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  James, who had been engaged quite as far in advance for dancing as his sister, was very importunate with Isabella to stand up. However, John had gone into the card-room to speak to a friend (hidden clues and treasure was overheard by Catherine despite all the best efforts on the gentleman’s part to keep his roar down) and taken the infernal heat wave with him and away from the proximity of his sister’s cold front—thus assuring there would be neither dance partner nor indoor precipitation.

  As a result, Isabella declared that nothing should induce her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join it too. “I assure you,” said she to enraptured James, “I would not stand up without your dear sister for all the world; or we should certainly be separated the whole evening.”

  Catherine gratefully accepted this kindness, and they continued as they were for three minutes longer. Isabella, talking to James, turned again to his sister and whispered in her honeyed shrill tone, audible as such to no one but Catherine, “My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not mind, and I dare say John will be back in a moment.”

  Catherine, though a little disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition in a friendly situation even to a naphil. And Isabella had only time to press her friend’s hand long enough to make it thoroughly ice-numb, and say, “Good-bye, my dear love,” before they hurried off in a wintry whiff.

  The younger Miss Thorpes also away dancing, Catherine was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen. She could not help being vexed at the non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe, even though he was a large-toothed ogre with foul breath, for she not only longed to be dancing, but was, to her discredit, revealing the want of a partner.

  However, to be disgraced in the eye of the world due to the misconduct of another, is one of those fortitude-building circumstances which belong to the heroine’s life. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips—only several angels, and one right near her nose, as they were guarding her.

  From this state of humiliation, she was soon roused to a pleasanter feeling, by seeing, not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney, within yards of where they sat.

  He seemed to be moving her way, but did not see her. Thus, the smile and the blush, which his sudden reappearance raised in Catherine, both passed without sullying her heroic gravity.

  “Look, dear child, there, at last, is your good friend!” whispered Clarence, and Catherine felt another flush of warmth.

  Mr. Tilney looked as handsome and as lively as ever, and was talking with interest to a fashionable and pleasing-looking young woman on his arm, and whom Catherine immediately guessed to be his sister (unthinkingly not considering him lost to her forever on the arm of another female). It had never entered her head that Mr. Tilney could be married. He had certainly not behaved like a married man, and he had acknowledged a sister. Thus, instead of turning deathly pale and fainting on Mrs. Allen’s bosom, Catherine remained perfectly upright and sensible, and with cheeks only a little redder than usual.

  Mr. Tilney and his companion eventually approached, preceded by a lady acquaintance of Mrs. Thorpe. And Catherine, catching Mr. Tilney’s eye, instantly received from him the smiling tribute of recognition.

  Directly overhead, angelic guardians of the Tilneys happily fluttered to mingle with Catherine’s own grand aerial crowd. Mr. Tilney’s angel in particular seemed to regard her with a glorious smile.

  She returned both smiles of the man and his angel with pleasure. Then, advancing nearer, Mr. Tilney spoke both to her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very civilly acknowledged.

  “I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed; I was afraid you had left Bath.” Mrs. Allen was eager to share her most recent textile purchases with a well-versed fellow connoisseur.

  He thanked her for her fears, and said that he had quitted it for a week, on the very morning after his having had the pleasure of seeing her.

  Gone for a week! That explains it! thought Catherine.

  “Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it is the most agreeable place for young people, and everybody else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that he should not complain. Much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. He is lucky to be sent here for his health.”

  “And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place, from finding it of service to him.”

  “Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours was here for his health last winter, and came away quite stout.”

  “That circumstance must give great encouragement.”

  “Yes, sir—he and his family were here three months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away.”

  Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen, that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them. And after a few minutes’ consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him.

  This compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the lady. Having promised the dancing to Thorpe and still waiting for her original partner, inferno and all, Catherine gave Tilney her denial and expressed such sorrow on the occasion that there could be no doubt she really felt it.

  Thorpe joined her just afterwards, preceded by warping desert-hot air, so that the seated ladies in the vicinity all started fluttering their fans, and Mrs. Allen thought she saw a mirage of the exact dress of particular fine mulberry brocade and satin she had once encountered in London and had never forgotten. . . .

  The very easy manner in which John Thorpe then told Catherine that he had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her more to her lot. Nor did the particulars which he entered into while they were standing up—horses, dogs, the friend he had just left, a proposed exchange of terriers between them—interest her enough to prevent her from looking very overheated, and looking very often towards that part of the room where she had left Mr. Tilney.

