Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (26 page)

There was even the unnatural
affection
of a naphil, Isabella, who apparently had every sincere intent to be her dearest sister.

The Tilneys—they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of—outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor! She was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she mostly prized—and, in addition, this
roof
was to be the roof of an abbey!

Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney—and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish. And now, this was to happen. Verily, Udolpho itself was to be before her, unraveling in all its occult glory!

“Take care, dear child!”
whispered the angels.
“There is indeed danger to be found here!”

“Criminy! Danger abides everywhere, including Bath, and I dare say, Fullerton!” replied Catherine, emboldened by the near fulfillment of her oldest desire.

With all the chances against her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an
abbey—
a glorious haunted, ancient, twisted, menacing, drafty (the draftier the better) horrid delight of an abbey!
—
and she was to be its inhabitant!

Oh, its long, damp passages! Oh, its narrow cells and ruined chapel; oh, its dark, wicked, accursed, thoroughly sanguined, goodness-knows-whatsits!
—
All were to be within her daily reach! Who needed silly hidden
treasure
hoards (and strange, unidentified, and not-sufficiently-determined-to-be-real airborne dragons), when there was to be metaphysical ancient mystery? And she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated
nun
. Or several nuns! Fie, an entire abbey of them!

And in all this, it was a wonder that her friends should seem so little elated by the possession of such a home. The power of early habit only could account for it. A distinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority of horrid abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.

Many were the inquiries that Catherine was eager to make of Miss Tilney. But so active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she was hardly more assured than before—of Northanger Abbey having been a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having
fallen
into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its
dissolution,
of a large portion of the
ancient
building still making a part of the present dwelling although the rest was
decayed,
or of its standing low in a valley,
sheltered
from the north and east by rising woods of oak.

Catherine listened pointedly but heard mostly words such as “fallen . . . dissolution . . . ancient . . . decayed . . . sheltered . . .”

And oh, it was all such horrid Udolpho-worthy delight!

W
ith a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than a few minutes together.

She began first to be sensible of this, and to almost miss her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one morning, by Mrs. Allen’s side, without anything to say or to hear, and feeling not even a twinge of icy Isabella-air to give her an invigorating chill. Scarcely had she felt a five minutes’ longing of friendship and climate adjustment before the frost-bearing creature herself appeared, and inviting her to a secret conference, led the way to a seat.

“This is my favourite place,” said Isabella as they sat down on a bench between the doors, which commanded a tolerable view of everybody entering at either; “it is so out of the way.”

Catherine, observing that Isabella’s eyes were continually bent towards one door or the other, as in eager expectation, gaily said, “Do not be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here.”

“Psha! My dear creature,” she replied in a gentle screech, “do not think me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous to be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular description of it.”

“You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you looking for? Are your sisters coming? Was that Maria over there, quizzing a statue with a bell, next to that gentleman with a walking-shovel?”

“I dare say not; they are off near the markets, collecting orphans or turnips—I forget which. And—I am not looking for anybody. One’s eyes must be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent—the most absent creature in the world.
Tilney
says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp.”

“But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?”

“Oh! Yes, and so I have. But here is a proof of what I was saying. My poor head, I had quite forgot it. Well, the thing is this: I have just had a letter from John; you can guess the contents.”

“No, indeed, I cannot.” Catherine rather felt her forehead requiring a handkerchief, just remembering that certain inferno.

“My sweet love, do not be so abominably affected. What can he write about, but yourself? You know he is over head and ears in love with you.”

“With
me,
dear Isabella!”

“Nay, my sweetest Catherine, this is being quite absurd! Modesty is very well in its way, but really! His attentions were such as a child must have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter—says that he as good as made you an offer, and that you received his advances in the kindest way. And now he wants me to urge his suit.”

Catherine, with all earnestness, expressed her astonishment at such a charge. She protested her innocence of any thought of Mr. Thorpe’s being in love with her, and it was impossible she had ever encouraged him. “As to any attentions on his side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a moment—except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming. And as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that kind! Indeed, I did not see him once that whole morning.”

“But that you certainly did, for you spent the whole morning in Edgar’s Buildings—it was the day your father’s consent came; mother and Mrs. Allen had gone somewhere in search of muslin, or cows, or both. You and John were alone in the parlour some time—I venture, not discussing secret Clues!”

“Well, if you say it, it was so, I dare say—but for the life of me, I cannot recollect it. I do remember now being with you, and seeing him as well as the rest—but that we were ever alone for five minutes—However, it is not worth arguing about. You must be convinced that I never thought, nor expected, nor wished for anything of the kind from him. I am excessively concerned that he should have any regard for me. Pray undeceive him, and tell him I beg his pardon—that is—I do not know what I ought to say—but make him understand what I mean. I would not speak disrespectfully of a brother of yours, Isabella, I am sure; but you know very well that if I could think of
one man
more than another—he is
not
the person.”

Isabella was silent like an iceberg floating in the Arctic.

Catherine shivered, while an angel began to fan the warmer air from the other side in her direction. “My dear Isabella, you must not be angry with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And we shall still be sisters.”

“Yes, yes” (with a blush and a screech), “there are more ways than one of our being sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case seems to be that you are determined against poor John—is not it so?”