Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (18 page)

“Oh dear . . .”
Clarence sighed into Catherine’s right ear.

Catherine began to cough.

“But it is not all,” she said, recovering. “There is another possible method of decrypting the code—the novel titles themselves could be descriptive clues to things, for example, ‘Midnight Bell’ may indicate an actual mysterious bell somewhere in Bath that either rings at a certain very
particular
time or is located
near
the treasure, or is a clue leading
to
it—”

“That’s it! The bell tower! Blazes, yes! It could be the place to go look, first!” Thorpe was at this point roaring so loudly that on the sidewalk passerby turned to look in their direction.

“Now, some of these are more obscure than others,” said Catherine. “Indeed, I am not entirely certain of ‘Clermont’—”

“Clermont? Nonsense, I am certain as all Hades!” interrupted Thorpe. “It is none other than Mrs. Clermont and her daughters! You know the family, Isabella, father’s an older daft fellow; daughters are passable—”

“There is—uhm—‘Necromancer of the Black Forest’—” James dared to join the decryption discourse for the first time.

“N-O-T-B-F,” muttered Isabella in a modulating voice, pronouncing each capital letter in a higher tone.

“N-O-T-B-F!” repeated Thorpe, bellowing in return. “That one is easy! The easiest ever! NOT BF! Who is BF? That’s ‘Not Beatrice Foster!’ Lady Beatrice Foster it is!”

“But it is
‘not’,
” said Catherine.

“Well of course it is
not,
that is—it
is,
I mean, blazes!”

“But if it is
not
Lady Foster, then why mention her in a Clue in the first place?”

“Aha, but I have it all here, Miss Morland!—the Clue clearly states that it is not Beatrice Foster because it simply has to be in fact
her brother,
the baronet! The Clue points at him, verily screams! I am willing to bet fifty pounds on it!”

“Well, I dare say it is possible.”

“Not just possible, but very likely, and a firm guarantee! As plain as day! Absolutely sterling to the pound!”

“Then how would you solve ‘Orphan of the Rhine’?”

“Same exact way! Not some poor beady-eyed waif, I say, but O-O-T-R—”

“Wait, I have it! You must move the letters around for this one,” Catherine interrupted him in turn. “Surely it must then be ‘R-O-O-T’?”

“Yes! A
root
vegetable! Verily a potato, Miss Morland!”

“And why not a carrot or a turnip?” considered Isabella.

“Who says not?” Thorpe roared. “It is clearly all root vegetables! Every one of them, roots! Potatoes, turnips, carrots, rutabagas, horseradishes! What else is there, help me out, Bella, Morland, Miss Morland!”

At that point the conversation deteriorated even further into monosyllabic spellings out of various combinations of arcane first letters, with Thorpe yelling out new possible Clues every few seconds and waving his whip about with one hand, while narrowly missing the horse and his own sister at least upon two occasions.

They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place, without ceasing this exchange. Thorpe talked to his fair companion, his sister, her partner, even his horse. And Catherine eventually ceased listening and meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. Clues of her own—marvelous, arcane, perfectly sensible yet utterly romantic—danced in her imagination to shape her own private version of the true Udolpho Code. . . .

As they entered Argyle Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion, “Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?”

“Who? Where?”

“On the right—she is almost out of sight now.”

Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother’s arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her!

“Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe,” she impatiently cried; “it is Miss Tilney! How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them.”

But Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot. The Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place.

During the length of several streets, Catherine entreated him continually to stop. But Mr. Thorpe only laughed in a subdued roar, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises even for an ogre, and drove on. Catherine, angry and vexed, had no means of escape, and was obliged to give up.

Her reproaches, however, were not spared. “How
could
you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I would ten thousand times rather get out and walk back to them! How could you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?”

Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life.

But now their drive was entirely disagreeable. Catherine listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort towards which she still looked with pleasure. Though, she would willingly have given up all its imagined delights—a long suite of lofty rooms, the remains of magnificent furniture, for many years deserted; narrow, winding vaults; low, grated doors; even having their
only
lamp extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and being left in total darkness—eschew all of this to regain the Tilneys’ approbation.

In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland behind them, made Thorpe pull up.

Morland said, “We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, little more than seven miles, with at least eight more to go. We set out too late. Best to put it off till another day, and turn round.”

“It is all one to me,” bellowed Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath.

“If your brother had not got such a d——d beast to drive,” said he in a blast of heat, “we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own.”

“No, he is not,” said Catherine warmly (while the angels rejoiced), “for I am sure he could not afford it.”

