Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (23 page)

Thus, our heroine had to be on her guard. And although never untruthful,
for the present
she had to remain as friendly as possible with Isabella—at least until she could properly warn her brother (who in turn would artfully, carefully extricate himself from the engagement without having to explain the whole underlying
supernatural
aspect of it to their parents—or so Catherine dearly hoped would happen).

And so Catherine took a deep breath, and while the angels settled around her, she returned her attention full of seeming delight to her friend. The happiness of having such a sister would have been a natural first effusion (had it been genuine on Catherine’s part), and thus the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.

Though Catherine made the sincerest attempt at rejoicing, Isabella far surpassed her. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I shall be so much more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”

This was far beyond Catherine’s ability to emulate.

“You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. The very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas—” And she tenderly screeched at length about how she had worn a yellow gown and thought him so handsome.

Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love, even in
unnatural
creatures; for, though exceedingly fond of her brother, she had never in her life thought him handsome.

The lovelorn monstrous shrilling went on for some time, and, “Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother’s account! I am grown
wretchedly thin;
I have betrayed myself in my
partiality!
But my secret I was always sure would be safe with you.”

Catherine could not imagine how much more
thinner
spindly “inner vision Isabella” could become, and likewise felt that no secret had been safer, considering her complete ignorance.

Meanwhile, her brother, she found, was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask for parental consent. Here was a source of some real agitation to Isabella.

Catherine did not endeavour to persuade that her parents would never oppose their son’s wishes. But she readily vouched that they were kind and desirous of their children’s happiness.

“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet, my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!”

Here Catherine again discerned the
abysmal
force of love, and could only respond in jest. “Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune signifies nothing. Not to mention, any one of us, at any instant, might stumble upon hidden treasure!”

“Oh! My sweet Catherine, and your generous heart!” The squealing cries from Isabella resounded to the ceiling. “I know it would signify nothing! I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.”

The notion of a “command of millions” gave Catherine tiny pause. But having not the foggiest notion of how to respond, she only smiled her best.

“For my own part,” said Isabella, “the smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy—Now, my dear, remind me again of some of your brilliant Udolpho Code significant Clues.”

Catherine was glad to change this controversial subject, and the next few minutes were spent in discussion of whether “Orphans of the Rhine” and O-O-T-R referred to little children or turnips and potatoes.

Then Isabella once again said, with a deathly-frozen sigh, “Oh! I will not allow myself to rest, till we have your father’s answer. Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow. Tomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. It will be the death of me!”

Catherine attempted to interest her in guessing whether “Necromancer of the Black Forest” was indeed a
black magician
or merely
not Beatrice Foster
. But it was in vain. A brief reverie succeeded—and when Isabella spoke again, it was on the quality of her wedding-gown.

Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself. James came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.

Catherine wished to congratulate and
warn
him in one breath, but instead knew not what to say, and her anxious eloquence was only in her eyes.

Meanwhile James said his hundredth tender adieus, while frequently
detained
by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that he
go,
in order to hurry the inevitable. Twice was he called back almost from the door by her eagerness to have him gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how far you have to ride. For heaven’s sake, waste no more time, my love!”

T
he two friends, with hearts now “united” in schemes of sisterly happiness, were inseparable for the day.

Mrs. Thorpe and her son—acquainted with everything, and only waiting for Mr. Morland’s consent—considered Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family. But until the happiness was made formal, Anne and Maria were not informed. They however engaged in much whispering and giggling; and it remained only an affected secret.

Catherine was with her friend again the next day, supporting her spirits, and to while away the many tedious hours of distress before the delivery of the letters.

But when it did come, “I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents,” were the first lines—and in one moment all was joyful security.

Isabella’s spirits became almost too high for control. She screeched, she sang, she cooed and hallooed, and caused flurries of snow to appear—verily, Catherine had to blink it away—and she called herself the happiest of mortals.

Are nephilim mortal?
Catherine pondered momentarily, then had to remind herself that
yes, indeed they were.

Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness.

Even the angels in the room could not help smiling and circled around energetically, narrowly avoiding the two nephilim, while greater light than usual streamed from their wings. Terence, or possibly Clarence, collided with each other in mid-flight and both landed on top of Mrs. Thorpe’s bonnet.

John himself was no skulker in joy. He named Mr. Morland one of the finest fellows in the world. Bellowing, he swore off many sentences in his praise, sending waves of infernal heat about the room. At some point near the middle, and just beneath a chandelier, Isabella’s cold front and the heat wave met . . . 

Catherine sensed that, at some precarious point, and soon, indoor precipitation was entirely inevitable.

Meanwhile, the happy letter from James was short. But for the details Isabella could well afford to wait. By what means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her
disinterested
spirit took no concern.

It was enough to feel secure. Her imagination took flight; and she saw herself admired and envied, by friends old and new, at Fullerton and in Putney—a carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.

John Thorpe, who had only waited for the momentous letter’s arrival, now prepared to set off to London. “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the parlour, “I am come to bid you good-bye.”

Catherine wished him a good journey.

Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune in a tender roar, and seemed wholly self-occupied.

“Shall not you be late?” said Catherine, wishing the inferno gone.

He made no answer; but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.”

“I am sure I think it a very good one.”

“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to matrimony. Did you ever hear the old song ‘Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?’” And Thorpe muttered self-indulgently, in a most delicate ogre rumble, about something—but Catherine was unsure what it was exactly.

“Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home.”

“Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be together again? A devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”

“Then why stay away so long?” replied Catherine tiredly.

“That is kind of you—and good-natured. I shall not forget it. But you have more good nature than anybody living. A monstrous deal of good nature! And not only that, you have such good brains for those
secret clues,
I say, and you have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”

“Oh, dear! There are a great many people like me.”

“Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable.”

“Pray do. My father and mother will be glad to see you.”

“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.”

“Oh, dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see. Company is always cheerful.”

“That is just my way of thinking. And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. Blast it, Miss Morland! You and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.”

“Perhaps; but it is more than I ever thought of.”

“By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what does not concern me. Let me only have the girl I like, with a comfortable house over my head, and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my own. If she had not a penny, why, so much the better.”

“Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient.”

And away she went. It was not in the power of all his ogre gallantry to detain her longer.

Surprisingly, when Mr. and Mrs. Allen heard the news of the engagement, they observed to Catherine it had been foreseen by them both, ever since her brother’s arrival. They expressed a placid wish for the young people’s happiness—with a remark, on the gentleman’s side, in favour of Isabella’s beauty, and on the lady’s, of her great good luck.

The only emotion raised was upon the disclosure of James’s going to Fullerton the day before. Mrs. Allen repeatedly wished she could have seen him before he went, to offer her best regards to his father and mother, and compliments to all the neighbors.

Oh—and he simply
must
pass on to Mrs. Skinner the startling news about the frequent
dragon
sightings—a veritable
flock
of dragons has been observed here in Bath!

C
atherine’s expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street were so very high that disappointment was inevitable.

She was most politely received by General Tilney, kindly welcomed by his daughter; and even Henry was at home. Yet she found, on her return, that she had expected a happiness beyond reach.

Instead of finding herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse
^[20]
of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before. Instead of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable.

And, in spite of their father’s great civilities to her—in spite of his thanks, invitations, and compliments—it had been a release to get away from him.

Indeed, it puzzled her to account for all this. It could not be General Tilney’s fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry’s father.

It was just that there was something heavy and odd in the atmosphere whenever he was in the room, and the sense of oppression was almost supernatural.

The angels were undeniably present, and Catherine could
hear
and
sense
and
see
them as they moved about like brilliant fireflies in the dining room and parlor, alighting upon mantelpieces and shelves, and occasionally upon the sleeves of
most
of those present. But sometimes, if she glanced at the general too closely, she could see the angels’ brightness grow somewhat dimmer, more remote.