Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (19 page)

On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr. Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box, recalled her to anxiety and distress.

The stage could no longer excite genuine merriment or keep her whole attention. Every other look was directed towards the opposite box. For the space of two entire scenes, she thus watched Henry Tilney, without being once able to catch his eye.

No longer could he be suspected of indifference for a play. His notice was never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.

At length, however, he did look towards her, and he bowed—but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended it. His eyes immediately turned away.

Catherine was restlessly miserable. She almost ran to his box and forced him to hear her out. Feelings rather un-heroic possessed her. Instead of considering her own dignity injured, proudly resolving to show her resentment, leaving him to seek
her,
and meanwhile flirting with somebody else—she took upon herself all the shame of apparent misconduct, eager only for an opportunity to offer an explanation.

The play concluded—the curtain fell—Henry Tilney was no longer to be seen where he had hitherto sat. But his father remained.

Perhaps he might be now coming round to their box? Good heavens! She was right! In a few minutes he appeared, and, making his way through the thinning rows, spoke with calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her young friend.

Not with such calmness was he answered by the latter: “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude! But indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?”

“My dear, you tumble my gown,” was Mrs. Allen’s reply.

Her assurance, however, was not thrown away. It brought a more cordial, natural smile into his countenance, and Mr. Tilney replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve: “We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose.”

“But indeed I
did not
wish you a pleasant walk! I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to
stop!
I called out to him as soon as I saw you! And, if Mr. Thorpe would only have
stopped,
I would have jumped out and run after you!”

Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a declaration? Is there indeed an angel who could be?

Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he said everything that need be said of his sister’s concern, regret, and dependence on Catherine’s honour.

“Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not angry,” cried Catherine, “because I
know
she was; for she would not see me this morning when I called. I saw her walk out of the house the next minute after my leaving it! I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps you did not know I had been there.”

“I was not within at the time. But I heard of it from Eleanor, and she has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain. It was nothing more than that my father made a point of her being denied—they were just preparing to walk out, and he was hurried for time. That was all, I assure you. She was very much vexed, and meant to make her apology as soon as possible.”

Catherine’s mind was greatly eased by this information. Yet she could not help the following artless question, rather distressing to the gentleman: “But, Mr. Tilney, why were
you
less generous than your sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could suppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take offence?”

“Me! I take offence!”

“Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were angry.”

“I angry! I could have no right.”

“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”

He replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play. Their angels radiantly mingled overhead, then settled about gently among the folds of their clothing.

Mr. Tilney remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted, however, it was agreed that their missed walk should be taken as soon as possible. And, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box, she was left one of the happiest creatures in the world.

While still talking to Mr. Tilney, she had observed with some surprise that John Thorpe—who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes together, and was heard bellowing all about the theatre, either about “little wee Orphans of the Rhine,” or “in the Rye,” or herds of cows, or possibly cow
bells
around Mrs.
Clermont’s
neck, in some
midnight black forest,
or possibly in a
black dress
—was now engaged in conversation with General Tilney.

Catherine felt more than surprise when she thought herself the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say of her?

She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance. Surely it was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather than postpone his own walk a few minutes.

“How came Mr. Thorpe to know your father?” was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her companion.

Mr. Tilney knew nothing about it. But his father, like every military man, had a very large acquaintance, and that included, no doubt, some lumbering
infernal
gentlemen.

When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to scorch the premises in their vicinity and assist them in getting out, causing at least two mirages to appear in the hallway—one of a kneeling footman, and the other of a portly dowager with tall ostrich feathers in her hat—both of which elicited gasps from occasional persons walking around and once
through
them, until the hot air was sufficiently dissipated.

Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry. And, while they waited in the sweltering lobby for a chair, he prevented her unvoiced inquiry by asking, in a consequential manner, whether she had
seen him
talking with General Tilney: “He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout as a dragon, active—looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.”

“But how came you to know him?” asked Catherine, fanning herself as rapidly as possible in the usual heat.

“Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. Indeed, likely there are none! I have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have, by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost
afraid of him
at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this world—” Thorpe rambled on at length about billiards, then concluded, “However, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich as Croesus. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of?
You
. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath.”

“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”

“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done, general, said I; I am quite of your mind.”

Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. It was getting rather late, dangerously close to midnight, and she truly did not want to meet Thorpe’s demon.

Thorpe, however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued roaring the same kind of delicate mutton flattery, in spite of her entreating him to desist.

That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very delightful. And she joyfully thought that there was not one of the family whom she need now fear to meet.

The evening had done much more for her than expected.

Unfortunately in that moment from the distant bell tower sounded the
Midnight Bell
.

And there was Thorpe’s
demon,
solidifying from his lumbering shadow like an evil genie detaching itself from a potbellied bottle. . . .

Standing up, it leered at her—twice the size of Isabella’s own fiend, and twice as putrid. Its horns were bullish; its eyes were crimson-red infernal coals, burning with such heat that Catherine might have had to take a step back, had she not been safely ensconced in the chair, about to embark home.

The demon muttered something filthy in her wake. Catherine shuddered—for once she was truly glad that her loyal angels never for a moment left her side.

And then she glanced back at the demon and, without it seeing her, stuck out her tongue.

M
onday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now passed in review before the esteemed Reader, together with amazing events. Sunday only now remains to be described, to close the week.

The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and that afternoon, it was brought forward again. Isabella’s iceberg heart was obviously set on going, and James, entirely besotted with the beauteous harpy, was anxious to please her. It was agreed that on the following morning they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.

The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s fiery approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it.

She had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the dastardly plan was completed, and as soon as she returned, her agreement was demanded.

But instead of gay
^[19]
acquiescence Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. She had a firm engagement with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk tomorrow—it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any account, retract.

“Well done, Catherine!”
cried angels in both of her ears.

But oh, what an outcry issued forth from both the Thorpes! They must go to Clifton tomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.

Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.”

This availed nothing. The same arguments assailed her again, like freezing hail beating against a shuttered window, followed by a blast of desert heat. “So easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement! Do put off the walk till Tuesday!”

“No,” said Catherine.

“Yes!” screeched Isabella.

“No!” repeated Catherine, for the hundredth time.

“Beware, stay strong!”
whispered the angels.

“By all galloping horses of Solomon! Yes!” roared Thorpe.

The air in the vicinity filled with such a charge of electricity—first from heat then from lashing cold—that Catherine wanted to run from the room. James Morland looked on dumbfounded as hissing droplets of water started to rain from the parlor ceiling, and muttered about Bath and its unbelievable
indoor
weather, no wonder its dratted name.

Isabella switched from yellow-eyed attacks to whining to weeping and cajoling, to attempts to hug and kiss her dearest best friend to convince her.

But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and was not to be influenced.

Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney, than for her best and oldest friends. “I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so excessively! To see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers cuts me to the quick! These Tilneys!”

Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Clearly, Isabella was not only a frightful unnatural scarecrow of a creature, with horrid glowing eyes, sallow sunken skin, and a putrid demon guardian, to boot—she was also
ungenerous
and
selfish,
thinking only of her own gratification.

These painful and reasonable ideas crossed Catherine’s mind, though she said nothing.

Isabella, in the meanwhile, held her handkerchief to her eyes. Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, “Nay, Catherine, you cannot refuse. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend—quite unkind, if you still refuse.”

This was the first time her brother openly sided against her. Unhappy, Catherine proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied.

But “No, no, no!” was the immediate answer, followed by inane, decidedly selfish reasons and some rapidly cooling dew.