Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (7 page)

Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children. When she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information and triumphs to give, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions. She consoled herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.

Catherine, sitting quietly, suddenly felt an odd difference in the atmosphere. It was as if the temperature plummeted a few degrees, and the brightness of the angels hovering about her head lost some of its luster.

“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. And as they drew near, there was a very subtle stillness that came with them.

An inexplicable stillness in the air.

“My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest.”

“Oh, Catherine! Beware!
Beware!
” came the usual angelic voices. But for some reason, it was as though they were receding in volume, or possibly coming from a great distance . . .

For whatever reason, Catherine could barely hear them, despite the fact that Clarence, or Terence, or Lawrence were all in great proximity, variously pulling at her earlobes, tweaking locks of her hair, and pinching her sleeves from all directions.

Indeed, it was rather easy to forget they were even there.

The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten (while she was engaged in her own peculiar manner of
forgetting
), was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all. And, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!”

“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or three times over (while the air in the room continued to grow curiously cold).

For a moment Catherine was surprised. No, it was not at the chill and the strange heavy stillness all around (if only she had been paying proper attention)—it was merely at the coincidence of such familiarity with her family.

Incidentally, the eldest Miss Thorpe—why, she was indeed so decidedly extraordinary, so remarkable looking, it occurred to Catherine. But in
what
manner exactly, she was uncertain.

But Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before Catherine remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent Christmas vacation with his family, near London.

The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command.

Indeed, all this sudden pleasure was rather remarkable. Catherine was put in a wonderful, even giddy mood—especially the longer she looked upon the decidedly handsome eldest Miss Thorpe.

And, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the same Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. It hardly mattered that the arm Catherine touched sent an odd chill right through her gloves, and seemed to grow icy the longer they stayed in contact—Miss Isabella Thorpe radiated uncanny charm and amiability. And all other things and people and
temperatures
paled in comparison.

Catherine was so delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, that she almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

Their conversation turned upon subjects which perfect a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes
^[8]
. Miss Thorpe, being four years older, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points. She could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with London. She could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd.

These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new. And the respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on their acquaintance, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection.

And an arm chilled to the bone . . .

Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen’s house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning.

Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe’s progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful for the chance which had procured her such a friend.

It was only then that she felt the pulls and tugs on her lace and once more heard the chorus of angelic voices that bloomed into focus once more. Indeed they were teeming in an agitated cloud all about her.

“Dear child!” Terence was crying—or possibly Lawrence—“Oh, what a terrifying sorrow has come upon us!”

“Sorrow? Gracious, what is it?” said Catherine, feeling a tiny twinge of guilt for having genuinely
forgotten
all about her faithful companions for most of the afternoon.

“Why, it is witnessing you unable to hear us, and not paying any attention, as if you could no longer see us all around you!”

Catherine thought back for a moment. It was true, she did not recall any angels at all for the duration of her delightful new acquaintance. Possibly, they had been there as usual, but she simply did not
recall
.

“How odd!” admitted Catherine out loud. “I do not remember observing you, Terence—”

“Dear child, it is I, Clarence.”

Catherine coughed.

“I wonder what happened?” she continued. “I must have been so engrossed with the sweet Miss Thorpe—”

“Sweet? Oh, no, you are sorely mistaken, dear Catherine! This
Miss Thorpe,
as you call her—she is not what she seems!”

“Oh?” Catherine grew more puzzled by the moment. “Whatever is she, then?”

“She is dangerous!”

“She is dark!”

“She is filled with deceit! Corruption!”

“She is wicked—”

“Oh,
stop it!
” Catherine exclaimed, unable to bear it any longer. “Please stop saying these terrible things! Miss Thorpe is amiable and charming, and she is now my friend!”

At that, the angels settled all around her in unhappy silence.

M
rs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one. She was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. There was entirely nothing metaphysically out of the ordinary about her. But the same could not be said about her two eldest children.

Dear Reader, it must now be told—in her time, Mrs. Thorpe had unluckily given birth to two
nephilim
.

During her first lying in, a dark being—some might call him a demon of the highest ranks, or possibly a fallen angel—flew over their residence, sensed the quickening of new life and, on a whim, decided to pay an unwelcome visit. That first time he merely touched the sleeping mother’s brow with his fiery breath, and slipped away. The resulting naphil child was a son, and scalding hellfires burned inside him.

The second time the dark being chose to return, a year later, on an equally wicked whim, he breathed an icy breath of the tomb over the mother-to-be, before disappearing. This time the resulting naphil issue was a daughter, with the coldest heart of hell instilled within her.

Poor Mrs. Thorpe! She had no idea. She bore both unknowingly, and all her other children since had been normal, amiable and human.

But the eldest, John and Isabella, were wicked fire and ice. And they had been instructed from
below
with a dark purpose.

Mrs. Thorpe’s eldest daughter Isabella had great personal physical beauty, and—by virtue of her unnatural tainted bloodline—a great beguiling
attraction,
to all in general and to the members of the opposite sex in particular. The younger daughters, by pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same style, did very well.

This brief but accurate account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise occupy three or four tedious chapters while completely failing to mention the supernatural aspects.

Instead, the estimable Reader is forewarned to pay particular heed to the two unnatural children and their dark intentions—with Catherine Morland as their intended prize!

C
atherine was not so engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe (though they certainly claimed much of her leisure, as did the immediate distracting angelic sighs and whispers in both her ears), as to forget to look inquiringly for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach.

But she looked in vain. Apparently Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room.

She hoped to be more fortunate the next day. And when her wishes for fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, Catherine hardly felt a doubt of it—a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants, and all the world appears to tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

As soon as divine service was over (the delightful angelic chorus following her out of the church for quite some time longer than necessary, so that Catherine had to engage in meaningful eye-widening grimaces and facial ticks which were thankfully and
mostly
unobserved by those in her vicinity), the Thorpes and Allens eagerly joined each other. In vain did Lawrence or Clarence attempt to lecture Catherine when Isabella drew near. Indeed, an angel’s dulcet voice only grew thin and distant, while still saying: “Did you not wonder, dear child, why Miss Thorpe sat at the farthest pew in the back, nearest the exit, and farthest from the sacred altar?”

But, with her ears still ringing from the volume of angelic hymn and therefore somewhat less amenable to their advice in general, Catherine chose to ignore the familiar heavenly admonition and the growing chill in the air. She instead returned her new friend’s exceedingly
charming
and vibrant smile.

The families stayed long enough in the pump-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable, with not a genteel face to be seen. And so they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of better company.

Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm (Catherine’s going numb from the cold, and yet unheeded), again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation. They talked with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine disappointed in her hope of catching sight of her gentleman partner.

He was nowhere to be met with; neither in morning lounges nor evening assemblies. Neither was he at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls; nor among the walkers, horsemen, or curricle-drivers. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must be gone from Bath.

Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness, always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s imagination around his person, and increased her anxiety to know more of him.

From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen.

It was a subject, however, in which Catherine often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of him. Thus, his impression on her fancy was not to weaken.

Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, “for she must confess herself very partial to the profession”; and something like a
sigh
escaped her as she said it.