. "There!" Edith Williams panted. "I've rung it. I know you don't
believe, but I do. It'll bring David back." She raised her voice. "David!" she called. "David, son! Can you hear me?" "Edith," Dr. Williams groaned. "You're just tormenting yourself. Come
home. Please come home." "Not until David has come back.... David, David, can you hear me?" She
rang the bell again, rang it until Dr. Williams seized it, then she
let him take it. "Edith, Edith," he groaned. "If only you had let me come alone...."
"Mark, listen!" "What?" "Listen!" she whispered with fierce urgency. He was silent. And then fingers of horror drew themselves down his
spine at the clear, youthful voice that came up to them from the
darkness below. "Mother?... Dad?... Where are you?" "David!" Edith Williams breathed. "It's David! Let me go! I must go
to him." "No, Edith!" her husband whispered frantically, as the voice below
called again. "Dad?... Mother?... Are you up there? Wait for me." "Let me go!" she sobbed. "David, we're here! We're up here, son!" "Edith!" Mark Williams gasped. "If you've ever loved me, listen to me. You mustn't go down there. David--I had to identify him by his class
ring and his wallet. He was burned--terribly burned!" "I'm going to him!" She wrenched herself free and sped for the steps,
up which now was coming a tall form, a shadow shrouded in the
darkness. Dr. Williams, horror knotting his stomach, leaped to stop her. But he
slipped and fell headlong on the pavement, so that she was able to
pant down the stairs to meet the upcoming figure. "Oh, David," she sobbed, "David!" "Hey, Mom!" The boy held her steady. "I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry. But I didn't know what had happened until I got home and you weren't
there and then one of the fellows from the fraternity called me. | Arthur, Robert - Ring Once for Death |
I
realized they must have made a mistake, and you'd come here, and I
called for a taxi and came out here. My taxi let me off at the
entrance around the block, and I've been looking for you down
there.... Poor Pete!" "Pete?" she asked. "Pete Friedburg. He was driving the old car. I lent him the keys and
my driver's license. I shouldn't have--but he's older and he kept
begging me...."
"Then--then it's Pete who was killed?" she gasped. "Pete who
was--burned?" "Yes, Pete. I feel terrible about lending him the car. But he was
supposed to be a good driver. And then them calling you, you and Dad
thinking it was me--"
"Then Mark was right. Of course he was right." She was laughing and
sobbing now. "It's just a bell, a pretty little bell, that's all." "Bell? I don't follow you, Mom." "Never mind," Edith Williams gasped. "It's just a bell. It hasn't any
powers over life and death. It doesn't bring back and it doesn't take
away. But let's get back up to your father. He may be thinking that
the bell--that the bell really worked." They climbed the rest of the steps. Dr. Mark Williams still lay where
he had fallen headlong on the pavement. The cab driver was bending
over him, but there was nothing to be done. The crystal bell had been
beneath him when he fell, and it had broken. One long, fine splinter
of crystal was embedded in his heart. * * * * * | Arthur, Robert - Ring Once for Death |
Northanger Abbey
by Jane Austen
(1803)
Contents
ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY
This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for
immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even
advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has
never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it
worth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish
seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public
have any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those
parts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively
obsolete. The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years
have passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and
that during that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have
undergone considerable changes. CHAPTER 1
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the
character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition,
were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being
neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was
Richard—and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable
independence besides two good livings—and he was not in the least
addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a
good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and
instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody
might expect, she still lived on—lived to have six children more—to see
them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A
family of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there
are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had
little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain,
and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a
thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and
strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for
heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and greatly
preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic
enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or
watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she
gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief—at
least so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she
was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were
quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything
before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often
inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in
teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her
next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid—by no means; she learnt the fable of “The
Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother
wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it,
for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet;
so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear
it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being
accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave
off. The day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest
of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though
whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or
seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that
way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French
by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she
shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,
unaccountable character!—for with all these symptoms of profligacy at
ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom
stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,
with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,
hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the
world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house. Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were
mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes
gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of
dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she
grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father
and mother remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a
good-looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught
her ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! to look
_almost_ pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has
been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty
from her cradle can ever receive. Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were
inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should
prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of
information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful
lives. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
“bear about the mockery of woe.”
From Gray, that
“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
From Thomson, that—
“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst
the rest, that—
“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”
That
“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”
And that a young woman in love always looks—
“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”
So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came
on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she
brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her
throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of
her own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance
with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she
had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her
lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she
fell miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not
know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached
the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could
call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,
and without having excited even any admiration but what was very
moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! but strange
things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched
out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a
baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had
reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one
young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the
squire of the parish no children. But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way. Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for
the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured
woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will
not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,
invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,
and Catherine all happiness. CHAPTER 2
In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be
stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following
pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just
removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person
pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as
ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is. When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand
alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her
in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of
the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew
so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of
their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to
her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the throat, when you come from the Rooms at night; and
I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I
will give you this little book on purpose.”
Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can? ),
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of
transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of
every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with
the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first
separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her
father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even
putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten
guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it. Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind
her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless. They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking
environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy
already. They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street. It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the
reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable—whether by her
imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters,
ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the
world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither
beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
The air of a gentlewoman, a
great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind
were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,
intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted
to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going
everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine;
and our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after
three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and
her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters
were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into
the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her
clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped
at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it
was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it. Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom
till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies
squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired
directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of
her protégée, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the
door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within
her friend’s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along
the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the
crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had
imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find
seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But
this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence
they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the
same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of
the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view; and
by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves
at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the
dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and
she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball:
she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs.
Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly,
every now and then, “I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could
get a partner.” For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for
these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally
ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no
more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence
they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for
tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed
against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to
interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a
syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in
the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to
join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw
nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more
eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at
which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do
there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on
having preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very
shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a
delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in
the whole room, I assure you.”
“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single
acquaintance here!”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very
uncomfortable indeed.”
“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if
they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their
party.”
“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here.”
“I wish we had _any;_—it would be somebody to go to.”
“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them
directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”
“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
see.”
“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! but I think we had
better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! how is my
head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure
there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you
_must_ know somebody.”
“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should
be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! what
an odd gown she has got on! how old-fashioned it is! look at the back.”
After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were
discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an
agreeable ball.”
“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a
great yawn. “I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could
have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if
the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys
had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George
Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!”
“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s
consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to leave
space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the
time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in
the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Every five
minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her
charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her
before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding
her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once
called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and
had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have
thought her exceedingly handsome. She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words
had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
than she had found it before—her humble vanity was contented—she felt
more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a
true quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration
of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and
perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. CHAPTER 3
Every morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited;
some new part of the town to be looked at; and the Pump-room to be
attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at
everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance
in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after
every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody
at all. They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was
more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced
to her a very gentleman-like young man as a partner; his name was
Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall,
had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if
not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and
Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for
speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found
him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He
talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry
in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the
objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto
been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I
have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were
ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the
theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have
been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these
particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.”
“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set
smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering
air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh. “Really!” with affected astonishment. “Why should you be surprised, sir?”
“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must
appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,
and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you
never here before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Indeed! have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”
“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
“Have you been to the theatre?”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
“Yes—I like it very well.”
“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture
to laugh. “I see what you think of me,” said he gravely—“I shall make
but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black
shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a
queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and
distressed me by his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such thing.”
“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary
genius—hope I may know more of him. _That_, madam, is what I _wish_ you
to say.”
“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”
“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a
journal! how are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your
life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of
every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every
evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to
be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse
to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways
as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling
which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which
ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of
writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done
something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the
practice of keeping a journal.”
“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! that is—I should not
think the superiority was always on our side.”
“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars.”
“And what are they?”
“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
very frequent ignorance of grammar.”
“Upon my word! i need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.”
“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better
landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation,
excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;
I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
it cost but nine shillings a yard.”
“That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr.
Tilney, looking at the muslin. “Do you understand muslins, sir?”
“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of
a gown. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be
a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five
shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little
notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know
one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your
sister, sir.”
“I hope I am, madam.”
“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do
not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
“strange.”
“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told
Miss Morland when she bought it.”
“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a
cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my
sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more
than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
“Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We
are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in
Salisbury, but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen
says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than
eight; and it is such a fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one
can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and
she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others. “What are you
thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the
ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head,
your meditations are not satisfactory.”
Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
that you will not tell me.”
“Well then, I will not.”
“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much.”
They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s
side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the
acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her
warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a
slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a
celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified
in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must
be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before
the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr.
Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr.
Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common
acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he
had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and
had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very
respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4
With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before
the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile
was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except
himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and
out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
wanted to see; and he only was absent. “What a delightful place Bath
is,” said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after
parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be
if we had any acquaintance here.”
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied
diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady
of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at
her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great
complaisance in these words: “I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it
is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your
name Allen?” This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger
pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the
features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only
once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their
joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had
been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen
years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how
time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they
had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an
old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as
to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far
more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very
little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great
advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and
when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her
daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that
John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and
all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than
any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information
to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving
ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all
these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the
discovery, which her keen eyes soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s
pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own. “Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three
smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. “My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so
delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a
fine young woman? | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
The others are very much admired too, but I believe
Isabella is the handsomest.”
The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a
short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to
strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the
eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her
brother Miss Morland is!”
“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or
three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance
with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother
had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of
the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the
Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their
brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with
all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof
of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss
Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was
delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost
forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is
certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and
quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss
Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided
advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of
Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;
could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of
tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and
lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the
thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from
Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they
naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not
the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her frequent expressions
of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling
of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing
attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the
pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss
Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s
house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and
lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that
they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their
prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran
directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street
from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk,
the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well
she might, for the chance which had procured her such a friend. Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a
good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her
eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by
pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and
dressing in the same style, did very well. This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past
adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of
lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had
passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated. CHAPTER 5
Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye
for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked
in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She
hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine
weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a
doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its
inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk
about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is. As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a
genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in
arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved
conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was
Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was
nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor
Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor
among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the
morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do
no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his
stay would be so short! this sort of mysteriousness, which is always so
becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s imagination
around his person and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more
of him. From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been
only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a
subject, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend,
from whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to
think of him; and his impression on her fancy was not suffered
therefore to weaken. Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming
young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with
her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him
the better for being a clergyman, “for she must confess herself very
partial to the profession”; and something like a sigh escaped her as
she said it. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of
that gentle emotion—but she was not experienced enough in the finesse
of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery
was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced. Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had found
some acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the family
of a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,
had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her daily expressions were no longer, “I wish we had some acquaintance
in Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs.
Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two
families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; never
satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of
Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there was
scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of
subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen
of her gowns. The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through
every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no
fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They
called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when
they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not
to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other
enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and
dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for
I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with
novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very
performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining
with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such
works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own
heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over
its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be
not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect
protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over
every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which
the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured
body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and
unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the
world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride,
ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And
while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of
England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some
dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the
Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand
pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the
performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. “I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that _I_
often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the
common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss——?” “Oh! it is only a
novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with
affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or
Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the
greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough
knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties,
the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in
the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged
with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly
would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances
must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous
publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a
young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting
in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and
topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their
language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea
of the age that could endure it. CHAPTER 6
The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in
the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days,
is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the
delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest
creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you
at least this age!”
“Have you, indeed! i am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was
in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here
long?”
“Oh! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half
hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and
enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first
place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to
set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into
agonies! do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a
shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours, only with
coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my
dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this
morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?”
“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the
black veil.”
“Are you, indeed? How delightful! oh! i would not tell you what is
behind the black veil for the world! are not you wild to know?”
“Oh! yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told
upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is
Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! i am delighted with the book! i should like
to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been
to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.”
“Dear creature! how much I am obliged to you; and when you have
finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made
out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”
“Have you, indeed! how glad I am! what are they all?”
“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time.”
“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
horrid?”
“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a
sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every
one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with
her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I
think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for
not admiring her! i scold them all amazingly about it.”
“Scold them! do you scold them for not admiring her?”
“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are
really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is
not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told
Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to
tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow
Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable
of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I
should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_
are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something
amazingly insipid about her. Oh! i must tell you, that just after we
parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am
sure he is in love with you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it
is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one
gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking
more seriously—“your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is
really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with
the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so
uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! i can
perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.
Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
“Not see him again! my dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure
you would be miserable if you thought so!”
“No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
nobody could make me miserable. Oh! the dreadful black veil! my dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.”
“It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before;
but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.”
“No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
but new books do not fall in our way.”
“Sir Charles Grandison! that is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I
remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.”
“It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very
entertaining.”
“Do you indeed! you surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head
to-night? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know.”
“But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently. “Signify! oh, heavens! i make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
spirit, and make them keep their distance.”
“Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well
to me.”
“Oh! they give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited
creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! by
the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you
like them best dark or fair?”
“I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both,
I think. Brown—not fair, and—and not very dark.”
“Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr. Tilney—‘a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather
dark hair.’ Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to
complexion—do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. You must
not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance
answering that description.”
“Betray you! what do you mean?”
“Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop
the subject.”
Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few
moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at
that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina’s
skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two
odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They
really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the
arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”
Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men. “They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up.”
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that
she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the
pump-room. “And which way are they gone?” said Isabella, turning hastily round. “One was a very good-looking young man.”
“They went towards the church-yard.”
“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! and now, what say
you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it.”
Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake
the two young men.”
“Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them
presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.”
“But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our
seeing them at all.”
“I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no
notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil
them.”
Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,
to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling
the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in
pursuit of the two young men. CHAPTER 7
Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Everybody
acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap
Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature,
so unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and
the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties
of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of
pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are
not detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by
Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and
lament it once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union
Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding
through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting
alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven
along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the
vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his
companion, and his horse. “Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest
them.” But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for
she looked again and exclaimed, “Delightful! mr. Morland and my
brother!”
“Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;
and, on catching the young men’s eyes, the horse was immediately
checked with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the
servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the
equipage was delivered to his care. Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his
side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while
the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and
embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more
expert in the development of other people’s feelings, and less simply
engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as
pretty as she could do herself. John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the
hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short
bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain
face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless
he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he
were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be
allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: “How long do you think we
have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”
“I do not know the distance.” Her brother told her that it was
twenty-three miles. “_Three_-and-twenty!” cried Thorpe, “five-and-twenty if it is an inch.”
Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,
and milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer
test of distance. “I know it must be five-and-twenty,” said he, “by the
time we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of
the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any
man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in
harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.”
“You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we
came from Tetbury.”
“Ten o’clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! i counted every stroke. This
brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do
but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in
your life?” (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving
off.) “Such true blood! three hours and and a half indeed coming only
three and twenty miles! look at that creature, and suppose it possible
if you can.”
“He _does_ look very hot, to be sure.”
“Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse
_cannot_ go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get
on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a
Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran
it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with
it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the
kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I
chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford,
last term: ‘Ah! thorpe,’ said he, ‘do you happen to want such a little
thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired
of it.’ ‘Oh! d—,’ said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’ And how
much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”
“I am sure I cannot guess at all.”
“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,
lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as
new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,
threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.”
“And I am sure,” said Catherine, “I know so little of such things that
I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.”
“Neither one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but
I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.”
“That was very good-natured of you,” said Catherine, quite pleased. “Oh! d—— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
I hate to be pitiful.”
An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that
the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar’s Buildings, and pay their
respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so well
satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she
endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double
recommendation of being her brother’s friend, and her friend’s brother,
so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook
and passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far
from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only
three times. John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes’
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. “You will find,
however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some
people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;
Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
time.”
“Yes,” said Morland, who overheard this; “but you forget that your
horse was included.”
“My horse! oh, d—— it! i would not sell my horse for a hundred. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Are you
fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”
“Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
particularly fond of it.”
“I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”
“Thank you,” said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
propriety of accepting such an offer. “I will drive you up Lansdown Hill to-morrow.”
“Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?”
“Rest! he has only come three and twenty miles to-day; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
while I am here.”
“Shall you indeed!” said Catherine very seriously. “That will be forty
miles a day.”
“Forty! aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown
to-morrow; mind, I am engaged.”
“How delightful that will be!” cried Isabella, turning round. “My
dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will
not have room for a third.”
“A third indeed! no, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about; that would be a good joke, faith! morland must take care of
you.”
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion’s
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more
than a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of
every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as
long as she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful
female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition
to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own
sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question
which had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, “Have you ever
read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?”
“Udolpho! oh, Lord! not I; I never read novels; I have something else
to do.”
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her
question, but he prevented her by saying, “Novels are all so full of
nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out
since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for
all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation.”
“I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
interesting.”
“Not I, faith! no, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her
novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature
in _them_.”
“Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him. “No, sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that
other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,
she who married the French emigrant.”
“I suppose you mean Camilla?”
“Yes, that’s the book; such unnatural stuff! an old man playing at
see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon
found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be
before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was
sure I should never be able to get through it.”
“I have never read it.”
“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing
at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. “Ah, Mother! How do you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where
did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must
look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near.” And this address
seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she
received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two
younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal
tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that
they both looked very ugly. These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and
Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
Isabella’s assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that
John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John’s
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she
been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where
youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of
reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the
door was closed on them, said, “Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, “I do not
like him at all,” she directly replied, “I like him very much; he seems
very agreeable.”
“He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle;
but that will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like
the rest of the family?”
“Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman
I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is
so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;
and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your
praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss
Thorpe even you, Catherine,” taking her hand with affection, “may be
proud of.”
“Indeed I am,” she replied; “I love her exceedingly, and am delighted
to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her
when you wrote to me after your visit there.”
“Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a
great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;
such a superior understanding! how fond all the family are of her; she
is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in
such a place as this—is not she?”
“Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest
girl in Bath.”
“I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of
beauty than Mr. Allen. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
I need not ask you whether you are happy here,
my dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe,
it would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am
sure, are very kind to you?”
“Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far
on purpose to see _me_.”
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience
for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, “Indeed,
Catherine, I love you dearly.”
Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression on
James’s part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney
Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs.
