Posted on 2016-10-31
“Are you sure you still want to go back to Northanger today, Mr Tilney? It is rather late.”
“Of course,” Henry Tilney replied. “Why ever not?”
“Well, sir, it is All Hallows’ Eve, sir, and it’s past two o’clock,” his housekeeper suggested and, realising that a clergyman like Mr Tilney might not share her beliefs concerning that particular day she added, “What I mean is, sir, it looks like a nice pleasant day, but you will not reach Northanger before nightfall, and it does get rather chilly once the sun is gone.”
“I have a warm coat, and a good horse,” Mr Tilney said. “While I am aware that it will get dark before I get home, I will not be outdoors for long enough to do serious harm to my health.”
“As you wish, sir,” Mrs Brooks said reluctantly. “I am sure you know best.”
As for herself, Mrs Brooks would not have risked being out after dark on such a night as this. One never knew what one might encounter. Knowing Mr Tilney as she did, however, she did not say so. He would only mock her for adhering to what he would call outdated superstition. As a master, Mr Henry Tilney was kind enough, but he had a penchant for mockery that was likely to do him harm someday. There were things between Heaven and Earth… Things one had better acknowledge and respect, or so Mrs Brooks had been taught. But she remained silent.
She handed Mr Tilney his greatcoat and hat, and he took his leave, announcing that he would be back in two weeks’ time. Then he was gone, and Mrs Brooks decided to say a couple of prayers for his protection. Prayers never did any harm.
Although Henry Tilney knew that he would have to endure a cold, uncomfortable journey once the sun had gone down, he was eager to reach his family’s home as quickly as possible. There was a guest staying with his sister, and it was for her sake that he had begun his journey rather later than he had planned, instead of settling down for the night in front of his own fire. It was not that he was afraid of All Hallows’ Eve, but travelling after dark was never agreeable. Yet since he had met Miss Morland, the young lady who was staying with his sister at Northanger at the moment, he had begun to appreciate her company – rather more than he would like to admit. And so here he was, urging his horse forward, hoping against hope that he would be home before the ladies had retired for the night so he would have the pleasure of Miss Morland’s company for half an hour. He was not being reasonable, he knew. Maybe Mrs Brooks had been right and he should have stayed in Woodston after all.
At the moment, though, everything was fine. There was still light enough for him to see everything, and while the sun was gone it was not really cold yet. He had another hour before it got dark, by which time he would have passed a patch of forest and be out in the open. The moon was nearly full and there were no clouds, so it would be relatively easy for him to continue his journey. After all he had grown up here and knew exactly where he was and where he was going.
Until he reached Northanger Village, everything went as planned. Then, just as he turned left into the lane that led to the gate of Northanger Abbey, Henry’s horse stumbled and he narrowly avoided taking a fall. In spite of his profession, which required that he should be a model of good and Christian behaviour at all times, he swore – and then suddenly he stopped his horse. He no longer knew who he was, where he was going or where he had come from – or where he was, for that matter. He could not remember why he was in this place at this time of night, or what he was supposed to do next. The horse was his, he presumed – surely the animal would know where it belonged, where its stables were? Did horses not usually find their way home? But if so – how would he know it was his home, too? What had happened? For the first time in his life – if only he had known it – Henry Tilney panicked. He spurred his horse, and decided to see where it would carry him. There must be some place – a cottage, a village – where he could ask for assistance. He was well dressed; surely people would let him in and help him! He did not look like a criminal, or did he? Did he?
The horse entered a huge gate which was not in the least familiar to Henry. Still, the animal seemed to know the area. Where there was a gate, there must be a house somewhere, Henry reasoned. But there was no house; there was a thick forest, and mist, and before long Henry had to get off the horse and make his way through the thicket on his own. The horse – whatever was its name, by the way? – would have to fend for itself.
Henry had to fight his way along, until he saw a light at the other end of the forest. A light meant that there must be a house somewhere – a place to go to. Relief flooded through Henry’s mind, but it was of short duration. For whenever he thought he was going into the right direction, the light disappeared – only to reappear elsewhere. Henry did not know for how long he had struggled, surely it must have been hours. Exhausted, he finally sat down right where he was. He leant against a tree trunk, intending to close his eyes and rest for a moment – only one moment.
When he awoke, the first rays of the sun were showing on the horizon, and he remembered everything – his bout of amnesia had only been temporary. There was no trace of the thicket now; he was leaning against one of the chestnut trees that lined the avenue leading from the main gate to Northanger Abbey, less than half a mile from the house.
Henry Tilney never understood what had happened to him that night. Had it all been a dream? He chose to believe that it had, for surely any other theories – such as were offered by the likes of Mrs Brooks – were too fantastic to be taken seriously. That the moment he had sworn some mischievous spirit might have gained control of him was, indeed, a far-fetched idea. But if Mrs Brooke wanted to think that her prayers had saved his life he was not going to disabuse her of her notion. Prayers, after all, never did anyone any harm.
