At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females,

and they set off at the sober pace in which the handsome,
highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a

journey of thirty miles: such was the distance of Northanger
from Bath, to be now divided into two equal stages.

Catherine's spirits revived as they drove from the door;
for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint; and, with the

interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before,
and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath

without any regret, and met with every milestone before
she expected it. The tediousness of a two hours'

wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done
but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without

anything to see, next followed--and her admiration of the
style in which they travelled, of the fashionable chaise

and four--postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly
in their stirrups, and numerous outriders properly mounted,

sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience.
Had their party been perfectlyagreeable, the delay would

have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming
a man, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits,

and scarcely anything was said but by himself;
the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever

the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters,
made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him,

and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four.
At last, however, the order of release was given;

and much was Catherine then surprised by the general's
proposal of her taking his place in his son's curricle

for the rest of the journey: "the day was fine,
and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the country

as possible."
The remembrance of Mr. Allen's opinion, respecting young

men's open carriages, made her blush at the mention
of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it;

but her second was of greater deference for General
Tilney's judgment; he could not propose anything

improper for her; and, in the course of a few minutes,
she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy

a being as ever existed. A very short trial convinced her
that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world;

the chaise and four wheeled off with some grandeur,
to be sure, but it was a heavy and troublesome business,

and she could not easily forget its having stopped two hours
at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough

for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed to move, that, had not the general chosen to have

his own carriage lead the way, they could have passed it
with ease in half a minute. But the merit of the curricle

did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well--so
quietly--without making any disturbance, without parading

to her, or swearing at them: so different from the only
gentleman-coachman whom it was in her power to compare him

with! And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable
capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important!

To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him,
was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.

In addition to every other delight, she had now that of
listening to her own praise; of being thanked at least,

on his sister's account, for her kindness in thus becoming
her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real friendship,

and described as creating real gratitude. His sister,
he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female

companion--and, in the frequentabsence of her father,
was sometimes without any companion at all.

"But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not you
with her?"

"Northanger is not more than half my home;
I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston,

which is nearly twenty miles from my father's, and some
of my time is necessarily spent there."

"How sorry you must be for that!"
"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor."

"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must
be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as

the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable."
He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable

idea of the abbey."
"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place,

just like what one reads about?"
"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors

that a building such as 'what one reads about' may produce?
Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels

and tapestry?"
"Oh! yes--I do not think I should be easily frightened,

because there would be so many people in the house--and
besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted

for years, and then the family come back to it unawares,
without giving any notice, as generally happens."

"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our
way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers

of a wood fire--nor be obliged to spread our beds on the
floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture.

But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by
whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind,

she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family.
While they snugly repair to their own end of the house,

she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper,
up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages,

into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin
died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand

such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive
you when you find yourself in this gloomychamber--too

lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays
of a single lamp to take in its size--its walls hung

with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life,
and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet,

presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart
sink within you?"

"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure."
"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of

your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables,
toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps

the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous
chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace

the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features
will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be

able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile,
no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in

great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.
To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason

to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is
undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have

a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial
she curtsies off--you listen to the sound of her receding

footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you--and when,
with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door,

you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock."
"Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like

a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure
your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?"

"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the
first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror

of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours'
unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest