Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons
Page 23
The guardian angels immediately placed themselves in the form of a bright shield in the air between her and the evil thing.
“LEEEGIIIONNN!” thundered the demon chorus. “WEEE ARRRR LEEEEGIOONNNN!”
“Well, yes you are, I do realize that,” she said. “What do you want? And how is it you are here in the light of morning?”
“GIVVE USSS THE WHOOORREE OF BABYLOOON!”
“Beg pardon?” Catherine was somewhat scandalized and thought surely she had misheard. Considering how it had been last night, she was not too surprised to mishear yet again.
Then it occurred to her—treasure! The evil ones were also looking for a treasure hoard!
“I am afraid I do not have in my possession the hoard of Babylon,” she retorted almost cheerfully. “However, myself and numerous others have a notion there is indeed a hoard in Bath, or even here in Northanger—”
“Oh, dear child,” said Lawrence, or possibly Patrice. “Why are you talking to these foul things? There is certainly no need to divulge anything, much less hold a polite conversation.”
The undulating darkness roared in fury, billowing about the stairwell.
“Well,” said Catherine, “I do prefer not to be rude.”
“NOOOOOOOOO!!!! GIVVE USSS THE WHOOORREE OF BABYLOOOOOON!” screamed the Legion, wailing and gnashing its collective teeth.
“Oh! Oh dear.” Catherine did not know what else to say. “If you are indeed referring to a certain unmentionable kind of woman of Babylon, then I can say with all surety that I have not the slightest notion what you mean—”
In reply, came the most terrible roaring and screeching that Catherine could ever imagine.
“Stop it!” she cried over their din, raising her hands to cover her ears. “Upon my word, I do not have the Whore of Babylon, or anything of Babylon, and even if I did, I would never surrender it to you! Once and for all, leave me alone, you horrid things!”
And just as Catherine finished speaking, there was suddenly a great, almost familiar flapping of wings. . . .
Through the open window it came, hurtling out of the sky—not a dragon, as she initially thought, but a familiar great flying monstrous fowl, with white and gray plumage and a ferocious honk which rose over the demonic din like a single piercing, mighty foghorn.
The Brighton Duck!
The monstrous creature circled the stairwell, beating the air like a great palm frond, and effectively fanning away the smoke-darkness filled with contorted demon forms.
It shrieked and honked like a legion of banshees. And under its unbelievable onslaught, the legion of demons wavered. As Catherine stared in amazement, the darkness too started to circle the stairwell like a funnel of soot and smoke, moving faster and faster. . . .
And then, with one last infernal shriek, it struck itself against the walls and went through them and was again gone.
The duck proudly trumpeted its victory.
“Oh!” Catherine whispered to the monstrous creature. “Goodness, am I ever glad to see you!”
But naturally she had no answer, as the Brighton Duck circled once, twice overhead, the sun glinting against its feather tips. Then, like a cannon ball it flew straight out of the window.
“No one ever knows whence it comes,” mused Catherine wonderingly. “But I am certain it knows exactly what it is doing!”
There was now a grand silence in the stairwell. The sun poured in from the outside. The angels floated calmly.
Catherine cleared her throat and again proceeded to the breakfast-parlour.
Henry was alone at breakfast. His solitary bright angel shimmered like a butterfly pin of spun light from the folds of his cravat and waved delighted greetings to Catherine and her guardians.
Henry’s own immediate comment, a hope of “her having been undisturbed by the tempest,” with an arch reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.
For the world would she not have her weakness suspected. And yet, Catherine was unequal to an absolute falsehood, and had to admit that the wind had kept her awake a little.
“But we have a charming morning after it,” she added, briefly thinking of horrid Legions defeated by monstrous ducks, but desiring to get rid of the subject; “and storms and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”
“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?” said Henry, looking at her with an expression hard to describe.
“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”
“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of out-of-doors enjoyment. And, who can tell, in time you may come to love a rose?”
“But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather Mamma says I am never within.”
“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing. Has my sister a pleasant mode of instruction?”
Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the entrance of the general. His smiling compliments announced a happy state of mind, but his gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not advance her composure.
The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine’s notice when they were seated at table. The general was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it to be simple, and proceeded to extol the tea and table settings, noting he might have been tempted to order a new set. He trusted, however, that an opportunity might ere long occur of selecting one—though not for himself. Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him.
Shortly after breakfast Henry left them for Woodston, where business required and would keep him two or three days. Catherine moved to a window in the breakfast-room, hoping to catch another glimpse of his departing figure.
“Your brother would rather not be away today, considering our guest remains here,” observed the general to Eleanor.
“Is Woodston a pretty place?” asked Catherine.
“What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the taste of ladies in regard to places.” But then the general himself described the many pleasures, excellent kitchens, and comforts. “It is a family living, Miss Morland; the property in the place being chiefly my own; and you may believe I take care it shall not be a bad one. Did Henry’s income depend solely on this living, he would not be ill-provided for. It is expedient to give every young man some employment. Even Frederick, my eldest son, who will perhaps inherit as considerable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his profession.”
Something had been said the evening before of her being shown over the house. And now the general offered himself as her conductor. Catherine had hoped to explore it accompanied only by his daughter, but the proposal was welcome—eighteen hours in the abbey, and she had seen only a few of its rooms.
“And when they had gone over the house, he promised to accompany her into the shrubberies and garden.” She curtsied her acquiescence. “But perhaps it might be more agreeable to her to make those her first object. The weather was favourable. Which would she prefer? He was equally at her service. But yes, he read in Miss Morland’s eyes a judicious desire of making use of the present smiling weather. The abbey would be seen later. He would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment.”
He left the room, and disappointed Catherine began to speak of her unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her. But she was stopped by Miss Tilney’s uncomfortable reply: “I believe it will be wisest to take the morning while it is so fine. Do not be uneasy on my father’s account; he always walks out at this time of day.”
But she kept her thoughts to herself, and put on her bonnet in patient discontent. A number of angels immediately took up their places around the brim, like radiant butterflies.
She was struck, however, beyond her expectation, by the grandeur of the abbey, seen for the first time from the lawn.
The whole building enclosed a large court. Two sides of the quadrangle, rich in Gothic ornaments, stood forward for admiration; the remainder shut off by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations. Steep woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in the leafless month of March.
Catherine had seen nothing to compare with it. Her feelings of delight were so strong that she boldly burst forth in wonder and praise. The general listened with assenting gratitude; surely his own estimation of it had waited unfixed till that hour.
The kitchen-garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it across a small portion of the park.
The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all Mr. Allen’s, as well as her father’s. The general was flattered by her looks of surprise. He then modestly owned that, “without any ambition of that sort himself—he did believe them to be unrivalled in the kingdom. He loved a garden. He loved good fruit—or if he did not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. Mr. Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself.”
“No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went into it.”
With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some way or other, by its falling short of his plan.
And then the general assailed Catherine with more inquiries comparing his own situation and Mr. Allen’s, and received her answers with happy contempt.
Having taken her into every division, crevice, and wall, till she was heartily weary, he suffered the girls at last to seize the advantage of an outer door. He then expressed his wish to examine some recent alterations about the tea-house, if Miss Morland were not tired. “But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you choose that cold, damp path to it? Miss Morland will get wet. Our best way is across the park.”
“This is so favourite a walk of mine,” said Miss Tilney, “that I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp.”
It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs. Catherine, struck by its gloomy Udolpho aspect, and eager to enter it, could not, even by the general’s disapprobation, be kept from stepping forward.
He perceived her inclination, and having again urged in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused himself, however, from attending them: “The sun was preferred by him. He would meet them by another course.”
He turned away; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. She began to talk with easy gaiety of the delightful melancholy which such a mysterious grove inspired.
“I am particularly fond of this spot,” said her companion, with a sigh. “It was my mother’s favourite walk.”
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Tilney mentioned in the family before. The interest excited by this tender remembrance showed itself directly in her altered countenance, and attentive pause with which she waited for something more. . . .
But that “something more” came from an entirely other source.
There was a great speeding shadow in the sky. Both Catherine and Eleanor looked up at the sound of great rushing wings, eclipsing all heaven. The dragon swept forth from beyond the cover of trees, sailing the wind like a grand galleon, its reptilian scales glinting like the surface of a razor-sharp sun-drenched ocean.
Oh! It was so close! Just nearly overhead, close enough to sweep the tops of the Scotch firs with its beating wings! Close enough to notice its dark obsidian underbelly, thick limbs with immense claws, glinting with deep violent bursts of sun-fire . . .
“Oh, dear heaven!” exclaimed Catherine, holding on to her bonnet against the sudden whirlwind that momentarily swept the ground around them from the beating wings.
Eleanor stared upwards, in inexplicable silence, holding on to her own bonnet.
“That is a real dragon, Eleanor! You must agree, that is—it must be! There is no other explanation! Did you see the size of it? I dare say it was larger than a building!”
“It does appear to be,” agreed Eleanor placidly.
Catherine was rather amazed at her composed demeanor. “Are you not shocked to see it? Oh, where did it come from, and what is it doing here? Could it truly be hunting for treasure? For, having found none in Bath, it has followed us here? Or did it? Oh dear! Eleanor, do you think the dragon is following us?”
“It is indeed most unusual,” replied Miss Tilney, still watching the dragon—now a mere speck the size of a bird, high up in the sky. “I am afraid, though, I do not have an answer. But indeed, what an impossible sight.”
“But you are not surprised!”
“There are so many wonders in this world, I have long since reserved my ability to question them. Answers usually do come, in good time.” Miss Tilney was gently smiling.
Catherine could think of nothing else to do or say but to proceed in their walk.
“I used to walk here so often with my mother,” said Eleanor, gently resuming the subject before the dragon had interrupted them; “though I never loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now.”
“And ought it not,” reflected Catherine now thinking of the stubborn refusal of the general, “to endear it to her husband? Yet the general would not enter it.” Miss Tilney continuing silent, she ventured, “Her death must have been a great affliction!”
“A great and increasing one,” replied the other, in a low voice. “I was only thirteen when it happened. And though I felt my loss strongly, I could not then know what a loss it was.”
She stopped for a moment, then added, with great firmness, “I have no sister, you know—and though my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary.”
“To be sure you must miss him very much.”
“A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend.”
“Was she a very charming woman? Was she handsome? Was there any picture of her in the abbey? And why had she been so partial to that grove? Was it from dejection of spirits?” Catherine poured forth a multitude of questions.
The first three received a ready affirmative; the two others were passed by. And Catherine’s interest in the deceased Mrs. Tilney augmented. Of her unhappiness in marriage, she felt certain. The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides—handsome as he was, there was something in his stern features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.
“Her picture, I suppose,” blushing at the consummate art of her own question, “hangs in your father’s room?”
“No, it was intended for the drawing-room. But my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it and hung it in my bed-chamber. I shall be happy to show it to you; it is a fine likeness.”
Here was another proof. A portrait of a depart
ed wife, not valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!
Catherine no longer attempted to hide from herself her true feelings about the general (regardless of all his attentions). What had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute aversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him odious to her. She had often read of such characters—characters which Mr. Allen used to call unnatural and overdrawn—but here was proof positive of the contrary.
She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them directly upon the general, strolling alone before them, and painting a rather grim silhouette. In spite of all her virtuous indignation, she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and even to smile when he smiled.
Being no longer able, however, to receive pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with lassitude. The general perceived it, and with a concern for her health (which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him), was most urgent for returning with his daughter to the house.
He would follow them in a quarter of an hour—he had a few more things to do.
Again they parted—but Eleanor was called back in half a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round the abbey till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay what she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.
And very wicked.
Chapter 23
An hour passed away before the general came in—spent by Catherine in an unfavourable consideration of his character.
This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles—whatever was he doing? It did not indicate a mind at ease, or a conscience void of reproach.
At length he appeared. Whatever might have been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them. Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s curiosity to see the house, soon revived the subject. And contrary to Catherine’s expectations, the general ordered refreshments to be in the room by their return, and was at last ready to escort them.