Henry Tilney's Diary

1798

Friday 26 October

Though I sometimes wish my father were not so restless and not forever altering things, I must confess that the new parsonage is a vast improvement on the old one, and that Woodston is now ideally suited to my needs. The house is large and airy with plenty of light: a gentleman’s residence with an imposing drive and entranceway. There is also a small room next to the drawing room where I can keep all my mess and clutter, and where I can have my dogs about me. I told him so this morning when I expressed my intention of moving into it next week.

‘That will never do,’ he said. ‘It is not yet fitted up. There is no furniture in the dining parlour and the drawing room has not even been decorated.’

‘I am not thinking of entertaining just yet. The small room next to the dining parlour is fitted out and it is enough for my needs. I can eat there and sit there as well as anywhere else, at least until the rest of the house is ready for use.’

‘You would do better to stay here until everything is done, it is far more comfortable and an easy journey.’

‘I need to be in my own parish. When I am more established there it will be different, but for the moment I want to set my mark on the place,’ I said.

‘If it were just a matter of furniture, then perhaps I would agree with you, but there are other improvements to be made and they would be easier to carry out if you were here.’

‘As to any further improvements to the parsonage, it has just been built. I cannot think there is any more to be done,’ I said.

‘Oh, the house, but the gardens are not finished, and there is work to be done on the view. The Carsons’ cottage can be seen from the drawing room window, it would be much better to knock it down and build it elsewhere. I have already talked to Robinson about it.’

‘Then I must ask you to untalk to him. It is time for me to start managing the place myself, and besides, I cannot ask the Carsons to move their cottage for so small a reason as to improve the view.’

‘So small a reason, you call it? When the cottage can plainly be seen amongst the apple trees? I think it a very good reason.’

I knew he would go on arguing, for if I waited for him to be ready for me to move I would wait for ever, and so I cut short his protestations by saying, ‘I have already appointed a housekeeper.’

‘Have you indeed? And did you not think to consult me about it? But then, you have always been headstrong, and I suppose you must move into the parsonage at some time. But not next week, you had better go next month. We have house guests arriving on Monday, do not forget, and they will be here for the better part of a month. Some of them, my oldest friends, are already here. Your brother will no doubt take over the billiard room as usual with his set of friends. The army has done something to improve him but not as much as I hoped. He is still prone to mix with the wrong company, he needs a wife. I have invited a number of eligible young women and you, too, Henry, should be giving some serious thought to the matter of matrimony. Many of your friends are already married. Charles Plainter is not only married but he has three children.’

‘Charles is older than I am.’

‘True, but you are four-and-twenty, old enough to be finding someone with a good dowry of twenty or thirty thousand pounds. There is a particular young lady I think you will like, a Miss Barton.’

I will be very surprised if I like Miss Barton, my father’s and my tastes on young ladies being exactly opposite, but it will not stop my father from bringing her to my notice at every opportunity.

Eleanor was sympathetic. I found her in the arbour, sheltered from the wind, well wrapped up in her coat and cloak, writing in her journal.

‘Do not let me interrupt you,’ I said. ‘I would not want to get in the way. I hope you are writing of me. Let me tell you what you ought to say: Henry home, booted and greatcoated – complimented me on my gown – said that blue becomes me – admired the curl of my hair – disturbed me with his nonsense when I would much sooner be writing in my journal.’

She laughed and put her journal aside.

‘I did not expect you back so soon. Have you come to say goodbye?’

‘Never goodbye, my dear Eleanor, though you are right, I told our father I would be leaving for Woodston next week. In his usual way he overrode me and the result is that I am to stay for the house party and leave next month. He wishes me to marry Miss Barton.’

‘She is very beautiful.’

‘And very mercenary. She will not settle for a younger son, and comes only in the hope of seeing Frederick. She will profess herself delighted with the abbey, the neighbours, the countryside, in short everything about us, for the first week. Then, after ten or eleven days, when she learns that Frederick has no interest in her, she will discover that the countryside lacks true beauty; by the end of the second week she will find that our neighbours are boors; by the time the party ends she will be concealing her yawns behind her hands and whispering to the rest of our guests that she will not be sorry to leave.’

‘I think our father means us all to find our destinies this month. He has told me on a number of occasions that General Courteney’s nephew and the Marquis of Longtown’s son are both admirable gentlemen, and that either one of them would make me a good husband. I believe he means to marry me off to one or other of them.’

