that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest.  The general’s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant.  Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:  “I was going to take you into what was my mother’s room —­ the room in which she died —­ " were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine.  It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.

She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a convenient hour.  Catherine understood her:  the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered.  “It remains as it was, I suppose?” said she, in a tone of feeling.

“Yes, entirely.”

“And how long ago may it be that your mother died?”

“She has been dead these nine years.”  And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.

“You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”

“No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was unfortunately from home.  Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over.”

Catherine’s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally sprang from these words.  Could it be possible?  Could Henry’s father —­ ?  And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions!  And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him.  It was the air and attitude of a Montoni!  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?  Unhappy man!  And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice.  “My father,” she whispered, “often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual.”

“So much the worse!” thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good.