Part 44: Not Wholly Dead

The maids of Northanger Abbey had made over guest rooms several times lately, but to no avail: whoever General Tilney expected never arrived. Similarly, though the stable kept in a state of constant readiness, its master only traversed his usual routes. Every day the butler was forced to admit there was no word from the viscountess.

At last, to the relief of all, an envelope bearing both seal and frank arrived. The general opened it at once, his excitement obvious and noisy, and the footmen hoped breakfast would be mercifully short. Their prayers were answered by a loud outpouring of feeling that made even the bravest shudder.

Later a gardener asked one of the cooks what had their master in such a state. "Nearly took all the heads off a vine with his cane!"

"Better a gourd's than your own," she replied sagely. "And best for everyone to avoid him much as you can. Word came in this morning that his daughter's refusing to come, as she's making ready for London, where her husband's got to be for the parliament."

"Ah." This comment's brevity was made up for by a wide variety of sounds, which communicated everything unsaid to his audience.

"And what's worse—" here she lowered her voice with dramatic precision, so that even the cat by the hearth perked up an ear— "I heard her brother is gone to see her, and that she told the general he must accommodate himself to his presence to be received at all."

"Why should her father be unwelcome with the captain in residence?" was thoughtlessly asked by a young girl still polishing the unused china from that morning.

"As if that fellow would stay any length of time with his sister even if he weren't off fighting," the cook spoke with contempt.

"God bless him," the gardener added before taking his leave.

This story, with various additions and commentaries, soon spread to every servant before nightfall. The housekeeper shook her head on seeing General Tilney still pacing his sitting room when she made her last rounds. It was a very dark night, almost no moon to be seen, and the lamp threw a paltry shadow that quite disappeared at each smart turn of his heel. In pale dressing gown, so disturbed and so lonesome, he might almost be described as haunting rather than abiding in his own chambers.

It was frightful for them all to see how a man reaped what he had sown.

Title from Chapter 23 of Northanger Abbey: "What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt?"