Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons Read online

  And Catherine watched as Isabella’s eyes glowed yellow.

  “No!” blurted Catherine, and then amended, “that is, not wild, no; not at all, for I am still reading, and it is such a pleasure to discover for oneself, no spoiling surprises, please, my dear Isabella—”

  She could almost hear multiple angelic sighs of relief coming from all directions.

  “Well done, child, well done! Never agree directly to anything she asks of you, always, circumspectly deny!”

  For a moment it seemed that Isabella’s eyes flashed a frustrated spark of red, like distant hellfire, but oh-so-cold . . .

  Catherine proceeded to carry on somewhat, to disguise the strange turn of conversation and her own unnerved state. “Udolpho is marvelous! Pray, excuse my excitement, of course, but I am very particular in these things. So, do not tell me—I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.”

  The demonic cold billowed about them and for once Catherine was so direly aware of it that her teeth were on the verge of chattering. But she braced them in a smile, and watched the angels come to surround her with a barrier of warming light that eased the wintry sensation.

  Isabella appeared mollified for the moment. “Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read The Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”

  “Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?”

  “I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time.”

  “Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?” Catherine pretended she was eager for a good literary fright, but for once she was not in the mood—not with Isabella and her true horrid visage directly at her side. With all that, who needed Mrs. Radcliffe or her ilk?

  But the tedious charade must now be maintained.

  “Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.”

  “Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?” Catherine could not help saying earnestly, though she now knew very well that all manner of peculiar things were to be expected from this abominable Isabella.

  “Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends,” said Isabella meaningfully.

  And then Miss Thorpe went on, in a preening, unnaturally modulating voice (that now sounded to Catherine a bit like the clucking of a hen, followed by the honking of a rather large and ghastly duck): “I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told a certain Captain Hunt I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel—”

  “Fie! She has no notion of angelic beauty!” whispered one of those very beings into Catherine’s right ear.

  Indeed, our heroine thought, if this Miss Andrews properly looked like an angel, she would also be winged and about three inches tall.

  “The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, dearest Catherine, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”

  “Oh dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”

  “I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews lacks, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with you.”

  Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again, wondering meanwhile where all this was leading. What kind of verbal trap was this creature laying out for her?

  Isabella laughed (sounding to the world like a dulcet proper lady and to Catherine like a much-pained horse). “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking more seriously—“once the heart is really attached, it cannot be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I perfectly comprehend your feelings.”

  “But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”

  “Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!”

  “No, indeed, I should not.” Catherine made a point of saying “no” and “not” very succinctly this time. “I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him . . . But while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.” Catherine almost forgot with whom she was conversing, so caught up she was again in recalling the story . . . For a moment, the horrors of Udolpho reasserted their compelling power, even in face of the dire reality before her—ah, such is the power of the novel in the heroic imagination!

  “It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.”

  “No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way.”

  “Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume,” said Isabella, glancing sweetly at a gentleman walking by and observing him suddenly grow daft and run into a potted planter, due to fixing his sights exclusively on her.

  “It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining.” Catherine said, noting with amazement how easily mesmerized gentlemen appeared to become, in the presence of this Isabella creature. And while their guardian angels became greatly distressed, they always went unheeded.

  “Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice.”

  “But it does not signify if they do,” said Catherine, very innocently, observing to herself that men taking notice was the last thing Isabella needed.

  “Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance.”

  “Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to me. And they certainly seem aware of you.”

  “Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited, self-important creatures in the world! By the by, what is your favourite complexion in a man? Do you like them best dark or fair?”

  “I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown—not fair, and—not very dark.”

  “Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney—‘a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair.’ Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion—do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description.”

  “Betray you! What do you mean?”

  “Nay, do not distress m
e. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject.”

  Appearing to better comprehend what was implied, the angels circled Catherine in a fiercely protective twinkling cloud.

  Catherine, in some amazement, complied. After remaining a few moments silent, she was on the point of reverting to discussing Laurentina’s skeleton . . .

  But her unnatural friend prevented her, by saying, “For heaven’s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour! Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”

  Away they walked to the book—one in a cloud of bitter cold air, the other in a cloud of angels. And while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine’s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men.

  “They are not coming this way, are they?” said Isabella, meanwhile making bold eye contact with the selfsame distant creatures of the masculine persuasion. “I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up.”

  In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room.

  “And which way are they gone?” said Isabella in a squeak voice, turning hastily round (and briefly scattering Catherine’s cloud of angels). “One was a very good-looking young man.”

  “They went towards the church-yard.”

  “Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat?”

  Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake the two young men. Would it not appear we are following them?”

  “Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat.”

  “But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all.”

  “I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil them.”

  Catherine had nothing to contradict such reasoning. Therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young men.

  Chapter 7

  Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage. But here they were stopped. Anyone acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this point—a street of so much traffic, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies in quest of pastry, millinery, or young men, are not detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts.

  This evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to lament it once more. For at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that could endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse . . .

  And with it came a blast of infernal uncanny heat.

  “Oh, these odious gigs!” said Isabella, looking up. “How I detest them.” But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she looked again and exclaimed, “Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!”

  “Good heaven! ’Tis James!” was uttered at the same moment by Catherine. Simultaneously, the wave of unseasonal heat reached her, momentarily dispelling the cold atmosphere of her companion.

  “Beware, oh, twice beware, dear child!” came the voices of the angels. “It is the other one that you must now beware, he is here! Infernal nephilim, demon children of the fallen ones, both are here to claim you, and you must resist—”

  “Oh, criminy, no!” muttered Catherine. “I still don’t understand, why me?” And she hid her whisperings in a series of coughs.

  As soon as the young ladies caught the young men’s eyes, the horse was immediately checked—with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches. The servant scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was delivered to his care.

  Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her brother with the liveliest pleasure. She noted, his one angelic guardian flew bright and eager to join her own heavenly cloud of at least a dozen (and she could distinctly hear his dulcet voice complaining not-so-dulcetly about “having to endure the constant proximity of the infernal one and his infernal heat, and oh, poor James—”).

  James, being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely attached to his sister, gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction at seeing Catherine.

  Meanwhile the searing-bright decidedly yellowish eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice. And to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which might have informed Catherine—had she been more expert in the development of other people’s feelings, and less simply engrossed by her own—that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she herself initially did. That is, until the second metaphysical veil of vision parted and she could see the horrid creature for what she truly was.

  John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the horses, soon joined them.

  Preceding him came the heat of a furnace. But even before it struck full force, Catherine saw him, and muttered, “Oh dear, he is an ogre!”

  It was indeed the frightful truth. Seen with the clarity of supernatural vision that Catherine now enjoyed, he was a large bulky gentleman with limbs like trunks and a torso like a barrel of old port. His skin was coarse and elephantine, swarthier than his sister’s, and with an even more greenish tint—a few degrees more and his complexion might have rivaled a toad. His hair stuck out like dry straw from underneath the edges of his otherwise stylish top hat, and had a suspiciously fire-tinged ruddy tint, as though it’s been though a curtain of flames. And when he grinned, his teeth were simply enormous—

  Oh dear, Catherine thought. Indeed, she was so struck by the oddity before her that she forgot to be properly frightened or alarmed, and unabashedly stared in amazement (a behavior which later she comprehended to be hardly appropriate on her part; no wonder the gentleman may have gotten certain ideas).

  Possibly as a result of her particularly fixed examination, she directly received from him the amends which were her due. For while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of Isabella—causing a strong hiss of steam in the atmosphere as hellish heat met sepulchral cold and issued forth precipitation—on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow.

  Angels immediately rose in glorious motion to hover in the air between Catherine and him in a translucent wall of glittering light, and managed to alleviate the furnace blasts that threatened to overbear Catherine, into reasonable summer mid-noon levels.

  But nature was less tolerant. It started to rain overhead, big sloppy droplets, but only in their immediate vicinity of about five feet. However, this being England, no one was particularly flummoxed even by such a particularly localized, extraordinarily specific example of maudlin weather.

  It must be said that, to anyone else who did not have the metaphysical visual acuity of Catherine, this is what they saw when they observed John Thorpe—a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy.

  He took out his watch: “How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”

  Catherine still recovering from the amazement, took several additional moments to gather her mind in reply. “I do not know the distance.”

  Her brother—flushed in the face as though he’d been working a smithy’s bello
ws—told her that it was twenty-three miles.

  “Three and twenty!” cried Thorpe—and his voice sounded like a foghorn to Catherine. “Five and twenty if it is an inch.”

  And then the two gentlemen meaningfully argued meaningless distances. “I defy any man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness,” ended Thorpe on an uproar.

  “You have lost an hour,” said Morland; “it was only ten o’clock when we came from Tetbury.”

  “Ten o’clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your life?” (The servant, also red in the face from being in the scalding gentleman’s company had just mounted the carriage and was driving off.)

  “He does look very hot, to be sure,” said Catherine, glancing in their wake, feeling rather heated herself (and in a not-so-good way), in John Thorpe’s proximity. She wondered about the poor horse having had to endure such ghastly atmosphere for so many miles. Not to mention, her poor brother!

  James did appear to be sweating at the temples, and his pleasant countenance was ruddier than usual—but was cooling down rapidly in the icy proximity of arctic Isabella.

  In all this, the angels were making haste in moving back and forth between their Morland sibling charges, in some distress, trying to cool one down and warm the other by fanning the air with their bright wings, this way and that way . . . and this way and that way . . . and—

  “Hot!” exclaimed Thorpe meanwhile, unable to forget his horse. “Why, he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look at his forehand! Look at his loins!”

  “Dearest John, there is hardly any need for Miss Morland to look at his loins,” put in Isabella.