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If Catherine Morland was not born to be a heroine, she ended by becoming something very like one. In the first place, heroine-like, she was so fortunate as to marry the man of her choice at the age of only eighteen. Henry Tilney was, her parents knew, beyond her deserts in a worldly way, for he was the second son of General Tilney, whose fine landed estate and seat at Northanger Abbey entitled him to a voice in the affairs of the nation. To say the truth, Henry was rather a disappointment to his father’s vanity, for he had not the ambition General Tilney desired to see in him; he neither wished to amass a great fortune of his own, nor to be a fashionable figure at court nor a practiced politician. Henry was a clergyman, established in a comfortable family living at Woodston Rectory; and he asked nothing better.
A particular point of disagreement with his father, was that Henry considered as indispensible to his happiness, the blessing of choosing for himself a thoroughly amiable wife. His settling on Catherine, young and unformed, of no very distinguished lineage, and with only three thousand pounds, had brought down the wrath of the General; wrath all the more violent because of himself having initially promoted the marriage, under a mistaken idea that Catherine was an heiress. On discovering otherwise, he had shockingly turned his young guest out of Northanger Abbey, so that she was forced to travel home alone, a journey of seventy miles, exposed to all the dangers and discomforts of hackney-coaches.
Henry was ordered to give her up; but having engaged her faith, he stood firm, and for the first time in his life refused to obey his father. The young people were obliged to wait for their happiness, but time, and persuasion, had done the business. Now they were married; and a happier heroine than young Mrs. Tilney did not exist in England.
The evening before the wedding, Henry slept at the Fullerton rectory, Catherine’s home, so that they might have an early start to their journey on the wedding-morning.
Despite his happiness, he seemed preoccupied, and at last, with some seriousness, told Catherine that he wished to have a word with her and her mother and father, before retiring for the night. Though somewhat surprised, Catherine helped get the younger children off to bed, and then joined Mr. and Mrs. Morland and Henry in her father’s study.
“What have you to say, Mr. Tilney?” said Mrs. Moreland, good humouredly. “Sure, you need not ask for Catherine’s hand again? Every thing is nicely settled in that way, and we are in full readiness for tomorrow, though here I am, still whipping up this last bit of lace for Catherine’s wedding-dress. You are a sad girl, to be sure, leaving it for me to do.”
“No – Mr. and Mrs. Morland, it is something else, that must be said, though I am very sorry to have waited for so long. I ought to have spoken sooner.”
Catherine was alarmed. “It is not something to do with your father again?” she cried. “Oh, no, Henry!”
“No, it is not that at all – only that it does have something to do with him, in a way,” Henry stopped in confusion, and the Morlands looked at him with surprise, as he was usually readiness with words itself.
“Only speak your mind, my boy,” said Mr. Morland kindly; “I am sure it can be nothing so very bad.”
“It is indeed nothing, in truth, a nonsense, a foolishness. And yet, it is right that you should know. I have not spoken of this until now, because my dearest Catherine, with all her good will, is a person of such real imagination - and so fond as she is of the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe and her sensational sisters - that I feared she might be frightened by what I have to say,” he finished, not very coherently.
“I know what you mean,” said her mother, with a sage nod. “That bad habit of hers, of reading immoderately. That was what did the business, I am sure. She has been silly enough; but she is mended now, and grown quite a sensible girl I assure you, not much given to frights.”
Catherine’s eyes were fixed on Henry’s agitated expression. “For Heaven’s sake, Henry, what is it?” she asked.
“Yes, you had much better speak out, Mr. Tilney,” said Mr. Morland, firmly.
“It is only this. I have never told you – you have not heard - “
“What is it?” exclaimed three voices, and Henry resolutely spoke.
“That - that there is a curse upon Northanger Abbey!”
There was a small silence, and then his three listeners burst into laughter.
“You had me fooled for an instant,” said Mr. Morland, “A very good joke, to be sure. Perhaps a trifle too alarming for the ladies, however. And in my opinion, the night before your wedding ought not to be the occasion for such pleasantries, if I may be allowed to say so. But there’s no harm done.”
“Indeed, Mr. Tilney,” nodded Mrs. Morland, “you gave me quite a start. Curses, indeed! That is not my idea of wit, but when Catherine has you all to herself at Woodston, you will amuse one another sure enough.”
“Oh, yes,” said Catherine, fondly. “Henry’s wit is my delight. I daresay he is trying to frighten me now, but it is all in fun.”
Henry looked at her with concern. “Catherine, my dear – Mr. and Mrs. Morland – please do not misunderstand me. It is not a joke. What you are kind enough to call my wit, I hope would be regulated by taste, and a fit sense of the occasion. Be assured, I would not make a jest of this nature.”
“Tell me another story, Mr. Tilney. You are a sad joker for a son-in-law,” said Mrs. Morland, shaking her head and taking up her lace again.
“My dear ma’am – how can I convince you, that what I say is true enough? There is a curse upon the Abbey.”
Mr. Morland’s voice reflected his disapproval. “What nonsense, my boy. I must say I am surprised to hear you speak in this way. And you a man of the cloth! Why would you choose to harrow up our spirits with such a tale?”
“And at such a time, too,” reminded Mrs. Morland reprovingly.
“Truly a curse?” cried Catherine. “Oh, what is it? But of course it cannot be true.”
“Certainly it is not true, my dear,” said her father firmly, “there are no such things as curses. I am afraid Mr. Tilney is being facetious; but if he is not, then I hope to hear a sincere explanation directly.”
“I do not know how to speak of this, in such a way as to make you understand,” said Henry earnestly. “I would not wish to speak in an overwrought manner, or be guilty of using exaggerated language. No, sir, you are quite justified in opposing the idea of curses; I do not believe in them either. That would neither be rational nor right, for one who has taken the Church as his profession.”
“I am thankful to hear you say so, Mr. Tilney,” said Mr. Morland, relieved. “Do I collect, then, that there is some tradition of the sort in your family? In that case, I can appreciate your reluctance to expose Catherine to tales that are both dreadful and baseless.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Moreland, “she has been such a fanciful young creature, ten to one she might have thought it was true, and got a fright. But I do believe that Catherine is much more common-sensical than she used to be. She has quite given over reading those horrid novels, though I never have been able to make her attend to good Miss Edgeworth’s tales.”
“Those are for children, Mother,” protested Catherine. “You know that Henry and I have done a great deal of serious reading together, since we have been engaged, of a philosophical and scientific nature; and Rousseau and Linnaeus are far more interesting to me now.”
Mrs. Morland looked uneasy. “You will become quite a learned lady, Catherine,” she said.
This made Henry smile in spite of himself. “Do not fear that, Mrs. Morland,” he assured her. “I thought a little instruction in the enlightened thinking of our age, would be of benefit to Catherine, but no more than that.”
He probably thought that to live in the country year round with a wife whose mind had been sadly unfurnished by parents too occupied with raising a family of ten children, might lose its charms; and while Catherine did not threaten to become a blue-stocking, she had, in the year of their engagement, duly devoured some very wise books indeed.
“On reflection, I believe you did right in telling us of this story,” pursued Mr. Morland, “as Catherine might hear it elsewhere, and be distressed. Yes, she had best hear it from you. But what sort of tale is this, pray? Is it a very old one?”
“Yes, it has been handed down in my family for many generations,” said Henry seriously.
“Has it indeed? Come, then, tell us all, unless you would rather relate it to me first, and then judge about telling Catherine and her mother.”
“What would be the use of that?” asked Mrs. Morland, practically. “The cat is already out of the bag, and it can hardly be as bad as what Catherine could scare herself with.”
“True; and it is essential that Catherine must know, before we are married.”
Catherine went to him, and took his arm. “Tell me all about it now, Henry,” she said as calmly as possible.
“It is this. Northanger Abbey, as you know, was once a monastic institution. Its grounds were consecrated for the better part of a thousand years.”
“When I was a silly girl,” said Catherine with a faint smile, “last year, you remember how I hoped it would have a regularly horrid history, and was disappointed to find the place had so modern an appearance.”
“It is only the bones of the actual Gothic building that remain intact,” Henry reminded her, “the stone walls and arches, with the quadrangle now only partly enclosed by the old convent. It is a matter of regret that the Abbey itself was despoiled at the time of King Henry VIII. The Tilney of that generation, the first Frederick, was one of Cromwell’s men, and his depredations were terrible. He sacked the Abbey, hanged the Abbot, and slaughtered the poor monks.”
“Oh! I hate to hear that story,” Catherine shuddered. “It is so very dreadful, indeed, that it almost makes me not want to go near the place again.”
“I am sorry you should feel so,” said Henry soberly, “but now I must tell you the rest. When the Abbot was dying – a great and saintly man he was, Father Abbot Stephen - he called down a curse on Tilney and all his heirs, in perpetuity, in God’s name. His voice was uncannily carried all over the country side, so that every body heard it; as though he was yahooing through a horn.”
The Morlands looked appalled. “And what,” faltered Catherine, “what was the curse?”
“That the race of Tilney might survive, but its fruitfulness be blighted forevermore. The wife of each firstborn son would die, either in terror or in madness, early in her life, and long before her appointed time.”
“Oh no!” cried Mrs. Morland, her hand to her mouth, “surely this must be a terrible joke, after all! For otherwise, who would marry into such a family?” She stopped, in horrified realization of what she had said.
“Stay,” said Mr. Morland, coolly. “You forget that Henry is not a firstborn son. The curse – not that there is such a thing, naturally – cannot be held to apply to him and his wife.”
“That is true,” said Henry, looking anxiously at Catherine. “There is no malevolent imprecation against second sons, and in any case, as you truly say, sir, it is nothing but an old superstition. However, servants and country people do tell wild tales; and that is why I knew I must tell Catherine before my family was hers. Can you forgive me, my Catherine, now that you know all?”
Catherine met his eyes with a reassuring smile.
“Oh, yes. It must have been hard for you to tell me. But you have taught me to be rational, Henry. It is only a Chimaera, I know.”
“A what?” asked Mrs. Morland.
“A Chimaera,” said Catherine with a look at her mother that was a touch pitying, “is a fire-breathing, female monster, composed of many animal parts put together.”
“Catherine, I beg to know what you mean by that.”
“Why, I mean only that it is an impossible fantasy, Mother. Henry has been making me read Homer. Only in translation, of course, but that is owing to the deficiencies of a female education.”
“Chimaeras and curses – Heaven on earth! Catherine, how can you! And I don’t know what is all this fine talk of education. We never could get learning to stick to you, before this.”
“All I mean to say, Ma’am,” said Catherine, with proper deference, “is, that I shall endeavor not to give this story another thought.”
“Quite right, my dear,” said her father. “Though I suppose we had better know all. Have there, in sober fact, been sufficient untimely deaths among the Tilney wives, to give weight to the story, among the credulous?”
“Yes,” said Henry reluctantly, “I must say there have.”
“Your own mother,” Catherine said with compunction, remembering her own dreadful conjectures about poor Mrs. Tilney, the most lurid of which had been that the poor woman had been walled up alive.
“Yes, my mother did die of a short and painful illness,” he said slowly, “and my grandmother, my father’s mother, died early, too, in childbed, giving birth to my father.”
“So he was motherless,” Catherine reflected. “No wonder, then, that he grew up to be so – not pleasant. He is a most unhappy man.”
“Why Catherine,” said her mother, “that’s not in reason. Many people lose their mothers, and it does not follow that they turn out ill-tempered, or have any untoward qualities. Ten to one the General’s temperament is natural with him.”
“And farther back than your grandmother?” Mr. Morland pressed, curiously.
“Yes – there are legends. I do not know them all. My sister Eleanor does; her nurse would tell them to her. There is a positively ghastly gallery of beheadings and fatal falls and swift illnesses. I am sure you need not hear a recitation, even if I were able to give you a catalogue of them.”
“No; rather not,” said Mr. Morland. “Indeed, I think, now that you have disburthened yourself, that the best thing we can do, is to try to forget the story. It is only a pity you did not tell it earlier, so as not to make a shadow over Catherine’s last night at home.”
“I really could not bring myself to speak before,” Henry confessed. “The distressing and the absurd are so unfortunately blended, and the place has a most sordid history. Even the good monks themselves were – not so good.”
“What did they do?” Catherine asked curiously.
“Well – you have heard of the Holy Blood that was kept in a chalice, and how pilgrims from all over the land came to worship this relic? The practice was even known to Chaucer, who wrote about it.”
Mr. Morland said nothing, and his wife only shook her head.
“The so-called Holy Blood proved to be nothing but a money making scheme. Only those of pure conscience were supposed able to see the blood, but after they had paid, and prayed, most penitents could see it.”
“Is that really true, Henry?” breathed Catherine.
“The blood was found to be that of ducks,” he told her with a droll look, “easily renewable, and the chalice had two sides, one with blood showing, and the other painted black. The monks made a fortune.”
“I thought you said that Abbot was saintly.”
“He was a good man; and he did not start these practices.”
“It was such abuses that led to the dissolution of the monasteries,” Mr. Morland observed.
“So you see, the history of my house, and my family, is altogether a lurid recitation; though the curse is the tale we naturally find most unsettling. Perhaps you can understand my reluctance to talk, or even think about it.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Mrs. Morland candidly. “No one likes to tell any thing shocking of their family, and your story is enough to give me quite a turn. However, I trust that, with all her fine reading, Catherine will not be such a simpleton as to let it worry or vex her. It is not as if you were to live at Northanger Abbey yourselves.”
Catherine spoke with composure. “Oh, no. And if we ever do visit the Abbey again, Henry, depend upon it I shall be quite inured to its terrible history.”
“That is sensible, my dear,” her father approved.
“And you will show me the ancient portions that I have never properly seen yet, where it is all supposed to have happened. Are the monks’ cells still there, I wonder – real monks? Can we see them?”
She brightened at the idea.
“The parts where the – massacre happened, were all burnt,” Henry informed her, “the cells are gone, and only some of the old walls and archways are original. One side of the Abbey was so ruinous it had to be cleared entirely. You know how extensively my father has improved the interior, and how proud he is that it is not outwardly a patched-together business. It was his concern to bring modern comforts to Northanger, and in this task he has succeeded, to give him his due.”
“He has. Much as I foolishly wished it, I did not see anything horrid, when I was there,” she paused, without adding her private thought, “Except your father.”
“You must always be careful what you wish for, my dear,” her mother nodded wisely.
“I would never wish for horrors now,” Catherine assured her. “But if a real massacre occurred, there might be some relics or shards of fossilized bone left,” she speculated, with something of her old interest.
“You won’t find any such things at Woodston, you know,” Henry reminded her with an arch smile.
Catherine brightened. “Oh, Woodston is the most comfortable, the loveliest place in the world! And we are going there tomorrow,” she said, recalled to her proper state of bridal rapture.
“Yes, tomorrow,” said Henry, and they smiled at each other.
“And you will be tired tomorrow, unless we all get to bed. It is nearly ten o’clock,” said Mrs. Morland briskly. “James, will you get the candles ready, while I put away my work.”