Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (40 page)

When everything was done they left the room. Catherine lingered only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared.

She tried to eat, to make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her previous cheerful breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery. Happy, happy breakfast! For
Henry had been there;
Henry had sat by her and helped her.

The appearance of the carriage recalled them to the present moment. Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it. And the indignity with which she was treated, struck her with peculiar force—made her for a short time sensible only of
resentment
. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

“You must write to me, Catherine!” she cried; “you must let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour’s comfort. For
one letter,
at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. To know that you are safe at Fullerton, your family well, and I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and,
under cover
to Alice.”

“No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. I will get home safely.”

Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you. I—” The look of sorrow accompanying her words was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly said, “Oh, Eleanor, I
will
write to you indeed!”

There was yet another embarrassing point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle. It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with enough
money
for the expenses of her journey. And, upon suggesting it, with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly the case.

Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home. The distress at this notion filled the minds of both. And scarcely another word was said during their remaining time together.

The carriage was soon announced. Catherine rose instantly. A long and affectionate silent embrace followed, as they bid each other adieu. And as they entered the hall, Catherine paused a moment, unable to leave the house without some mention of
one
whose name had not been spoken by either. With quivering lips she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.”

But with this reference to
his
name, there was to be no more restraining her feelings. Hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, Catherine darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.

C
atherine was too wretched to be fearful.

The journey in itself had no terrors for her—indeed, the
world
itself held no more terrors at all—and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness.

Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head. And the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it.

She was thus unable to see the wondrous sight of a dark speck ascending into the sky—an airborne creature that was not a mere bird, but of a familiar reptilian shape to indicate a dragon.

The dragon flew at a great distance, unobserved, yet was distinctly following the carriage. . . .

Unfortunately, the road she now traveled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston. And, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was intensified by the familiar view of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings. And when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry—so
near,
yet so unconscious—her grief and agitation were excessive.

It was in that moment that her grieving eyes scanned the heavens in passing, and she saw the
dragon,
flying closer now, low to the ground, and thus the details visible—its familiar dark leathery hide with sharp glittering scales along the tips of its wings, gilded into liquid metal by the sunlight.

Catherine stared.

And then she had occasion to stare again, and open her eyes wide, and forget her tears.

From the direction of Woodston,
another
dragon arose.

This
one, she had never seen before, she realized now.

This dragon was pure
white
.

It was of the same monumental wingspan as the other; grand, fierce, violent in its approach. Its skin was supple leathery pallor, smooth on the underbelly and on the outside, bejeweled with razor metal scales. But it was white as day, blinding brightness—
light
itself.

And for a moment, the
dragon
was an
angel
.

The dragon beat its wings, racing closer to the crossroad turning. And when it was near enough, only the height of a cathedral overhead, it engaged the other dragon.

But first, Catherine heard its battle cry.

There is no manner of words sufficient to describe a dragon’s voice, nor its song, nor its secret whisper. But its cry—it is like the voice of the earth itself wedded to thunder. . . .

Catherine and her fellow travelers in the carriage, the driver, all could not help but stare through windows, some trembling, others stunned, and the driver just about losing control of the horses, then urging them on frightfully.

Overhead, the other dragon, dark and gold, had turned its head, its burning coal-red eye toward the approaching enemy. And the next moment the dragons came together with an impact that could be heard like an explosion of distant cannon.

There was the beating of wings, the striking of claws of steel, the maddened eyes, one crimson, the other amber-gold. Scales of white and gold metal began to rain upon the moving carriage, and indeed upon the road and all the countryside, falling like a downpour of coins; a strange manna indeed, an
unearthly
harvest. . . . And the two great ones hurtled back and forth at each other, tearing and striking and rising high up toward the clouds, then falling back again.

The ordeal went on for an hour at least, then it seemed the dragons disappeared, lost to view beyond the turning road and the trees. But soon enough they came back again, two unrelenting shapes in struggle, the white one pursuing the dark gold, neither of them winning or losing, it seemed.

Eventually the carriage and its denizens realized they were not to be harmed, and only a few half-joking comments were raised, and natural comments of wonder and amazement—for none of them had seen dragons in their lifetime, though it had been a thing of discourse and historical significance.

Catherine did not share in the conversation. But her heart was beating violently in her chest, as though she too was soaring aloft in the heavens, engaged in a mortal battle.

And in her supernatural vision, somehow she
was
indeed there, together with the dragon of light. It was important somehow, important that he was to win.

What was it that connected them? Surely not her silly thoughts of secret clues and Udolpho and imaginary treasure? Why had the dragons come indeed, both of them; and was it in any way possible that they had come for
her?

Catherine sometimes stopped looking out of the carriage and up at the embattled sky, and allowed her strange, confounded, splintered thoughts to dwell on what she had left behind, just now, some miles away, in Woodston.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, on that day, that the general used such pointed expressions with regard to
Henry and herself,
had spoken and looked in a way that could only give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their
marriage
. Yes, only ten days ago he had elated her by his regard—indeed, confused her! And now—what had she done (or omitted to do) to merit such a change?

The only offence against the general of which she could accuse herself, was a ridiculous secret. Only Henry and her own heart were privy to it—her shocking suspicions of his murdering his wife. And Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance, his father should have learned what horrors she had thought of him—no wonder his indignation, or his even turning her from his house. But she dearly hoped such a bitter explanation was not the case.

However, now there was an even more urgent, anxiety-causing issue plaguing her. How would Henry think, feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and discovered her gone? What would he do? She was uncertain. Sometimes her imagination painted the dread of his calm
acquiescence
to his father’s decision; at others there was but the sweetest confidence in his
regret
and
resentment
.

To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak (how could he oppose the will of his father?); but to Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?

Catherine sometimes remembered, throughout the musings, to glance outside the carriage. And there the two dragons continued to battle in the sky.

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, the hours passed away. Her journey advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing anything before her, and only occasionally the dragons overhead, saved her from counting the passage of the moments. And though no other object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found none of it tedious, and some, when looking up at the
unreal
sky battle, oddly
exciting.

She was also prevented from feeling eagerness for her journey’s conclusion. For to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence of eleven weeks.

What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, cause useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in the same ill-will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit. If
they
were blamed on their father’s account, it would cut her to the heart.

With these feelings, she rather dreaded the first view of that well-known spire within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it—so great had been her ignorance of her route.

She met with nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured her all the attention that a traveler like herself could require. And stopping only to change horses, she traveled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.

One last curious glance up overhead told her the dragons were no longer in view. They had either fallen behind some miles ago, or concluded their battle—and Catherine had a curious moment of panic and anxiety as to the end results. Had the white dragon come out victorious? Was he
injured?
And was the other, the dragon of dark gold,
destroyed?
Or was it the reverse—oh! she could not endure that grim possibility!

How strange indeed were these sensations our heroine felt.

But now, gentle Reader, this Aside
^[29]
—a heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, in triumph, is an event that gives credit to every conclusion—and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows.

But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace. And no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.

A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand—not even an accompaniment of dragons in the sky. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, however distressed Catherine was, advancing towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her biographer in relating it, she was a happy sight—her carriage, and herself.

The chaise of a traveler is a rare sight in Fullerton. Thus, the whole family were immediately at the window, especially the two youngest children, George and Harriet, a boy and girl of six and four years old. Happy the child that first discovered and announced Catherine!

Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness. It was a sight to awaken the best feelings of Catherine’s heart. And in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy!