Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons Page 17

  It was just that there was something heavy and odd in the atmosphere whenever he was in the room, and the sense of oppression was almost supernatural.

  The angels were undeniably present, and Catherine could hear and sense and see them as they moved about like brilliant fireflies in the dining room and parlor, alighting upon mantelpieces and shelves, and occasionally upon the sleeves of most of those present. But sometimes, if she glanced at the general too closely, she could see the angels’ brightness grow somewhat dimmer, more remote.

  She blinked it away.

  “What is it, dear Catherine?” asked an angel softly. “Are you afraid?”

  “Should I be?” she replied, coughing into a napkin.

  But the angel’s whispered answer was somehow lost when in the very same moment the general inquired about some trifle and she had to address him directly.

  Catherine pondered this. In short, he could not be accountable for his children’s want of spirits, or for her want of enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have been accidental. And the latter she could only attribute to her own stupidity.

  Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave a different explanation, while freezing the contents of a teacup in her hand: “It was all insufferable haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very high. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss Tilney’s she had never heard of in her life! To behave to her guest with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!”

  “But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness; she was very civil.” Under the guise of wanting to examine the pattern on her friend’s teacup, Catherine casually removed it from Isabella’s fingers in exchange for her own so as to cool the tea down a bit, then retrieved it back, delightfully fit to sip.

  “Oh! Don’t defend her! Nor the brother, who had appeared so attached to you! Good heavens! And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?”

  “I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits.”

  “How contemptible! Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you.”

  “Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me.”

  “That is exactly what I say. Such fickleness! How different to our own brothers! Indeed, John has the most constant heart.”

  “But as for General Tilney, there was great, most attentive civility. His only care was to entertain and make me happy.”

  “Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John’s judgment—”

  “Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet them at the rooms.”

  “And must I go?” Isabella sighed, and made it briefly snow directly overhead—quite discreetly, just for the two of them.

  “Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled.” Catherine politely dabbed at the snowflakes on her nose with her handkerchief, and a dear angel fanned its wings at several more.

  “Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off, with James. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is quite out of the question—” And Isabella catalogued the various dance suitors she was now dearly anxious to refuse.

  Fortunately, Isabella’s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend. Catherine was sure there had been neither insolence nor pride in their hearts.

  The evening rewarded her confidence. She was met with the same kindness and attention, as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.

  And oh, the room then practically swelled with tiny whirling golden stars! The angelic host brought more brilliance to the air than all the candles ever could muster. . . .

  Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she could easily name the very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party.

  She looked at him with great admiration. It was possible he was even handsomer than his brother—though, in her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and manners however were decidedly inferior. For, within her hearing, he protested against every thought of dancing and laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible.

  Such dragon pride, such superciliousness!

  It may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine’s opinion of him, his any possible admiration of her was in no danger of producing animosities between the brothers, nor dire romantic persecutions to the lady.

  But Catherine could not help herself; she began visualizing possible Udolpho clues . . . Oh dear, he cannot be the “Necromancer of the Black Forest,” here in the flesh? He cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with incredible speed, bound toward some dire “Horrid Mysteries” . . .

  Catherine abruptly forced herself not to pursue such grave and silly thoughts, and rather to remain undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil—or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short set to dance down. Indeed, she need but look at the dear angels; they appeared entirely untroubled. . . .

  Thus, Catherine enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said. And, in finding him irresistible, she became so herself.

  At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine’s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away.

  They retired whispering together. And, though she was not immediately alarmed that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now communicated to his brother (no doubt, in hopes of separating them forever), she did experience uneasy sensations.

  “Fear not, dear Catherine,” consoled a bright angel at her shoulder, at the same time adjusting the ribbon there that she had negligently forgotten to turn out. “There is no danger here; at least not quite.”

  Her suspense was of full five minutes’ duration (though it did feel like a quarter of an hour), when they both returned, and an explanation was given. Henry inquired if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing—his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her.

  Catherine wondered at Captain Tilney’s amazing change of heart as far as dancing, but without hesitation replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away.

  “Your brother will not mind it,” said she, “because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured for him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner. But he is quite mistaken—she would not dance upon any account in the world.”

  Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people’s actions.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “With you, it is not a matter of another person’s exact feelings, age, particulars, habits, nature—but of your own choices; how you yourself would behave in a given situation.”

  “I do not understand you.”

  “Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well,” said he, with a faint smile.

  At least three angels circled Mr. Tilney at that point, and Catherine could not help wondering it was somehow significant.

  “Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”

  “Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.”

  “It was decidedly not an intentional one,” admitted she. “But pray tell me what you mean.”

  “Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But it will likely invol
ve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement between us.

  “No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”

  “Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother’s wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”

  Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were verified, while their immediate space grew bright with angelic light. . . .

  There was a something in his words, which repaid her for the pain of confusion. And that something occupied her mind so much, that for some time she forgot to speak, listen, or indeed where she was—till, roused by the sweetly shrill voice of Isabella and the familiar northern clime, she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across.

  Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled; moved away in the dance. But it was insufficient explanation for Catherine, and she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.

  “I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to dance.”

  “And did Isabella never change her mind before?”

  “Oh! But, because—And your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?”

  “I cannot be surprised completely. You bid me be surprised on your friend’s account, and therefore I am. But as for my brother, his conduct has been no more than usual. The lovely fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her resolute firmness, on the other hand, could only be understood by you.”

  “You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general; rather icy, frequently. Indeed, I often require a wrap.”

