Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (22 page)
Read Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons Online
Authors: Jane Austen,Vera Nazarian
“I dare say, that was
not
a duck,” admitted Miss Tilney with a sigh.
that it was anything remotely like a dragon—not until there is adequate scientific proof from a qualified party, and a reasonable explanation.”
“Is the presence of treasure not reasonable enough?”
“My dear Miss Morland,” he retorted. “And now, in addition to all my other intimate faults of character to which you are being exposed, I must admit to being rather more pedantic than you are. Unlike those who spread or concede to rumor, I require tangible proof. But—until such sufficiently documented material proof is in our grasp, let us speak of something more pleasant.”
There was a long pause of silence as they resumed their stroll, and Catherine attempted to compose her thoughts and feelings. It was only then she realized that the angels had either been very quiet throughout the incident or she had
momentarily stopped hearing or being aware of them.
And that notion was more bothersome than anything else.
B
ut soon enough a more casual and pleasant mood was restored. Since there was no more sign of the dragon, the conversation picked up.
“Well then,” Catherine uttered, in rather a solemn tone of voice, “I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London.”
Miss Tilney was startled, and hastily replied, “Indeed! And of what nature?”
“That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet. More terrifying than any mysterious flying creature!”
“Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?”
“A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind.”
“You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend’s accounts have been exaggerated; and proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent it.”
“Government,” said Henry, still in a bit of a serious mood, but now endeavouring not to smile, “neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much.”
The ladies stared. This time Catherine was aware of the angels moving in the ether around them, but altogether calmly.
Mr. Tilney laughed, and added, “Come, shall I assist your understanding, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation? Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute—”
“Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot.”
“Riot! What riot?”
“My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new horror publication. And you, Miss Morland—my sister has pictured a mob of three thousand men, London flowing with blood, the 12th Light Dragoons called up, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. She is by no means a simpleton in general.”
Catherine looked grave.
“And now, Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “that you have made us both feel very inferior, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. She is not used to your odd ways.”
“I shall be happy to make her better acquainted with them.”
“No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present.”
“What am I to do?”
“You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women.”
“Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world—especially the present company.”
And then Mr. Tilney proceeded to shock and invoke smiles simultaneously by his wit and contrary banter.
“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland,” said Miss Tilney. “But I do assure you, he never says an unjust thing of any woman at all, nor an unkind one of me.”
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His mercurial manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just. And what she did not understand, she was willing to admire.
The whole walk ended on a delightful note. Her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney respectfully addressed Mrs. Allen and Catherine, petitioning for the pleasure of Catherine’s dinner company another day. The latter could hardly conceal her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly that no thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, memory returned, but Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety—she had heard nothing of any of them.
Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, walked out into the town (in search of ribbon), and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar’s Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all morning. They were all bearing baskets full of
bells
of various shapes and sizes.
From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said Miss Anne, “and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria. And here we are, looking for secret Clues to the treasure! They say a
dragon
has been sighted over Beechen Cliff this morning!”
Pretending to ignore the dragon comment, while her heart skipped a beat, Catherine inquired as to the specific arrangement of the drive.
“Oh, yes!” rejoined the other. “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go. For my part, I was determined
not
to go, even if pressed. Instead, we have spent hours decrypting ‘Mysterious Warnings’—why, it is none other than ‘MW’ or ‘Mrs. Walter!’”
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help saying, “But
what
or
who
is ‘Mrs. Walter’? What does it all mean? Really, I wish you could have gone instead. A pity you did not.”
“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. This treasure hunt is so much more amiable! Indeed, I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us, that there was a
significance
to be found in
cow bells
at
midnight
, and are there any cow establishments in Bath?”
“If you mean steak or dairy, then, likely yes. Otherwise—”
Catherine was getting distracted with all this
decryption,
and still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her.
She wished them luck with the bovine pursuits, bade her adieu, and returned home with the procured ribbon, pleased that James and Isabella managed their excursion successfully without her.
E
arly the next day, a note from Isabella—filled with peace and tenderness, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance—hastened Catherine, in happy curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings.
The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour, sorting cowbells, dinner bells, sleigh bells, and tiny Christmas tree bells in various piles of cryptic relevance.
Anne left her task to call her sister, and Catherine took the opportunity to ask the other for particulars of yesterday’s party. Maria—apparently not entirely interested in bells—eagerly paused her occupation to speak of it.
The angels floated about the room, and gently moved among the piles of bells. Presently, there arose a constant inexplicable general
tinkling
sound that was of course accounted for by drafts and breezes.
Catherine was informed by Maria that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the world—they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the water, laid out some shillings in purses and spars; ate ice at a pastry-cook’s, swallowed their dinner in haste back at the hotel; then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, it rained a little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along . . .
Catherine listened with satisfaction. It appeared that a visit to Blaize Castle had never even been thought of. As for the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria ended with an effusion of pity for her sister Anne, for missing the party.
“She will never forgive me, I am sure. But John vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles—”
Isabella now entered the room with an eager step, a northern ice-wind, and a look of happy importance, engaging all notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away and told to take some of those
tedious tinkling things
with her.
Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: “Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed! You see through everything!”
Catherine thought it was certainly a curious turn of phrase, all things considered, but replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
“Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, starting her familiar shrill, “compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Surely you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness.
Your brother is the most charming of men.
I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! I am so agitated!”
Catherine’s understanding began to awake. A terrifying idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind. Blushing, she cried out, “Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you—can you really be in love with James?”
Oh, angels! Oh, dear God in Heaven!
she meanwhile thought in veritable panic.
No, no, she cannot! This frightening harpy scarecrow demonic dried out stick-creature with yellow eyes and freezing weather cannot think to love my poor brother!
This, however was soon revealed to be only half the dreaded news. Apparently, in the course of their yesterday’s party, Isabella received the delightful confession of an equal love from James.
Her heart and faith were alike
engaged to James.
Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and terror. Her brother and her monstrous friend engaged!
Oh, dear God in Heaven!
The most impossible thing about this was that now Catherine instantly considered herself to be entirely at fault for allowing this to go on. To be frank, she had never in her wildest sanguined nightmare—direct out of Mrs. Radcliffe’s complete works—could have imagined that James would be so enchanted, bewitched, and befuddled, as to take his unnatural attraction to this female
fiend
thus far!
For days now Catherine had been meaning to sit him down and divulge certain things about the beauteous Miss Isabella Thorpe—naturally without revealing the full horror of her nephilim origin. The difficulty of explaining herself to her brother (and possibly the rest of her family), of having to possibly reveal her
own
metaphysical ability to see certain supernatural things, held her back from having this painful conversation. Catherine held on to a vain hope that James was simply having a pleasant but casual flirtation; and surely with time he too would notice the yellow avaricious eyes, the shrill harpy voice, and oh, the beastly arctic cold. . . !
Even the dear angels had been patient with her, agreeing that it will be done “all in good time;” that truth will be established, and Catherine will eventually make her warnings to her brother, without unduly enraging the nephilim brother and sister in the process. For, according to the angels, there was still
great danger
in her path.
