Henry Tilney's Diary, Page 2

Eleanor laughed and ran through into the walled garden, where we were sheltered from the wind.

  ‘You will never make a good villain,’ she said. ‘You will have to resign yourself to being a hero.’

  ‘I have been thinking just the same thing, for I have the necessary dark eyes and rather dark hair. Alas, honesty compels me to mention that I do not have a hero’s height, nor his noble mien nor his wounded heart.’

  ‘You are still growing, I suppose, so you will be taller by and by. Your mien is noble enough, in a dim light. As for your lack of a wounded heart, that is because you have not yet met your heroine,’ she told me.

  ‘Heroines are hard to find. I have looked everywhere but I have never yet met one.’

  ‘Miss Grey was looking at you in church the other day.’

  ‘But Miss Grey is a bold young woman with brown hair. And heroines, as you know, have golden hair and blue eyes and they are demure in their manners. Their personalities, too, are of a very particular type. They spend their infant years nursing a dormouse—’

  ‘Or feeding a poor, starving canary—’

  ‘Or watering a rose bush, which repays their kindness by transforming itself from a straggling stick into a bush covered in rampant flowers. Yet I have never met such a one. Young ladies nowadays seem to spend their time playing cricket with their brothers or climbing trees, instead of lisping nursery songs to their prettily wounded animals.’

  ‘What a sorry place the world is! If you have not met such a paragon of virtue by the advanced age of sixteen, then I am forced to admit that you possibly never will,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘I have resigned myself to a lifetime of celibacy for that very reason. Without a heroine who has been a part of my life since our cradles, until she is mysteriously sent away to unknown relatives following the death of her parents, there is no hope of happiness for me.’

  ‘There is, perhaps, one possibility which you have overlooked,’ she said, pulling a book out of her pocket. ‘I believe that, occasionally, heroines are to be met with on holidays abroad.’

  She danced into the arbour, where she sat down on a bench and turned her book over in her hands.

  ‘How foolish of me,’ I said, sitting down beside her. ‘Now why did I not think of that? I will take a walking holiday in Italy as soon as I am old enough to arrange my own adventure.’

  She opened her book.

  ‘What is it this time?’ I asked her. ‘Milton, Pope, Prior? A paper from the Spectator, perhaps, or a chapter from Sterne? Or is it a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons?’

  ‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘It is something much better. It is A Sicilian Romance.’

  ‘What? A novel?’ I asked, affecting horror.

  ‘A novel,’ she assented.

  ‘And is it very horrid?’ I asked.

  ‘I certainly hope so.’ She thrust it into my hands. ‘You may read to me as I sew. I have to finish hemming this handkerchief. Mama says she will deprive me of novels altogether if I do not pay more attention to my needlework.’

  And out of her pocket she drew needle, thread, and the handkerchief.

  ‘It is a good thing you are still in your schoolgirl’s dresses, for such large pockets will be a thing of the past when you start wearing more fashionable clothes – which will not be too long now, I think. You are very nearly a young lady.’

  ‘Pooh!’ she said. ‘Now read to me, if you please!’

  ‘Very well. But I see you have already begun.’

  ‘Not really. I have only read the first few pages, where the narrator says that he came across the ruins of the castle Mazzini whilst travelling in Sicily, and that a passing monk happened to lend him an ancient manuscript which related the castle’s history.’

  ‘A noble beginning. And who lives in this castle? The heroine, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. Her name is Julia.’

  ‘And does she have any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘A brother, Ferdinand, and a sister, Emilia.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Brothers are always useful. Their mother is dead, I suppose, driven to an early grave by their cruel and imperious father? And he has married again, a woman who is jealous of her beautiful stepdaughters, but likes her stepson because he brings his handsome friends home?’

  ‘Have you been peeking?’ she asked me suspiciously.

  ‘My dear sister, I do not need to peek to know that. A novel would not be worth reading without those essential facts.’

  ‘Well, you are right. And now the stepmother has persuaded the father to go on holiday with her, taking only Ferdinand and leaving Julia and Emilia at the castle in the care of their poor, dear departed Mama’s friend – Madame de Menon.’

  ‘Very well. So now I will begin:‘A melancholy stillness reigned through the halls, and the silence of the courts, which were shaded by high turrets, was for many hours together undisturbed by the sound of any foot-step. Julia, who discovered an early taste for books, loved to retire in an evening to a small closet in which she had collected her favourite authors. This room formed the western angle of the castle: one of its windows looked upon the sea, beyond which was faintly seen, skirting the horizon, the dark rocky coast of Calabria; the other opened towards a part of the castle, and afforded a prospect of the neighbouring woods.’

  ‘I am glad she likes to read,’ said Eleanor, ‘but I wish something horrible would happen.’

  ‘Your wish is about to be granted,’ I said.

  ‘On the evening of a very sultry day, Julia, Emilia and Madame de Menon, having supped in their favourite outdoor spot, the coolness of the hour, and the beauty of the night, tempted this happy party to remain there later than usual. Returning home, they were surprised by the appearance of a light through the broken window-shutters of an apartment, belonging to a division of the castle which had for many years been shut up. They stopped to observe it, when it suddenly disappeared, and was seen no more.

  ‘Madame de Menon, disturbed at this phenomenon, hastened into the castle, with a view of enquiring into the cause of it, when she was met in the north hall by the servant Vincent. She related to him what she had seen, and ordered an immediate search to be made for the keys of those apartments. She apprehended that some person had penetrated that part of the edifice with an intention of plunder; and, disdaining a paltry fear where her duty was concerned, she summoned the servants of the castle, with an intention of accompanying them thither.

  ‘Vincent smiled at her apprehensions, and imputed what she had seen to an illusion, which the solemnity of the hour had impressed upon her fancy.

  ‘Madame, however, persevered in her purpose; and, after a long and repeated search, a massey key, covered with rust, was produced. She then proceeded to the southern side of the edifice, accompanied by Vincent, and followed by the servants, who were agitated with impatient wonder.

  ‘The key was applied to an iron gate, which opened into a court that separated this division from the other parts of the castle. They entered this court, which was overgrown with grass and weeds, and ascended some steps that led to a large door, which they vainly endeavoured to open.

  ‘All the different keys of the castle were applied to the lock, without effect, and they were at length compelled to quit the place, without having either satisfied their curiosity, or quieted their fears.

  ‘After several months passed, without further disturbance or discovery, another occurrence renewed the alarm. Julia had one night remained in her closet later than usual. A favourite book had engaged her attention beyond the hour of customary repose, and every inhabitant of the castle, except herself, had long been lost in sleep. She was roused from her forgetfulness, by the sound of the castle clock—’

  We jumped, as the stable clock struck the hour, and then we laughed. But we had been recalled to the present. Eleanor knew her governess would be waiting for her. Reluctantly I closed the book, promising to read to her again later.

  I went to the stables and was soon on horseback, enjoying m
y freedom. I miss it when I am at school, and like nothing better than roaming over the estate on a spring day.

  Frederick was looking sober as we sat down to dine, but otherwise morose and pale. Despite his bravado I think he is not happy about going into the army, and there is some deeper wound. If Miss Orpington has disappointed him – and I can think of no other meaning to his words – then I am sorry for him. It is clear to see that he feels it most keenly, for although on the surface he is a rake, I am convinced that he is at heart a romantic.

  Mama ate very little and Papa was concerned, asking her if she felt quite well. She said that it was nothing, just her bilious complaint, and that he must not be concerned.

  I believe that he is concerned, though, inasmuch as he has it in him to be concerned for anyone.

  Saturday 17 April

  It is as I feared. Mama was ill again this morning and did not leave her room. Papa blamed it on Frederick. Frederick bore our father’s rants with a curled lip, but as soon as Papa went off to examine the kitchens, Frederick’s bravado disappeared and he hastened to Mama’s room, where he endeavoured to cheer her, and sounds of laughter could soon be heard.

  This afternoon he rode over to the Dawsons, saying he was going to borrow something from Peter. He returned with a red coat, Peter being in the army, and went upstairs to show it to Mama. But she was by then feeling unwell, and he was unable to see her. Papa said he would send for the physician tomorrow if she is no better.

  Eleanor spent the afternoon sewing diligently, so that she will have something to show Mama when Mama is feeling well again. Being disposed to help Eleanor in her noble endeavour, I took up A Sicilian Romance.

  ‘Oh, yes, Henry, please do read to me,’ she said. ‘I do not know how it is, but a novel is always more enjoyable when it is shared.’

  ‘By which you mean you are afraid to turn the pages by yourself, lest Julia should discover a skeleton in the southern reaches of the castle.’

  ‘I am frightened of no such thing.’

  ‘Of course not. Very well, then, where did we leave it? Ah, yes, Julia was reading late one night and was moving to her chamber, when the beauty of the night attracted her to the window.

  ‘She opened it; and observing a fine effect of moonlight upon the dark woods, leaned forwards. In that situation she had not long remained, when she perceived a light faintly flash through a casement in the uninhabited part of the castle. A sudden tremor seized her, and she with difficulty supported herself.

  ‘In a few moments it disappeared, and soon after a figure, bearing a lamp, proceeded from an obscure door belonging to the south tower; and stealing along the outside of the castle walls, turned round the southern angle, by which it was afterwards hid from the view. Astonished and terrified at what she had seen, she hurried to the apartment of Madame de Menon, and related the circumstance.

  ‘The servants were immediately roused, and the alarm became general. Madame arose and descended into the north hall, where the domestics were already assembled. No one could be found of courage sufficient to enter into the courts; and the orders of Madame were disregarded, when opposed to the effects of superstitious terror. She perceived that the servant Vincent was absent, but as she was ordering him to be called, he entered the hall.

  ‘Surprised to find the family thus assembled, he was told the occasion. He immediately ordered a party of the servants to attend him round the castle walls; and with some reluctance, and more fear, they obeyed him. They all returned to the hall, without having witnessed any extraordinary appearance; but though their fears were not confirmed, they were by no means dissipated.

  ‘The appearance of a light in apart of the castle which had for several years been shut up, and to which time and circumstance had given an air of singular desolation, might reasonably be supposed to excite a strong degree of surprise and terror.

  ‘In the minds of the vulgar, any species of the wonderful is received with avidity; and the servants did not hesitate in believing the southern division of the castle to be inhabited by a supernatural power.

  ‘Too much agitated to sleep, they agreed to watch for the remainder of the night. For this purpose they arranged themselves in the east gallery, where they had a view of the south tower from which the light had issued. The night, however, passed without any further disturbance; and the morning dawn, which they beheld with inexpressible pleasure, dissipated for a while the glooms of apprehension.

  ‘But the return of evening renewed the general fear, and for several successive nights the domestics watched the southern tower. Although nothing remarkable was seen, a report was soon raised, and believed, that the southern side of the castle was haunted. Madame de Menon, whose mind was superior to the effects of superstition, was yet disturbed and perplexed, and she determined, if the light reappeared, to inform the marquis of the circumstance, and request the keys of those apartments.’

  ‘Do you think it is really haunted?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘Who can say? It seems only too likely,’ I said. ‘I can think of no other reason for a mysterious light. There can surely not be a rational explanation of so strange a thing?’

  ‘And do you think Madame will really ask the marquis for the keys?’

  ‘I think she may very well ask him, but whether he will give them to her is quite another matter.’

  ‘Poor Julia,’ said Eleanor, with a pleasurable shiver, ‘to live in a haunted castle. I am glad the abbey is not haunted.’

  ‘Are you sure? I believe I saw a mysterious light in the kitchen last night,’ I remarked.