I sat down beside her.

‘Have nothing to do with the Marquis of Longtown’s son,’ I said. ‘He will in time be a marquis himself, and they are always imperious and cruel.’

She laughed, and we were both taken back to a moment eight years ago, when we read A Sicilian Romance.

‘Did you ever finish it?’ I asked Eleanor.

‘No, I never read any of it after Mama ...’ She fell silent for a few moments and then, rousing herself, said, ‘Did you?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘We have not been very fair to Julia. We have left her imprisoned in a small room and we have left Ferdinand languishing in a dungeon. Do you never want to know what happened to them?’

‘Perhaps, one day.’ She looked about her, at the newly replanted arbour, and said, ‘A lot has changed since then, but in essentials it is still the same. You have still not found your heroine.’

‘Alas, no, despite Papa holding regular house parties in an effort to bring more wealth – I beg your pardon, a heroine – into the family. I will not find her in Miss Barton, that is sure. Do you know who the other guests are to be?’

‘Yes, I wrote the invitations myself.’

She named them all, and I gave a wry smile.

‘And so, the characters are before us,’ I said. ‘Eleanor Tilney, heroine; General Tilney, the imperious father; Frederick Tilney, the son and heir, a cynical rake; Henry Tilney, the younger son, an ironic creature with – perhaps – the soul of a romantic; an assortment of gentlemen who seek to take the heroine off to their castles, or at least their residences in the remote reaches of the country; friends of Frederick Tilney, idle and extravagant; a collection of military gentlemen, friends of General Tilney; and an absence of the friends of Miss Tilney and Mr Henry Tilney, who are not considered grand enough for the occasion.’

Eleanor laughed. Then she said, ‘Frederick remains as fastidious as ever, and yet he continues to mix with the worst kinds of young men. I think that he is lonely, and yet he rejects every young woman offered to him. I cannot make him out. I sometimes wonder whether he will ever find anyone good enough to be loved by him, for I am certain that that is what is the cause of his problems. Do you think he will find anyone?’

‘I begin to despair of it. His early disappointment has given him a morose outlook, and as life has not provided him with any proof that love exists, he takes leave to doubt it. Whereas I – I have not given up hope,’ I said.

‘I am glad of it. You are not so very old, only four-and-twenty, there is time for you yet.’

‘And you, my dear Eleanor, are only twenty. Far too young to be marrying General Courteney’s nephew and, at any age, far too good to be marrying the Marquis of Longtown’s son. They are here already, I understand.’

‘Yes. Papa wanted his particular friends to himself for a few days before the rest of the guests arrived, and their families of course came with them. I am hoping you will render me your assistance in my attempts to avoid them, for they have been following me everywhere I go. Only in the library am I safe if I remain indoors. They never so much as look at a book. But I believe we may be free of them here for awhile.’

‘When I marry – if I marry – my wife must love to read. I shall make it the one condition. Her dowry is unimportant, her family is irrelevant, but she must be a lover of novels, or else no wedding will take place!’

Wednesday 31 October

It is as I suspected, the house party is dull and if not for Eleanor I should depart for Woodston, whatever my father might say. But I cannot abandon her to such poor company. Frederick speaks to no one except his own particular friends and it is a blessing they keep to the billiard room, for when the door opens, a cloud of smoke and brandy fumes escape, sent on their way by ribald stories and even more ribald laughter. Miss Barton, as I suspected, catches him whenever he is not in the billiard room and flatters him from breakfast to supper, though he treats her with contempt. My father is polite enough, but he promotes his friends’ relations at every opportunity, and poor Eleanor is hard put to keep away from them. The only interesting point is that one of Fredericks’ guests, Mr Morris, avoids the billiard room and indeed seems to avoid Frederick. He does not in the least look like one of Frederick’s friends, lacking a swagger, and having something of the look of a startled deer. Eleanor and I have spent much of our time speculating as to his identity. It is fortunate we have this mystery, for there is little else to entertain us here.

NOVEMBER

Friday 9 November

A surprising day, or perhaps it is better to say a tedious day with a surprising evening. My father was holding forth in the drawing room after dinner and Frederick’s friends were in the billiard room, so Eleanor and I took refuge in the library. We had just begun to talk about the marquis’s son when there was an embarrassed cough and Mr Thomas Morris stepped out from behind one of the bookcases.

