Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (4 page)

“Oh, Catherine!” exclaimed one tiny figure of light—tiny indeed, for he (or she?) was no greater than three inches in height, including folded wingspan. “Catherine, you are hereby placed in gravest danger!”

And the other two echoed him in tinkling voices, “Catherine, oh, Catherine, oh, woe! Danger!”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Oh!” cried another tiny angel. “Whatever you do, you must not go away!”

“No, dear child, you must not! This trip bodes dire and eternal misfortune!”

“But—” said Catherine, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “But, how awful! It is Bath! How can I
not
go? And it is to be with Mrs. Allen; she is so kind to have invited me, and—what in the world could be so horridly dangerous?”

In response the angels started flittering about terribly, their luminescent figures growing in brightness, which happened frequently when they were in a state of agitation.

Eventually one of them collided with a candlestick, and Catherine had to jump up in a hurry to catch the burning candle with amazing dexterity of one hand, while snatching a floundering winged being with another.

“Oh! Fire! Do be careful, Lawrence!” cried the other two, jumping up and down, then promptly collided with one another.

“Upon my word! This is quite ridiculous!” Catherine said, holding an angel in the palm of her hand and glaring at two more sliding around on her bedspread. “I insist you tell me what is the matter, at once! And for the hundredth time, keep away from burning flames!”

In her hand, the angel’s golden glow dimmed a little to a warm peach and then soft mauve. The being settled firmly on her palm, and put its head between two tiny arms, in a gesture of infinite regret. “I am afraid, dear Catherine, I cannot.”

“Cannot what?”

“He cannot speak, he may not answer,” piped in the others. “Indeed, none of us can tell you. We can only warn you and entreat you not to go.”

Catherine let out a long breath of frustration. “This is quite silly. How as I supposed to do or not do things, go or not go places, all without a good reason? And especially when you first frighten me to death and then refuse to explain?”

“We can only ask you to trust us—”

“Wait!” said Catherine, as though awakening out of an extended sleep. “And since when do you have given names?
Lawrence?
”

“It is indeed I,” replied the little being on her palm.

“So you mean to tell me that for all these months I could have been referring to each one of you in a civil manner, instead of resorting to idiocy such as Splatterplop and Fumblehead—and—”

“I am Terence,” said one of the two on her bed.

“And you may call me Clarence.”

“Well, criminy!” said Catherine.

“Not Criminy, I am Cla—”

At which point Terence touched the other gently.

“We were not allowed to utter our names before this day,” said Lawrence, folding his/her/its little hands together and fluttering its wings suddenly like a butterfly of pure light.

“Before this day? What changed? It is a Tuesday.”

“Grave danger,” said Clarence.

“Today we were instructed to guard you,” said Terence.

“That is, we guard everyone, but from this point on we must guard
you
with particular care,” added Lawrence.

“More than you already guard me, day and night?”

“More than imaginable,” said Lawrence. “For today you are considering leaving home for the first time and venturing into the world, and when and once you do, it becomes inevitable that you will be assailed—”

“Attacked!”

“Besieged and sorely tempted!”

“Surrounded and stormed and thoroughly tested!”

“Fallen upon from all sides!”

“And for that reason we are given the sternest and most solemn instruction from On High, to watch over you and protect you with all our own strength!”

“All our fortitude!”

“Our loyalty!”

“Our love!”

“But—” said Catherine. “Yes, that is, I mean—thank you kindly from my heart, indeed—but, why? And who in the world will be attacking me? Why
me?
What is this dreadful danger?”

But all three angels hung their heads and would not speak. Several long moments passed, as Catherine considered this unbelievable turn of events while fiddling nervously with a bit of lace. Then, with a firm sense of resolve, she sat up straight, and announced, not unlike a proper heroine: “Since you will not explain, I am obviously meant to go and face this danger directly. Besides—it’s adventure! It’s Bath!”

One by one, the angels sadly looked up.

One nodded, whispering, “Oh dear . . . We knew you would decide thus.”

“Please,” tried Lawrence once again, glowing in the palm of her hand. “Catherine, oh, Catherine, mayhap you might still change your mind?”

But because the angel knew very well they were dealing with an heroine, it/she/he resigned himself to a heavenly sigh.

