Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (16 page)

“Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,” whispered Isabella, “but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. You and John must keep us in view. Make haste, my dear creature, come! John is just walked off, something to do with
treasure,
I dare say, but he will be back in a moment.”

Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, horrid John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost.

However, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan, making no eye contact with a certain brutish heat-radiating gentleman. It was folly in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys . . .

And yet she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by none other than Mr. Tilney himself!

With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set! To so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked—so immediately—by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought her on purpose! Verily, life could not supply any greater felicity.

Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her, together with a blast of oven heat which caused even Mr. Tilney to blink momentarily.

“Heyday, Miss Morland!” bellowed Thorpe, in his gentlest voice. “What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together.”

“I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me.”

“That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with you—well, and a bit of talk as to those rare dratted Clues; we may be up to something there—and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously.”

“Oh, no; they will never think of me, after such a description as that.”

“By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads.” But the compliment was lost on Catherine, who was beginning to feel the familiar moisture on her brow from the inferno. A lady nearest her in the set pointed worriedly at what looked to be the beginnings of a particularly well-formed mirage of the supper table, wavering in the middle of the dance floor (the original, of course, was set up many paces away, against the distant wall). . . .

Thorpe continued: “What chap have you there?”

Catherine satisfied his curiosity.

“Tilney,” he repeated. “Hum—I do not know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? A friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell. A famous clever animal—only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself—” And then Thorpe roared for several excruciating minutes about horses, hunting, more secret clues, and buying a house in Leicestershire next season.

But before he could weary Catherine’s attention any longer, he was borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies. Heat dissipated, and at last bright angels could soar gently overhead without needing to fan their wings for ventilation.

Her partner now drew near, and said, “That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me.”

And as Catherine smiled radiantly at him with all her being, yet registering the smile merely with her eyes, Mr. Tilney continued: “We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all of it belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both. Those men who themselves do not choose to dance or marry, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours.”

“But they are such very different things!” Catherine wanted to laugh and sing and jump in place, just hearing Mr. Tilney speak. Good thing they were already dancing, else she may have been moved to something rather more silly than was suitable for an heroic young lady watched over by a cadre of angels.

“—That you think they cannot be compared together.”

“To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour.”

“And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal. Both constitute an exclusive engagement formed for mutual advantage, till the moment of its dissolution. The duty of both is to give the other no cause for wishing themselves elsewhere. You will allow all this?”

“Yes, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light or concerning the same duties.” Catherine mused lightly, watching angels perch all over Mr. Tilney’s coat sleeves and hide in his cravat.

“In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man. He is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are reversed. The agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.”

“No, indeed, I never thought of that. Though—it seems somewhat unfair, does it not, to expect the woman to take on a lifelong duty of compliance, while the man merely supplies agreeable smiles for the duration of a dance—”

“Then I am quite at a loss. One alarming thing, however, I must observe. You disallow any similarity in the obligations. May I thence infer that your notions of the duties of dance are not so strict? Ought I fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now—or any other gentleman—were to return to address you—there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you choose?”

“Mr. Thorpe is such a very
particular
friend of my brother’s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again. But there are hardly three young men in the room that I have any acquaintance with.”

“And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!”

“Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them. Besides, I do not want to talk to anybody.”

“Now you have given me a security worth having. I proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?”

“Yes, quite—more so, indeed.”

“More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time: at the end of six weeks.”

“I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months. There is so much that is
secret
and delightful to discover here!”

“Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. But now I am curious—whatever can be so secret and delightful?”

And Catherine told Mr. Tilney of the wonderful rumors of the secret hoard of hidden treasure, hidden right here, somewhere in Bath. Upon hearing the words “secret treasure,” Mr. Tilney’s expression became rather hard to describe. And then he started to laugh.

“So this is what everyone is talking about!” he said with a measure of amusement and not a little surprise. “Whether one goes to the Theatre, the Upper Rooms, to the pump-room, the dining halls, all one hears, it seems, are secret whisperings—and not of the usual gossip or amorous kind! And as to
why,
at last everything is clear as day. Now, Miss Morland, have you any notion to whom do we owe the honor of this fantastic rumor?”

“I have more than a notion,” said Catherine, surprising Mr. Tilney yet again. “Indeed, I have the utmost certainty that it was all initiated by none other than the very gentleman you observed talking to me a few moments ago, Mr. Thorpe. He is the one searching most earnestly for various secret clues, as he calls them, believing them to be
encrypted
in some portions of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. And he does speak somewhat boisterously and indeed rather loudly so that he is often overheard—”

“I see,” said Mr. Tilney. “And pray, might you be so kind as to divulge to me your own mind? Do you give credence to this truly delightful rumor? Should it be taken in all seriousness, or is this but nonsensical stuff that one is best allowed to ignore?”

“Oh, no, I think it must be quite true!” Catherine exclaimed. “Why else would Mr. Thorpe be so intent on discovering all of it? I am even now wondering myself as to the hidden secrets in this place. Could there be clues, for example, in this very ballroom?”

“Why else indeed. I have no answer to that,” replied Mr. Tilney, observing her with a very peculiar and close expression, and the barest hint of a smile.

“These horrid and wonderful clues, why they could be
anywhere!
Just observe the walls, sir! Note the shape of the room, the lovely parquet floor. Indeed, could the floor itself conceal a mystery underneath?”

“Good heavens, you really
do
find Bath wondrous in every detail, do you not?”

Catherine blushed, and the angels closest to her rose up to gently fan her cheeks. “Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, find it a wonder even without secrets or hidden treasure. For here are a variety of amusements, of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of at home.”

“You are not fond of the country.”

“Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But one day in the country is exactly like another.”

“But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country.”

“Do I?”

“Do you not? For example, do you at any point spend even a moment looking for nonexistent treasure or secret clues?”

“I have been, upon occasion, accused of things far worse . . . such as running around in the grass. And—and talking to myself, which is only
partially
true, because I often recite lessons out loud . . . for memorization purposes.” Catherine decided to include that last point just in case Mr. Tilney had observed her muttering with certain angelic beings and was getting the wrong idea.

“Ah, well then. Very industrious. Whereas
here
you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long.”

“And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. Walking here I see a variety of people in every street. There I can only call on Mrs. Allen.”

Mr. Tilney was very much amused. “What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, the next time you call on Mrs. Allen in the country, you will be able to talk of all that you did here in Bath.”

“Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I should be too happy! James’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful—especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”

“Not those who bring such fresh feelings to it as you do. But to most of the frequenters of Bath, the honest relish of balls, plays, and everyday sights, is long past. It is why they suddenly need secrets and clues to keep them occupied.”

Here, the demands of the dance overtook their conversation.

Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner.

The angels flew up in a turbulent cloud, as though to signal by their very maneuverings his
importance
.

He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, great and regal in a manner difficult to describe. He was past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life. And with his dragon eye still directed towards her, she saw him address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper.

Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of something being wrong with her appearance, she turned away. But the gentleman retreated, and her partner, returning, said, “That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father.”

Catherine’s answer was only “Oh!”—but it was an “Oh!” expressing every attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With interest and admiration did she now observe the general, as he moved through the crowd, thinking, “How handsome a family they are!”

In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose. Catherine had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, familiar with all the commonly frequented environs, spoke of them in terms that made Catherine only too eager. It was then proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a morning walk.

“I shall like it,” she cried, “beyond anything in the world; and let us not put it off—let us go tomorrow.”