  However, there was one item that caused her to listen closely, and even venture to look directly at the hideous large-toothed gentleman. At one point Thorpe mentioned that his terrier-propagating friend was also a ‘fine thinker,’ and a clever fellow, and that he was superbly versed with decryption of clandestine papers, including pedigrees of horses and other such well-guarded secret documents. It was the manner in which he pronounced the words ‘secret documents’ that gave Catherine pause. In addition, there was a corner of an old yellowing and thoroughly folded piece of parchment sticking from the top pocket of Thorpe’s evening jacket. Had this something to do with hidden treasure? Or Udolpho?

  And then Catherine had a truly awful thought. What if The Mysteries of Udolpho held the key to the treasure? What if, somehow, it contained secret clues and arcane code? What if—

  “Miss Morland! I say, Miss Morland!”

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a strong whiff of oven heat and John Thorpe nearly barking in her ear, in an attempt to engage her lost attention and simultaneously toast her collar lace.

  “Oh dear, I am very sorry, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine, while two angels fluttered their wings at extraordinary speed in front of her cheeks, in an attempt to dissipate the scalding air. “I was just thinking, if there is indeed secret treasure hidden somewhere in Bath, as I heard it rumored—”

  “What?” John Thorpe’s bellow was sufficient to carry across the room, but thankfully was ignored by all less supernaturally attuned. “Wherever did you hear that rumor, Miss Morland? Who told you? Why, was it that sister of mine, so easy with her tongue, even when I tell her to keep the lid on it—ahem, that is, what treasure? What do you know of it?”

  Catherine was not at all good at deception. But here, she had the good sense to at least not give her brother away. “I don’t exactly remember,” she said, turning somewhat pink. “I
t must have been someone talking in—in the pump-room.”

  “In the pump-room! By Jove! Do you suppose—” And then Thorpe decided for some reason it was of little use to withhold this confidence from the lovely Miss Morland after all, since for all practical purposes they were getting so well and charmingly acquainted, all of them. And so he pulled her unceremoniously a few steps, almost breaking up their dance set, and proceeded to tell her his suspicions every time the music put them in proximity.

  Apparently, Thorpe told her, there was a grand hoard of gold, jewels, and other amazing valuables stashed away somewhere in this very town, very possibly under their noses, and the value of this stash was, to put it bluntly, extraordinary. Gold bullion, jewels, mountains of coin; John Thorpe painted a stupendous picture, so that Catherine momentarily wondered if so much treasure was to be found only in the royal treasury in London, and whether such hills of jewels and valleys of precious stones could even fit a single building.

  Mrs. Allen sees a mirage.

  “In short, Miss Morland, it is all here,” he ended. “And before the fortnight is over, I dare say it will be all ours, all in our hands.”

  “Oh. And how do you propose to accomplish the discovery of this amazing hoard?”

  “The Code, Miss Morland! Why, stupendously simple, I say! We must crack the Code!”

  “What code?”

  For a moment it seemed Thorpe was regretting having said all that much to her. But then with a minor roar and a blast of heat, he gave in, and allowed himself to disclose the rest of his suspicions to his fair companion.

  “None other than the Code hidden in the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe! Why do you think Isabella and I have been reading them? Do you suppose I would otherwise waste my time with such drabble and stupid stuff?”

  “But you did say the other day that Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels are ‘amusing enough’ and ‘worth reading.’”

  “Ah, dear Miss Morland, that was just to throw off suspicion, to keep the wolves at bay, so to speak, to slay the jackals and jackrabbits, and pry off the scent from the prancing elephants and galloping ponies! And it was all before I had any mind to trust you with this—you must forgive me of course, but one must be careful, you know, what with so much treasure at stake, enough to fill two palaces, and three treasuries!”

  “Oh dear, I suppose, though you did say there was a large amount of it, but—three treasuries?”

  “Three? Nonsense, there is at least enough for four, and very likely five!”

  “Treasuries?”

  “Mountains!”

  “Oh, gracious goodness!”

  This went on for quite some time, until Catherine suddenly recalled that Mr. Tilney was on the other side of the room. And she wondered what he would say to all this talk of treasure.

  Of her “dear” Isabella, to whom she particularly longed to point out that gentleman, she could see nothing. They were in different sets.

  Indeed, Catherine was separated from all her party, and away from all her acquaintance. One mortification succeeded another, accompanied by blasts of scalding nephilim heat which were—to be truthful—rather direly annoying at this time of night in an already overheated ballroom.

  From the whole she deduced this useful lesson, that to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady. Eventually the dance ended, Thorpe pronounced the urgent need to procure them drinks, and disappeared in the crowd, taking the Sahara with him.

  Catherine was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round, perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and a gentleman.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Morland,” said she, “for this liberty—but Mrs. Thorpe said she was sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this young lady by you.”

  Catherine was overjoyed to oblige. The young ladies were introduced to each other, with proper exchanges of goodness and delicacy; and Mrs. Hughes returned to her party.

  Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very agreeable countenance. She was accompanied by a very lovely angel who soared overhead and nodded to Catherine with delight.

  Furthermore, Miss Tilney had neither pretension, nor the resolute stylishness of Miss Thorpe’s, but far more real elegance, good sense, and good breeding. Neither shy nor affectedly open, she seemed capable of being young, attractive, and at a ball without wanting to fix the attention of every man near her. She expressed no exaggerated feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling occurrence.

  Catherine, interested at once by her appearance and her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous of being further acquainted with her. But without embarking on a speedy intimacy, they could do little more than inform themselves how well the other liked Bath, whether she drew, or played, or sang, and whether she was fond of riding on horseback.

  The two dances were scarcely concluded before Catherine experienced the delicate flapping breezes of angels fleeing and scattering every which way, felt a blast of arctic cold, and then found her arm gently seized by her faithful Isabella, who in great spirits exclaimed, “At last! My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you.”

  “My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you were.”

  “So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go and find her, Mr. Morland, said I—in vain—he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, I never stand upon ceremony with such people.”

  “Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head,” whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. “It is Mr. Tilney’s sister.”

  “Oh! Heavens! You don’t say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, I die to see him—Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking about you.”

  “But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?” said James, shivering slightly in his jacket (the collar of which was developing a fine dusting of unseasonal icy rime), but observing Isabella as though bewitched. He was then regaled with commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject entirely forgotten.

  Catherine was pleased to have it dropped for a while. But the total suspension of all Isabella’s impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney seemed a bit odd.

  When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led his fair partner away, but Isabella resisted. “I tell you, Mr. Morland,” she cried, sending up curling vapors from her icy breath in a complete reverse of natural law, “I would not do such a thing for all the world. My dear Catherine, your brother wants me to dance with him again, though it is a most improper thing, entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change partners.”

  “Upon my honour,” said James, “in these public assemblies, it is as often done as not.”

  “Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?”

  “No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change.” Catherine said absently, glancing around with some concern for a sight of Mr. Tilney.

  “There,” cried Isabella, “you hear what your sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven’s sake, and stand by me.” And off they went, to regain their former place.

  John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away in search of their d
rinks and never actually made it back. Thus, Catherine was happily willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable and flattering dance request. She made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, followed by a cloud of bright twinkling angels floating overhead like a sizeable candelabra. She hoped to find him still with them—but the hope proved to be fruitless.

  “Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, “I hope you have had an agreeable partner.”

  “Very agreeable, madam,” replied Catherine politely, recalling excessive heat and secret codes.

  “I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?”

  The angels made flutterings of alarm, reminding Catherine she was never good at deception, nor should she aspire to be.

  “Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?” said Mrs. Allen, opportunely changing the subject.

  “No, where is he?”

  “He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you.”

  “Where can he be?” said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. At this sight, Catherine felt something that was quite possibly a bit of discomfort, or maybe a little twinge in her heart.

  “Oh, dear child, take cheer! Surely the gentleman will make his way here eventually and ask you!” It was Terence, or possibly Clarence, expressing sympathy from a sleeve near her right ear.

  “Then you decidedly approve of this gentleman?” whispered Catherine, glad to have at least someone to share her observations of Mr. Tilney, and hiding her animated outburst under the flutterings of her fan. “Admit it, you do approve!”

  The angel responded with a happiest nod.

  “A prune, my dear?” meanwhile said Mrs. Allen. “What prune? Oh, I dare say, yes, I do recall that one terribly overcooked prune in the plum pudding we dined on earlier, was it not? I even mentioned to Mr. Allen, I did, how overcooked it was.”