Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons Page 9

  “Yes, yes, that is exactly what I was saying.” Catherine hurriedly coughed for good measure.

  And then Mrs. Allen noticed Mr. Tilney dancing. “Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked you.” And after a short silence, she added, “he is a very agreeable young man.”

  “Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,” said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; “I must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world.”

  This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment’s consideration, she whispered to Catherine, “I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son!”

  Recalling inferno, Catherine politely remained silent.

  Indeed, she was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view. And Catherine was not inclined to a very gracious reply, when a heat wave and John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and said (that is, John Thorpe spoke; the heat wave merely scalded everything around them in a thoroughly disagreeable manner), “Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again.”

  “Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.” Catherine spoke thus not only because she remembered the angelic instruction never to agree directly with anything the two nephilim asked of her, but also because she was peeved.

  “Do not you? Then let us walk about decrypting secret locations of certain secret valuable items and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour. And I do believe I have arrived at a certain derivation of occult meaning from a grand clue—”

  Again Catherine excused herself. And at last he walked off to quiz his sisters by himself and mutter in a roar about hidden treasure. Catherine was still quite piqued by the notion of Udolpho and treasure being somehow connected, and all these wonderful secrets. But she was overheated and sorely inclined to tell John Thorpe he was being tediously monstrous, and she just wished he would go away and stand next to a thoroughly drafty window open to the chill night breeze—which was not at all a charitable thing to say, nor particularly polite. She even wished Isabella would come by and bring some cooling relief.

  The rest of the evening she found very dull, despite the many sympathetic whispers of angels in both her ears. Mr. Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner. Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her. And James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one icy squeeze, and one “dearest Catherine.”

  And yet—before the end of the evening, dullness was promptly dispelled, to be replaced by something truly horrific. For, soon enough, it was midnight, and Catherine was suddenly reminded of the angelic warning . . .

  At the striking of the clock, Isabella momentarily paused and oddly flexed her shoulders, as though a strange invisible weight had settled on her. And, as Catherine continued to observe, she began to see that there was indeed a shadow, a shape forming near Isabella—verily, out of Isabella.

  The air itself seemed to fill with despair.

  The shape—at first only a grotesque distortion of Isabella’s own shadow cast by candlelight—in a matter of seconds took on a life of its own, a dark unnatural animation and existence. It wavered, it moved; it stretched and reformed and thickened into an ugly thing, remotely human, with blunt limbs, glowing slits of coal-red eyes, scaly and elephantine hide, a darting forked tongue, and a pair of prominent horns.

  Isabella’s demon was here.

  And while Isabella chattered on about trifles, and James watched her with oblivious impossible fascination (meanwhile turning blue from the cold), Isabella’s demon stretched and looked around, and hissed like a serpent at the cloud of angels.

  And then it looked directly at Catherine.

  And it belched, in the filthiest manner possible.

  Chapter 9

  The progress of Catherine’s unhappiness from the events of the evening was as follows:

  First, she had been deprived, multiple times, and in the most disagreeable ways imaginable, of Mr. Tilney’s company.

  Second, she had seen a demon. Her first ever, horrid, impossible, putrid demon.

  Third, the demon had seen her. And although it did not particularly do anything but grossly breathe through its mouth, or say anything, Catherine had a firm suspicion that it had said plenty to Isabella, whispering inside her head and making the naphil of ice even colder and darker than she already was.

  Next, Catherine experienced a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her—with the people who were so clearly oblivious to the putrid demon in their midst—and the fact that she could only mutter her complaints to the angels while pretending to cough yet for the hundredth time, else she would be overheard by the seated company all around them, taken for a ninny, and that simply would not do.

  While she remained in the rooms, observing the disgusting demon skulking near Isabella (and curdling the drinks and the refreshment plates with its ghastly breath, and being an absolute toad with the angels all around, who, it must be said, swarmed between them in a wall of protection, the dears), she speedily felt considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home.

  Then, on arriving in Pulteney Street, Catherine’s suffering took the direction of extraordinary hunger (since she could not allow herself even a bite to eat back in the Upper Rooms, considering the rotten demon breath and the ensuing vapors), and when that was appeased, her misery changed into an earnest longing to be in bed. The angels crooned to her soothingly, and in her heroic distress she immediately fell into a sound sleep, and awoke nine hours later perfectly revived, in excellent spirits.

  The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon.

  In the pump-room, everyone so newly arrived in Bath must be met with. That building was so conducive to the discovery of female excellence, intimacy, secret discourses, and unlimited confidence, that she most reasonably expected another friend from within its walls—indeed, a friend rather more suitable to the true subjects of the heart. Her plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to be occupied till the clock struck one, reading about lurid horrors, drawing comparisons between the demon from the previous night to whatever monstrosities were described by Mrs. Radcliffe, and wondering about secrets of hidden treasure and mysterious arcane codes . . .

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking ensured that she could never be entirely silent, sat nearby at her work and observed aloud upon lost needles, broken thread, carriages in the street, specks upon her gown, while the angels danced in brightness over their heads.

  At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew Catherine in haste to the window. Mrs. Allen scarcely had time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages at the door—in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second—before the surge of heat signaled advance warning . . .

  John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling out in a quiet roar, “Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come before; blame the old devil of a coachmaker. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night! Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry to be off.”

  “What do you mean?” said Catherine, starting to fan herself with the palm of her hand. “Where are you all going to?”

  “Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are going up Claverton Down. There are mysteries afoot! Clandestine signs to be decrypted! Rare valuables lying in wait, mountains
of ’em—”

  “Something was said about it, I remember,” said Catherine, looking at Mrs. Allen; “but really I did not expect you.”

  “Not expect me! That’s a good one! And what a dust you would have made, if I had not come.”

  Catherine’s silent appeal to her friend, meanwhile, was entirely thrown away; Mrs. Allen was oblivious. And while Catherine preferred to see Miss Tilney, she was not sufficiently put off by a delay in favour of a drive. Indeed, there could be no impropriety in going with toothy Mr. Thorpe, since Isabella was going at the same time with James (to ensure if not propriety then at least a reasonably clement temperature).

  She was therefore obliged to speak plainer. “Well, ma’am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two?”

  “Do just as you please, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with the most placid indifference, while her own angelic guardian waved languidly.

  Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, in record time, while Thorpe procured Mrs. Allen’s admiration of his gig. With her parting good wishes, they both hurried downstairs.

  “My dearest creature,” cried Isabella, voice rising in shrill modulations, before she could get into the carriage, “you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball last night! I have a thousand things to say; but make haste and get in, for I long to be off.”

  Catherine followed her orders, hearing her exclaim aloud to James, “What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on her.”

  Meanwhile, the angels moved in position overhead, starting up their customary air-circulating efforts to fan Isabella’s cold atmosphere in the direction of John’s inferno and ensure a moderately temperate zone for Catherine and James, at least within a close distance of their carriages. Some of the angels’ long-suffering sighs could be heard periodically . . .

  Upon my word, at least it is daytime, and no demons present, thought Catherine, thankful for small blessings.

  “You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,” said Thorpe with scalding breath, as he handed her in, “if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a fierce plunge or two, but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.”

  Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat or be frightened. So, resigning herself to her fate, and to the animal’s boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her.

  Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse’s head was bid in an important voice “to let him go,” and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper. Catherine, delighted at such plodding calm, expressed her grateful surprise. Her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple—it was entirely owing to the judicious manner in which he controlled the reins, and his singular discernment and dexterity with the whip.

  Catherine could not help wondering why he felt it necessary to alarm her in the first place, but was glad to be under the care of such an apparently excellent coachman even though he were a hulking ogre. Perceiving that the animal continued in the same safe and quiet manner, its frisky pace being ten miles an hour, she gave herself up to all the enjoyment of invigorating air and exercise, in a fine mild day of February.

  A silence of several minutes was broken by Thorpe’s saying very abruptly, “Old Allen is as rich as a prince—is not he?”

  Catherine did not understand him—and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, “Old Allen, the man you are with.”

  “Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich.”

  “And no children at all?”

  “No—not any.”

  “A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?” Thorpe continued, his voice modulating from a low rumble to a pleased steady roar. The radiant heat around him had grown even more palpable—thank goodness for a steady breeze.

  “My godfather! No.” Catherine felt droplets of sweat gather on her brow. She ignored it politely, and soon enough all was dried by the scalding air, followed by gusts of normal wind around them that penetrated the inferno when it could.

  “But you are always very much with them.”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?”

  “His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?”

  “Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men’s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? If everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world—a good thing for us all!”

  “I cannot believe it,” said Catherine, observing with some alarm the hideously exultant ogre face of the gentleman as he visualized the state of the world after its daily bottle.

  “Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. Tens of thousands! Millions! There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help.”

  Catherine lingered wistfully on the delightful notion of foggy climate. “And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford.”

  “Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. Hardly a man goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head. Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. Not often anything like it in Oxford—and that may account for it. But this will give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there.”

  “Yes, it does give a notion,” said Catherine warmly, “that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much.”

  This brought on a loud roar and an overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, adorned with gusts of locomotive heat. The frightful gentleman was acting exceedingly like his nephilim self, and angels rose up in a flock all about Catherine at each of his infernal outbursts.

  When it ended, Catherine was left with a strengthened belief of Oxford practically drowning in wine, tempered only by a happy conviction of her brother’s comparative sobriety.

  Thorpe’s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage. She was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, the ease of his paces, the excellence of the springs in the motion of the carriage.

  She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power. She was left to echo whatever he chose to assert. It was settled—his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman.

  “You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe,” said Catherine, dabbing her brow with a handkerchief, and venturing after some time to offer some little variation on the subject, “that James’s gig will break down?”

  “Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels, fairly worn out these ten years at least, nay, twenty years, possibly thirty—and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch, or most likely a breath. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds. For that matter, not even a mile for a hundred!”

  “Good heavens!” cried Catherine, quite frightened. “Then
pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is.”

  Catherine was so agitated that the angels began to fly about in sympathetic extraordinary clamor, some of them colliding with each other, and one landing distastefully on top of Thorpe’s rakish yet clod-like hat.

  “Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it. A thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail.”

  Catherine listened with astonishment. She knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing. She had not been brought up to understand the propensities of such a vain rattle for idle assertions and impudent falsehoods.

  Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind. Her father was content with a pun, her mother with a proverb. Neither were in the habit of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next.

  Catherine reflected on all this in much perplexity, and was on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clarification of his real opinion on the subject. But she checked herself—clearly he did not excel in being plain. And surely he would not suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed to the dangers of an unsafe carriage. There was decidedly no need to be alarmed.

  In that exact same moment, an event took place, which no one could have predicted on such a fine mild day in February.

  They were passing a copse of trees, and suddenly a dark, large, swiftly moving object came hurtling down upon them—seemingly from out of nowhere, possibly from the branches or possibly even from heaven itself.