It was an awkward moment. He had evidently been in the library when we arrived and he had unwittingly overheard our conversation. He did not laugh and make some dubious remark, as might be expected from one of Frederick’s friends. Instead, he blushed and fingered his collar and muttered his apologies, adding that he had not meant to overhear our conversation but that he had been searching for a book.

This so astounded Eleanor and I that we looked at each other in amazement. Then we turned our eyes back towards him, to discover that he was indeed holding a book.

‘The antics in the billiard-room are not to your taste?’ hazarded my sister.

‘No, I am afraid not,’ he said apologetically.

‘What book have you found?’ I asked.

He looked embarrassed and muttered something under his breath.

‘Oh, just something I was reading at home. I thought I had packed my copy but I do not seem to have it with me, and I wondered if I might find a copy here. Luckily I have done so – if you do not object to my borrowing it?’

‘You are very welcome to it,’ said Eleanor. ‘What is it?’

He tucked the book behind his back, but not before Eleanor had glimpsed its cover.

‘A Sicilian Romance!’ she exclaimed.

‘I have a partiality for Gothic novels,’ he admitted shamefacedly.

‘But this is capital,’ I said. ‘My sister and I like nothing better. Which ones have you read?’

‘Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, and Necromancer of the Black Forest,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘Clermont was my favourite, but I must admit that I find them all very exciting.’ Then, recollecting himself, he said, ‘But I must not intrude any longer.’

‘You are not intruding,’ I assured him.

‘Will you not join us?’ asked Eleanor.

He looked delighted, but then decorum got the better of him and he said sedately, ‘If you are sure ...’

‘We are,’ said Eleanor. ‘We would like nothing better than some new company, would we not, Henry?’

I was quick to echo Eleanor’s sentiment, saying that we would be glad to have him join us.

He looked quietly pleased and took a seat.

‘Forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem like one of my brother’s friends,’ said Eleanor.

He was embarrassed.

‘I ... uh ... I am not exactly his friend, I think it would be more accurate to say that ... well, to put it frankly ... that is to say ... I know him because ... well, he owes me money.’

‘And he has invited you here in lieu of paying you, I suppose,’ said Eleanor with a sigh.

He blushed and fiddled with his cravat.

‘My rent being unpaid on account of the loan, which he finds himself temporarily unable to repay, he said it was the least he could do. He invited me to stay for a month, at the end of which he assures me he will be able to meet his obligations.’

‘Frederick grows worse,’ said Eleanor.

She looked at Mr Morris with a sympathetic eye, and with something else besides. It was curiosity and liking and perhaps even admiration, for his face had a certain interest to it and his manner, if hesitant, was engaging.

‘I am very sorry that you have been inconvenienced,’ I said, determined to make him feel welcome, ‘but for my own part I cannot regret it. Frederick’s error has brought us a true companion, and for that we must thank him.’

Eleanor smiled at me and mouthed the words, Well done. And indeed the poor fellow needed them, for he was uncomfortable – as who, in his position, would not be?

The conversation seeming likely to die, Eleanor said, ‘And where have you got to in A Sicilian Romance?’

I was pleased to see her animation and thought that, if Morris could enable her to overcome the sad memories that were attached to the book, then so much the better.

He opened it and showed the place.

‘Ah, only a few pages behind us,’ I said. ‘My sister and I are reading the book also. Pray, catch up with us and then we can read on together.’

I wondered whether Eleanor would object, but after opening her mouth slightly she closed it again.

When he had reached the place we ourselves had reached, he began to read aloud:

‘The nuptial morn, so justly dreaded by Julia, and so impatiently awaited by the marquis, now arrived. The marquis and marchioness received the duke in the outer hall, and conducted him to the saloon, where he partook of the refreshments prepared for him, and from thence retired to the chapel.

‘The marquis now withdrew to lead Julia to the altar, and Emilia was ordered to attend at the door of the chapel, in which the priest and a numerous company were already assembled. The marchioness, a prey to the turbulence of succeeding passions, exulted in the near completion of her favourite scheme. A disappointment, however, was prepared for her, which would at once crush the triumph of her malice and her pride. The marquis, on entering the prison of Julia, found it empty!

‘His astonishment and indignation upon the discovery almost overpowered his reason. Of the servants of the castle, who were immediately summoned, he enquired concerning her escape, with a mixture of fury and sorrow which left them no opportunity to reply. They had, however, no information to give, but that her woman had not appeared during the whole morning. In the prison were found the bridal habiliments which the marchioness herself had sent on the preceding night, together with a letter addressed to Emilia, which contained the following words:

‘ “Adieu, dear Emilia; never more will you see your wretched sister, who flies from the cruel fate now prepared for her, certain that she can never meet one more dreadful. In happiness or misery – in hope or despair – whatever may be your situation – still remember me with pity and affection. Dear Emilia, adieu! You will always be the sister of my heart – may you never be the partner of my misfortunes!” ’

He read well, and we were both engrossed.

‘I am very glad that Julia escaped,’ I said.

‘And so am I,’ he agreed. ‘I did not want to see her condemned to marry the duke. A woman should marry for love.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked Eleanor.

‘I can think of no other reason,’ he said.

‘And a man?’ asked Eleanor.

‘The same, or what else is the point of it?’

I liked him more and more.

‘Do you think the marquis will be content to let her go?’ Julia asked.

He glanced down at the book again and shook his head, saying, ‘I fear not, for it says: It was agreed to pursue Julia with united, and indefatigable search; and that whenever she should be found, the nuptials should be solemnized without further delay. With—’

The sound of the dressing gong stopped him.

‘Oh! I cannot bear it!’ said Eleanor in pleasurable horror. ‘I hope the marquis does not capture her, or I am sure he will do something terrible to her.’

‘But not as terrible as whatever the general will do if we are late for dinner,’ I said. I turned to Mr Morris. ‘I am sorry, but my father is very particular about timekeeping. We will have to continue with this later.’

‘By all means,’ he said, looking much happier than he had done half an hour before.

We went inside and dressed quickly, but I was delayed by my cravat and so by the time I arrived downstairs my father was pacing the drawing room, his watch in his hand. On the very instant of my entering, he pulled the bell with violence and ordered, ‘Dinner to be on table directly!’

As luck would have it, Eleanor was seated between Mr Courteney and Mr Morris. Whilst Courteney talked of nothing but his horses and his dogs, Mr Morris evidently talked of more interesting things, for Eleanor was absorbed and on several occasions I saw her smile.

Frederick had been instructed to take the sweet and innocent Miss Dacres in to dinner and I was pleased to see that he treated her with courtesy. It was a relief that he was still able to value goodness and propriety. But he took little interest in her and responded to her comments with scant enjoyment.

My father had ensured that I took Miss Barton in to dinner, whereupon she flirted outrageously with every wealthy man at the table. After dinner she flirted with Frederick in the drawing room and he was in a mood to indulge her, but if she thinks she will catch him, she is mistaken. She is just the sort of woman he has no time for. He said as much when we retired for the night.

‘If she chooses to make a fool of herself, that is her concern,’ he said. ‘Women are fools, all of them.’

‘Eleanor is not a fool.’

‘Eleanor is a sister,’ he returned.

‘There are other sisters in the world, are there not? Perhaps one amongst them will be worthy of your love.’

He looked at me pityingly and said only, ‘You will learn.’

I was not happy with this reply.

‘I wish you would not always see things in such a dark light,’ I said impatiently.

‘Worried for my heart, little brother?’ he asked mockingly.

‘That, and my own well-being. If you marry, Papa will stop pestering me to do so. With an heir in the cradle he will be content to let me take my time, instead of introducing me to every wealthy or well-connected young woman he knows.’

‘And why should that trouble you? You are an admirer of the fair sex.’

‘But not at all hours of the day, in all situations. There are times when I do not want to be introduced to yet another damsel who can talk of nothing but her embroidery.’

‘So that is what Miss Barton was talking to you about!’ he said with a wry smile.

I laughed.

‘In Miss Barton’s case, I wished she would talk of her embroidery! I am as fond of nonsense as the next man, and can talk it by the hour if required, but Miss Barton’s kind of nonsense fatigues me, particularly when it is only said for the ears of other men.’

‘So, you object to her using you to attract other, wealthier men, dear brother? Your lessons in love have just begun.’

There was no arguing with him and so I took myself off to bed.

