Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (25 page)

“Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do,” cooed and hissed Isabella. “But everybody has their failing, you know. And everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money.”

Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. “I am very sure,” said she, no longer bothering to be particularly gentle, “that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford.”

Isabella recollected herself. “As to that, my sweet, there cannot be a doubt! Fie! A much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the
desire
of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits—I hate money; if our union produced only fifty pounds a year, I should be satisfied. Ah! my Catherine, it is the long, endless
wait
of two and a half years before your brother can hold the living, that breaks my heart.”

“Yes, my darling Isabella,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “we perfectly see into your heart and understand the present vexation. All must love you the better for such a noble honest affection.”

Catherine’s discomfort continued. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness—and a terror on Catherine’s part, due to what she had yet to divulge to him. How will she ever find the courage and the proper moment to break his heart with the truth?

T
he Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath. And whether it should be the last, was a question to which Catherine listened with a beating heart.

To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.

Her whole happiness seemed at stake while the decision to return or stay was in suspense. And everything good in the world was secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight.

The happy reasons for this extended stay were manifold—first and foremost, Bath had become a delightful place to be this season; in particular, most recently. According to Mr. and Mrs. Allen, all fine society was engrossed in the pursuit of discovering fantastic and mysterious clues to that fantastic and mysterious treasure hoard that was now rumored to equal the value of several royal state treasuries, and to contain the world’s supply of either sapphires or rubies, or possibly both. Eager parties of ladies and gentlemen eschewed balls and other usual entertainments in favor of being engaged in daily scavenger hunts in the Upper and Lower Rooms, in the pump-room, the Edgar’s Buildings, the theatre, the markets, and on practically every street corner and storefront. Even the Regent had been rumored to have been notified and was secretly intending to pay a visit
incognito.
 . . .

In the meantime, the town bookshops had been stripped of every copy of every volume ever written by Mrs. Radcliffe and her literary colleagues, and the lending libraries had a run on all her works by patrons swiftly reserving and withdrawing all editions—with one location witnessing an unfortunate incident that concluded in a duel of honor between a marquis and a baronet, all because of a single remaining unreserved volume of
The Mysteries of Udolpho
which was considered the masterwork and the key to the decryption of the entire grand mystery.

Wherever one went in Bath, quizzing glasses were pointed at inanimate objects on street corners, and erudite gentlemen and ladies wisely commented on every street sign, every statue of a saint, angel, and classical or historic personage, frozen in aspects that were somehow deigned
meaningful.
That figure had its upraised arm pointing at the bell tower; this was surely inclined to the right to indicate the theatre; that one bowing to the ground to suggest, “Dig here!”

And thus they dug—here, there, and everywhere—in planters, around columns and posts, in backyard gardens (cultivating meaningful
root
vegetables—and then simply any roots of any plant that appeared in the least bit guilty of secrets) underneath every spot where a pick or shovel could be made to disturb the earth in response to “Mysterious Warnings.” Gentlemen walking the street no longer carried walking sticks but cleverly designed shovels they could unfold at any opportunity of impending Clue, like an umbrella for sudden precipitation. Ladies were equipped with small hand baskets, and wild random trinkets filled them; “Midnight Bells” being most common, followed closely by turnips, potatoes, carrots, or other edible
roots
.

Mrs. “Clermont” and her daughters were subjected to more daily visitors than they could handle—indeed, a steady relentless stream of perfect strangers coming to call, often at scandalous hours. They were constantly stopped on the streets or interviewed in their own parlor as to the significance of this or that, and their opinion on practically everything. They were introduced to orphans and presented with discreet cowbells. In addition, they each received several dozen marriage proposals, which Mrs. Clermont, an impoverished but genteel widow, found extremely gratifying for all (indeed, she and her spinster daughters were now suddenly all settled in way of impending matrimony to gentlemen of excellent connections, and all within one remarkable season).

A similar wave of attention plagued every lady and gentleman with the initials MW, and in some cases merely with the surname W. And oh, poor Beatrice Foster! How many times must the dear lady prove to practical strangers that she was
not
something or another; and if she was
not,
then surely she must know someone who
was,
or
is
—whatever
that
is or is not, or was or was not
^[21]
. In particular had she resisted being thought the “Necromancer of the Black Forest” which, to put it plain, was entirely unseemly.

Two local orphanages became exceedingly popular, and the children were quizzed and examined, and inquiries were made as far as their Germanic origin. Indeed, the headmasters and proprietors soon recognized the advantage, and suddenly every darling child was discovered to be an “Orphan of the Rhine.”

One gentleman of poor hearing took the above notion to an unfortunate extreme, and made relentless inquiries at the selfsame orphanages, as to whether there were any rye fields in the neighborhood, and if any of the dear orphans had been discovered “in the rye.”

A certain Lord Wolfe was driven to distraction by inquiries as to whether he had the right to an ancestral title of “Wolfenbach”—and if so, if it had for its symbol a toothy grand wolf—and whether he owned a hoary castle somewhere in Austria; and if so, if it was called the “Castle of Wolfenbach.” Meanwhile, various fine dining establishments made a point of emphasizing that they served
cow,
and fresh
milk,
and that the beef and dairy had indeed come from the grassy
cow
-teeming fields and green
cow
-overrun glades surrounding the “Castle of Wolfenbach”—with or without the blessing of Lord Wolfe and his supposed bovine-or-wolf-infested family.

A clever lady proposed that “Horrid Mysteries” indicated HM and was a secret royal treasure designator. An overly clever gentleman insisted that MB, the initials of “Midnight Bell,” were to be reversed as BM, which indicated a certain bodily function not to be mentioned in polite society (but eagerly to be analyzed and poked and prodded—to pardon the putrid pun—in less sensitive company at the private clubs).

Indeed, things had generated to the point of being delightful to the extreme, and Mr. Allen and Mrs. Allen both had acquired a new fascination with all of it.

Thus, they all had to stay in Bath. How could they
not
stay, when the whole world was now
here,
running around in search of wonderfully amusing secret clues, or looking overhead to quiz the heavens for a glimpse of flying dragons?

Oh dear! And all of it is my fault,
thought Catherine.
If only I had not divulged my silly thoughts on those horrid clues to Mr. Thorpe who then shared them with so many—

In that additional time allotted to their visit here, our heroine herself had other more serious intentions. Secrets of the Udolpho Code to be unraveled were splendid in themselves. But Catherine was also hoping to gather enough courage to address her brother and have a discussion about certain
unnatural
and dangerous cold-front-inducing females who in reality were not lovely beauties but leathery stick-like scarecrows, with hay for hair, angular frightful countenances and bright yellow eyes—not to mention, with infernal ogre brothers. . . .

But every time Catherine found herself alone with James, she felt tongue-tied, and no words would come out. How to even begin to describe her reasons for the evil of this engagement without describing her ability to
see
angels and demons and everything else? In addition, despite everything wicked she knew about the naphil, she genuinely pitied Isabella. And so Catherine experienced agonies of guilt with every passing day.

What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the fright of talking to James and the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine’s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James’s engagement had given her certain
notions,
she had got so far as to indulge in a secret “perhaps.” But in general, the felicity of being with Mr. Tilney for the present bounded her views—the present was now comprised in another three weeks of happiness, while the future was too remote to excite interest.

In the course of the morning, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. But no sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen’s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father’s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week.

Here was a blow! Catherine’s countenance fell. In a small voice she echoed Miss Tilney, “By the end of another week!”

“Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters a fair trial. He is now in a hurry to get home.”

“I am very sorry for it,” said Catherine dejectedly; “if I had known this before—”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, “you would be so good—it would make me very happy if—”

The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine hoped might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, “Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?”

“I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.”

“Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,” he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, “has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday. My presence is wanted at home; and disappointed in my hope of seeing some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And but for you, we should leave it without regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and
treasure
hunting and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire?”

The general then added, “I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours—If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. ’Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; neither amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending. Yet nothing shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.”

Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine’s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy.

Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and wonderful was generously implied. And her acceptance, hinging only on parental approbation, was eagerly given. “I will write home directly,” said she, “I dare say they will not object—”

Meanwhile, General Tilney had already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction. “Since they can consent to part with you,” said he, “we may expect success.”

Miss Tilney was gently earnest in her secondary civilities, and in a few minutes the affair became nearly settled.

Catherine’s morning had started with uncertainty but now was safely lodged in perfect bliss. With spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter.

Mr. and Mrs. Morland felt no doubt of the propriety of entrusting their daughter on this new fine acquaintance; and their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire was sent by return post. This indulgence completed her conviction of being
favoured
beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance—and of course angelic oversight and guidance.

Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of the Allens she had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings and preferences were reciprocated. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it.