  ‘Oh, that was just Mama’s maid making her a little something,’ said Eleanor.

  At talk of Mama she fell silent. Reading her thoughts, and knowing she was worried about Mama, I invited her to go riding with me, but she would not be distracted from her needlework.

  Frederick was still wearing his red coat when I went upstairs to dress for dinner. He was just emerging from Mama’s room, where he had met with a smiling reception, for Mama was feeling somewhat better. He looked remarkably handsome and he was pleased that Mama had said so.

  Papa was less pleased to find that Frederick had been to her room, saying, ‘Your mother is too ill to be disturbed.’

  ‘On the contrary, she was feeling much recovered and needed someone to take her out of her thoughts,’ Frederick remarked. ‘She said that red is a very good colour and suits me.’

  ‘It is a very good colour for disguising blood, anyway,’ said Papa, ‘and there will be plenty of that when you see some action.’

  Frederick scowled and said that, as he had worn the coat into town this afternoon it had already seen some action, a remark which incensed Papa. But Frederick laughed at his anger. I did not like to hear it. There was something bitter about the laughter, something cynical. I hope it will not last. Frederick is not made for bitterness and cynicism. I hope his disappointment has not soured him. I am sure it has not. He is too young to abandon all hope of meeting a heroine of his own.

  Sunday 18 April

  Mama was well enough to join us at church and, apart from being a little pale, was so well that Papa felt able to go ahead with his plan of driving me over to Woodston this afternoon.

  ‘I am glad to see that you are not following in your brother’s footsteps,’ said my father as we set out. ‘A clergyman needs to be sober and respectable and I think I can rely upon you to be both. You have a propensity to humour and you have a love of the absurd, both of which you should attempt to curb, but I am pleased with you nonetheless, Henry. I will be glad to give you the living of Woodston when you are old enough for it. You will not become ordained for many years, but Woodston will be waiting for you.’

  He wanted no reply, and so whilst he talked I was free to observe the countryside, with its hints of the coming spring. The drive was agreeable and the twenty miles went by quickly.

  ‘Woodston is larger than it was the last time I was here,’ I said. ‘There are more chandler’s shops, and some new ho
uses, too.’

  ‘It is becoming more prosperous,’ my father agreed. ‘Its situation is good and its people are hardworking. You will have sensible parishioners and you will be able to make your mark here. I foresee great things for you, Henry, my boy.’

  We reached the further end of the village and my father pulled up in front of the parsonage.

  ‘There it is. What do you think of it, Henry?’

  I was surprised at his question. We have been to Woodston many times before, but it was the first time he had sought my opinion.

  ‘A little run down, perhaps, and small, but well enough,’ I said.

  ‘You think so? I cannot agree with you. In fact, I am very disappointed in the place. I have been growing more and more dissatisfied with it for some time. It is small and dark, and has a mean look about it. I think I am going to have it pulled down and have a new parsonage built in its place.’

  I was astonished, but a moment’s reflection showed me that I should not be surprised. There is very little left to do on the abbey and my father must always be altering something. Goodness knows what he will do with himself when everything is done.

  ‘The drive needs altering. What do you say? A semicircular sweep would look well, I think. Do not you?’ He did not wait for me to answer but continued: ‘Good, good, I knew you would approve. It needs a pair of imposing gates to make the entrance worth looking at. Then, with an impressive sweep and a stone-built parsonage beyond, it will be passable. Inside, it will need spacious rooms, well shaped, with windows reaching to the ground. What do you think? The view of the meadows beyond is pretty enough. Perhaps that tree could be moved.’

  He set the carriage moving again and drove on to the church, which we reached in time for the evening service.

  ‘The roof has just been replaced,’ he said as we climbed out of the carriage, ‘and that window will be refitted. I have always thought it a pity it has no coloured glass. There is room for improvement there. We will replace it with a scene from the New Testament. Or perhaps the Old. What do you think? Yes, yes, you are right, David and Goliath, or perhaps the Battle of Jericho.’