Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (27 page)

A
few days passed, and Catherine, could not help watching Isabella closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.

Catherine knew that she alone was
seeing
her same, true, frightful monster self where others could only see an enchanted delightful veneer (the men, in particular). And yet, even the usual sallow stick-scarecrow at the heart of the
illusion
was now different somehow—more inward drawn, more emaciated perhaps?

When she saw Isabella, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so
subtle,
so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A languid indifference, an absence of mind, would occasionally come across her.

But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions as readily as they were offered, and according him almost an equal share of her notice and smiles as James, the alteration became undeniable. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct? Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting—granted, Catherine
wanted
this pain, did she not?—but James was the sufferer. Oh, it was unbearable!

She saw him grave and uneasy. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. For the sake of Henry, his better brother, she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment.

For, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but anything more was her misapprehension.

Catherine was determined to at least remind Isabella of her engaged situation for propriety’s sake (at least for now—no commitment must be broken until she had her fateful revelation talk with James), but seemed to find no opportunity for it either. Isabella appeared impervious to hints.

In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became our heroine’s chief consolation. Their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own.

But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing. He was not to accompany them to Northanger, he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine learned this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.

“My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.

“Does he? Then why does he stay here?”

He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly.”

Henry smiled. “I am sure my brother would not wish it.”

“Then you will persuade him to go away?”

“I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”

“No, he does
not
know what he is about!” cried Catherine, while at least three angels rose up in anxious flurries of light and moved from her to Mr. Tilney, then back again. “He does not know the pain he is giving my brother. I
know
James is very uncomfortable.”

“And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”

“Yes, very sure.”

“Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s admission of them, that gives the pain?”

“Is not it the same thing?”

“I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves. It is the woman only who can make it a torment.”

Catherine blushed for her
unnatural
so-called friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment—well, not exactly, that is, considering what she
is,
she
could
—I mean, oh dear—” Catherine stopped, realizing in alarm that she almost confessed Isabella’s true nature to Mr. Tilney—a notion rather disastrous since it would have certainly led her to divulge certain other supernatural things to him, including things about
herself
. And she was not ready to do such a thing at all.

Changing her words, she continued, “Isabella is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, always at his side—”

“I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”

“Oh, no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another—could she?”

Henry’s look was again rather unfathomable. “It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little.”

After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”

“I can have no opinion on that subject.”

“But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he
mean
by his
behaviour?
”

“You are a very close questioner.”

“Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”

“But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”

“Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”

“My brother’s heart, I assure you I can only guess at.”

This oddly compelling exchange continued until Henry admitted to his brother being upon occasion thoughtless, and Catherine inquired why General Tilney did not intervene.

“My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry at last, “this solicitude for your brother’s comfort is amiable. But, are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you for supposing her affection, or good behaviour, is only to be secured by her never seeing Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else?”

Perceiving her still doubtful and grave, he added, “Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will remain but a very short time, only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. There, all will be forgotten.”

Catherine was at last comforted. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for her fears, and resolved not to think on it again until she and James had occasion to have the
talk
.

Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness. James was in excellent spirits; Isabella engagingly placid, and only as chill as a summer day along one of the Poles. The heartfelt embraces, tears, and promises of their parting may only be imagined.

M
r. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been rather unwittingly increased—in chief, the blame for the delightful condition of Bath society given over to the pursuit of
secrets
and
treasure
could be laid at her feet (by way of a rather industrious tongue of John Thorpe).

Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise. They were to remain only one more week in Bath themselves, despite the charm of dragon sightings, cryptic root vegetables, quaint tinkling bells—some of the latter even recovered from the very water itself in the pump-room, etc. Her quitting them now would not long be felt.

Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends.

But so great was Catherine’s happy agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was she of not doing exactly what was right, or losing their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with Mr. Allen to Pulteney Street.

Catherine refrained from talking to angels out of sheer nerves, even though they settled among the table settings, and soared from dish to dish in her vicinity, making gentle suggestions to compose her manners.
“You are managing wonderfully well, dear child, only do watch that sauce dish directly above your elbow—oh dear . . .”

Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her unpleasant feelings (and guilt over spilled sauce). But still she was far from being at ease.

Nor could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she might have felt
less
discomposure had she been less attended to by such an
imposing
man as himself. His anxiety for her comfort—continual solicitations that she eat, often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste—though never in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor.

Catherine felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it. She nervously voiced inanities to Lawrence or Clarence, belatedly coughed into a napkin to disguise her mutterings, and was in such poor form that even Miss Tilney gave her comforting looks.

Her tranquility was not improved by the general’s impatience for the appearance of his eldest son—nor by his displeasure at Captain Tilney’s laziness when he at last came down. The severity of fatherly reproof seemed disproportionate to the offence. Her concern deepened when she found herself the principal cause of the lecture; his tardiness, a sign of disrespect to her. This placed her in a very uncomfortable situation. Soon, she felt great sympathy for Captain Tilney.

He listened to his father in silence, attempting no defense. Catherine feared this was an inquietude of his mind on Isabella’s account; sleeplessness over her being the cause of his rising late.

It was the first time she found herself in his company (as opposed to being an observer in passing), and now she hoped to be able to form her opinion of him. But she scarcely heard his voice while his father remained in the room. Even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she could distinguish only his whisper to Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are all off.”

T
he bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour.

His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his son. Catherine glanced at it in passing, oddly reminded of a grand wingspan of an ancient airborne
creature,
and thought for a moment that she saw a glitter of metallic scales. . . .

Upon my word,
said Catherine to herself,
now I am being entirely nonsensical. And we have not even embarked to Udolpho yet—that is, to Northanger
 . . .

The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit. So much was the general influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into the street.

At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females. They set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles—such was the distance of Northanger from Bath, to be divided into two equal stages.

Catherine’s spirits revived as they drove from the door. For, with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint. And, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret of any of its hidden treasures, and only anticipation of horrid wonders ahead.

The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without anything to see or even
decrypt
, next followed. Her admiration of their travel style; the fashionable chaise and four—postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, numerous outriders properly mounted—sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience.

Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing. But General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children’s spirits. Scarcely anything was said but by himself. His discontent at whatever the inn afforded, his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into a horrid four (though, horrid not in the happy Udolpho sense).