  “It is as much as should be said of anyone—though, I do admit, the exceeding cold air in her immediate location is rather an oddity. Now, to be always firm is to be often obstinate. Without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour.”

  The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse till all the dancing was over.

  Then, as they walked about the room arm in (petrified-frozen) arm, Isabella thus explained herself: “I do not wonder at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given the world to sit still.”

  “Then why did not you?” Catherine asked plainly.

  “Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial—” And Isabella proceeded to describe the shameless pressing, begging, compliments and wild inducements that verily forced her against all nature to concede.

  She added: “And your dear brother would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are jaded, listening to his nonsense—though, being such a smart young fellow, every eye was upon us.”

  “He is very handsome indeed.”

  “Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid complexion and dark dragon eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my way.”

  When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject to discuss.

  James Morland’s second letter was then received, and the kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr. Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds yearly value, was to be given to his son. It was no trifling deduction from the family income, no miserly assignment to one of ten children. Moreover, an estate of at least equal value was assured as his future inheritance.

  James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude. And the necessity of waiting two or three years before they could marry was no more than expected, and borne by him without discontent.

  Catherine, whose expectations, ideas of her father’s income, and judgment was entirely led by her brother, felt well satisfied. While perfectly aware of the deeply unpleasant conversation she was yet to have with James about his bride, she heartily congratulated Isabella on having things so pleasantly settled.

  “It is very charming indeed,” said Isabella, with a grave face. There was a particularly fierce yellowish cast to her eyes. And the ice! Oh, the ice came from her in arctic waves. . . .

  “Mr. Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed,” said the gentle Mrs. Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. “I only wish I could do as much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he can do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed. But your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate.”

  “It is not on my own account I wish for more. But I cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to supply the common necessaries of life. For myself, nothing; I never think of myself.”

  “I know you never do, my dear. And you will always find your reward in the affection everybody feels for you. I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and, suppose if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more.”

  “Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do,” cooed and hissed Isabella. “But everybody has their failing, you know. And everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money.”

  Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she, no longer bothering to be particularly gentle, “that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”

  Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet, there cannot be a doubt! Fie! A much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the desire of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits—I hate money; if our union produced only fifty pounds a year, I should be satisfied. Ah! my Catherine, it is the long, endless wait of two and a half years before your brother can hold the living, that breaks my heart.”

  “Yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see into your heart and understand the present vexation. All must love you the better for such a noble honest affection.”

  Catherine’s discomfort continued. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness—and a terror on Catherine’s part, due to what she had yet to divulge to him. How will she ever find the courage and the proper moment to break his heart with the truth?

  Chapter 17

  The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath. And whether it should be the last, was a question to which Catherine listened with a beating heart.

  To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.

  Her whole happiness seemed at stake while the decision to return or stay was in suspense. And everything good in the world was secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight.

  The happy reasons for this extended stay were manifold—first and foremost, Bath had become a delightful place to be this season; in particular, most recently. According to Mr. and Mrs. Allen, all fine society was engrossed in the pursuit of discovering fantastic and mysterious clues to that fantastic and mysterious treasure hoard that was now rumored to equal the value of several royal state treasuries, and to contain the world’s supply of either sapphires or rubies, or possibly both. Eager parties of ladies and gentlemen eschewed balls and other usual entertainments in favor of being engaged in daily scavenger hunts in the Upper and Lower Rooms, in the pump-room, the Edgar’s Buildings, the theatre, the markets, and on practically every street corner and storefront. Even the Regent h
ad been rumored to have been notified and was secretly intending to pay a visit incognito. . . .

  In the meantime, the town bookshops had been stripped of every copy of every volume ever written by Mrs. Radcliffe and her literary colleagues, and the lending libraries had a run on all her works by patrons swiftly reserving and withdrawing all editions—with one location witnessing an unfortunate incident that concluded in a duel of honor between a marquis and a baronet, all because of a single remaining unreserved volume of The Mysteries of Udolpho which was considered the masterwork and the key to the decryption of the entire grand mystery.

  Wherever one went in Bath, quizzing glasses were pointed at inanimate objects on street corners, and erudite gentlemen and ladies wisely commented on every street sign, every statue of a saint, angel, and classical or historic personage, frozen in aspects that were somehow deigned meaningful. That figure had its upraised arm pointing at the bell tower; this was surely inclined to the right to indicate the theatre; that one bowing to the ground to suggest, “Dig here!”

  And thus they dug—here, there, and everywhere—in planters, around columns and posts, in backyard gardens (cultivating meaningful root vegetables—and then simply any roots of any plant that appeared in the least bit guilty of secrets) underneath every spot where a pick or shovel could be made to disturb the earth in response to “Mysterious Warnings.” Gentlemen walking the street no longer carried walking sticks but cleverly designed shovels they could unfold at any opportunity of impending Clue, like an umbrella for sudden precipitation. Ladies were equipped with small hand baskets, and wild random trinkets filled them; “Midnight Bells” being most common, followed closely by turnips, potatoes, carrots, or other edible roots.

  Mrs. “Clermont” and her daughters were subjected to more daily visitors than they could handle—indeed, a steady relentless stream of perfect strangers coming to call, often at scandalous hours. They were constantly stopped on the streets or interviewed in their own parlor as to the significance of this or that, and their opinion on practically everything. They were introduced to orphans and presented with discreet cowbells. In addition, they each received several dozen marriage proposals, which Mrs. Clermont, an impoverished but genteel widow, found extremely gratifying for all (indeed, she and her spinster daughters were now suddenly all settled in way of impending matrimony to gentlemen of excellent connections, and all within one remarkable season).