Chapter 23

The next day was fairer even than the previous, for Henry was able to stand completely unaided when he awoke, and even to make it halfway down the stair before needing assistance. He still experienced a soreness in his shoulder or occasional tightness of the lungs if pushed too far, but felt strong enough to recommend another turn about the garden after they broke their fast.

"Perhaps," was the unusually reserved reply he received. Clearly, Catherine's worries had returned during the night, and it was no difficulty to discern where her abstraction centred as she turned with every minute sound toward the door, no doubt anxious of a violent interruption.

Fortunately too delighted with his own returning health to waste much ire on a villain so considerate as to remain offstage, Henry instead recommended they explore within. "For though I missed your first tour, I can guess it was not so comprehensive as to prevent there being some mysteries of an abbey left to uncover." He smiled kindly, hoping to perk her interest without provoking any painful remembrances.

"Do you think it would be acceptable?" was her next query, and he could tell by her brightening eyes she was not unaffected by the idea. "I mean, we would not be disturbing anything?"

"Not at all: we will keep only to the parts of the house that are oldest, least used, or most related to antiquity. I assure you, they are of no interest to anyone but ourselves."

Catherine agreed far more happily to this suggestion, and it took only a little coaxing on his part to have her choose where they should begin: the chambers that had once belonged to the original cloister. Henry knew the spot well, as it was situated near to the staircase leading to the room he had occupied as a bachelor; and while closer to his father's apartments than he might have advised, was made unobjectionable by the intelligence that General Tilney was out on his morning constitutional.

Their pace was measured, Henry still unable to achieve his former gait, but that did not signify when he was able to respond to all of Catherine's scattered questions. It was soon apparent her previous stay in Northanger Abbey had not afforded her this opportunity, and she was fairly starved for details he was more than happy to supply.

"Here we are: the last remains of the true abbey, a relic of bygone days," Henry announced as they reached the cramped little corridor. "And in more ways than one: it filled me with the greatest horror to pass through this corner alone in times past."

"But why?"

"Because of the spirits of past nuns who were sure to reek their vengeance on me, for robbing them of their home, and throwing them in chains, and who knows what other terrible fates they fell to, all at the hands of whatever rapacious ancestor profited in their dissolution."

"Would not their spirits seek out the owner, or his heir, for mischief? I do not see why they should bother you."

Henry was pleased to hear how sensibly she replied, without any self-consciousness regarding murderous stories, and so felt equally at ease in answering. "Remember that I share the name of that tyrant king who raised himself above the throne of Peter and am therefore liable for all their temporal and eternal persecution. So, at least, my brother convinced me after a week's worth of lessons on the subject, and as he could read better than me I was forced to accept his superiority of knowledge on any number of subjects, including that of ghosts."

"How dreadful!" was Catherine's severe reaction, "to make a child terrified of his own home."

"I was not so very awestruck for long, I promise you, and it may have done me some good. I have always been possessed of a ferocious curiosity, and might have become lost in a stray catacomb were it not for his warnings. I confess the one or two times I heard a moan of 'Henry' on the air was enough to forestall any inclination for sneaking out."

"And yet there are less wicked ways to make a child mind; and from a brother too! I am sure I never thought to menace even Sally, though she would forever dog me."

Having experienced a small amount of Miss Sarah's vexing nature to turn up at the most inconvenient moments, Henry admired his wife's restraint aloud. "But girls are expected to do better: Eleanor never played any tricks. It is for boys to be wanton and cruel."

"You would not say so if you had tried to keep Harriet from letting the goat out of his pen after pretending to lay down."

"So the Morlands are not completely perfect: I am relieved to hear it."

"No, of course not, you know full well that is not the case. But we would never dream of intentionally frightening each other to death! There is enough to fear in this world without people causing it in others on purpose. I am sorry you were ever subjected to such treatment."

This sentiment was communicated in a manner so solicitous that Henry found his heart strangely touched, and quickly turned the subject to other anecdotes. They admired here a stone frame, there an old beam, and whatever else they could of the house's ancient foundations. He admitted he was rather ignorant of the true history respecting those novices who had once prayed within those walls, but spun what legends he could recall, generously embellished with a ready imagination, while they progressed from one point of interest to another.

After a short respite, during which Henry rested his legs and Catherine explored a hardly used cell he believed dated from the fourteenth century, he asked what else she had a mind to examine. Rather than inquire after priories or tombs, she surprised him by asking if there was anything left of his boyhood. "You have seen all of Fullerton, and our nursery: is that room still intact? or any others?"

"I do not know," he confessed in some confusion. "But they were very modernly equipped: would you not like to see the few memorials left instead?"

She let him lead her to a view of the court, and listened as he pointed out the traces of monument that might still be seen in the grass, but would not give up her request, not even when he offered to show her where a guest had supposedly been felled during the Civil War. "But why should you want to see it?" he finally asked in the face of her continued insistence.

"I would like to understand the family better."

"The Tilneys are not the most scrutable race, to give up their secrets so easily in the mere observance of the past. I confess to knowing less than half of my line's biographies."

"But I would like to try, for is it not my line as well, now?"