Saturday 10 November

The weather being fine, Eleanor and I escaped our guests this afternoon and, warmly wrapped, retreated to the arbour. Glad that she had overcome her aversion to A Sicilian Romance, I suggested we continue with it but Eleanor looked conscious and went pink and said she rather thought we might wait.

‘Wait? For what?’ I asked, though I had more than a passing suspicion.

‘Not what. Whom,’ she said.

I looked at her with interest.

‘Am I to take it that you are expecting Mr Morris?’ I asked.

‘I happened to mention that we were in the custom of sitting in the arbour when the weather was fine, and I believe he saw us through the window and noticed the direction in which we were heading.’

‘And I suppose you also told him he would be welcome to join us?’

‘Is he not?’

‘My dear Eleanor, you know as well as I do that he is. You are free to invite anyone you wish to join us, and I would suffer a much worse man for your sake. Are you fond of him?’ I asked curiously.

‘I have only just met him. I hardly know him,’ she replied.

‘That is not an answer. It is possible to be fond of a person one has only just met, and dislike very strongly a person one knows well.’

‘That is very true. I do not wish to commit myself on so short an acquaintance, and so I will say only this: that I find him interesting and pleasant to look at.’

‘Only this? It is a very great deal, especially from you, who are so particular. It is the curse of the Tilneys to be very particular. We all three suffer from it, you and Frederick no less than myself. I have not heard you say so much in favour of a man since – well, ever.’

‘Do you not like him then?’ she asked. ‘I rather thought you did.’

‘He is good company, I will grant you, or I suspect he will be, once he has overcome the last of his shyness. Amusing on occasion. A gentleman in his address. But too easily put upon. How he came to lend Frederick money is beyond me. He must, I think, be deficient in sense.’

‘No, not that. Just deficient in the ability to refuse a favour.’

‘As failings go, that is a bad one. It is not conducive to happiness. Though I must confess I am surprised at Frederick. He usually borrows money from wealthy men. It is unlike him to stoop so low as to borrow from someone impecunious.’

‘As to that, there was some confusion. Mr Morris’s uncle is a viscount, and somehow Frederick had mistaken Mr Morris for the viscount’s son, a very wealthy young man. There is a family resemblance, it seems.’

‘And Mr Morris did not disabuse him of his mistake?’

‘When he discovered it, yes. But by then it was too late. The money was already lent.’

‘And already spent?’ I asked.

‘Unfortunately so, which is why Frederick invited Mr Morris to Northanger Abbey, to make amends.’

‘But whether that will be a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen. Papa will not countenance a match, you know. He wants you to marry a man of standing, of great wealth and grand position. Someone who will bring renown to the name of Tilney, and, through marriage, add vast estates to our own.’

‘Yes, I know he does, but you go too fast. I have only just met Mr Morris, and although I will confess to having had some conversation with him this morning when you were out with your dogs, I know very little of him and he knows very little of me. There has been no talk of marriage, nor will there be for a very long time, if at all.’

‘But it could happen. Guard yourself, Eleanor. I would not want to see you hurt.’

We sat for some time but, as Mr Morris did not appear, Eleanor at last suggested we continue. She read ever more eagerly as we followed poor Julia’s adventures, and so engrossed were we that we did not notice the arrival of Mr Morris until he cleared his throat.

I looked at him with new eyes. He was handsome enough, with a good bearing and a neat style of dress; nothing ostentatious and yet not shabby; and I wondered how I felt about the idea of his becoming my brother-in-law. His gaze, as it fell on Eleanor, was rapt, and that was a point in his favour, for anyone who marries Eleanor must adore her to have my blessing.

‘Mr Morris. This is a surprise,’ I remarked.

He tore his gaze away from Eleanor, who had flushed, and made his bow.

‘I hope I am not intruding,’ he said.

‘Not at all. We hoped you would join us, did we not, Eleanor?’ I said.

‘We did, indeed.’

He looked surprised and bashfully pleased. This endeared him even more to Eleanor, who invited him to sit down.

‘I see you have brought your book with you.’

‘I rather hoped we might ... that is to say, it was most enjoyable to share the novel ... I do so enjoy reading aloud ... I thought we might do it again.’

‘By all means,’ said Eleanor.

‘I must confess,’ he said, ‘that is to say, I could not sleep and so I succumbed to temptation and read some further passages.’

