Henry Tilney's Diary (9781101559024)

by Grange, Amanda

  ‘A choice of errors, only, lay before him. The view on his right hand exhibited high and savage mountains, covered with heath and black fir; and the wild desolation of their aspect, together with the dangerous appearance of the path that wound up their sides, and which was the only apparent track they afforded, determined Hippolitus not to attempt their ascent.

  ‘On his left lay a forest, to which the path he was then in led; its appearance was gloomy, but he preferred it to the mountains; and, since he was uncertain of its extent, there was a possibility that he might pass it, and reach a village before the night was set in. At the worst, the forest would afford him a shelter from the winds; and, however he might be bewildered in its labyrinths, he could ascend a tree, and rest in security till the return of light should afford him an opportunity of extricating himself.’

  A wind blew up and ruffled the pages. Eleanor drew her cloak more tightly about her and smoothed the pages down before continuing:‘He had not been long in this situation, when a confused sound of voices from a distance roused his attention and he perceived a faint light glimmer through the foliage from afar. The sight revived a hope that he was near some place of human habitation; he therefore unfastened his horse, and led him towards the spot whence the ray issued. The moonlight discovered to him an edifice which appeared to have been formerly a monastery, but which now exhibited a pile of ruins, whose grandeur, heightened by decay, touched the beholder with reverential awe. Seized with unconquerable apprehension, he was retiring, when the low voice of a distressed person struck his ear. He advanced softly and beheld in a small room, which was less decayed than the rest of the edifice, a group of men, who, from the savageness of their looks, and from their dress, appeared to be banditti. They surrounded a man who lay on the ground wounded, and bathed in blood. The obscurity of the place prevented Hippolitus from distinguishing the features of the dying man.’

  Eleanor continued to read, but she had to hold the book closer and closer to her face, for dark clouds began to swarm across the sky. She was stopped in mid sentence by an ominous rumble. The sky turned swiftly from blue to black and then the rain began to fall.

  As one we sprang up and ran indoors, where we established ourselves in the library just as the storm broke. It was so dark that I lit the candles and we sat around the fire as lightning tore the sky outside. There was a great clap of thunder and Eleanor jumped.

  We all laughed, and she said, ‘This is the perfect weather for our occupation. But I have read enough. Mr Morris, will you not read to us instead?’

  He took the book hesitantly but the story would brook no delay and he was soon reading in a strong, clear voice.

  ‘Hippolitus by some mischance attracted the attention of the banditti. He was now returned to a sense of his danger, and endeavoured to escape to the exterior part of the ruin; but terror bewildered his senses, and he mistook his way. Instead of regaining the outside, he perplexed himself with fruitless wanderings, and at length found himself only more deeply involved in the secret recesses of the pile.

  ‘The steps of his pursuers gained fast upon him. He groped his way along a winding passage, and at length came to a flight of steps. Notwithstanding the darkness, he reached the bottom in safety and there he perceived an object, which fixed all his attention. This was the figure of a young woman lying on the floor apparently dead.

  ‘Hearing a step advancing towards the room, he concealed himself and presently there came a piercing shriek. The young woman, recovered from her swoon, was now the object of two of the ruffians, who were fighting over their prize.

  ‘Hippolitus, who was unarmed, insensible to every pulse but that of generous pity, burst into the room, but became fixed like a statue when he beheld his Julia struggling in the grasp of the ruffian. On discovering Hippolitus, she made a sudden spring, and liberated herself; when, running to him, she sunk lifeless in his arms.’

  It was at this moment that my father opened the library door and entered with his friends. Mr Morris started. I believe we all, for one moment, expected to see a group of banditti standing there. But even banditti could scarcely have struck us with more dismay, for my father was accompanied by the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney, with their son and nephew in tow.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said our father to Eleanor. ‘We have been looking for you, have we not, gentlemen? We are all looking forward to hearing you sing for us.’

  ‘We are indeed,’ they said.

  Eleanor threw me a beseeching look but I could do nothing to rescue her, for my father drew her to her feet and gave her up to the Marquis’s son on one side, and the general’s nephew on the other. I followed them to the drawing room, where Frederick looked on with a disdainful eye and Miss Barton amused herself by flirting.

  Eleanor went over to the piano and I stood by her, ready to turn her music. Poor Morris took a seat in the corner, a picture of dejection.

  I believe we would all three of us have preferred to remain by the fire, whilst the thunder rolled and the lightning cracked, reading to each other.

  Sunday 11 November

  ‘And what do you think of Miss Barton?’ asked my father this morning, when he met me at breakfast.

  The two of us being early risers, there was no one else there.

  I did not reply.

  ‘Well, out with it,’ he said.

  ‘I presume you mean, what do I think of my marrying her?’

  ‘Of course I do. What, do you think I am asking your opinion of her singing?’

  ‘I do not think she would make a very good rector’s wife,’ I said.

  The comment gave him pause.

  ‘Well, perhaps you are right. Miss Halifax, now, she would make an excellent clergyman’s wife. Quiet, respectful and already used to good works. You must drive her somewhere this morning. Show her the local beauty spots. The weather is fine, she will enjoy it.’

  ‘Unfortunately I will be going over to Woodston. I want to make sure there has been no storm damage, and I have to take the afternoon service.’

  ‘Capital! We will all drive over there together. You will be able to see her in the rectory. I am sure you will appreciate her docile nature there. She has a fortune, you know, thirty thousand pounds. It will enable you to make more improvements to the gardens and to extend the grounds. I will make the arrangements at once. We will set out by ten and be there for lunch.’

  ‘It is rather too far to go there and back in a day at this time of year.’

  ‘Nonsense! It will be a moonlit night. Ladies like that sort of thing. They deem it romantic. You can propose to her on the way home.’

  There was nothing to be gained by arguing. We duly set out, a small party consisting of my father, the widowed Mrs Halifax, Miss Halifax, myself, Miss Barton – whom, I am convinced, my father has not despaired of as a wife for me, despite her flirtatious character – and General Courteney, with Eleanor seated between the General’s nephew and the marquis’s son. I am proud to say that she conducted herself admirably. Neither a Julia nor an Emilia could have borne their cruel fate with more nobility.

  The day was fortunately more entertaining than I had expected. Miss Barton set her cap at General Courteney, who, although twice her age, is very eligible – and, as she murmured in an aside to me, likely to die quickly and leave her a happy widow.

  Miss Halifax murmured politely when Papa pointed out all of Woodston’s virtues, but relieved me greatly by telling me, when we walked round the gardens, that she was in love with her local curate. That was the source of her interest in good works! Her mother suspected the attachment and had brought her to the abbey in order to marry her to someone eligible as quickly as possible, so as to crush for ever the curate’s pretensions.

  ‘But in less than six months I will be of age. I will come into my fortune and Mama will have no more sway over me. I intend to marry Horace the following day.’

  ‘Then it will do no good for me to propose to you in the carriage on the way home?’ I sai
d.

  ‘None whatsoever,’ she remarked. ‘Were you about to propose?’

  ‘No. But my father intended that I should.’

  ‘Parents are a wonderful thing,’ she remarked demurely, but with laughter in her eyes.

  One of the horses throwing a shoe, we were home later than expected, and spent the remainder of the evening listening to Miss Halifax play the harp.

  ‘Mama is certain that I appear to great advantage sitting behind the instrument,’ she said to me in a low voice as I turned her music for her.

  I could not help laughing and her mother, taking it for an encouraging sign, smiled benignly.

  It is on such occasions that I wish I were a hundred, then no one would be trying to find me a wife!

  Monday 12 November

  Having been so cruelly interrupted in our reading on Saturday, we were able to return to it this morning as it was a fine day and most of the party was out riding. It was too cold for us to sit outside, however, and so we retired to the library.

  ‘I can scarcely wait,’ said Eleanor. ‘I was tempted to read ahead, but determined to wait until we could all read on together.’

  Mr Morris took up the book. What was our delight to find that Julia was not dead, but had only fainted. Mr Morris laughed, explaining that he had every sympathy for Julia but thought she could perhaps try to faint a little less often, which amused Eleanor, who warmed to him even more. But then to our horror we learned that the dying man Hippolitus had glimpsed in the small room was none other than Ferdinand, who had been beaten by the banditti whilst trying to protect his sister. Hippolitus, however, was more fortunate and managed to escape from the banditti with the fair Julia.

  ‘They wandered for some time among the ruins till they were stopped by a door which closed the passage, and the sound of distant voices murmured along the walls. The door was fastened by strong iron bolts, which Hippolitus vainly endeavoured to draw. The voices drew near. After much labour and difficulty the bolts yielded – the door unclosed – and light dawned upon them through the mouth of a cave, into which they now entered, and from there into the forest.

  ‘They had proceeded about half a mile, when they heard a sudden shout of voices echoed from among the hills behind them; and looking back perceived faintly through the dusk a party of men on horseback making towards them. The pursuers were almost come up with them, when they reached the mouth of a cavern, into which Julia ran for concealment. Hippolitus drew his sword; and awaiting his enemies, stood to defend the entrance.

  ‘In a few moments Julia heard the clashing of swords. She shrunk involuntarily at the sound, and pursuing the windings of the cavern, fled into its inmost recesses. She groped along the winding walls for some time, when she perceived the way was obstructed. She now discovered that a door interrupted her progress, and sought for the bolts which might fasten it. These she found; and strengthened by desperation forced them back.

  ‘The door opened, and she beheld in a small room, which received its feeble light from a window above, the pale and emaciated figure of a woman, seated, with half-closed eyes, in a kind of elbow-chair.

  I was alarmed at the effect this might have on my sister, but when I glanced at her I saw that she had not yet guessed at the identity of the woman. Mr Morris, oblivious, read on.

  ‘On perceiving Julia, the woman started from her seat, and her countenance expressed a wild surprise. Her features, which were worn by sorrow, still retained the traces of beauty, and in her air was a mild dignity that excited in Julia an involuntary veneration. She seemed as if about to speak, when fixing her eyes earnestly and steadily upon Julia, she stood for a moment in eager gaze, and suddenly exclaiming, “My daughter!” fainted away.

