Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (32 page)

What could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall to
her
to discover it!

Till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have no rest. With the sun’s first rays she was determined to peruse it. But—how to endure until morning?

She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, with various noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. Sometimes there were
moans,
at other times,
sighs,
and occasionally the rattling and clanging of what appeared to be weighty
chains 
. . .

Upon my word! Why, oh, why do ghosts always carry around odious
chains,
practically in every ghost story told?
thought Catherine, again briefly forgetting to be afraid because of a flight of imagination.
What is it about chains and ghosts? There are other kinds than gallows prisoners, surely. So, why must they, all of them, eternally and tediously carry chains, and not, let us say, pails of milk? Or even parasols? Do not people die in other ways and return to haunt with muskets, or possibly hedge-trimmers? Or—

The curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion. At another, the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to
enter
.

Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery. And more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of those annoying distant moans, and yes, tedious, odious, horrid
chains.

Enough! This extended, fearful state of anxiety was no longer exciting or a bit amusing to our heroine.

But hour after hour passed away, and weary Catherine heard
three past midnight
proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she unknowingly fell fast asleep.

T
he sound of the housemaid folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the next day, roused Catherine.

She opened her eyes (wondering she slept at all) on cheerfulness. Her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the tempest of the night.

Instantaneously, her recollection of the found
manuscript
returned. Springing from bed, the moment the maid went away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet (which had burst from the roll as it fell, the night before), and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow.

The dozen angels observed her actions patiently, resting on valances and curtains. Admittedly there were occasional sighs.

She now plainly saw that the manuscript was of less than equal length with what she had shuddered over in books. For the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was of trifling size—much less than she had supposed it to be at first.

But, at last! She was about to peruse the Udolpho Code!

Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page—expecting arcane symbols, strange combinations of All Capital Letters, shuffled in terrifying order to form Meaningful Phrases or else, absolutely Meaningless Ones (which in turn were to be shuffled about until truth was stumbled upon in-between lines or every other letter taken backwards), eventually to spell out grand secret Clues—

She started in amazement. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false?

The pages were ordinary receipts and domestic lists.

Indeed, an inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her! If sight might be trusted, she held a
washing-bill
in her hand.

Catherine seized another sheet, and saw the same, with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, waistcoats . . .

And yet—could all these be in fact
secret code?

“Dear child,”
said an eternally patient angel.
“What is it exactly that you are looking for?”

But Catherine threw the angel one occupied glance, and frowning, returned to her task.

Two more sheets marked other expenditures: hair-powder, shoe-string, breeches-ball—

Breeches-ball!
thought Catherine.
What does that Signify?

And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s bill!

Such was the collection of papers (left perhaps by a servant), which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and robbed her of half her night’s rest! For one brief moment she felt humbled to the dust.

And yet—all of this could be deceptively encoded for the uninitiated. It had to be! Catherine immediately set her mind to run over
“To poultice chestnut mare”
and T-P-C-M.

However, this tantalizing possibility still did not entirely negate the absurdity of her recent fancies. Ridiculous to suppose that an ancient manuscript could have remained undiscovered in a modern lived-in room such as this!—Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!

But maybe—the menacing cabinet and chest had indeed been both waiting all these years for
someone
such as herself, one who could
see
and
hear
angels and other beings? One who could (and did!) release the Legion?

Whatever it was, heaven forbid, Catherine was determined that Henry Tilney should never know the extent of her definite meddling and possible folly. Besides, it was his fault entirely—the cabinet fit
his
horrid description, else she would not have been curious about it.

Impatient to get rid of those detestable and confounding papers scattered over the bed, she rose directly. Folding them the same way as before, she put them back in the cabinet.

Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still inexplicable (now she opened them easily). In this there was surely something supernatural and mysterious. . . .

Catherine got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct produced such unpleasantness. She made her way quickly toward the breakfast-parlour, as it had been pointed out to her by Miss Tilney the evening before.

As she descended a certain flight past a gallery, she heard a now familiar and odious humming sound.

Oh dear . . .

There was no one about. Just before her, a tall window to the outside on top of the next flight of stairs. The window was unshuttered, open to the daylight and the world outside.

And as Catherine came to a stop, the humming and screeching increased. And, as if on cue timed to coincide with her arrival, darkness poured in a smoke-stack from the outside, though the window, and solidified before her.