Allen, invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the
latter to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and
tippet. A pre-engagement in Edgar’s Buildings prevented his accepting
the invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as
he had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties
uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was
then left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened
imagination over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns
of dressing and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen’s fears on the
delay of an expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to
bestow even on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already
engaged for the evening. CHAPTER 8
In spite of Udolpho and the dressmaker, however, the party from
Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in very good time. The Thorpes
and James Morland were there only two minutes before them; and Isabella
having gone through the usual ceremonial of meeting her friend with the
most smiling and affectionate haste, of admiring the set of her gown,
and envying the curl of her hair, they followed their chaperons, arm
in arm, into the ballroom, whispering to each other whenever a thought
occurred, and supplying the place of many ideas by a squeeze of the
hand or a smile of affection. The dancing began within a few minutes after they were seated; and
James, who had been engaged quite as long as his sister, was very
importunate with Isabella to stand up; but John was gone into the
card-room to speak to a friend, and nothing, she declared, should
induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. “I assure you,” said she, “I would not stand up without your dear
sister for all the world; for if I did we should certainly be separated
the whole evening.” Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude,
and they continued as they were for three minutes longer, when
Isabella, who had been talking to James on the other side of her,
turned again to his sister and whispered, “My dear creature, I am
afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to
begin; I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will
be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out.” Catherine,
though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any
opposition, and the others rising up, Isabella had only time to press
her friend’s hand and say, “Good-bye, my dear love,” before they
hurried off. The younger Miss Thorpes being also dancing, Catherine was
left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen, between whom she now
remained. She could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr.
Thorpe, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was likewise aware
that, as the real dignity of her situation could not be known, she was
sharing with the scores of other young ladies still sitting down all
the discredit of wanting a partner. To be disgraced in the eye of the
world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity,
her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true
source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which
peculiarly belong to the heroine’s life, and her fortitude under it
what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too;
she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips. From this state of humiliation, she was roused, at the end of ten
minutes, to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr.
Tilney, within three yards of the place where they sat; he seemed to be
moving that way, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and
the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, passed
away without sullying her heroic importance. He looked as handsome and
as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and
pleasing-looking young woman, who leant on his arm, and whom Catherine
immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away a
fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, by being
married already. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it
had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married; he had not
behaved, he had not talked, like the married men to whom she had been
used; he had never mentioned a wife, and he had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances sprang the instant conclusion of his sister’s
now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike
paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen’s bosom, Catherine sat
erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little
redder than usual. Mr. Tilney and his companion, who continued, though slowly, to
approach, were immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs.
Thorpe; and this lady stopping to speak to her, they, as belonging to
her, stopped likewise, and Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye,
instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition. She
returned it with pleasure, and then advancing still nearer, he spoke
both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged. “I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had
left Bath.” He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted
it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure of
seeing her. “Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it
is just the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I
tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he
should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is
much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell
him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health.”
“And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,
from finding it of service to him.”
“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
A neighbour of ours, Dr.
Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite
stout.”
“That circumstance must give great encouragement.”
“Yes, sir—and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I
tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.”
Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,
that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney
with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was
accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and
after a few minutes’ consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with
him. This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe
mortification to the lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her
sorrow on the occasion so very much as if she really felt it, that had
Thorpe, who joined her just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he
might have thought her sufferings rather too acute. The very easy
manner in which he then told her that he had kept her waiting did not
by any means reconcile her more to her lot; nor did the particulars
which he entered into while they were standing up, of the horses and
dogs of the friend whom he had just left, and of a proposed exchange of
terriers between them, interest her so much as to prevent her looking
very often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that
gentleman, she could see nothing. They were in different sets. She was
separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance; one
mortification succeeded another, and from the whole she deduced this
useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not
necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing strain as this, she was suddenly roused by a
touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes
directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman. “I beg
your pardon, Miss Morland,” said she, “for this liberty—but I cannot
anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would
not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you.”
Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature in the room more
happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to
each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of such goodness,
Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind making light of
the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having so respectably
settled her young charge, returned to her party. Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable
countenance; and her air, though it had not all the decided pretension,
the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, had more real elegance. Her
manners showed good sense and good breeding; they were neither shy nor
affectedly open; and she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and
at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her,
and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable
vexation on every little trifling occurrence. Catherine, interested at
once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous
of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she
could think of anything to say, and had courage and leisure for saying
it. But the hindrance thrown in the way of a very speedy intimacy, by
the frequent want of one or more of these requisites, prevented their
doing more than going through the first rudiments of an acquaintance,
by informing themselves how well the other liked Bath, how much she
admired its buildings and surrounding country, whether she drew, or
played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback. The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine found her arm
gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed,
“At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for
you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you
knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”
“My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could
not even see where you were.”
“So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go
and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I—but all in vain—he would not stir
an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so
immoderately lazy! i have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear
Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon
ceremony with such people.”
“Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,”
whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr.
Tilney’s sister.”
“Oh! heavens! you don’t say so! let me look at her this moment. What a
delightful girl! i never saw anything half so beautiful! but where is
her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this
instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to
listen. We are not talking about you.”
“But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?”
“There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
curiosity! talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! ’Tis nothing. But be
satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter.”
“And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?”
“Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to
you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you;
therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear
something not very agreeable.”
In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original
subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little
suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to
see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would
have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. “I tell you, Mr.
Morland,” she cried, “I would not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your
brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I
tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the
rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change
partners.”
“Upon my honour,” said James, “in these public assemblies, it is as
often done as not.”
“Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,
you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me;
persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would
quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”
“No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better
change.”
“There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you
will not mind her. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set
all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest
Catherine, for heaven’s sake, and stand by me.” And off they went, to
regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked
away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of
repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once,
made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the
hope of finding him still with them—a hope which, when it proved to be
fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. “Well, my dear,”
said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, “I hope you have had
an agreeable partner.”
“Very agreeable, madam.”
“I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”
“Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?” said Mrs. Allen. “No, where is he?”
“He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,
that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask
you, if he met with you.”
“Where can he be?” said Catherine, looking round; but she had not
looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. “Ah! he has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_,” said Mrs. Allen;
and after a short silence, she added, “he is a very agreeable young
man.”
“Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,” said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; “I
must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more
agreeable young man in the world.”
This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension
of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment’s
consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, “I dare say she
thought I was speaking of her son.”
Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so
little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not
incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her
soon afterwards and said, “Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are
to stand up and jig it together again.”
“Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and,
besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”
“Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with
me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two
younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this
half hour.”
Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.
Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his
partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and
James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the
latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one
squeeze, and one “dearest Catherine.”
CHAPTER 9
The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with
everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of
extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an
earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her
distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which
lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in
excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish
of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and
almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the
pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must
be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable for
the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female
intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited
confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another
friend from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled,
she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain
in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one;
and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks and
ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for
thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could
never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if
she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the
street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud,
whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about
half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the
window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there being
two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her
brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came
running upstairs, calling out, “Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you
been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a
coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into,
and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out
of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was
not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a
confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over.”
“What do you mean?” said Catherine. “Where are you all going to?”
“Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! did not we agree
together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! we are
going up Claverton Down.”
“Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at
Mrs. Allen for her opinion; “but really I did not expect you.”
“Not expect me! that’s a good one! and what a dust you would have made,
if I had not come.”
Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown
away, for Mrs. Allen, not being at all in the habit of conveying any
expression herself by a look, was not aware of its being ever intended
by anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney
again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and
who thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe,
as Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore
obliged to speak plainer. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you
spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?”
“Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get
ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed
the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her
praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig;
and then receiving her friend’s parting good wishes, they both hurried
downstairs. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
“My dearest creature,” cried Isabella, to whom the duty of
friendship immediately called her before she could get into the
carriage, “you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was
afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a
thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to
be off.”
Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear
her friend exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! i quite
dote on her.”
“You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,” said Thorpe, as he handed
her in, “if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest
for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,
playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.”
Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was
too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened;
so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted
knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down
by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the
horse’s head was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off
they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a
caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an
escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her
companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her
that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which
he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity
with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not
help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should
think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks,
congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent
a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the
same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any
unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles
an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the
enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine
mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of
several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by
Thorpe’s saying very abruptly, “Old Allen is as rich as a Jew—is not
he?” Catherine did not understand him—and he repeated his question,
adding in explanation, “Old Allen, the man you are with.”
“Oh! mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”
“And no children at all?”
“No—not any.”
“A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?”
“My godfather! no.”
“But you are always very much with them.”
“Yes, very much.”
“Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for
nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?”
“His bottle a day! no. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?”
“Lord help you! you women are always thinking of men’s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
_this_—that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would
not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a
famous good thing for us all.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Oh! lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the
hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to
be. Our foggy climate wants help.”
“And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in
Oxford.”
“Oxford! there is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody
drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four
pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable
thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared
about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the
common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not
often meet with anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking
there.”
“Yes, it does give a notion,” said Catherine warmly, “and that is, that
you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I
am sure James does not drink so much.”
This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no
part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting
almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of
wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother’s
comparative sobriety. Thorpe’s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and
she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse
moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of
the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all
his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was
impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his
rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of
her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she
readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled
between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether
the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his
horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. “You do not really
think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine, venturing after some time to
consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little
variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break down?”
“Break down! oh, lord! did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have
been fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! upon
my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the
most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! thank God! we have
got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty
thousand pounds.”
“Good heavens!” cried Catherine, quite frightened. “Then pray let us
turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do
let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell
him how very unsafe it is.”