  I looked at Eleanor, but the fainting produced no laughter this time. Instead, Eleanor’s face was pale. I wondered whether I should call a halt, but there was a look in her eye which made me remain silent.

  ‘The astonishment of Julia,’ read Morris, ‘would scarcely suffer her to assist the lady who lay senseless on the floor. A multitude of strange imperfect ideas rushed upon her mind, and she was lost in perplexity; but as she examined the features of the stranger; which were now rekindling into life, she thought she discovered the resemblance of Emilia!

  ‘The lady breathing a deep sigh, unclosed her eyes; she raised them to Julia, who hung over her in speechless astonishment, and fixing them upon her with a tender earnest expression – they filled with tears. She pressed Julia to her heart, and a few moments of exquisite, unutterable emotion followed.

  ‘When the lady became more composed, “Thank heaven!” said she, “my prayer is granted. I am permitted to embrace one of my children before I die. Tell me what brought you hither. Has the marquis at last relented, and allowed me once more to behold you, or has his death dissolved the wretched bondage in which he placed me?”

  ‘Truth now glimmered upon the mind of Julia, but so faintly, that instead of enlightening, it served only to increase her perplexity.

  ‘ “Is the Marquis Mazzini living?” continued the lady. These words were not to be doubted; Julia threw herself at the feet of her mother, and embracing her knees in an energy of joy, answered only in sobs.’

  Morris, looking up at that moment, saw Eleanor’s face and, springing up in alarm, said, ‘My dear Miss Tilney, you are not well! I will fetch your maid.’

  ‘No,’ said Eleanor, recovering herself. ‘It is nothing, a slight headache, that is all, but I think I had better lie down for an hour.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He offered her his arm but, thanking him, she told him she could manage.

  When she had left the room, he expressed his concern again, and thinking it necessary to say something, I told him of the circumstances surrounding the death of our mother.

  ‘I am so sorry, I had no idea, I did not like to ask why Mrs Tilney was not here. And so you were reading A Sicilian Romance at the time?’

  ‘Yes, we were. For years it has lain untouched, so that I was very glad when you brought it once again to our notice, and even more pleased that my sister wished to finish it. But I fear that today’s reading has been too much for her.’

  ‘As well it might be,’ he said with a groan. ‘She must have been wishing that she, too, could have discovered that her mother was miraculously alive, and that she could be reunited with her.’

  ‘Alas, there is no chance that my father imprisoned our mother in some secret caves beneath the abbey, or that her funeral was a sham. She has gone beyond recall.’

  ‘I am only sorry that I have been the cause of Miss Tilney’s sorrow,’ he said.

  ‘You were not to know. Besides, I think it is perhaps a healing sorrow. I hope so.’

  ‘And so do I. You know, of course, that I am in love with your sister?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I had guessed as much, and I am sorry for you. I am sorry for you both.’

  ‘As for me, I can never be sorry to have met your sister. Do you think there is any chance that your father would listen to my suit?’

  ‘None in the world,’ I said. ‘I have no wish to pain you, but so it is. Not unless you have any way of making your fortune.’

  ‘Alas, no. I earn a competence, and your sister would be comfortable if she married me – as long as I resist the urge to lend money, which, believe me, is a lesson well learned! – but she would have none of the elegancies of life to which she is accustomed.’

  ‘There is no chance of your inheriting the title from your uncle?’ I asked.

  ‘None at all. My uncle has three sons, all in the prime of life and burgeoning with good health.’

  ‘So, short of a freak which would carry all four of your relatives off at once, you have no money, no title – and, I take it, no chance of obtaining any of them?’

  ‘No, none at all,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Then if it is at all possible, I beg you to put Eleanor from your mind. There is no hope for you, you know. My father will never consent.’

 
‘I would put her from my mind if I could, but I fear it is impossible.’

  I am sorry for it. I like him. But my father will never countenance such a match.

  Tuesday 13 November

  A letter from Mrs Hughes. It could not have been better timed, for it was handed to Eleanor after breakfast, which she had eaten quietly and with little evidence of pleasure. But she brightened as she opened the letter, and better yet, it contained a suggestion that Eleanor should accompany her to Bath in the spring.

  ‘Capital!’ said my father. ‘We will all go. It will give you an opportunity to see how happy your friend Charles is with his wife and children,’ said my father to me. ‘If he could find a wife there, I do not despair of you finding one there, too. My friends Longtown and Courteney mean to take the waters in February and so we will make a party of it. Frederick should be home on leave then as well. We will take rooms in Milsom Street. You will have the shops to entertain you, Eleanor, and you will want to buy some new clothes I am sure. You must look your best at the assemblies. General Courteney’s nephew is coming round to his uncle’s way of thinking and I make no doubt that he will be willing to make you an offer by Easter.’

  This was hardly the kind of thing to make my sister look forward to the visit, and so when my father had departed I said to her, ‘Morris is in love with you, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know. I had a walk around the garden before breakfast, I wanted some air and I happened to meet him by the arbour. He told me that he would wait for ever if necessary, as long as he knew there was hope.’