by Jane Austen
“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”
“And what do you think I said?”—lowering his voice—“well done, general, said I; I am quite of your mind.”
Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by General Tilney’s, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. It was getting rather late, dangerously close to midnight, and she truly did not want to meet Thorpe’s demon.
Thorpe, however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued roaring the same kind of delicate mutton flattery, in spite of her entreating him to desist.
That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very delightful. And she joyfully thought that there was not one of the family whom she need now fear to meet.
The evening had done much more for her than expected.
Unfortunately in that moment from the distant bell tower sounded the Midnight Bell.
And there was Thorpe’s demon, solidifying from his lumbering shadow like an evil genie detaching itself from a potbellied bottle. . . .
Standing up, it leered at her—twice the size of Isabella’s own fiend, and twice as putrid. Its horns were bullish; its eyes were crimson-red infernal coals, burning with such heat that Catherine might have had to take a step back, had she not been safely ensconced in the chair, about to embark home.
The demon muttered something filthy in her wake. Catherine shuddered—for once she was truly glad that her loyal angels never for a moment left her side.
And then she glanced back at the demon and, without it seeing her, stuck out her tongue.
Chapter 13
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now passed in review before the esteemed Reader, together with amazing events. Sunday only now remains to be described, to close the week.
The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and that afternoon, it was brought forward again. Isabella’s iceberg heart was obviously set on going, and James, entirely besotted with the beauteous harpy, was anxious to please her. It was agreed that on the following morning they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe’s fiery approbation secured, Catherine only remained to be apprised of it.
She had left them for a few minutes to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the dastardly plan was completed, and as soon as she returned, her agreement was demanded.
But instead of gay[19] acquiescence Catherine looked grave, was very sorry, but could not go. She had a firm engagement with Miss Tilney to take their proposed walk tomorrow—it was quite determined, and she would not, upon any account, retract.
“Well done, Catherine!” cried angels in both of her ears.
But oh, what an outcry issued forth from both the Thorpes! They must go to Clifton tomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.
Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. “Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go.”
This availed nothing. The same arguments assailed her again, like freezing hail beating against a shuttered window, followed by a blast of desert heat. “So easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement! Do put off the walk till Tuesday!”
“No,” said Catherine.
“Yes!” screeched Isabella.
“No!” repeated Catherine, for the hundredth time.
“Beware, stay strong!” whispered the angels.
“By all galloping horses of Solomon! Yes!” roared Thorpe.
The air in the vicinity filled with such a charge of electricity—first from heat then from lashing cold—that Catherine wanted to run from the room. James Morland looked on dumbfounded as hissing droplets of water started to rain from the parlor ceiling, and muttered about Bath and its unbelievable indoor weather, no wonder its dratted name.
Isabella switched from yellow-eyed attacks to whining to weeping and cajoling, to attempts to hug and kiss her dearest best friend to convince her.
But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and was not to be influenced.
Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney, than for her best and oldest friends. “I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so excessively! To see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers cuts me to the quick! These Tilneys!”
Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Clearly, Isabella was not only a frightful unnatural scarecrow of a creature, with horrid glowing eyes, sallow sunken skin, and a putrid demon guardian, to boot—she was also ungenerous and selfish, thinking only of her own gratification.
These painful and reasonable ideas crossed Catherine’s mind, though she said nothing.
Isabella, in the meanwhile, held her handkerchief to her eyes. Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, “Nay, Catherine, you cannot refuse. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend—quite unkind, if you still refuse.”
This was the first time her brother openly sided against her. Unhappy, Catherine proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied.
But “No, no, no!” was the immediate answer, followed by inane, decidedly selfish reasons and some rapidly cooling dew.
Catherine was sorry, but adamant. A short silence ensued, broken by Isabella, who, in a voice of arctic-cold resentment, said, “Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing.”
“Catherine, you must go,” begged James.
“But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters?”
“Thank ye,” bellowed Thorpe, “but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d—— me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you.”
“That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure.” But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away and lumbered off somewhere.
The three others still continued together, walking in silence, then with supplications, or reproaches. Catherine’s extra-numbed and now entirely senseless arm was still linked within Isabella’s, though their hearts were at war.
“I did not think you could be so obstinate, Catherine,” said James; “you were once not so hard to persuade, but the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters.”
“I hope I am not less so now,” she replied, very feelingly; “but indeed I cannot go. I am doing what I believe to be right.”
And the way around her seemed brighter indeed, from the heightened radiance coming from the many blazing angels. . . .
“I suspect,” hissed Isabella, “there is no great struggle.”
Catherine’s heart swelled. She drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, “Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.”
“What? You have not!” cried Catherine.
“I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine—hey?”
Isabella’s frightful countenance was once more all honey smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again.
“Heavenly indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over and we shall have a most delightful party.”
“This will not do,” said Catherine; “I
cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.”
Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other—so that Catherine was simultaneously freezing and burning; oh, how exceedingly tiresome this was becoming!—and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry, not to mention, starting to freeze around the forehead that had broken out in sweat just minutes earlier. Surely, if Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite absurd to make any further objection.
“I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way. Now, let me go, Mr. Thorpe! Isabella, do not hold me.”
The two nephilim momentarily stared at her in veritable amazement. Then everything started all over again.
Catherine wanted to beat her head against a hard surface, and, short of a hard surface, visualized a hard object she might brandish at these two. Something hefty, such as a couple of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels tied together into a brick . . . She even wistfully thought of a certain monstrous duck.
Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time.
“Then I will go after them,” said Catherine; “wherever they are, I will go after them. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.”
And with these words she broke away and hurried off.
Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland held him.
“Fine! Let her go, if she will. She is as obstinate as—” Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one.
Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, afraid of pursuit, yet determined to persevere.
As she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint anyone, particularly her brother. But she could not repent her resistance. To have failed Miss Tilney a second time—to have retracted a promise made only minutes before, and under false pretences—was abysmally wrong.
She was not being selfishly principled, only true to her conviction. And until she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not be at ease.
Quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent, Catherine almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that, in spite of the Tilneys’ head-start, they were but just turning into their lodgings as she came within view of them.
To the servant at the door she cried in passing that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, she immediately found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter.
Oh, dear . . .
Her explanation, full of nerves and dire shortness of breath, was instantly given. “I am come in a great hurry—It was all a mistake—I never promised to go—I told them from the first I could not go.—I ran away in a great hurry to explain it.—I did not care what you thought of me.—I would not stay for the servant!”
The situation however soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given the message; and Miss Tilney was greatly surprised by it. But whether Mr. Tilney had harbored resentment, Catherine—though she instinctively addressed both of them in her vindication—had no means of knowing. Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations immediately restored friendship.
The affair thus happily settled, Catherine was introduced by Miss Tilney to her father, and received by him with ready, solicitous politeness. This recalled Thorpe’s information to her mind, and made her think with pleasure that even an ogre with a putrid guardian demon might be sometimes depended on.
To such anxious attention was the general’s civility carried, that—unaware of her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house—he was quite angry with the servant who neglected his door duties. But Catherine most warmly asserted his innocence.
After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave, and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney’s asking her if she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest of the day with her.
Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen would expect her back every moment.
The general declared he could say no more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded. But on some other day he trusted, they would not refuse to spare her.
Catherine was sure they would not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure in coming. The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying everything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of her walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and making her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they parted.
Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney Street, walking with great elasticity (though she had never thought of it before). She reached home without seeing anything more of the offended party. And now that she had been triumphant throughout, she began (as the flutter of her spirits subsided, to be replaced by the usual soothing flutter of angelic wings) to doubt whether she had been perfectly right. She now had a friend displeased, a brother angry, and an ogre thwarted.
To ease her mind, she mentioned to Mr. Allen the half-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following day. “Well,” said Mr. Allen, “and do you think of going too?”
“No; I had just engaged to walk with Miss Tilney before they told me of it; therefore I could not go with them, could I?”
“No, certainly not. Young men and women driving about the country in open carriages! Going to inns and public places together! It is not right. I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; Mrs. Morland would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking?”
“Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You get splashed; the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every direction. I hate an open carriage myself.”
“I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about by young men, to whom they are not even related?”
“Yes, my dear, very odd indeed. I cannot bear to see it.”
“Dear madam,” cried Catherine, “then why did not you tell me so before? I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought I was doing wrong.”
“And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it. As I told Mrs. Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you. But young people do not like to be always thwarted.”
“So far, no harm done,” said Mr. Allen; “I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any more.”
“That is just what I was going to say,” echoed his wife.
Catherine was personally relieved, but felt uneasy for Isabella’s reputation. She wondered whether she need warn Miss Thorpe, and explain the monstrous indecorum.
Mr. Allen, however, wisely discouraged her from doing any such thing. “You had better leave her alone, my dear. She is old enough to know better, and has a mother to advise her; you will be only getting ill-will.”
Chapter 14
The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a confrontation. She heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them.
The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time. And no new difficulty arising, our heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfill he
r engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.
“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
“Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better books.”
“These days, gentlemen, at least here in Bath, read nothing but novels—the more frightful, the better. Apparently, such books seem to be practically imbued with occult secrets and encrypted clues that map not only the psyche, but actual topographical locations, no doubt down to the exact latitude and longitude. I do believe we’ve brought up the treasure subject previously. Who knew that fiction was such a literal roadmap? Who might have imagined Mrs. Radcliffe for a master cryptographer? Indeed the books should be bound together with maps and sold each with a pocket compass and slide rule. Maybe we need make such a suggestion to the publishers?”
“Oh! What a notion,” said Catherine, smiling.
Mr. Tilney continued: “However, all treasure seeking aside, the person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time, though never from valiant attempts at code-breaking. Regretfully indeed, I found no cryptic clues, only a delightful sensation of wonder.”