‘So did we!’ said Eleanor. ‘That is, we have read on this morning.’

‘Ah! Then you know that Julia, helped by her faithful servant, escaped from the marquis and fled to a convent?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we do. And do you know about Hippolitus?’ I asked.

‘That he is alive, having only been severely wounded and not killed? Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘Also, that he sent an emissary to the castle to discover what had happened to Julia, and, finding that she had escaped, he followed her to the convent – only to find that she had fled the convent when the cruel Abate had tried to force her to take the veil.’

‘And do you know about Ferdinand?’ asked Eleanor.

‘That he managed to escape from his father and that he rescued his sister from the convent?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘And now Julia and Ferdinand are fleeing through the countryside, pursued by their evil father, with Hippolitus trying to find them.’

‘That is exactly the point I have reached,’ he said.

‘Then let us continue,’ said Eleanor.

As soon as Mr Morris had seated himself beside us she began:

‘Hippolitus gave the reins to his horse, and journeyed on unmindful of his way. The evening was far advanced when he discovered that he had taken a wrong direction, and that he was bewildered in a wild and solitary scene. He had wandered too far from the road to hope to regain it, and he had beside no recollection of the objects left behind him.

‘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 said.

‘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.’

‘And did you give him hope?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Is it too late to advise caution?’

‘I am afraid so,’ she said.

‘Well, I do not despair. He will be with us for another two weeks and it is possible that you will discover something to his discredit in that time and change your opinion of him. Let us hope so, at least.’

‘I fear there will not be anything,’ she said. ‘I own I think he is the most charming young man in the world. He was so kind this morning, so generous, so thoughtful. He spoke with such sympathy and such real tenderness that my liking, which has been growing ever since I met him, was elevated to some higher feeling, so that now I know it would be impossible for me to ever marry any other man.’

‘It might be impossible for you ever to marry this one.’

‘Perhaps. But in a few years’ time, when my father sees that I am on the verge of becoming a confirmed spinster, then perhaps he will relent.’

‘He is still determined to have you marry one or other of his friends’ relations.’

‘And I am even more determined not to have them. He cannot force me, or lock me in a cellar, and if by some mischance he finds a series of labyrinthine caverns beneath the abbey and threatens to imprison me there, why, then, I will simply emulate Julia and—’

‘Faint?’

She laughed.

‘No,’ she said, ‘escape to a convent.’

‘Alas, there are no convents in the immediate vicinity, but you are welcome to escape to Woodston, for I am sure that a parsonage will suit your purposes just as well.’

‘And a great deal more comfortably,’ she said. ‘Very well, if I have need of it, I will take refuge there.’

Wednesday 14 November

Coming upon my sister and Mr Morris in the library, I decided to retreat unseen, leaving them to finish A Sicilian Romance together. I retrieved the book after dinner, seeing that they had finished it, and have just now finished it myself. Ferdinand, like Hippolitus before him, had not been killed, but simply injured, and had found his way to his family again. Hippolitus and Julia, of course, were married, and Julia’s mother was freed. Thus good was rewarded.

Evil, too, was rewarded when Julia’s wicked stepmother poisoned the evil marquis because he upbraided her for being unfaithful, then she rid the world of her own wicked presence by killing herself.

The mysterious light in the castle was caused by the lantern of the servant, Vincent, who had taken food to Julia’s mother during her captivity. And it was the marquis, of course, who had imprisoned her and claimed that she was dead, so that he could marry his second wife.

Vincent’s pangs of remorse for his evildoing had preyed upon his mind and led to his cryptic comments as he lay on his deathbed, so all was explained. A fine ending to a fine novel!

In real life, alas, things are not so simple. Wives cannot be got out of the way by imprisoning them, husbands cannot be poisoned and good and virtuous heroines do not always marry the men they love. But even so, I hope that my sister’s goodness and virtue will in time, by some miracle, be rewarded, and she will be free to marry her Mr Morris.

Thursday 29 November

The house party is nearly over. Our guests will be leaving tomorrow, and I will be removing to Woodston on Saturday.

I wish I could find a young lady I could love half as much as Eleanor loves Mr Morris, but I console myself with the fact that at least I will not have to spend the rest of my life with Miss Barton and Miss Halifax. Though my father has extolled their virtues for the past four weeks, he has not prevailed upon me to make an offer for either one of them.