“Unsafe! oh, lord! what is there in that? They will only get a roll if
it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent
falling. Oh, curse it! the carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how
to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty
years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
i would undertake
for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a
nail.”
Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two
such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been
brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to
how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity
will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom
aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented
with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit
therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting
at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the
affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the
point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real
opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to
her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making
those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to
this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and
his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily
preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to
be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of
his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his
own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle
and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment
had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he
had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all
his companions together; and described to her some famous day’s sport,
with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the
dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in
which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his
own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into
difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and
unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could
not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his
endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a
bold surmise, for he was Isabella’s brother; and she had been assured
by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in
spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over
her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly
to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in
some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his
powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen’s door, the astonishment of Isabella
was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day
for them to attend her friend into the house: “Past three o’clock!” It
was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! and she would neither
believe her own watch, nor her brother’s, nor the servant’s; she would
believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland
produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment
longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and
impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no
two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine
was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to
please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend’s
dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings
entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding
herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a
moment’s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had
such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were
never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery,
and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu
and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of
the morning, and was immediately greeted with, “Well, my dear, here you
are,” a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to
dispute; “and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?”
“Yes, ma’am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day.”
“So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going.”
“You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?”
“Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met
her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was
hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly
scarce.”
“Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?”
“Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her.”
“Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?”
“Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem
very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin,
and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very
handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family.”
“And what did she tell you of them?”
“Oh! a vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else.”
“Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?”
“Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind
of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and
Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large
fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand
pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all
the clothes after they came from the warehouse.”
“And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?”
“Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection,
however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is;
yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there
was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter
on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put
by for her when her mother died.”
“And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?”
“I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he
is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and
likely to do very well.”
Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs.
Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most
particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with
both brother and sister. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it
was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had
lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very
pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable. CHAPTER 10
The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the
theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an
opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand
things which had been collecting within her for communication in the
immeasurable length of time which had divided them. “Oh, heavens! my
beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?” was her address on
Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by her. “Now, Mr. Morland,”
for he was close to her on the other side, “I shall not speak another
word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect
it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need
not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair
in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you
want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love
with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney—but _that_ is a settled
thing—even _your_ modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming
back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! what would not I give to see him! I really am quite wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most
delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning, you know;
you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for
heaven’s sake! i assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him.”
“No,” said Catherine, “he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.”
“Oh, horrid! am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my
gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own
thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother
and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be
here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon
found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country
to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it
was quite ridiculous! there was not a single point in which we
differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly
thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about
it.”
“No, indeed I should not.”
“Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some
nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond
conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not
have had you by for the world.”
“Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark
upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my
head.”
Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to
James. Catherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of
going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to
delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,
where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.
Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk
over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their
newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new
face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the
Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in
less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her
usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant
attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves
from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time,
till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which,
confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little
share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some
sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was
conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so
much laughter, that though Catherine’s supporting opinion was not
unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give
any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she
was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed
necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just
entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had
courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the
day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her
advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as
long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all
probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by
either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before,
under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being
spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might
be something uncommon. “How well your brother dances!” was an artless exclamation of
Catherine’s towards the close of their conversation, which at once
surprised and amused her companion. “Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”
“He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the
other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been
engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.” Miss Tilney could only bow. “You
cannot think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised
I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”
“When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but
for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us.”
“_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on
Monday a Miss Smith?”
“Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes.”
“I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?”
“Not very.”
“He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”
“Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”
Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
go. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” said
Catherine. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
“Shall you be at the cotillion ball to-morrow?”
“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”
“I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.” This civility was duly
returned; and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of
her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the
smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and
the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the
future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the
occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress
is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about
it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her
great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas
before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating
between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the
shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon,
from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather
than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of
the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to
the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how
little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their
attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how
unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction
alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the
better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a
something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the
latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the
tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could
not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every
young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every
young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have
been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from
the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been
anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As
soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began; she
fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as
possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear
him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she
saw nothing of the Tilneys. “Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I
am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively
it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but
you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature,
and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a
moment.”
Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked
away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept
her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her
folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with
the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,
when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,
by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went
with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she
believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so
immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had
sought her on purpose!—it did not appear to her that life could supply
any greater felicity. Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who
stood behind her. “Heyday, Miss Morland!” said he. “What is the meaning
of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”
“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”
“That is a good one, by Jove! i asked you as soon as I came into the
room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round,
you were gone! this is a cursed shabby trick! i only came for the sake
of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever
since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in
the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my
acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the
room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will
quiz me famously.”
“Oh, no; they will never think of _me_, after such a description as
that.”
“By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for
blockheads. What chap have you there?” Catherine satisfied his
curiosity. “Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure
of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of
mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A
famous clever animal for the road—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds
to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse
when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not
do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have
three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight
hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in
Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d—— uncomfortable,
living at an inn.”
This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine’s
attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of
a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said,
“That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with
you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention
of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual
agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness
belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten
themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the
other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Fidelity
and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do
not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the
partners or wives of their neighbours.”
“But they are such very different things!”
“—That you think they cannot be compared together.”
“To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep
house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a
long room for half an hour.”
“And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that
light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could
place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the
advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it
is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of
each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each
other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each
to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had
bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their
own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their
neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with
anyone else. You will allow all this?”
“Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still
they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same
light, nor think the same duties belong to them.”
“In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man
is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make
the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness,
the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and
the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties
which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.”
“No, indeed, I never thought of that.”
“Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your
notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your
partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who
spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to
address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing
with him as long as you chose?”
“Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if
he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three
young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.”
“And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”
“Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,
it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_
to talk to anybody.”
“Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
making the inquiry before?”
“Yes, quite—more so, indeed.”
“More so! take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper
time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.”
“I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.”
“Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds
out every year. ‘For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but
beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world.’ You would
be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every
winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at
last because they can afford to stay no longer.”
“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to
London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired
village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place
as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a
variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know
nothing of there.”
“You are not fond of the country.”
“Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But
certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath
life. One day in the country is exactly like another.”
“But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”
“Do I?”
“Do you not?”
“I do not believe there is much difference.”
“Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”
“And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every
street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen.”
Mr. Tilney was very much amused. “Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!” he repeated. “What a picture of
intellectual poverty! however, when you sink into this abyss again, you
will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all
that you did here.”
“Oh! yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to
Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking
of Bath, when I am at home again—I _do_ like it so very much. If I
could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I
should be too happy! james’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite
delightful—and especially as it turns out that the very family we are
just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! who can
ever be tired of Bath?”
“Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good
deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath—and the honest relish
of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them.”
Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now
too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived
herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the
lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man,
of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of
life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him
presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his
notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something
wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did
so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, “I
see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows
your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my
father.”
Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing
everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on
their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now
follow the General, as he moved through the crowd, and “How handsome a
family they are!” was her secret remark. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her
arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented
environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might
find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. “I shall like
it,” she cried, “beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it
off—let us go to-morrow.” This was readily agreed to, with only a
proviso of Miss Tilney’s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was
sure it would not. At twelve o’clock, they were to call for her in
Pulteney Street; and “Remember—twelve o’clock,” was her parting speech
to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established
friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a
fortnight’s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she
cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather
early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her
chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11
The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a
few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she
allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for
confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and
barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen’s opinion was more positive. “She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the
clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out.”
At about eleven o’clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
windows caught Catherine’s watchful eye, and “Oh! dear, I do believe it
will be wet,” broke from her in a most desponding tone. “I thought how it would be,” said Mrs. Allen. “No walk for me to-day,” sighed Catherine; “but perhaps it may come to
nothing, or it may hold up before twelve.”
“Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty.”
“Oh! that will not signify; I never mind dirt.”
“No,” replied her friend very placidly, “I know you never mind dirt.”
After a short pause, “It comes on faster and faster!” said Catherine,
as she stood watching at a window. “So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet.”
“There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
umbrella!”
“They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a
chair at any time.”
“It was such a nice-looking morning! i felt so convinced it would be
dry!”
“Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in
the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put
on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder
he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable.”
The rain continued—fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five
minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept
on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as
hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. “You will not
be able to go, my dear.”
“I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter
after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do
think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after
twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! that we had such
weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the
south of France!—the night that poor St. Aubin died!—such beautiful
weather!”
At half past twelve, when Catherine’s anxious attention to the weather
was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment,
the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite
by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she
instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy
appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon
would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had “always
thought it would clear up.” But whether Catherine might still expect
her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney
to venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the
pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely
watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach
of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that
had surprised her so much a few mornings back. “Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! they are coming for
me perhaps—but I shall not go—I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss
Tilney may still call.” Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon
with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he
was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. “Make haste! make haste!”
as he threw open the door. “Put on your hat this moment—there is no
time to be lost—we are going to Bristol. How d’ye do, Mrs. Allen?”
“To Bristol! is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go
with you to-day, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every
moment.” This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all;
Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in,
to give their assistance. “My sweetest Catherine, is not this
delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your
brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at
breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should
have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable
rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall
do delightfully. Oh! i am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little
country air and quiet! so much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We
shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner
is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston.”
“I doubt our being able to do so much,” said Morland. “You croaking fellow!” cried Thorpe. “We shall be able to do ten times
more. Kingsweston! aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go.”
“Blaize Castle!” cried Catherine. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
“What is that?”
“The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to
see.”
“What, is it really a castle, an old castle?”
“The oldest in the kingdom.”
“But is it like what one reads of?”
“Exactly—the very same.”
“But now really—are there towers and long galleries?”
“By dozens.”
“Then I should like to see it; but I cannot—I cannot go.”
“Not go! my beloved creature, what do you mean?”
“I cannot go, because”—looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella’s
smile—“I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a
country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now,
as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon.”
“Not they indeed,” cried Thorpe; “for, as we turned into Broad Street,
I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?”
“I do not know indeed.”
“Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a
smart-looking girl.”
“Did you indeed?”
“Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too.”
“It is very odd! but I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a
walk.”
“And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! it has not been so dirty the
whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere.”
Isabella corroborated it: “My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an
idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now.”
“I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go
up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?”
“Yes, yes, every hole and corner.”
“But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is
dryer, and call by and by?”
“Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney
hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were
going as far as Wick Rocks.”
“Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?”
“Just as you please, my dear.”
“Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go,” was the general cry. Mrs.
Allen was not inattentive to it: “Well, my dear,” said she, “suppose
you go.” And in two minutes they were off. Catherine’s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very
unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great
pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in
degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had
acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement,
without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later
than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite
of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the
course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help
thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To
feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the
delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented
Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console
her for almost anything. They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place,
without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she
meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and
false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
“Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”
“Who? Where?”
“On the right-hand pavement—she must be almost out of sight now.”
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s
arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at
her. “Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss
Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop,
I will get out this moment and go to them.” But to what purpose did she
speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys,
who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight
round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself
whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of
another street, she entreated him to stop. “Pray, pray stop, Mr.
Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss
Tilney.” But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his
horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as
she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the
point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How could
you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them
driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the
world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! to go by them,
too, without saying a word! you do not know how vexed I am; I shall
have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten
thousand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could
you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?” Thorpe defended himself
very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his
life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney
himself. Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine’s complaisance was no longer what it had been in
their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were
short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she
still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be
disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be
thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all
the happiness which its walls could supply—the happiness of a progress
through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of
magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted—the happiness
of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low,
grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp,
extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total
darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any
mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo
from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know
what was the matter. The others then came close enough for
conversation, and Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is
too late to go on to-day; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have
been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than
seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will
never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it
off till another day, and turn round.”
“It is all one to me,” replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly
turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
“If your brother had not got such a d—— beast to drive,” said he soon
afterwards, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have
trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have
almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded
jade’s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his
own.”
“No, he is not,” said Catherine warmly, “for I am sure he could not
afford it.”
“And why cannot he afford it?”
“Because he has not money enough.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Nobody’s, that I know of.” Thorpe then said something in the loud,
incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a
d—— thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not
afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even
endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the
consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less
disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so;
and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and
lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting
off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady
had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying
no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went
away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked
slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on
hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, “I am glad your
brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a
strange, wild scheme.”
They all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was
disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of
commerce, in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with
Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn
at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was
spoken more than once. “How I pity the poor creatures that are going
there! how glad I am that I am not amongst them! i wonder whether it
will be a full ball or not! they have not begun dancing yet. I would
not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening
now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I
know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that
is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am
sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men think
yourselves of such consequence.”
Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they
appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she
offered. “Do not be so dull, my dearest creature,” she whispered. “You
will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but
the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It
was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I
should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a
friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same;
he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! what a delightful hand
you have got! kings, I vow! i never was so happy in my life! i would
fifty times rather you should have them than myself.”
And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the
true heroine’s portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with
tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night’s
rest in the course of the next three months. CHAPTER 12
“Mrs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm
in my calling on Miss Tilney to-day? I shall not be easy till I have
explained everything.”
“Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney
always wears white.”
Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
herself of General Tilney’s lodgings, for though she believed they were
in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen’s
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she
was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her
conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and
resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to see
her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to
believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for
Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her
card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did
not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney _was_ at home,
and too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,
could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at
a window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She
was followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
and they turned up towards Edgar’s Buildings. Catherine, in deep
mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself
at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she
remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers
might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree of
unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of
rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable. Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first
place, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the
second, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
To the theatre
accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;
she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were
habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she
knew, on Isabella’s authority, rendered everything else of the kind
“quite horrid.” She was not deceived in her own expectation of
pleasure; the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing
her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any
wretchedness about her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the
sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the
opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no
longer excite genuine merriment—no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look upon an average was directed towards the opposite box;
and, for the space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry
Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be
suspected of indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn
from the stage during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look
towards her, and he bowed—but such a bow! no smile, no continued
observance attended it; his eyes were immediately returned to their
former direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost
have run round to the box in which he sat and forced him to hear her
explanation. Feelings rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead
of considering her own dignity injured by this ready
condemnation—instead of proudly resolving, in conscious innocence, to
show her resentment towards him who could harbour a doubt of it, to
leave to him all the trouble of seeking an explanation, and to
enlighten him on the past only by avoiding his sight, or flirting with
somebody else—she took to herself all the shame of misconduct, or at
least of its appearance, and was only eager for an opportunity of
explaining its cause. The play concluded—the curtain fell—Henry Tilney was no longer to be
seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes
he appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke
with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such
calmness was he answered by the latter: “Oh! mr. Tilney, I have been
quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have
thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs.
Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone
out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten
thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”
“My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply. Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away;
it brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and
he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We
were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk
after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look
back on purpose.”
“But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such
a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to
him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not—Oh! you were
not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have
stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you.”
Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile,
he said everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret,
and dependence on Catherine’s honour. “Oh, do not say Miss Tilney was
not angry,” cried Catherine, “because I know she was; for she would not
see me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the
next minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had been there.”
“I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she
has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such
incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
that my father—they were just preparing to walk out, and he being
hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off—made a point of her
being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,
and meant to make her apology as soon as possible.”
Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
gentleman: “But, Mr. Tilney, why were _you_ less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
suppose it to be only a mistake, why should _you_ be so ready to take
offence?”
“Me! i take offence!”
“Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
angry.”
“I angry! i could have no right.”
“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”
He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play. He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,
however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon
as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,
she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the
world. While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten
minutes together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and
she felt something more than surprise when she thought she could
perceive herself the object of their attention and discourse. What
could they have to say of her? She feared General Tilney did not like
her appearance: she found it was implied in his preventing her
admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few
minutes. “How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father?” was her anxious
inquiry, as she pointed them out to her companion. He knew nothing
about it; but his father, like every military man, had a very large
acquaintance. When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which
had travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by
asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking
with General Tilney: “He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! stout,
active—looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I
assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.”
“But how came you to know him?”
“Know him! there are few people much about town that I do not know. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again to-day
the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we
have, by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was
almost afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me;
and, if I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever
was made in this world—I took his ball exactly—but I could not make you
understand it without a table; however, I _did_ beat him. A very fine
fellow; as rich as a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he
gives famous dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! and the General thinks you the finest girl in
Bath.”
“Oh! nonsense! how can you say so?”
“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done, General,
said I; I am quite of your mind.”
Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it,
continued the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her
entreating him to have done. That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the
family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much
more, for her than could have been expected. CHAPTER 13
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the
week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on
the afternoon’s Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In
a private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom
had particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less
anxiously placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided
the weather were fair, the party should take place on the following
morning; and they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in
good time. The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s approbation
secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it. She had left
them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the
plan was completed, and as soon as she came again, her agreement was
demanded; but instead of the gay acquiescence expected by Isabella,
Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. The
engagement which ought to have kept her from joining in the former
attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany them now. She had
that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk
to-morrow; it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any account,
retract. But that she _must_ and _should_ retract, was instantly the
eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton to-morrow, they
would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk
for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Catherine was
distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to
Miss Tilney. I cannot go.” This availed nothing. The same arguments
assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not hear
of a refusal. “It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had
just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off
the walk till Tuesday.”
“No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
engagement.” But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on
her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most
endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so
dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all
in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained
by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to
influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so
little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. “I cannot help being
jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
love you so excessively! when once my affections are placed, it is not
in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
stronger than anybody’s; I am sure they are too strong for my own
peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers
does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up
everything else.”
Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of
everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, “Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out
any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a
friend—I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse.”
This was the first time of her brother’s openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they
would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and
everybody might then be satisfied. But “No, no, no!” was the immediate
answer; “that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not
go to town on Tuesday.” Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and
a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of
cold resentment said, “Very well, then there is an end of the party. If
Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.”
“Catherine, you must go,” said James. “But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go.”
“Thank ye,” cried Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my
sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I
do. I only go for the sake of driving you.”
“That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and
her arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at
war. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
distressed, but always steady. “I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine,” said James;
“you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the
kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.”
“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feelingly; “but indeed
I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right.”
“I suspect,” said Isabella, in a low voice, “there is no great
struggle.”
Catherine’s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined
by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have
settled the matter, and now we may all go to-morrow with a safe
conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”
“You have not!” cried Catherine. “I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me
to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to
Clifton with us to-morrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking
with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as
convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty
good thought of mine—hey?”
Isabella’s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and
James too looked happy again. “A most heavenly thought indeed! now, my sweet Catherine, all our
distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a
most delightful party.”
“This will not do,” said Catherine; “I cannot submit to this. I must
run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.”
Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday
would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make
any further objection. “I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss
Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know
that Mr. Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into
one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;
Isabella, do not hold me.”
Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and
were at home by this time. “Then I will go after them,” said Catherine; “wherever they are I will
go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.” And
with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have
darted after her, but Morland withheld him. “Let her go, let her go, if
she will go.”
“She is as obstinate as—”
Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a
proper one. Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As
she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to
disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney,
to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
merely her own gratification; _that_ might have been ensured in some
degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their
opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to
restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not
be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,
she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of
Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
Tilneys’ advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their
lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that
she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him
proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which
happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the
drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her
explanation, defective only in being—from her irritation of nerves and
shortness of breath—no explanation at all, was instantly given. “I am
come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I never promised to go—I
told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a great hurry to
explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would not stay for
the servant.”
The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe _had_
given the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself
greatly surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her
in resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as
much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of
knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager
declarations immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as
she could desire. The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney to
her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
politeness as recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her
think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
anxious attention was the General’s civility carried, that not aware of
her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
apartment herself. “What did William mean by it? He should make a point
of inquiring into the matter.” And if Catherine had not most warmly
asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity. After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,
and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if
she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest of
the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was
greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
would expect her back every moment. The General declared he could say
no more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded;
but on some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given,
they would not refuse to spare her to her friend. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
“Oh, no; Catherine
was sure they would not have the least objection, and she should have
great pleasure in coming.” The General attended her himself to the
street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs,
admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded exactly with
the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most graceful bows
she had ever beheld, when they parted. Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to
Pulteney Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity,
though she had never thought of it before. She reached home without
seeing anything more of the offended party; and now that she had been
triumphant throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her
walk, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt
whether she had been perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and
if she had given way to their entreaties, she should have been spared
the distressing idea of a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a
scheme of great happiness to both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced
person what her own conduct had really been, she took occasion to
mention before Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother and the
Thorpes for the following day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. “Well,”
said he, “and do you think of going too?”
“No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they
told me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could
I?”
“No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country
in open carriages! now and then it is very well; but going to inns and
public places together! it is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe
should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs.
Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of
thinking? Do not you think these kind of projects objectionable?”
“Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You are splashed getting in and
getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every
direction. I hate an open carriage myself.”
“I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has
an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them
by young men, to whom they are not even related?”
“Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
“Dear madam,” cried Catherine, “then why did not you tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with
Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
I was doing wrong.”
“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people _will_ be young people,
as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first
came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do
not like to be always thwarted.”
“But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
would have found me hard to persuade.”
“As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done,” said Mr.
Allen; “and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr.
Thorpe any more.”
“That is just what I was going to say,” added his wife. Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
moment’s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper
and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of
which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that
Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in
spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from
doing any such thing. “You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is
old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to
advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however,
you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and
you will be only getting ill will.”
Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen’s approbation of her
own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the
danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one
of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the
Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in
order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one
breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another? CHAPTER 14
The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no
dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her
at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They
determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose
beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
from almost every opening in Bath. “I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
the river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised. “Oh! no, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The
Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better
books.”
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s
works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember
finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”
“Yes,” added Miss Tilney, “and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.”
“Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
the injustice of your suspicions. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Here was I, in my eagerness to get
on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the
promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at
a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you
are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I
reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.”
“I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
novels amazingly.”
“It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do—for they
read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ and ‘Have you read that?’ I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say?—I want an appropriate
simile.—as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when
she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had
the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were
a good little girl working your sampler at home!”
“Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?”
“The nicest—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
upon the binding.”
“Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding
fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking
the same liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not
suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall
be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”
“I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong;
but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?”
“Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are
taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! it
is a very nice word indeed! it does for everything. Originally perhaps
it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or
refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or
their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised
in that one word.”
“While, in fact,” cried his sister, “it ought only to be applied to
you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the
utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms
we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind
of reading?”
“To say the truth, I do not much like any other.”
“Indeed!”
“That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do
not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be
interested in. Can you?”
“Yes, I am fond of history.”
“I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and
kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome: and yet I
often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it
must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes’ mouths,
their thoughts and designs—the chief of all this must be invention, and
invention is what delights me in other books.”
“Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their
flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
am fond of history—and am very well contented to take the false with
the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in
former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I
conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one’s own
observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they
are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn
up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made—and probably
with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than
if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great.”
“You are fond of history! and so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I
have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my
small circle of friends is remarkable! at this rate, I shall not pity
the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books,
it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great
volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look
into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls,
always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right
and necessary, I have often wondered at the person’s courage that could
sit down on purpose to do it.”
“That little boys and girls should be tormented,” said Henry, “is what
no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can
deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must
observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no
higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well
qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
time of life. I use the verb ‘to torment,’ as I observed to be your own
method, instead of ‘to instruct,’ supposing them to be now admitted as
synonymous.”
“You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had
been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning
their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how
stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor
mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every
day of my life at home, you would allow that to _torment_ and to
_instruct_ might sometimes be used as synonymous words.”
“Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty
of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may
perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to
be tormented for two or three years of one’s life, for the sake of
being able to read all the rest of it. Consider—if reading had not been
taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain—or perhaps might not
have written at all.”
Catherine assented—and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady’s
merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the
eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of
being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
Catherine was quite lost. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
She knew nothing of drawing—nothing of taste:
and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little
profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to
her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to
contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter
before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the
top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of
a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced
shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To
come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would
always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of
knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a
great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them
too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more
in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own
advantages—did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever
young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the
present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge,
declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw;
and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he
became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances—side-screens
and perspectives—lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a
scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a
landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her
with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline,
and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the
withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general,
to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and
government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from
politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which
succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an
end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered
these words, “I have heard that something very shocking indeed will
soon come out in London.”
Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, “Indeed! and of what nature?”
“That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it
is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet.”
“Good heaven! where could you hear of such a thing?”
“A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from
London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect
murder and everything of the kind.”
“You speak with astonishing composure! but I hope your friend’s
accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known
beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to
prevent its coming to effect.”
“Government,” said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires
nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
government cares not how much.”
The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, “Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you
can? No—I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither
sound nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want
observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit.”
“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”
“Riot! what riot?”
“My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a
frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you
understand? And you, Miss Morland—my stupid sister has mistaken all
your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London—and
instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have
done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling
in St. George’s Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light
Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment
of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means
a simpleton in general.”
Catherine looked grave. “And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in
general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways.”
“I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them.”
“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”
“What am I to do?”
“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of
women.”
“Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the
women in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I
happen to be in company.”
“That is not enough. Be more serious.”
“Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
never find it necessary to use more than half.”
“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
not in a sober mood. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
But I do assure you that he must be entirely
misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any
woman at all, or an unkind one of me.”
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never
be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must
always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as
ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and
though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her
friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they
parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen
as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner
on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen’s side,
and the only difficulty on Catherine’s was in concealing the excess of
her pleasure. The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James
had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she
became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little
effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her
anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the
morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable
yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment’s delay, walked
out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe
as she was loitering towards Edgar’s Buildings between two of the
sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the
morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken
place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said Miss Anne, “and I am
sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well
off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world,
for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went
with your brother, and John drove Maria.”
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of
the arrangement. “Oh! yes,” rejoined the other, “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to
go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire
her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go,
if they pressed me ever so much.”
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, “I wish
you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go.”
“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I
would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia
when you overtook us.”
Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had
not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily
wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella
to resent her resistance any longer. CHAPTER 15
Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness
in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a
matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings. The two
youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne’s
quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of
asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday’s party. Maria
desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine
immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful
scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had
been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded
thus much in detail—that they had driven directly to the York Hotel,
ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the
pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and
spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook’s, and hurrying
back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in
the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not
up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he
could hardly get it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was
nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria’s intelligence concluded
with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she
represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party. “She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help
it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because
she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour
again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a
little matter that puts me out of temper.”
Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such
happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began:
“Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not
deceived you. Oh, that arch eye of yours! it sees through everything.”
Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. “Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, “compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and
talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my
note? Sly creature! oh! my dear Catherine, you alone, who know my
heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most
charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will
your excellent father and mother say? Oh! heavens! when I think of them
I am so agitated!”
Catherine’s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,
she cried out, “Good heaven! my dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can
you—can you really be in love with James?”
This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having
continually watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the
course of their yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession
of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder,
and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! new to such circumstances,
the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated
it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life
can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not
express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
The
happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the
fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy. Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did, in the prospect of the
connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in
tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my
Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much
more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”
This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine. “You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland
came to us last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart
was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair
done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John
introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before.”
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she
had never in her life thought him handsome. “I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought
your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a
wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! catherine, the many sleepless
nights I have had on your brother’s account! i would not have you
suffer half what I have done! i am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I
will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking
of my partiality for the church! but my secret I was always sure would
be safe with _you_.”
Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor
refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate
sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was
preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his
situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation
to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
their son’s wishes. “It is impossible,” said she, “for parents to be
more kind, or more desirous of their children’s happiness; I have no
doubt of their consenting immediately.”
“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!”
Here Catherine again discerned the force of love. “Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify.”
“Oh! my sweet Catherine, in _your_ generous heart I know it would
signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had
I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your
brother would be my only choice.”
