Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (39 page)

S
oon after this, the general was obliged to go to London for a week. He left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him of Miss Morland’s company, and bid his children grant her every amusement.

His departure convinced Catherine that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general’s presence had imposed. She was most thankful for their present release from it.

The resulting ease and delights made her love the place and the two people more and more every day. And if not for a dread of soon having to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would have been perfectly happy.

But she was now in the fourth week of her visit. And perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration. Eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once.

She took the first opportunity of being alone with Eleanor, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor declared herself much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time—if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would not hasten her return.”

Catherine explained: “Oh! Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.”

A brief but happy exchange ensued in which Catherine and Eleanor made it clear that they both wanted Catherine to stay very much longer, and continue her visit.

The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her
importance
with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without.

She did—almost always—
believe
that Henry
loved
her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them. And believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations.

Henry was unable to obey his father’s injunction and remain wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London. The duties of his curate at Woodston obliged him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights.

The loss of his company was not now what it had been while the general was at home. It lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort. The two girls found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s departure.

They had just reached the head of the stairs, with a garland of angel “lamps” cheerfully illuminating the way for Catherine’s inner vision, when it seemed (as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge), that a carriage was driving up to the door. And the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. “Good heaven! What can be the matter?”

After the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, Eleanor decided it had to be her eldest brother. And accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.

Catherine walked on to her chamber, preparing herself for a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and hoping their meeting to be not entirely painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; that he was ashamed of the part he had acted. As long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she could behave to him very civilly.

In such considerations time passed. Eleanor had to be most glad to see him, with so much to say, for it was half an hour since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.

At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for it; but all was silent. However, the noise of
something
moving close to her door made her start (oh dear! Udolpho mysteries momentarily rushed into Catherine’s fertile mind but she firmly denied herself that path of thought). And in another moment a slight motion of the
lock
proved that some hand must be on it.

She trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously, but was resolved not to be again overcome by trivial alarm, or misled by a raised imagination. She stepped quietly forward, and opened the door.

Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however, were calmed but for an instant. For, Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. She intended to come in, but was almost reluctant to enter the room, or to speak.

Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account, expressed her concern by silent attention. She obliged Eleanor to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude.

“My dear Catherine, you must not—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such an errand!”

“Errand! To me!”

“How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!”

Even Eleanor’s angel floated dejectedly, like a solitary waning candle flame overhead.

A new idea now stunned Catherine. Turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”

“You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my
father
himself.”

Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name. His unexpected return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s heart sink. For a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything worse to be told.

She said nothing. Eleanor collected herself and, with eyes still cast down, went on. “You are too good to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed between us—how joyfully!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many weeks longer, how can I tell you this?—But—My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has
recollected
an
engagement
that takes our whole family away on Monday. Explanation and apology are equally impossible.”

“My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended. I can finish my visit here at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this, come to Fullerton?”

“It will not be in my power, Catherine.”

A very strange weight started to settle on Catherine. “Come when you can, then,” she tried, feeling something amiss.

Eleanor made no answer.

Catherine mused aloud, “Monday—and you all go. Well, I suppose I need not go till just before you do. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general will send a servant with me, half the way—and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, then only nine miles till home.”

“Ah, Catherine! Were it were so, it would be somewhat less intolerable! But—how can I tell you?—tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us. Not even the hour is left to your choice! The carriage is ordered. It will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered you.”

Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless.

“I could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it,” continued Eleanor. “And no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at this moment, can be more than I myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double distance from your home—to have you driven out of the house, without even decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult. Yet, I trust you will acquit me—for you must have been long enough in
this house
to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, my real power is nothing.”

“Have I offended the general?” said Catherine in a faltering voice.

“Alas! All that I know is that you can have given him
no just cause
of offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His
temper
is not happy.
Something
has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree. Some disappointment, some unknown vexation!”

Catherine could only attempt to speak for Eleanor’s sake. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very little consequence.”

“I earnestly hope that to your real safety it will be of none. But to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease. But a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age,
alone,
unattended!”

“Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think of it. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later makes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Catherine spoke bravely then, like a true heroine.

Eleanor saw that she wished to be alone. “I shall see you in the morning.”

Catherine’s swelling heart indeed needed relief. In her friend’s presence, pride and friendship had restrained her tears. But no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in torrents.

The twelve angels surrounding her with their sweet radiance, were hardly enough to refill the empty vessel of her heart—indeed she needed dozens more!

And as Catherine wept, the guardians of heaven came, more and more of them, from every direction, through shuttered windows and walls, through drapery and ceiling, floating down gently like snowflakes of luminosity—until Catherine felt herself in a field of angelic brightness, the centerpiece of a radiant glowing flower made of pure otherworldly light. . . .

Catherine’s heart was thus gentled, but her stunned bewilderment remained.

To be turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason or apology that could justify the abrupt rudeness, nay, the insolence of it!

Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope or expectation from him suspended—and who could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again?

And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous.
He has no angel of his own,
Catherine reminded herself.
There must be sufficient reasons for this!

Indeed, the manner in which it was done was so grossly uncivil—hurrying her away without allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her traveling—as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to
see
her!

What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means she must have offended him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe that anything could provoke such ill-will against a person unless there was a solid reason for it.

The night passed heavily. Sleep was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers.

Yet how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully superior in reality and substance! No Legion of demons filled the darkness, no ghostly sighs, breaths, or moans resounded—not even hiccups!—not, furthermore, even those abysmally tedious chains (ever since her communication with the ghost of Mrs. Tilney, she had ceased hearing them, realized Catherine). The chest and cabinet stood dead to any supernatural presences. No mystical Capital Letters appeared carved on wood or scrawled on washing-bills, or stood up in fiery script in the air itself to signify an ancient Udolpho Code.

And there had been decidedly no treasure. Not in Bath, not in Northanger.

The dragons,
thought Catherine,
the dragons came and searched for naught. 
. . . 

And so did I.

Catherine lay awake thus, hour after hour, without curiosity or terror.

S
oon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance where it was possible. But very little remained to be done.

Catherine had not loitered. She was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The possibility of some
conciliatory message
from the general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger should pass away and kind repentance succeed it?

But Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on meeting. Each found her greatest safety in silence, with only few trivial sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs. Catherine in busy agitation completed her dress, and Eleanor, with more goodwill than experience, filled the trunk.