There was little he could argue against this logic. "I warn you, there may be nothing left any more," he said as they turned to the back stair and began the climb, Catherine patiently waiting as he must take each step with both feet before continuing.

"I understand. And you must tell me if you become wearied, or find the way too difficult."

"No bounding up to frighten young maidens today?" he asked with self-deprecating irony, and was rewarded with a smile as they continued. On reaching the top he required some rest, and they sat on a nearby settee for Henry to catch his breath. Catherine continued holding his arm, her steady presence neither impatient nor missish while waiting for him to rally. It was strange, for without that reminder, with eyes closed and his abilities so affected, he could almost believe he had crept up that flight as in days far in the past. Everything was different now, of course: the flooring had been replaced since then, and the banister was of a darker hue than he remembered it. But there was something about the air, or perhaps the old familiarity of stealing from some unbidden scramble, that caught him, and perhaps also, for but a moment, stilled his limbs from moving forward.

Inhaling deeply, Henry shook off these fancies, and turning to Catherine requested her assistance to stand. They advanced down the gallery near to where his mother's rooms still remained closed off, but turned before reaching them and instead approached a double door that impossibly still bore the same exact exterior he had greeted a thousand times in the past; down, he discovered, to the chips in the frame made by heedless boys in their haste. Inside he was amazed to encounter a similar preservation. It was not perfect, or rather, it was too much so. When he was a youth there would have been a mess of toys scattered about, books left open or stacked in piles, instruments dropped, and a thousand other signs of disturbance. Now everything was precise and orderly, the model of a children's sanctuary instead of the living embodiment.

"So it is not like at all?" Catherine asked, looking about with interest.

"Not in character, perhaps, but certainly in the essentials. Why, I remember that telescope clearly: I thought I would never be tall enough to look through it, and see, here is every primer we used, even the histories. I am surprised they have not been moved down to the library."

"It must be they were felt to belong here instead. It is a cheerful room: there is plenty of sunlight through those windows."

"As to that, it never made us feel cheerful, for it could be blinding of a summer afternoon. There is nothing worse than to be presented with perfect weather for play, and be denied it by strictures or lectures."

"It was the same at home: which is why mother sometimes moved our lessons outside, and we would have picnics where we used leaves to count or spelled with sticks in the dirt. She always said children most wanted movement when they are small, and whenever we grew impatient with being out of doors we would move back in and pick up with chalk."

"Mrs. Morland continues to prove herself a fount of wisdom: I tip my hat to her benevolence. I am afraid our tutor was not so wise."

"Oh, but he must have been far more so: I cannot believe the general would not find someone very knowledgeable."

Henry laughed. "Very knowledgeable, I assure you, and nigh unintelligible when we were first introduced. Ten to one he took the position thinking we were older; Frederick, at least, was more of an expected age, though still full young, and as I could not tolerate any lengthy separation my father—with an uncommonly liberal attitude—paid a handsome price for the training of a near infant. No wonder the man was often cross! Perhaps not realizing he was to prepare us for our education rather than serve as its sole arbiter, this scholar failed to understand we had not yet learned Latin. I believe it was a full month before he recognized our ignorance, and a whole morning was given over to describing our stupidity."

Catherine shook her head. "It sounds as if he were stupid as well, not to understand his situation or instruct you better. I do not claim any great wisdom, and yet I did find out if little George had learned his numbers first before drilling him with figures."

"But you were superintended by the good Mistress Morland, who no doubt taught you all there is to know of children and their upbringing. How fortunate the little ones who will receive the blessing of her daughter's experience."

He had not meant anything more than an amusing aside, and was not fully aware of what he said until Catherine turned away her flushed cheeks. The realization caused his tongue to still, bemused both by the heat warming his own features and a very different fire that lit his heart, one so at odds with any lingering nostalgia that he wondered at feeling to any degree boyish. The man no longer had any thoughts to spare for the travails of adolescence.

"I hope it will be so," was the soft admission she finally uttered, so that Henry could not help turning her to face him, handling the blooms before him with the same caresses as he had those growing without.

He ought to have found something really clever or tender to say, like a proper hero would in such moments. Certainly later he would discover the most perfect repartee, and curse himself an idiot for letting the opportunity slip his grasp. At the time, though, he only asked, "How could it not be, given my own enlightenment?"

"How so?" she asked in far too direct a manner for poetry, eyes blinking instead of limpid, a lock of hair slipping from her harried cap, the harsh sun exposing lines of care newly etched amidst the freckles spotting her face, and many other imperfections besides.

But Henry had been trained to ignore all distractions within these walls and did not betray any weakening of that discipline in pursuit of his object. It was a mercy, given his limited strength, that Catherine was taller than society might prefer, allowing him to close the distance between them easily, and she was able to provide as much support from her tightened grasp as he was unable to offer through his. Words proved entirely superfluous to the silent but thorough testimony he shared, epitomizing all this lady had found and excited in himself. The proof of a good understanding is, of course, in the mastery of one's tongue, and even when they eventually left the room and enjoyed a further stroll along the gallery, it was some time before either desired to commune differently.