“Of course,” Henry Tilney replied. “Why ever not?”
“Well, sir, it is All Hallows’ Eve, sir, and it’s past two o’clock,” his housekeeper suggested and, realising that a clergyman like Mr Tilney might not share her beliefs concerning that particular day she added, “What I mean is, sir, it looks like a nice pleasant day, but you will not reach Northanger before nightfall, and it does get rather chilly once the sun is gone.”
“I have a warm coat, and a good horse,” Mr Tilney said. “While I am aware that it will get dark before I get home, I will not be outdoors for long enough to do serious harm to my health.”
“As you wish, sir,” Mrs Brooks said reluctantly. “I am sure you know best.”
As for herself, Mrs Brooks would not have risked being out after dark on such a night as this. One never knew what one might encounter. Knowing Mr Tilney as she did, however, she did not say so. He would only mock her for adhering to what he would call outdated superstition. As a master, Mr Henry Tilney was kind enough, but he had a penchant for mockery that was likely to do him harm someday. There were things between Heaven and Earth… Things one had better acknowledge and respect, or so Mrs Brooks had been taught. But she remained silent.
She handed Mr Tilney his greatcoat and hat, and he took his leave, announcing that he would be back in two weeks’ time. Then he was gone, and Mrs Brooks decided to say a couple of prayers for his protection. Prayers never did any harm.
Although Henry Tilney knew that he would have to endure a cold, uncomfortable journey once the sun had gone down, he was eager to reach his family’s home as quickly as possible. There was a guest staying with his sister, and it was for her sake that he had begun his journey rather later than he had planned, instead of settling down for the night in front of his own fire. It was not that he was afraid of All Hallows’ Eve, but travelling after dark was never agreeable. Yet since he had met Miss Morland, the young lady who was staying with his sister at Northanger at the moment, he had begun to appreciate her company – rather more than he would like to admit. And so here he was, urging his horse forward, hoping against hope that he would be home before the ladies had retired for the night so he would have the pleasure of Miss Morland’s company for half an hour. He was not being reasonable, he knew. Maybe Mrs Brooks had been right and he should have stayed in Woodston after all.
At the moment, though, everything was fine. There was still light enough for him to see everything, and while the sun was gone it was not really cold yet. He had another hour before it got dark, by which time he would have passed a patch of forest and be out in the open. The moon was nearly full and there were no clouds, so it would be relatively easy for him to continue his journey. After all he had grown up here and knew exactly where he was and where he was going.
Until he reached Northanger Village, everything went as planned. Then, just as he turned left into the lane that led to the gate of Northanger Abbey, Henry’s horse stumbled and he narrowly avoided taking a fall. In spite of his profession, which required that he should be a model of good and Christian behaviour at all times, he swore – and then suddenly he stopped his horse. He no longer knew who he was, where he was going or where he had come from – or where he was, for that matter. He could not remember why he was in this place at this time of night, or what he was supposed to do next. The horse was his, he presumed – surely the animal would know where it belonged, where its stables were? Did horses not usually find their way home? But if so – how would he know it was his home, too? What had happened? For the first time in his life – if only he had known it – Henry Tilney panicked. He spurred his horse, and decided to see where it would carry him. There must be some place – a cottage, a village – where he could ask for assistance. He was well dressed; surely people would let him in and help him! He did not look like a criminal, or did he? Did he?
The horse entered a huge gate which was not in the least familiar to Henry. Still, the animal seemed to know the area. Where there was a gate, there must be a house somewhere, Henry reasoned. But there was no house; there was a thick forest, and mist, and before long Henry had to get off the horse and make his way through the thicket on his own. The horse – whatever was its name, by the way? – would have to fend for itself.
Henry had to fight his way along, until he saw a light at the other end of the forest. A light meant that there must be a house somewhere – a place to go to. Relief flooded through Henry’s mind, but it was of short duration. For whenever he thought he was going into the right direction, the light disappeared – only to reappear elsewhere. Henry did not know for how long he had struggled, surely it must have been hours. Exhausted, he finally sat down right where he was. He leant against a tree trunk, intending to close his eyes and rest for a moment – only one moment.
When he awoke, the first rays of the sun were showing on the horizon, and he remembered everything – his bout of amnesia had only been temporary. There was no trace of the thicket now; he was leaning against one of the chestnut trees that lined the avenue leading from the main gate to Northanger Abbey, less than half a mile from the house.
Henry Tilney never understood what had happened to him that night. Had it all been a dream? He chose to believe that it had, for surely any other theories – such as were offered by the likes of Mrs Brooks – were too fantastic to be taken seriously. That the moment he had sworn some mischievous spirit might have gained control of him was, indeed, a far-fetched idea. But if Mrs Brooke wanted to think that her prayers had saved his life he was not going to disabuse her of her notion. Prayers, after all, never did anyone any harm.