“And why cannot he afford it?”

“Because he has not money enough.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Nobody’s, that I know of.”

Thorpe then said something in his usual loud, incoherent roar, about its being a d—— thing to be miserly;
that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could
, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder if he were rather out of his mind from all the preoccupation with
treasure
and henceforth, money and costs and being able to afford or not afford things—

Furthermore, deprived of her only remaining consolation, Blaize Castle, Catherine was even less disposed to be agreeable. And they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.

As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off. When he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her. On his saying no, she did not leave a card.

Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs, accompanied by tender consolatory firefly lights of the angels. She was met by Mr. Allen, who said, “I am glad your brother had the sense to have you all come back. It was a strange, wild scheme.”

T
hey all spent the evening together at Thorpe’s. Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits.

But Isabella seemed to find private partnership with Morland a very good equivalent for the quiet country air of Clifton, and satisfaction in not being at the Lower Rooms.

“How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball or not!” And Isabella went on delightfully to charge James with longing to attend—no one here was preventing him!—in the shrillest and yet most dulcet tones imaginable.

Catherine could have accused Isabella in turn, of being wanting in sympathies towards herself and her sorrows. But then, oh dear, whatever
was
she expecting? This was a heartless naphil!

Why was it so easy for Catherine to forget all the time? Prehaps it was indeed a supernaturally difficult matter to maintain this clear true
vision,
to unwaveringly continue to
see
Isabella’s true inner self. Was Catherine faltering in her sight? Or was she simply unwilling to continuously think ill of someone she knew as a friend, for the first time in her life?

“Oh, do not be so dull, my dearest creature,” Isabella whispered meanwhile. “You will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but the Tilneys were
entirely
to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, but I am sure John and I should not have minded it for the sake of dear friends. Oh! Good heavens! What a delightful hand of cards you have got!”

C
atherine was out and away from their residence well before midnight, once again cleverly avoiding any horrible encounter with not one but two nephilim guardian demons.

But at Pulteney Street, the only thing awaiting our heroine was the sleepless couch—the true heroine’s portion—and a pillow strewed with thorns and, possibly, wet with tears . . .

Oh, for heaven’s sake! In truth, there were no thorns, but a goodly number of angels who perched in the curtains and on the dresser, and softly sang our entirely tearless heroine into a sound sleep.

“M
rs. Allen,” said Catherine the next morning, “will there be any harm in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have explained everything.”

“Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always wears white. Also, Mrs. Hughes says that
white muslin
is also a clue to that hidden treasure—at least according to Lady Raleigh, who was informed by Mrs. Sands—”

Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, hurried to be at the pump-room, in order to ascertain General Tilney’s lodgings.

To Milsom Street she was directed, and hastened away with an eager beating heart to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be forgiven. She practically flew through the church-yard, resolutely turning away her eyes so as not to be obliged to see her beloved Isabella and her dear family, freezing a shop nearby.

She reached the house without any impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for Miss Tilney.

She was told Miss Tilney
might
be at home. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her card.

In a few minutes the servant returned, with a strange look and said he had been mistaken—Miss Tilney was out.

Catherine left, with a blush of mortification. She felt almost certain that Miss Tilney
was
at home, but too much offended to admit her.

As she retired down the street, she looked back at the house. And then she saw Miss Tilney herself issuing from the door, followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father. They turned up towards Edgar’s Buildings.

Catherine, in deep mortification, proceeded on her way. She was almost angry herself at such incivility; but checked her resentment, aware only of her own profound ignorance of the laws of worldly politeness.

“Take heart, dear child! Courage!”
the angels whispered.

Dejected and humbled, she considered not going with the others to the theatre that night, but soon recollected there was no real excuse for staying at home. And, besides, it was a play she wanted very much to see.

To the theatre accordingly they all went. No Tilneys appeared to plague or please her, only crowds of theatre-goers all speaking rather volubly of
secret clues
and
hidden treasure.

Oh dear,
thought Catherine.

In addition, she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the Tilney family, a fondness for plays was not to be ranked. Perhaps it was because they were used to the finer performances of the London stage, which—on Isabella’s authority—rendered everything else of the kind “quite horrid”—though, not in the delightful Udolpho sense.

Catherine was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure. Indeed, the theatre was a wonder, and oh! there were so many angels! As thousands of golden candle flames they floated in the dark expanse over everyone’s heads, even after the lights dimmed—a heavenly wonder to which no one but Catherine was witness. And the comedy itself so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during the first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about her.