Catherine gave a minor scream (far less bloodcurdling than the night before; she was getting rather accustomed to this kind of thing), promptly putting her hand to her lips to silence herself.

The guardian angels immediately placed themselves in the form of a bright shield in the air between her and the evil thing.

“LEEEGIIIONNN!” thundered the demon chorus. “WEEE ARRRR LEEEEGIOONNNN!”

“Well, yes you are, I do realize that,” she said. “What do you want? And how is it you are here in the light of morning?”

“GIVVE USSS THE WHOOORREE OF BABYLOOON!”

“Beg pardon?” Catherine was somewhat scandalized and thought surely she had misheard. Considering how it had been last night, she was not too surprised to mishear yet again.

Then it occurred to her—
treasure!
The evil ones were also looking for a treasure
hoard!

“I am afraid I do not have in my possession the hoard of Babylon,” she retorted almost cheerfully. “However, myself and numerous others have a notion there is indeed a hoard in Bath, or even here in Northanger—”

“Oh, dear child,” said Lawrence, or possibly Patrice. “Why are you talking to these foul things? There is certainly no need to divulge anything, much less hold a polite conversation.”

The undulating darkness roared in fury, billowing about the stairwell.

“Well,” said Catherine, “I do prefer not to be rude.”

“NOOOOOOOOO!!!! GIVVE USSS THE WHOOORREE OF BABYLOOOOOON!” screamed the Legion, wailing and gnashing its collective teeth.

“Oh! Oh dear.” Catherine did not know what else to say. “If you are indeed referring to a certain
unmentionable
kind of woman of Babylon, then I can say with all surety that I have not the slightest notion what you mean—”

In reply, came the most terrible roaring and screeching that Catherine could ever imagine.

“Stop it!” she cried over their din, raising her hands to cover her ears. “Upon my word, I do
not
have the Whore of Babylon, or
anything
of Babylon, and even if I did, I would never surrender it to you! Once and for all, leave me alone, you horrid things!”

And just as Catherine finished speaking, there was suddenly a great, almost
familiar
flapping of wings. . . . 

Through the open window it came, hurtling out of the sky—not a dragon, as she initially thought, but a familiar great flying monstrous fowl, with white and gray plumage and a ferocious honk which rose over the demonic din like a single piercing, mighty foghorn.

The Brighton Duck!

The monstrous creature circled the stairwell, beating the air like a great palm frond, and effectively fanning away the smoke-darkness filled with contorted demon forms.

It shrieked and honked like a legion of banshees. And under its unbelievable onslaught, the legion of demons wavered. As Catherine stared in amazement, the darkness too started to circle the stairwell like a funnel of soot and smoke, moving faster and faster. . . .

And then, with one last infernal shriek, it struck itself against the walls and went
through
them and was again gone.

The
duck
proudly trumpeted its victory.

“Oh!” Catherine whispered to the monstrous creature. “Goodness, am I ever glad to see you!”

But naturally she had no answer, as the Brighton Duck circled once, twice overhead, the sun glinting against its feather tips. Then, like a cannon ball it flew straight out of the window.

“No one ever knows whence it comes,” mused Catherine wonderingly. “But I am certain it knows
exactly
what it is doing!”

There was now a grand silence in the stairwell. The sun poured in from the outside. The angels floated calmly.

Catherine cleared her throat and again proceeded to the breakfast-parlour.

H
enry was alone at breakfast. His solitary bright angel shimmered like a butterfly pin of spun light from the folds of his cravat and waved delighted greetings to Catherine and her guardians.

Henry’s own immediate comment, a hope of “her having been undisturbed by the tempest,” with an arch reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.

For the world would she not have her weakness suspected. And yet, Catherine was unequal to an absolute falsehood, and had to admit that the wind had kept her awake a little.

“But we have a charming morning after it,” she added, briefly thinking of horrid Legions defeated by monstrous ducks, but desiring to get rid of the subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”

“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?” said Henry, looking at her with an expression hard to describe.

“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”

“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of out-of-doors enjoyment. And, who can tell, in time you may come to love a rose?”

“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather Mamma says I am never within.”

“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of
learning to love
is the thing. Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”

Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the entrance of the general. His smiling compliments announced a happy state of mind, but his gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance her composure.

The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice when they were seated at table. The general was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it to be simple, and proceeded to extol the tea and table settings, noting he might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him.