Amanda Grange: Henry Tilney's Diary

‘You will not be dependent on the living, of course, you have your own fortune, but it is important that you have occupation. It is essential for a young man. You are intelligent enough to know what I am talking about. I am not worried for you, Henry. It is your brother who fills me with unease. He never seems to belong to anyone. You are close to your sister, but Frederick has no such close friendship in the family. He loves his mother, as who would not? But that is not the same as having someone in whom he can confide. Confound it, there is something eating the boy, but the devil of it is, I do not know what it is.’

I ventured that it might be a woman.

‘What, not Miss Orpington? I thought I had cured him of that. She was not good enough for the heir of Northanger Abbey, and when I sent him into the library I felt sure he would see it for himself.’

‘The library?’

‘Yes, the library. She was busy flirting with one of Frederick’s less savoury friends in there. I am surprised that Frederick expected anything better from either of them, I never expected him to take it so much to heart, but I could not let him continue in ignorance. He had better get over his ill humour before Saturday. We are having some of our friends and neighbours to supper and I will not tolerate his being rude to them. Miss Plainter will be there, along with her brother Charles, and Miss Maple. We will have some improvised dancing after supper, nothing formal. I will make sure there are musicians there, and then it can all be done on the spur of the moment.’

The Reverend Mr Wilkes returning at that moment, the talk moved on to parish business until we retired for the night.

As I went upstairs I could not help wondering which friend had played my brother false. I do not know them all, but I know of three who are richer than he is, and none of them as worthy of love as Frederick. Miss Orpington must be intolerably stupid, and I cannot help thinking that he has had a lucky escape.

Monday 9 April

We returned to the abbey this afternoon and Papa set about organizing the musicians for the supper party. Frederick was out riding. Mama was feeling much better and was sitting in the parlour with her needlework. Eleanor was sitting beside her with a piece of sewing in her lap, fidgeting.

‘There you are, Henry,’ said Mama, giving me her cheek to kiss. ‘Did you enjoy yourself at Woodston?’

She listened attentively whilst I told her all about it and then said with a smile, ‘You will oblige me greatly if you will take your sister out of doors. She is fidgeting terribly.’

The day was indeed lovely and I could tell that Eleanor longed to be outside.

Eleanor jumped up, but then said nobly, ‘I will stay here with you, Mama, if you prefer. I can help you with your needlework.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ said Mama. ‘I want to have it finished by dinner time and if you remain by my side it will never be done! Off you go, child.’

Eleanor needed no more urging and we were soon outside. The weather being fine, we went down to the arbour and I was not surprised when she drew out her book. Feeling lazy, I said, ‘I think, today, you should read to me.’

‘Very well.’

She had scarcely settled herself on the bench when she took up the book and began to read. Her face glowed and her eyes widened as she discovered the horrors within:

‘It was about this period that the servant Vincent was seized with a disorder which increased so rapidly, as in a short time to assume the most alarming appearance. Despairing of life, he desired that a messenger might be dispatched to inform the marquis of his situation, and to signify his earnest wish to see him before he died.

‘The progress of his disorder defied every art of medicine, and his visible distress of mind seemed to accelerate his fate. Perceiving his last hour approaching, he requested to have a confessor. The confessor was shut up with him a considerable time, and he had already received extreme unction, when Madame de Menon was summoned to his bedside. The hand of death was now upon him, cold damps hung upon his brows, and he, with difficulty, raised his heavy eyes to Madame as she entered the apartment. He beckoned her towards him, and desiring that no person might be permitted to enter the room, was for a few moments silent. His mind appeared to labour under oppressive remembrances; he made several attempts to speak, but either resolution or strength failed him.

‘At length, giving Madame a look of unutterable anguish, “Alas, madam,” said he, “Heaven grants not the prayer of such a wretch as I am. I must expire long before the marquis can arrive. Since I shall see him no more, I would impart to you a secret which lies heavy at my heart, and which makes my last moments dreadful, as they are without hope.”

‘I knew it,’ said Eleanor. ‘I always suspected Vincent. I am sure it was he who carried the lantern. He must be the source of the mysterious lights.’

‘I seem to remember your being convinced the castle was haunted.’

‘I never said any such thing,’ she said comfortably, before returning to the book.

‘“Be comforted,” said Madame, who was affected by the energy of his manner, “we are taught to believe that forgiveness is never denied to sincere repentance.”

‘“You, madam, are ignorant of the enormity of my crime, and of the secret – the horrid secret which labours at my breast. My guilt is beyond remedy in this world, and I fear will be without pardon in the next; I therefore hope little from confession even to a priest. Yet some good it is still in my power to do; let me disclose to you that secret which is so mysteriously connected with the southern apartments of this castle.”

‘ “What of them!” exclaimed Madame, with impatience.

‘Vincent returned no answer; exhausted by the effort of speaking, he had fainted. Madame rang for assistance, and by proper applications, his senses were recalled. He was, however, entirely speechless, and in this state he remained till he expired.’

‘Oh, no!’ I cried, clutching my chest and rolling my eyes, much to Eleanor’s amusement. ‘What horrible secret does he take to his grave?’

She returned to the book impatiently, but she had no chance to read further, for it was time to dress for dinner, and the wicked marquis himself could not be more fearsome than my father when one of us is late.

Tuesday 20 April

Papa watched Mama at breakfast time and he was pleased to see that she ate well, her bilious attack being over, and that she took pleasure in her letter from her old schoolfriend Mrs Hughes, which she read aloud to us with her customary animation. He told her of his plans for dancing on Saturday and she approved of them. Frederick scowled, knowing it was for his benefit and not being in the mood for dancing. However, he said nothing. For the time being, at least, he does not risk open rebellion because my father has agreed to pay his debts of honour, and so Frederick must behave.

‘I think, you know, it is time for Eleanor to start joining us for evening gatherings, at least those that take place at the abbey,’ said Mama.

Eleanor sat up, alert.

‘She is far too young,’ said Papa.

‘Not so. She is not a child any more, she is turning into a young lady. I do not say she should join us for the dancing, but I think she should join us for supper. It will do her good to see how adults conduct themselves in company and it will give her a chance to practise her manners.’

‘She is forever jumping up, she will never manage to sit still,’ said my father.

Eleanor became as still as a statue and folded her hands in her lap in the most ladylike fashion imaginable.