This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty, gave
Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than
in uttering the grand idea. “I am sure they will consent,” was her
frequent declaration; “I am sure they will be delighted with you.”
“For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes are so moderate that the
smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are
really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would
not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired
village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about
Richmond.”
“Richmond!” cried Catherine. “You must settle near Fullerton. You must
be near us.”
“I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near
_you_, I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! i will not allow
myself to think of such things, till we have your father’s answer. Morland says that by sending it to-night to Salisbury, we may have it
to-morrow. To-morrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the
letter. I know it will be the death of me.”
A reverie succeeded this conviction—and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown. Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire. Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not
been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that
he would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness
to have him gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how
far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven’s
sake, waste no more time. There, go, go—I insist on it.”
The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were
inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours
flew along. Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with
everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent, to
consider Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance
imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and
add their quota of significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill
up the measure of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger
sisters. To Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve
seemed neither kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its
unkindness she would hardly have forborne pointing out, had its
inconsistency been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her
heart at ease by the sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening
was spent in a sort of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on
one side in the mystery of an affected secret, on the other of
undefined discovery, all equally acute. Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before the
delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of
reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more
desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a
state of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress be
found? | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
“I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind
parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done
to forward my happiness,” were the first three lines, and in one moment
all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over
Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits
became almost too high for control, and she called herself without
scruple the happiest of mortals. Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her
visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was “dear
John” and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear Anne and dear Maria”
must immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two “dears” at
once before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child
had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only
bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the
finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his
praise. The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was
deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella
could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s
promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what
means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to be
resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her
disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of
an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a
rapid flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end
of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at
Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a
carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant
exhibition of hoop rings on her finger. When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set
off. “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the
parlour, “I am come to bid you good-bye.” Catherine wished him a good
journey. Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window,
fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied. “Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said Catherine. He made no answer;
but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this
marrying scheme, upon my soul! a clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? _I_ say it is no bad notion.”
“I am sure I think it a very good one.”
“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! i am glad you are no enemy to
matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song, ‘Going to One
Wedding Brings on Another?’ I say, you will come to Belle’s wedding, I
hope.”
“Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible.”
“And then you know”—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
laugh—“I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old
song.”
“May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with
Miss Tilney to-day, and must now be going home.”
“Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be
together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a
fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”
“Then why do you stay away so long?” replied Catherine—finding that he
waited for an answer. “That is kind of you, however—kind and good-natured. I shall not forget
it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody
living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only
good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you
have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”
“Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a
great deal better. Good morning to you.”
“But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton
before it is long, if not disagreeable.”
“Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, _you_ will not be sorry to see me.”
“Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see. Company is always cheerful.”
“That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful
company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only
be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say
I. And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a
notion, Miss Morland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most
matters.”
“Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to _most
matters_, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind
about.”
“By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what
does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only
have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and
what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good
income of my own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better.”
“Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one
side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which
has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune
looking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest
thing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at
Fullerton, whenever it is convenient.” And away she went. It was not in
the power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to
communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not to
be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,
leaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address,
and her explicit encouragement. The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her
brother’s engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion
in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How
great was her disappointment! the important affair, which many words of
preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since her
brother’s arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was
comprehended in a wish for the young people’s happiness, with a remark,
on the gentleman’s side, in favour of Isabella’s beauty, and on the
lady’s, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising
insensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James’s
going to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs.
Allen. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
She could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but
repeatedly regretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could
have known his intention, wished she could have seen him before he
went, as she should certainly have troubled him with her best regards
to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners. CHAPTER 16
Catherine’s expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street
were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,
though she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly
welcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of
the party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours in the
examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment
preparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding
herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse
of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead
of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a
family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little
agreeable; and, in spite of their father’s great civilities to her—in
spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments—it had been a release
to get away from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could
not be General Tilney’s fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and
good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a
doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry’s father. _He_ could not
be accountable for his children’s want of spirits, or for her want of
enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have been
accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own
stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a
different explanation: “It was all pride, pride, insufferable
haughtiness and pride! she had long suspected the family to be very
high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss
Tilney’s she had never heard of in her life! not to do the honours of
her house with common good breeding! to behave to her guest with such
superciliousness! hardly even to speak to her!”
“But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no
superciliousness; she was very civil.”
“Oh, don’t defend her! and then the brother, he, who had appeared so
attached to you! good heavens! well, some people’s feelings are
incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?”
“I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.”
“How contemptible! of all things in the world inconstancy is my
aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.”
“Unworthy! i do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”
“That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! how different to your brother and to mine! i really believe John
has the most constant heart.”
“But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for
anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed
to be his only care to entertain and make me happy.”
“Oh! i know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he
is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John’s
judgment—”
“Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet
them at the rooms.”
“And must I go?”
“Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.”
“Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But
do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know,
will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I
beg; _that_ is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me
to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he
guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I
shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself.”
Isabella’s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or
sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts. The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same
kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss
Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance. Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for
the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she
had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible
that some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in
her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less
prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly
inferior; for, within her hearing, he not only protested against every
thought of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for
finding it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed
that, whatever might be our heroine’s opinion of him, his admiration of
her was not of a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities
between the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. _He_ cannot be the
instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s greatcoats, by whom she
will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will
drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by
presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of
having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with
Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and,
in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
and, much to Catherine’s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They
retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did
not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney
must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now
hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them
forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without
very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes’
duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an
hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry’s
requesting to know, if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have
any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be
introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was
very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was
passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. “Your brother will not mind it, I know,” said she, “because I heard him
say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him
to think of it. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she
might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not
dance upon any account in the world.”
Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to
understand the motive of other people’s actions.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What
is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person’s feelings,
age, situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, How should
_I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well.”
“Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”
“Bravo! an excellent satire on modern language.”
“But pray tell me what you mean.”
“Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
certainly bring on a disagreement between us.”
“No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”
“Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother’s wish of
dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your
being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were
verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her
for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much
that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and
almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,
she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them
hands across. Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of
this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it
was not quite enough for Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her
astonishment in very plain terms to her partner. “I cannot think how it could happen! isabella was so determined not to
dance.”
“And did Isabella never change her mind before?”
“Oh! but, because—And your brother! after what you told him from me,
how could he think of going to ask her?”
“I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised
on your friend’s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother,
his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I
believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an
open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by
yourself.”
“You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in
general.”
“It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be
to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;
and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by
no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.”
The friends were not able to get together for any confidential
discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about
the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: “I do not wonder
at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a
rattle! amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would
have given the world to sit still.”
“Then why did not you?”
“Oh! my dear! it would have looked so particular; and you know how I
abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he
would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him
to excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he; after aspiring
to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think
of; and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with
me. Oh! such nonsense! i told him he had taken a very unlikely way to
prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches
and compliments; and so—and so then I found there would be no peace if
I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,
might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he
would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so
glad it is over! my spirits are quite jaded with listening to his
nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye
was upon us.”
“He is very handsome indeed.”
“Handsome! yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him in
general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid
complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly
conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my
way.”
When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject
to discuss. James Morland’s second letter was then received, and the
kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr.
Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds
yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be old
enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income, no
niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least
equal value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance. James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and
the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was
borne by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been
as unfixed as her ideas of her father’s income, and whose judgment was
now entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and
heartily congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly
settled. “It is very charming indeed,” said Isabella, with a grave face. “Mr. Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,” said the gentle Mrs.
Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. “I only wish I could do as
much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he
_can_ do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be
an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to
begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate,
you do not consider how little you ever want, my dear.”
“It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be
the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an
income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For
myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself.”
“I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in
the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young
woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our
dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so
very handsome, you know. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
I always heard he was a most excellent man;
and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a
suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am
sure he must be a most liberal-minded man.”
“Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do
what they like with their own money.”
Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she,
“that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”
Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet Catherine, there
cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much
smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that
makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if
our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should
not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There’s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and a half that are
to pass before your brother can hold the living.”
“Yes, yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see
into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the
present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a
noble honest affection.”
Catherine’s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of
Isabella’s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as
cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a
minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was
received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17
The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and
whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which
Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with
the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,
and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should
be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to
produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney
made but a small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed,
since James’s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had
got so far as to indulge in a secret “perhaps,” but in general the
felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the
present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness
being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a
distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning
which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured
forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No
sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay
than Miss Tilney told her of her father’s having just determined upon
quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! the past
suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present
disappointment. Catherine’s countenance fell, and in a voice of most
sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney’s concluding words, “By the end
of another week!”
“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends’ arrival
whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a
hurry to get home.”
“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known
this before—”
“Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so
good—it would make me very happy if—”
The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine
was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his
daughter and said, “Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being
successful in your application to your fair friend?”
“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”
“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My
daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter
time to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as
she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se’nnight. A letter from my
steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being
disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General
Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain
me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we
should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be
prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your
friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost
ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly
appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as
yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can
be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond
expression. ’Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of
this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour,
for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no
endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not
wholly disagreeable.”
Northanger Abbey! these were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s
feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified
heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of
tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! to have her
company so warmly solicited! everything honourable and soothing, every
present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her
acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma’s
approbation, was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she,
“and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not—”
General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her
excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of
his wishes. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may
expect philosophy from all the world.”
Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities,
and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this
necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine’s feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were
now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried
home to write her letter. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the
discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their
daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had
been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their
ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though
not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of
being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and
fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for
her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she
had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met
her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a
return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The
Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought
of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which
their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor,
she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose
society she mostly prized—and, in addition to all the rest, this roof
was to be the roof of an abbey! her passion for ancient edifices was
next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney—and castles and abbeys
made usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the
cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though
to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible
for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against
her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned
up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages,
its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach,
and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends,
some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun. It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the
possession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so
meekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A
distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their
superiority of abode was no more to them than their superiority of
person. Many were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so
active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she
was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been a
richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having
fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,
of a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the
present dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low
in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak. CHAPTER 18
With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more
than a few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this,
and to sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one
morning, by Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear; and
scarcely had she felt a five minutes’ longing of friendship, before the
object of it appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the
way to a seat. “This is my favourite place,” said she as they sat down
on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of
everybody entering at either; “it is so out of the way.”
Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards
one door or the other, as in eager expectation, and remembering how
often she had been falsely accused of being arch, thought the present a
fine opportunity for being really so; and therefore gaily said, “Do not
be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.”
“Psha! my dear creature,” she replied, “do not think me such a
simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would
be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you are going to Northanger! i am amazingly glad of it. It is
one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend
upon a most particular description of it.”
“You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
looking for? Are your sisters coming?”
“I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you
know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are
an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most
absent creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with
minds of a certain stamp.”
“But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?”
“Oh yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My
poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just
had a letter from John; you can guess the contents.”
“No, indeed, I cannot.”
“My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write
about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with
you.”
“With _me_, dear Isabella!”
“Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! modesty, and
all that, is very well in its way, but really a little common honesty
is sometimes quite as becoming. I have no idea of being so
overstrained! it is fishing for compliments. His attentions were such
as a child must have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he
left Bath that you gave him the most positive encouragement. He says so
in this letter, says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you
received his advances in the kindest way; and now he wants me to urge
his suit, and say all manner of pretty things to you. So it is in vain
to affect ignorance.”
Catherine, with all the earnestness of truth, expressed her
astonishment at such a charge, protesting her innocence of every
thought of Mr. Thorpe’s being in love with her, and the consequent
impossibility of her having ever intended to encourage him. “As to any
attentions on his side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was
sensible of them for a moment—except just his asking me to dance the
first day of his coming. And as to making me an offer, or anything like
it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could not have
misunderstood a thing of that kind, you know! and, as I ever wish to be
believed, I solemnly protest that no syllable of such a nature ever
passed between us. The last half hour before he went away! it must be
all and completely a mistake—for I did not see him once that whole
morning.”
“But _that_ you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in
Edgar’s Buildings—it was the day your father’s consent came—and I am
pretty sure that you and John were alone in the parlour some time
before you left the house.”
“Are you? | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say—but for the life
of me, I cannot recollect it. I _do_ remember now being with you, and
seeing him as well as the rest—but that we were ever alone for five
minutes— However, it is not worth arguing about, for whatever might pass
on his side, you must be convinced, by my having no recollection of it,
that I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind
from him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for
me—but indeed it has been quite unintentional on my side; I never had
the smallest idea of it. Pray undeceive him as soon as you can, and
tell him I beg his pardon—that is—I do not know what I ought to say—but
make him understand what I mean, in the properest way. I would not
speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but
you know very well that if I could think of one man more than
another—_he_ is not the person.” Isabella was silent. “My dear friend,
you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so
very much about me. And, you know, we shall still be sisters.”
“Yes, yes” (with a blush), “there are more ways than one of our being
sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
seems to be that you are determined against poor John—is not it so?”
“I certainly cannot return his affection, and as certainly never meant
to encourage it.”
“Since that is the case, I am sure I shall not tease you any further. John desired me to speak to you on the subject, and therefore I have. But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very
foolish, imprudent business, and not likely to promote the good of
either; for what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that
will support a family nowadays; and after all that romancers may say,
there is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it;
he could not have received my last.”
“You _do_ acquit me, then, of anything wrong?—You are convinced that I
never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
till this moment?”
“Oh! as to that,” answered Isabella laughingly, “I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so
will occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than
one wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last
person in the world to judge you severely. All those things should be
allowed for in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you
know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
“But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the
same. You are describing what never happened.”
“My dearest Catherine,” continued the other without at all listening to
her, “I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into
an engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think
anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your
happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and
who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you,
for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially,
they are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why
should a brother’s happiness be dearer to me than a friend’s? You know
I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my
dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you
are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney
says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of
their own affections, and I believe he is very right. Ah! here he
comes; never mind, he will not see us, I am sure.”
Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney; and Isabella,
earnestly fixing her eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached immediately, and took the seat to which her movements
invited him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low,
she could distinguish, “What! always to be watched, in person or by
proxy!”
“Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in the same half whisper. “Why
do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit,
you know, is pretty independent.”
“I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me.”
“My heart, indeed! what can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
“Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so
disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you”
(turning her back on him); “I hope your eyes are not tormented now.”
“Never more so; for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at
once too much and too little.”
Catherine heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no
longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her
brother, she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed
their walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so
amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room;
and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters; she was
expecting her sisters every moment; so that her dearest Catherine must
excuse her, and must sit quietly down again. But Catherine could be
stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their
returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving
Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did
she thus leave them. It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling
in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him;
unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s attachment to James was as
certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or
good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not
looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that
she should not perceive his admiration! catherine longed to give her a
hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her
too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her
brother. The compliment of John Thorpe’s affection did not make amends for this
thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as
from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could
mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In
vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in
wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in
love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
Isabella talked of
his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had
said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would
never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for
present ease and comfort. CHAPTER 19
A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of
her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered
creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate
friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners
was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed
unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted
absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would
occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_
might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But
when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions
as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share
with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive
to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what
her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could
not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of
wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was
the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his
present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to
_her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was
greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a
passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of
his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed
herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible
with a knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not, upon
reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother
as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in
her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind
Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double
unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension
was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never
understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney
family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire
was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s removal would
at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney
had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party
to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this,
her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the
subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe,
and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. “My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer. “Does he? Then why does he stay here?”
He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his
own sake, and for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence
will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here,
and it is only staying to be miserable.”
Henry smiled and said, “I am sure my brother would not wish to do
that.”
“Then you will persuade him to go away?”
“Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even
endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is
engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”
“No, he does not know what he is about,” cried Catherine; “he does not
know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me
so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.”
“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s
admission of them, that gives the pain?”
“Is not it the same thing?”
“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended
by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only
who can make it a torment.”
Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I
am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my
brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and
while my father’s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost
into a fever. You know she must be attached to him.”
“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”
“Oh no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with
another.”
“It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well,
as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a
little.”
After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe
Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”
“I can have no opinion on that subject.”
“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can
he mean by his behaviour?”
“You are a very close questioner.”
“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”
“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”
“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”
“My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure
you I can only guess at.”
“Well?”
“Well! nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are
before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless
young man; he has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and
he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.”
“Well,” said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, “_you_ may
be able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am
sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not
he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak
to him, he would go.”
“My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry, “in this amiable solicitude for
your brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not
carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account
or Miss Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her
good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain
Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him
only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this—and you may
be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, ‘Do not be
uneasy,’ because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as
little uneasy as you can. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |
You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of
your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real
jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no
disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open
to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what
is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will
never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.”
Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, “Though
Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a
very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of
absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what
will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella
Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor
Tilney’s passion for a month.”
Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its
approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her
captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent
of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject
again. Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting
interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in
Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her
uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in
excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness
for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that
at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat
contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine
remembered Henry’s instructions, and placed it all to judicious
affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones
may be fancied. CHAPTER 20
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the
promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing
it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen
attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful
was she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to
preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first
five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to
Pulteney Street. Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her
unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor
could the incessant attentions of the General himself entirely reassure
her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have
felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her
comfort—his continual solicitations that she would eat, and his
often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste—though never
in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a
breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that
she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew
not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the
General’s impatience for the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the
displeasure he expressed at his laziness when Captain Tilney at last
came down. She was quite pained by the severity of his father’s
reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her
concern increased when she found herself the principal cause of the
lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly resented from being
disrespectful to her. This was placing her in a very uncomfortable
situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain Tilney, without
being able to hope for his goodwill. He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,
which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on
Isabella’s account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been the
real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being
decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form her
opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father
remained in the room; and even afterwards, so much were his spirits
affected, she could distinguish nothing but these words, in a whisper
to Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are all off.”
The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the
trunks were carrying down, and the General had fixed to be out of
Milsom Street by that hour. His greatcoat, instead of being brought for
him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was
to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,
though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had
so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to
sit; and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed
her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk
from being thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was
closed upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in
which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually
perform a journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger
from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages. Catherine’s spirits
revived as they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no
restraint; and, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an
abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath
without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected
it. The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which
there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and
loiter about without anything to see, next followed—and her admiration
of the style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise and
four—postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their
stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under
this consequent inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly
agreeable, the delay would have been nothing; but General Tilney,
though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children’s
spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself; the observation
of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his
angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more
in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four. | Austen, Jane - Northanger Abbey |