Fullerton Parsonage

By Laura Simons

No one in search of a hero, would ever have thought to look twice at Henry Tilney. He may have begun rather promising, being born as the second son of a stern military man whose abode went by the forbidding name of Northanger Abbey, but from this point on both Henry's circumstances and disposition were entirely against him...

 

A full retelling of Jane Austen's "Northanger Abbey", told from the perspective of Henry Tilney.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Simons
• Release date: Jun 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201852054

Book preview

CHAPTER I

NO ONE IN SEARCH OF a hero, would ever have thought to look twice at Henry Tilney. He may have begun rather promising, being born as the second son of a stern military man whose abode went by the forbidding name of Northanger Abbey, but from this point on both Henry’s circumstances and disposition were entirely against him. His looks were neither strikingly fair nor unusually dark, and he was neither wild and unruly nor quiet and withdrawn. Instead he was quite a pleasant looking boy, with a brown complexion and a good-humoured, high-spirited temper. His family moreover was rich, and though he had an overbearing father and was often at odds with his brother, he had a very kind and loving mother and doted on his younger sister. Such was Henry Tilney from seven to seventeen, without any greater tragedy befalling him than removing from his home to a very highly accredited school and from this school to Oxford. At that significant age of seventeen, however, a true and undeniably tragedy befell all of the family.

Mrs. Tilney, a good, kind woman, who was above all a loving mother and a very dutiful wife, died of a bilious fever. Her death was a great affliction to all her family, but her two youngest children especially. Where her husband and eldest son were grave and still, it was left to Henry and his sister Eleanor, only thirteen years old at that time, to find relief in bitter tears.

Despite what one might rightfully expect, this loss did not rob Henry permanently of his cheerfulness. Having cried his tears of mourning, he instead undertook to look for cheer elsewhere if he could not find it in himself. This especially for the benefit of his sister, to whom he was particularly kind. No, Henry was not suited for tragedy. By the time he was to sit for his exam at Oxford and make his testimonial his character was quite fixed; he was good-humoured, kind-hearted, and capable of both applied cleverness and natural wit. Indeed, he need not have applied himself half as much as he generally did, for when it came to preferment he was sure of a very valuable living, as it was in his father’s power to give him one.

In truth, at twenty-three Henry Tilney, quite well-looking, very well-spoken, of a very respectable family, and soon to be in the possession of an income of comfort and independent, seemed much more suited for the romantic than the tragic. Even here he seemed intent on squandering his talents however, for though very fond of dancing, he was never seen to be in love. No, that particular passion was bestowed on his sister and most unhappily so.

Henry had made a couple of very good friends at university and one of them, a Mr. Laurence Fletcher, had been frequently invited to stay at Northanger. He and Henry were recommended to one another by a striking resemblance in pleasant wit and pleasant manners, and as Mr. Fletcher was the second son of a well-connected family, General Tilney was quite willing to promote the friendship. This was a distinction most certainly not bestowed upon all of Henry’s acquaintance, and Mr. Fletcher may have enjoyed it longer, had he not begun to bestow some particular attention on the daughter as well as the son.

Henry watched with bitter regret how his father, as soon as he perceived the slightest inclination of his daughter towards her brother’s friend, promptly ended his visit to Northanger with very a decided hint that it would be his last. Laurence Fletcher, who had hitherto been treated with such kindness, was ill prepared to be met with such sudden cruelty. More so because he was, in the eyes of the world in general, in possession of everything to recommend himself as a suitor. He had been an intimate friend of Henry’s for these two years, he was well-educated, well-bred, well-looking and altogether a most charming young man. What Mr. Fletcher was not, however, was well-provided for. Not nearly well enough to satisfy the General, who was ill pleased with what he considered to be pure impertinence of Fletcher’s part and ungratefulness for the favours already bestowed on him, and let his children know in no uncertain terms that no further correspondence between the gentleman and either of them would be permitted.

That this course of action hurt Mr. Fletcher must be abundantly clear. That it hurt Henry in the process can hardly be less so. Only the suffering of Eleanor must now be explained. Here I shall bring my readers pain, for Eleanor Tilney’s suffering was extreme. General Tilney was mistaken in thinking he had acted as soon as the first stir of affection had taken place. The severity of his character and the unpredictability of his moods had forced all three of his children to check their spirits around him, but none so much as Eleanor. She, being the nominal mistress of his house ever since she came home from school, had over the years taught herself to sink her feelings into tranquil complacency, and a manner as guarded as it was pleasant.

Be this as it may, Eleanor’s attachment to Mr. Fletcher had grown very steadily from the moment of his first visit. She had been disposed to like him merely for being Henry’s friend and had grown to esteem him purely by his report. It is quite probably that, through no fault other than brotherly affection, Henry had instilled very similar feelings in his friend, and when he at last had the pleasure to make their introductions, Laurence Fletcher and Eleanor Tilney both found that their mutual connection had given no false intelligence. Eleanor’s esteem of Mr. Fletcher grew daily and was as earnest and warm an affection as one could expect to find in the world by the time her father attempted to put so cruel end to it.

Eleanor submitted to the General’s will with nary a murmur of disagreement and none but Henry saw how sorely she was affected. He saw a very similar affliction in his friend, whom he invited as soon as he became rector of a parish and had a home of his own to invite him to. Had he consulted his heart alone, he would have told both his friend and his sister of the other’s misery, sure proofs of their mutual affection. Henry was more rational than this however and did not breathe a word of it, hoping instead that time, as it is often talked of, would be their joint cure.

Such were Henry Tilney’s experiences with the tragic and the romantic at age twenty five and under these very unpromising circumstances our story of his heroism begins. Begin, however, it most certainly shall. For despite of all the disadvantages of character and circumstance Henry Tilney may have possessed, his father’s whims did force upon him one habit that was most promising. The Tilney’s, whenever at all possible, began every summer with a visit to Bath.

CHAPTER II

HENRY, AS READY TO comply with his father’s wishes as he was eager to spare his sister every possible inconvenience, travelled to Bath ahead of the rest of the family, to secure them their lodgings. Not a quest of very great magnitude and honour, but it was done with great care. His father had very discerning taste and Henry was concerned to find none of the apartments they had previously stayed in available for the desired period of time. After much inspection he therefore selected a very elegant set of rooms in Milsom Street, which he hoped would earn his father’s approbation despite their lack of previous approval. In fashion and situation they were exactly what the General liked and Henry was convinced they would very comfortably house himself, his father, his sister, and possibly his brother, should Frederick be able to join them. Having thus gained his object, Henry Tilney found he had an entire evening to himself, and as he was not at all inclined to spend it alone at the inn, he opted to go to the Lower Rooms instead.

For any place as gay as Bath the appearance of Henry Tilney was not likely to cause too great a stir, but this was rather how he liked it. He took to the crowd of unknown company with ease and grace, causing neither shyness nor jealousy, but pleasant looks all round. His manners, his position and his features – not quite handsome, but very near it – were all calculated to make himself agreeable and acceptable to all those around him as long as he wished it. After the first obligatory stroll about the room Henry at once made up his mind to dance a set. He was not particularly fond of cards and very fond of dancing, so this decision was easily made. Even more so because he could not discover in the current crowd any person or family he was particularly acquainted with, allowing him the private pleasure of perhaps being a welcome deliverance too any young lady in a similar position. He applied to the master of ceremonies, which was a sorry circumstance indeed. A hero must never apply to a third for the introduction to a lady. Their introduction must be made by fate and fate alone, that is the proper order of things. Mr. King, quite unaware of having been cast in such a usurping role, obliged immediately however, leading him to where a genteel-looking woman of about forty in very fashionable dress was conversing with a very pleasant young lady that, by both her looks and the delighted eye she cast about the room, could be no more than eighteen and a very new arrival in Bath. Henry could not have wished himself a more worthy recipient of the sociable generosity he wished to bestow.

Mrs. Allen, Miss Morland, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Henry Tilney.

Mrs. Allen, Miss Morland, Henry bowed. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Delighted, sir, Mrs. Allen greeted him.

Her companion merely curtsied, but with such brightness of eye and such a pleasant blush at being so singled out, that Henry was sure it ought to be equal to the most elegant address. He took leave of Mr. King with the appropriate thanks and supplied the two ladies with some of the commonplace pleasantries that are to be the salvation of anyone newly introduced in a ballroom.

