Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (38 page)

One morning he told Henry that when he next went to Woodston, they would take him by surprise there, and eat their mutton with him. Henry was greatly honoured and very happy, and Catherine was quite delighted with the scheme.

“And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure? I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and probably be obliged to stay two or three days.”

The general considered the many options and then said, “On Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us.”

A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than this little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with Woodston. Her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated into the room where she and Eleanor were sitting, and said, “I am come, young ladies, in a very moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for. Because I am to see you at Woodston on Wednesday, I must go away directly, two days before I intended it.”

“Go away!” said Catherine, with a long face. “And why?”

“Why! How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must go and prepare a dinner for you, to be sure.”

“Oh! Not seriously!”

“Aye, and sadly too—for I had much rather stay.”

“But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said? When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble, because anything would do.”

Henry only smiled. “You must know it to be so. Well, I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye. As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall not return.”

He went. And Catherine was left to doubt her own judgment and ponder the inexplicability of the general’s conduct. She already knew he was very particular in his eating, and yet he expected simplicity at Woodston! Why he should say one thing so positively, and mean another all the while? How were people, at that rate, to be understood? Who but Henry could have been aware of what his father was at?

From Saturday to Wednesday, they were now to be without Henry. This was the sad finale of every reflection.

Captain Tilney’s letter would certainly come in his absence; The past, present, and future were all equally in gloom. Her brother so unhappy, and Isabella so odious; and Eleanor’s spirits always affected by Henry’s absence! What was there to interest or amuse her?

She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies—always so smooth and so dry. And the abbey in itself was no more to her now than any other house. The delightful horrors of Udolpho were dissolved, gone away, sunk as though into an old dream. Even the ghosts’ voices seemed to have grown silent, or so remote at night that they were no longer quite distinguishable from the natural wind.

Criminy!
She even missed their silly chains.

And then Catherine sadly realized she had not seen any more dragons. . . .

The painful remembrance of the various breathtaking wonders the abbey had helped to nourish was the only emotion remaining. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who had so longed to be in an
abbey!
Who hungered for the flaming letters of the arcane and secret Udolpho Code!

Now, there was nothing so charming to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!

It did come—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise and four conveyed the two from the abbey. And, after an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant.

Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it—the general seemed to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village. But in her heart she preferred it to any other place, admiring everything they passed.

At the further end of the village stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house. As they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive them.

Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either to observe or to say a great deal. When called on by the general for her opinion of it, she had very little idea, but soon perceived it was the most comfortable room in the world. But she was too guarded to admit it.

The general started to justify the small house due to her perceived coldness of praise. “We are not comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable.”

Catherine did not hear enough to understand it. A tray full of refreshments was introduced by Henry’s servant, and the general was shortly restored to his complacency.

The room in question was handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour. And on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was shown many others. Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general, and expressed her admiration of a specific room with all honest simplicity. “Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!”

“I trust,” said the general, with a most satisfied smile, “it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”

“Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is among the apple trees!”

“You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember. The cottage remains.”

Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s worry, and silenced her directly. She said little more in response to the general’s other such consultations, until it was time to observe the ornamental walk and meadows near the premises.

A saunter into other meadows, an examination of some improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies (oh, how the angels flew and danced among the little ones!), brought them to four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it three. At four they dined (the abundance of dinner did not create the smallest astonishment in the general); at six, set off on their return. Never had any day passed so quickly!

So gratifying had been his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.

T
he next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella:

Bath
, April—

 

My Dearest Catherine
, I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner, but in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifle or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home.

 

Thank God, we leave this
vile
place tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything (what with all the digging of
roots
); and everybody one cares for is gone. Furthermore, there is
no treasure
here. Of that we are now certain. Only many gentlemen with walking-shovels and ladies with bells and potato sacks—all horribly tedious, at this point.

 

I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine, many now incorporating
bells
.

 

I hope you spend your time pleasantly. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know their minds. I rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must mean
Captain Tilney,
who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow.

 

He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest
coxcomb
I ever saw, and amazingly
disagreeable
. The last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even look at him. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a
cold,
or something that
chillingly
affected his spirits.

 

I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone.

 

Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, but made wretched work of it—I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is
your dear brother’s
favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.

 

 

Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella—ashamed of ever
wanting
to love her, despite her nephilim self.

Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty; her demands impudent. “Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”

Catherine was
done,
entirely and irrevocably, with
both
the nephilim.

On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their elder brother’s safety from Isabella, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation.

When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she cried, “and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so. But perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. Among
other things,
she is a vain coquette. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.”

“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.

“There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had unsuccessful designs on Captain Tilney; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?”

“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe.”

“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”

“I am persuaded that he never did.”

“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”

Henry bowed his assent.

“Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?”

“But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose—consequently to have been a
very different creature;
and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment.”

Catherine suddenly wondered if Henry possibly suspected Isabella’s true nephilim nature.

“It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”

“And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe.”

And Catherine fully agreed. And yet, she still felt a momentary pang of regret for that awful, scrawny, screeching, monstrous hollow creature’s sake—regret, worthy of a true heroine’s heart.

Wait, was she not done with the nephilim? Stop it!

Henry continued, as though fully reading her inside and out. “But your mind is warped by an innate principle of
general integrity,
and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”

Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness in regard to her very
first friend
—who, she realized, Isabella had been, in her own twisted way—and she let go, once and for all.

Indeed, that is what had made it so awful, so truly awful: the loss and dismissal of her first friend. But she—who could
see
angels, and demons, and the true visage of the nephilim; and who had managed to see beyond Udolpho and the abbey, and into the true heart of a silent ghost—she now
at last
saw enough to let go of an illusion.

Incidentally, Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. Thus, she resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more of it.