Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (15 page)

T
he Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre. As Catherine and Isabella sat together, here was an opportunity for the latter to utter the many thousand things which had been collecting within her.

“Oh, heavens! My beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?” was her address on Catherine’s entering the box and sitting by her. “Now, Mr. Morland,” for he was close to her on the other side, “I shall not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening.”

And then Isabella proceeded to regale Catherine with inquiry-styled commentary that neither begged nor allowed a response, but consisted of gusts of ice-cold air and screeching praise of her hairstyle, dress and appearance, insinuations that John Thorpe was besotted with her, and inquiries as to the whereabouts of the elusive Mr. Tilney who was obviously the most delightful man in the world and perfectly attached to Catherine, and where in the world was he, and could Catherine see him in the theatre?

“No,” said Catherine, shivering, “he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere.”

“Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my gown?” And Isabella raised her voice in amazing modulations distinguished only by Catherine and the angels in the vicinity who rose up in startled flocks with great frequency whenever she reached a certain pitch.

“Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions.”

“But what about the secret hidden treasure? Do you not want to say here long enough to discover it?” Catherine artlessly spoke her mind, while pulling her wrap closer about her for desperate warmth against the polar freezing atmosphere. “I thought that was the primary object of your visit here? That is, Mr. Thorpe mentioned that there were hidden clues—”

“Oh heavens! Whatever do you mean, dearest? However did you hear that? What has my very
silly
brother said to you?” Isabella’s voice went from screeching to hollow and scraping, and her sallow countenance turned even more unhealthy and possibly bluish-green, while her yellow eyes glowed a veritable chartreuse.

“Oh! Well, I simply inquired what he was going on about at the ball the other day—I overheard Mr. Thorpe conversing
with himself,
and he admitted he was apparently very interested in discovering the whereabouts of this treasure; and for that matter James was too—”

“James! Goodness, how does James know about it? Could it be possible, has John told this silly
nonsense
to everyone in Bath?”

“Well, apparently so, for it is spoken of plainly on the streets, and Mrs. Allen mentioned it; I believe Mrs. Hughes talked about it the other day; or maybe not—”

Isabella looked as if she were about to collapse in a faint, or use her rapidly fluttering fan as an implement of murder.

“Well!” she said after a few moments, seeming to recover. “Upon my word, this is indeed an interesting development. My
dearest
brother has been very loose with his tongue, and we must now make the best of it.”

“I am sorry if it were intended to be a great secret,” said Catherine. “But I truly could not help overhearing—”

“Oh, my darling, never mind, and it
is
perfectly dear of you to be intrigued with this. Indeed, now that you know about this silly little secret, we can speak of it freely, and—” here Isabella’s voice rose into a particularly high screech—“perchance you can even help me discover the secret clues! Yes! We will have a splendid time!”

Catherine was somewhat relieved that she did not have to withhold her awareness of this particular subject from Isabella any longer, for she had felt dreadfully uncomfortable when Thorpe had divulged it under such dire threats to secrecy.

“Since it is not such a secret any longer,” said Catherine, “maybe we will indeed discover it and decrypt the clues. Mr. Thorpe did say that it had something to do with
Udolpho
or Mrs. Radcliffe’s other novels?”

Isabella’s yellow eyes were lit with greedy excitement. “Why yes, dear Catherine! We—John and I that is, no one else knows about it—we believe the clues lie within the novels, possibly in the titles of the novels themselves! Remember I had given you a list of those titles that absolutely must be read? They are in fact not written by Mrs. Radcliffe (which John constantly forgets), but they are all the same kind of novel.”

“Yes, I remember avidly! I adore
Udolpho
and all the horrid things described, the black veil—oh!”

Catherine stopped, remembering the angels’ warning.

“So you
do
want to know what is on the other side of the black veil?” said Isabella with a crafty wicked gleam.

“No! That is, I think I can tell you, I am certain I can, but—oh! Do remind me of the titles again!” Catherine had enough presence of mind to redirect the question.

“Why yes, I do have them memorized at this point.” Isabella was quickly engaged and began to recite: “They are:
The Mysteries of Udolpho, Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine,
and
Horrid Mysteries
.”

“Thank you. Now let me think upon them a bit,” said Catherine. “Perchance indeed I will come upon the unraveling of this—this
Udolpho Code.
”

“Ah, you are a wonder, my dearest Catherine, and what a splendid name for it too, ‘The Udolpho Code!’ It has such a fierce horrid ring to it!”

And Isabella—having delegated this fierce and immense responsibility for a labor of thought to her dearest friend—smiled, radiated a strong puff of freezing air, and then turned around and talked the rest of the evening to James.

C
atherine’s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next morning. And till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention.

But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events took place.

Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day, compare the accounts of their newspapers, and remark upon the rumors of some kind of monstrous creature that had assailed
someone
on a drive, supposedly some gentlemen and ladies out on a pleasure excursion. There was mention of a certain infernal thing known as the Brighton Duck; and then it was concluded absolutely inconceivable, to have such an attack in broad daylight. Besides—a gentleman imparted additional facts—the creature seen had been at least the size of a bullock, or maybe even an elephant, or quite possibly larger. . . .

It was at such juncture that another gentleman suggested an even more inconceivable option—that the creature, airborne as it was, was none other than a
dragon;
likely an African dragon, or possibly hailing from the Australian continent. Obviously it was not native and had flown all across the ocean and arrived in haste here in Bath, possibly due to inclement weather, or—

And in that moment everyone had ceased wondering. For it came to all that the single best
reason
why a semi-legendary, nearly extinct, and altogether foreign creature such as a dragon might show up here in Bath was to uncover and appropriate a hoard of treasure.

By Jove, that had to be it!
It was common speculation that dragons sniffed out treasure, collected it, and fervently guarded it whenever possible.

“Bah! I knew it; we have got us a hoard somewhere!” an elderly gentleman exclaimed, brandishing his walking stick. And immediately all political discussion expired and there was only talk of
secret clues
.

In the meantime, the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her ice-bearing friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position on the other side.

Separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time. Catherine began to sense that being confined entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, with such whispering voices and laughter (undeterred by the arctic cold that surrounded Miss Thorpe), that Catherine’s opinion was not heeded, though frequently called for by one or the other.

At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined.

Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and angels soared from one to the other with an abundance of brightness. They continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room, speaking nothing new, yet with uncommon simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit.

“How well your brother dances!” Catherine artlessly exclaimed, surprising and amusing her companion.

“Henry!” she replied with a smile. “Yes, he does dance very well.”

“He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really
had
been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe.”

Miss Tilney could only bow.

“You cannot think,” added Catherine after a moment’s silence, “how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away.”

“When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath briefly, only to engage lodgings for us.”

“That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone.”

And then Catherine and Miss Tilney shared a few more pleasant comments.

“He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?”

“Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father.”

Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,” said Catherine. “Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?”

“Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall.”

“I am glad of it, for we shall all be there.” This civility was duly returned; and they parted—on Miss Tilney’s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance’s feelings.

Catherine went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation. Thoughts of reading
Udolpho
or decrypting secret clues were farther from her mind than usual (though occasionally she did allow the
titles
of the other horrid novels to sliver into her imagination, whirl around briefly, and rise up as delightful specters to engage her).

What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. Catherine knew very well it was frivolous; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and only time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.

This would have been an error in judgment, from which someone of the opposite sex might have warned her—for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. The heart of man is little affected by fashion.
^[18]
Woman is finely attired for her own satisfaction alone.

She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid him, lest he should engage her again—even if he
were
to mumble tantalizing hints about treasure and clues.

For though she dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centered in nothing less.

Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone
ogre-like
whom they wished to avoid. And all have been anxious for the attentions of someone
amiable
whom they wished to please.

As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine’s agony began. She fidgeted about and hid herself as much as possible from John Thorpe’s
infernal
view, and, when he spoke to her, pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.

Even the several angels she daringly sent on a mission of discovery soon flitted back to inform her that Mr. Tilney was not directly in sight. Catherine could only sigh in regret and gently thank the heavenly beings while coughing into her fan.