Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (36 page)

“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”

“It is only a quarter past four” (showing his watch); “and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for, no clandestine roots to collect amid bells and orphans. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough.”

She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained—though her head was spinning with myriad conflicting emotions. But dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him.

They walked slowly up the gallery. “Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”

“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.”

“Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?”

“No.”

“It has been your own doing entirely?”

Catherine said nothing. Only her heart beat painfully.

After a short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, “As there is nothing in the room
in itself
to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character, as described by Eleanor. The world never saw a better woman. But the merits of an unknown person do not often prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”

“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so
suddenly
” (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your
father,
I thought—perhaps had not been very
fond
of her. But I am sure now I was
wrong!
”

“And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), “you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence”—(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of something still less pardonable.”

She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. She wanted to negate, deny, excuse herself—
anything
. She wanted to admit all that she now knew, and the
manner
of knowing it—the wonder, the
truth
of it. And yet—

“My mother’s illness,” he continued, “the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.”

“But your father,” said Catherine, “was
he
afflicted?”

“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He
loved
her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to, and one day I might speak of his affection in detail, and more
plainly,
but now—I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, for he is a
complicated
man. But though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere. And he was truly and
permanently
afflicted by her death.”

“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very shocking—but I
do
understand now—”

“And if in turn I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained! What have you been judging from? Were you looking here also for your silly Udolpho Clues? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. We do not slay dragons nor do we slay our wives!”

Catherine wanted to speak, but verily could not.

“Consult your own understanding,” he went on, “your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our
education
prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws? Could evil be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?”

Evil in secret code can be perpetrated under one’s nose,
Catherine thought—the least innocent thought of her life.

They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame, of
experience,
she ran off to her own room.

But here was to be no peace—Catherine distinctly heard a now extremely familiar, extremely horrid, and extremely poorly-timed sound of humming, of a million angry bees.

Roiling
darkness
swept into her apartment as she opened her door. Screeching contorted shapes of the Legion screamed at her, while angels formed their steadfast battle line in-between.

But Catherine almost ignored both the angels and demons in her room.

She stood instead motionless, tears pouring down her face, surrounded by a maelstrom of darkness and light.

“GIVVE USSS THE WHOOORREE OF BABYLOOON!” resumed the darkness.

In reply, Catherine bawled. Huge tears cascaded down her face, and she pulled out a handkerchief to blow her nose loudly, and entirely unlike a lady, narrowly missing striking a whirling demon’s forked appendage with her effort.

“Dearest child, take courage, we are always here at your side,” spoke the angels in bright voices.

Catherine bawled louder, sniffling tremendously, and went to her small clothes chest to look for another handkerchief. To do that, she had to walk directly
through
the middle of the swirling demon hive, and involuntarily it parted before her, scattering itself widely around the room—while Catherine went through piles of clothing, and threw occasional ribbons, pieces of muslin, lace, satin, and other fabric at the demons—all quite unintentionally.

“GIVVE USSS THE WHOOORREE OF BABYLOOON!” shrieked the Legion, not least of it for the fact that it was now
wallowing
in ribbons, parts of it wrapped up in muslin and lace.

“NO!” Catherine replied suddenly, ceasing to cry.

She swallowed her tears, straightened to her full height, and then said, in a strange
new
voice of power: “BEGONE!”

The screeching, wailing, howling—all of it ceased. The sound was torn off as though by a veil of silence. Everything stopped moving; the black smoke congealed, and froze. They stared at her with myriad burning, infernal eyes.

And then the Legion was
gone
.

Just like that; and this time, for good.

In its place, all that remained was a pile of ribbons, discarded fabric, and one decidedly soggy handkerchief.

T
he visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened, and she was swept in tragedy.

Henry’s short address had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done.

Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. She was sunk, not only with herself, but with Henry. Her folly was exposed to him, and he must despise her forever.

The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—oh, it made entirely no difference if the general did not seem to have an angel! Really, could Henry ever forgive her, or forget the absurdity of her curiosity and her fears? She hated herself more than she could express.

He had—she
thought
he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like
affection
for her. But now—

In short, Catherine made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor’s inquiry if she was well.

The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room. And the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it.

The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquility. The twelve angels watching over her spread about the room and glittered sweetly like jewels—in drapery, tablecloths, and among the sleeves of those present.

Catherine did not learn either to forget or defend the past. But she learned to hope that it would never, ever,
never, ever
NEVER transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry’s entire regard. Her thoughts were fixed on what she had done, and clearly it had been all a voluntary, self-created and
self-perpetuated supernatural invasion
. Not a
delusion
—no, all the demons and ghosts and creatures had been entirely
real
.

But they did not
have
to be here at all—they had been called forth, out of the bowels of whatever hell, regardless of time of day or even heavenly constraints, by none other than
herself
. . . .

Called forth and brought here, out of chests and cabinets and walls, in all their strange luridness, to populate and animate the very stones of Northanger Abbey with the force of her
desire
—a desire for the fantastic and the extraordinary, for the romantic and dramatic, for the fearsome and the awe-inspiring.

For the
numinous.

Indeed, here was each trifle imbued with horrid importance by wild imagination, everything influenced by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been
craving to be frightened
.

She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger, searched for signs of mysterious clues in all things, and even invented the Udolpho Code where there was likely none (though, even
now,
some insidious tempting thoughts continued to tantalize Catherine on that notion).

She recognized that the infatuation with terrible Udolpho wonders had been created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, where she had certainly made a mess of things, with John Thorpe as a mere tool for propagating the mayhem.

Oh dear! Whatever those people must still be doing there! Surely they are still looking for treasure clues and digging up the town!
thought Catherine.

But then, the dragons had been real. She had
seen
them, three times at least, it was certain, both here and in Bath, and twice in the presence of witnesses!

So maybe it was indeed not entirely her imagination. . . .

And yet—it seemed as if the rest of it might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged. It was in Bath that Isabella had mentioned the other horrid novels, and encouraged her to consume them until all were exhausted.

Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, it was not in them perhaps that human nature was to be looked for, in England, or beyond the borders. Here was surely some security for the existence even of an unloved wife. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters—only
angel
or
fiend
. But in England it was not so. There was a general mixture of good and bad.

Based on this, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might appear. And thus she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father, who—though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions—was
not
perfectly amiable.

Her mind made up, she resolved to always judge and act in future with the greatest good sense. And now, she need only forgive herself and be happier than ever.

Henry’s astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never alluding to what had passed, was of great assistance to her. Soon, her spirits became absolutely comfortable, and capable of continual improvement by anything he said.

There were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must always tremble—the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance, or a root, bell, German orphan, or even dragon—and then there were
unresolved
things, supernatural
truths
yet unspoken, but she hoped to handle them eventually.