Miss Morland, he found, was not only new to Bath, but new to travel altogether. This was to be her first stay away from home and all her looks betrayed it. Henry might, being met with such a great deal of innocence, have taken the opportunity to sink into a brooding silence to give the lady a reason to entertain those doubts on her powers of pleasing and the correctness of his own character that might give every first meeting an air of foreboding importance. He did nothing of the kind, however, exclaiming very pleasantly:

Well, Miss Morland, if you would do me the honour of standing up with me, I would give me great pleasure to lead you down your first dance of the season.

Never had such surprise and delight been Henry’s reward upon an application. Thank you, sir, I would, Miss Morland said with glowing countenance and Henry led her to the set in very lively spirits.

It was clear his partner felt herself in high luck and Henry took it upon himself to prove her fully justified without the least bit anxiety of his capability to do so. This lack of anxiety, in his defence, must be said to be rather justified in this particular instance. A much less agreeable man might have impressed so new a visitor to the social scene and Henry Tilney, while there was little leisure for speaking while they danced, flattered himself that he made a very agreeable partner. Miss Morland certainly seemed to think so and in her turn gratified Henry sincerely by her unaffected and open manners. She danced like one who had not been used to dance much in company, but had great pleasure in doing so and Henry truly enjoyed himself.

When the dance was over and they sat down for tea he took it upon himself to supply her with spirited conversation. He talked to her of the dance, the crowd, the ornaments in the room, all the commonplace subjects. Miss Morland attended to him as if she had never heard any of the spoken again and Henry, provoked into playfulness by such earnest attention, suddenly addressed her with:

I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent — but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly.

You need not give yourself that trouble, sir, said she, with a look of surprise.

No trouble, I assure you, madam. Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air: Have you been long in Bath, madam?

About a week, sir, replied Miss Morland and he was pleased to see she was poorly repressing an amused smile.

Really! with affected astonishment.

Why should you be surprised, sir? she asked, her own surprise much more genuine.

Why, indeed! said he, in his natural tone of playful gaiety. But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before, madam?

Never, sir.

Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?

Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.

Have you been to the theatre?

Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.

To the concert?

Yes, sir, on Wednesday.

And, he closed with affected solemnity. Are you altogether pleased with Bath?

Yes, I like it very well, said she, smiling.

Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.

Miss Morland turned away her head. Henry was sure she was not distressed or offended, but instead struggling not to laugh. When she met his eye once more she looked positively puzzled and this he delighted in.

I see what you think of me, he said gravely. I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.

My journal! exclaimed she, as if he had discovered a great secret.

Yes, he said archly. I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings — plain black shoes — appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.

Indeed I shall say no such thing, said she, smiling.

Shall I tell you what you ought to say? he asked, sinking his voice.

If you please.

I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of conversation with him — seems a most extraordinary genius — hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.

But, perhaps, I keep no journal.

Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal.

I have sometimes thought, said Miss Morland, doubtingly. Whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is — I should not think the superiority was always on our side.

As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three particulars.

And what are they?

A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar.

Upon my word! his partner exclaimed. I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.

Henry smiled and, fearing that she had taken this last speech to be sincere, he said:

I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.

They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen, who until this moment had been quite content to be seated in silence and pour out the tea: My dear Catherine, said she, do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine shillings a yard.

That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam, said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin.

Do you understand muslins, sir? Mrs. Allen enquired, quite astonished.

Particularly well, Henry spoke with confidence. I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.

Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. Men commonly take so little notice of those things, said she. I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir.

Henry quietly resolved to inform Eleanor at his very earliest opportunity that he had been very grateful to learn that an understanding of muslin was all that was needed to be comfort to one’s sister. I hope I am, madam, he smiled.

And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?

It is very pretty, madam, said he, examining it gravely. But I do not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.

How can you, said Catherine, laughing, be so — She held her tongue, but gave him a most wondering look.

Henry laughed silently at her.

I am quite of your opinion, sir, said Mrs. Allen, quite unaware of what was passing between the young people. And so I told Miss Morland when she bought it.

But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.

"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go — eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine,