Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (28 page)

At last, however, the order of release was given. Catherine was then much surprised by the general’s proposal of her taking
his place
in his son’s curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”

The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion in regard to young men’s open carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it. But her second deferred to General Tilney’s judgment—he could not propose anything improper for her. For that matter, the angels surrounding her loudly rejoiced, and their suddenly iridescent wings glowed visibly brighter even in the sunlight.

Thus, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. Soon she was convinced that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world. The chaise and four had grandeur, but it had stopped like a troll for two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle. So nimble were the horses that they could have passed the general’s carriage in half a minute.

But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well—so
quietly
—without making any
ogre
disturbance, without an infernal attendant climate, without parading to her while also muttering about hidden Clues, or swearing at them in a roar, or needing to beat off any monstrous
ducks
 . . . In short—so different from the only other gentleman-coachman whom she could compare him with!

And then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat looked so becomingly important! Indeed, there was a sense of leashed wondrous
power
emanating from him; of mystery even. . . .

To be driven by him, next to dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world.

In addition to every other delight, she was now listening to her own praise; was being thanked (on his sister’s account) for her kindness in becoming her visitor; hearing it ranked as real friendship creating real gratitude. His sister, he said, was uncomfortably circumstanced—she had no female companion—and, in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any companion at all.

“But how can that be?” said Catherine. “Are not you with her?”

“Northanger is only half my home; I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father’s. Some of my time is necessarily spent there.”

“How sorry you must be for that!”

“I am always sorry to leave Eleanor.”

“Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable.”

He smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey.”

“To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?”

“Aha! And so we come at last to Udolpho! Well then, are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as ‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry? A mind steadfast and clear enough to decrypt sanguine
terror
from arcane clues?”

Catherine held back an imminent exclamation of utter delight.

“What,” he continued, “think you only Bath has dire secrets to unravel, its carrots and cowbells at midnight? Wait till you see the abbey!”

“Oh! yes—that is, no! I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house—and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.”

“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is introduced into such a dwelling, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, thick with ghosts, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before—under
unspeakabl
e circumstances. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a
funereal
appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?”

“Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure,” said Catherine, breathlessly imagining things even more dreadful.

“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which
no efforts can open,
and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great
agitation,
and drops a few unintelligible
hints
(entirely more dire than turnips). To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly
haunted,
and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you, not unlike
midnight bells
—and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has
no lock
.”

“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?”

“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the
first
night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the
third
night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent
storm
. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains—and during the frightful gusts of wind you will probably discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, throwing your dressing-gown around you, and examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a
division
in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a
door
will immediately appear—being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will succeed in opening it—and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.”

“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing. Heaven be praised there are dear angels to protect us—” Catherine was once again about to say too much.

Fortunately he seemed to overlook that portion of her utterance. “What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an
adventure?
No, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood—and a
cowbell
—and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture, and next to it a sack of meaningful
potatoes;
but there being nothing in all this out of the ordinary, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be drawn to a large old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold—labeled clearly that it was manufactured in an
orphanage
near the
Rhine
by a certain M
. Clermont
but
NOT Beatrice Foster—
which you had previously passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a considerable
hoard of diamonds!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Catherine; then put a hand across her lips. Meanwhile, a daring idea took hold—what if Northanger Abbey, not Bath, contained hidden treasure?

“Oh dear . . .”
Clarence, or possibly Terence, let out a long-suffering sigh near one of her ears.

But Henry continued, despite her outburst: “At last, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of
paper
appears—you seize it—it contains many sheets of
manuscript
—you hasten with the precious
treasure
into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher ‘Oh! Thou—whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall, written from this point forward in nothing but blood and implementing the most arcane and secret encryption method known only as
The Udolpho Code
’—when your lamp suddenly expires, leaving you in total darkness—to await the arrival of the
Necromancer of the Black Forest,
the one and only true heir to the
Castle of Wolfenbach!
”

“Oh! No! No!—do not say so!!! Well, go on.”

But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able to carry it farther. He could no longer command solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the continuation of Matilda’s woes.

Apparently, Henry had no idea (or simply had forgotten) how great a part she had played in the infestation of those silly Clues all over Bath! And he was still laughing at her!

Catherine recollected herself, ashamed of her eagerness for the horrid, and assured him that she had not the smallest fear of really encountering what he related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into such a chamber as he had described! She was not at all afraid.”

A
s they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience for a sight of the abbey returned in full force.

Every bend in the road was expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. . . .

But so low did the building stand, that she found herself passing through the great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without having discerned even an antique chimney.

She knew she had no right to be surprised. But there was a something in this mode of approach which she had not expected. To pass between lodges of a
modern
appearance, to find herself with such ease in the very precincts of the abbey, and driven so rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel, without obstacle, alarm, or solemnity, struck her as odd and inconsistent.

She was not long at leisure for such considerations. A sudden scud of rain, driving full in her face, made it impossible for her to observe anything further, and fixed all her thoughts on the welfare of her new straw bonnet.

She was actually under the abbey walls, was springing, with Henry’s assistance, from the carriage, was beneath the shelter of the old porch, and had even passed on to the hall, where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her—without feeling one awful foreboding of future misery, or any past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice.

The breeze had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her—not even a putrid stench of
anyone’s
demon. It wafted nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain. And Catherine was ready to be shown into the common drawing-room.

An abbey! Yes, it was delightful to be really in an abbey! But she doubted, as she looked round the room, whether anything within her observation would have suggested it. The furniture was in all the profusion and elegance of
modern
taste. The new marble fireplace displayed the prettiest English china. The windows, to which she looked for original Gothic form, were less than expected. To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved—they might be even casements—but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, ancient dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.

The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture. All here was intended only for daily use and comfort. However, some apartments in the Abbey were worthy of her notice—and he began describing the costly gilding of one in particular—when, taking out his watch, he stopped short to pronounce it with surprise within twenty minutes of five!