M
eanwhile the trip preparations must but continue. Catherine’s sibling Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. At least, such was the assumption (though Catherine already had a veritable regiment of heavenly confidants at her disposal). It is remarkable, however, that Sarah neither insisted on Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. She did however request chartreuse ribbon, such as was rumored to be particularly fashionable.

Everything indeed, relative to this important journey, was done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure—excepting a few inexplicable flurries of drafts, moving curtains, and strangely teetering figurines on shelves and mantels. All preparation seemed more consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the tender emotions which the first separation of an heroine from her family ought always to excite.

Her father, instead of giving her either nothing at all or an unlimited order on his banker, gave her only ten guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. Catherine, with at least half a dozen glowing angelic figures hovering overhead, sat in the carriage seat near Mrs. Allen who, she noticed, had a few angels of her own (but was perfectly oblivious of them, as everyone else in the world but Catherine seemed to be). For hours Catherine dearly kept her eyes away from the supernatural presences and bravely ignored them practically crawling all over Mrs. Allen’s bonnet, not to mention, their exclamations and sighs and repeated cries of “Beware! Oh, dear child, what frightful harm might befall you any moment!”

Their agitation got so dire and tedious at one point that Catherine had to mutter, “Shush!” and disguise it with a cleverly timed sneeze into a handkerchief (which sent Terence—or possibly Lawrence—flying into the brocade curtain).

But despite the warnings, the trip was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor was there one lucky carriage overturn to introduce them to the hero. There were no romantic masked highwaymen in the moonlight (indeed, the moon itself was in a thin new crescent state, thus refusing to cooperate with a proper heroic scenario).

Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn (a fine establishment which was neither haunted nor occupied by a band of cutthroats—though there were rumors of a monstrous flying fowl observed in the neighborhood, pronounced in whisper to be none other than the Brighton Duck
^[4]
), and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were here, there, everywhere, for once naturally ignoring the heavenly host.

They approached Bath’s fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, regardless of angelic warnings of decidedly silly and unfounded doom, and she felt happy already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

I
t is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the astute Reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume
^[5]
is capable—whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. For, surely the angels cried such dire warning in regard to none other than Mrs. Allen?

Or, quite possibly, not. . . .

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen.

In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public. She was as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be (only unhindered by
supernatural
awareness). Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine. And our heroine’s entrée into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn (not chartreuse, unfortunately for Sarah), and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. This was done to the accompaniment of angelic delight and running commentary in tinkling voices, on the fabric, pattern, and color—who could but imagine the angels were so well versed in style and decoration? Catherine could not help but smile when she saw Clarence—or possibly Terence—getting tangled in piles of muslin and ribbon at the shops they visited. Meanwhile, the poor shop girls and seamstresses nearly lost their minds at so much peculiar
displacement
of objects, bolts and skeins, at all the ceaseless fluttering and unraveling of thread that accompanied Catherine’s visits to their fine establishments.

As for those frightful warnings of imminent danger? Blessedly, so far, none of it materialized.

Catherine too made some purchases herself (including a ribbon for Sarah—sunflower-golden, in place of out-of-vogue chartreuse), and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms.

Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should do. The heavenly beings echoed them heartily. One of them exhibited enthusiastic approbation to the effect of falling into an open box of powder, fluttering its tiny wings and raising up such a puff-cloud that Mrs. Allen started to sneeze and had to be tended to by the maid all over again.

With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.

M
rs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room—accompanied by one solitary tiny glowing guardian angel hovering over his head like a determined personal hummingbird—and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.

Two dozen or so tiny angelic figures fluttering above Catherine’s impeccably sculpted hair, immediately dispersed about the large crowded expanse to scout and investigate all nooks for signs of menace. And yet, unless the threat came in the form and size of gnats or moths, Catherine wondered, what good did it do to check behind candelabras and curtain valances? She did note however that at least two angels remained in her vicinity at all times. Also, there were a number of other angels surrounding other persons in the room, in droves of varying number—angels that had already been present in the room before they arrived. (Sometimes Catherine forgot that other people, indeed everyone, had their own heavenly guardians. It is but that she seemed to attract and collect them inordinately, since they knew she could see them and it seemed to please them greatly.)

With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protégée, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow. Catherine kept close at her side, and linked her arm firmly within her friend’s so as not to be separated. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd. It seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience.