by Jane Austen
“We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland,” said Miss Tilney. “But I do assure you, he never says an unjust thing of any woman at all, nor an unkind one of me.”
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His mercurial manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just. And what she did not understand, she was willing to admire.
The whole walk ended on a delightful note. Her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney respectfully addressed Mrs. Allen and Catherine, petitioning for the pleasure of Catherine’s dinner company another day. The latter could hardly conceal her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly that no thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, memory returned, but Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety—she had heard nothing of any of them.
Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, walked out into the town (in search of ribbon), and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar’s Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all morning. They were all bearing baskets full of bells of various shapes and sizes.
From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. “They set off at eight this morning,” said Miss Anne, “and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria. And here we are, looking for secret Clues to the treasure! They say a dragon has been sighted over Beechen Cliff this morning!”
Pretending to ignore the dragon comment, while her heart skipped a beat, Catherine inquired as to the specific arrangement of the drive.
“Oh, yes!” rejoined the other. “Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go. For my part, I was determined not to go, even if pressed. Instead, we have spent hours decrypting ‘Mysterious Warnings’—why, it is none other than ‘MW’ or ‘Mrs. Walter!’”
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help saying, “But what or who is ‘Mrs. Walter’? What does it all mean? Really, I wish you could have gone instead. A pity you did not.”
“Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. This treasure hunt is so much more amiable! Indeed, I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us, that there was a significance to be found in cow bells at midnight, and are there any cow establishments in Bath?”
“If you mean steak or dairy, then, likely yes. Otherwise—”
Catherine was getting distracted with all this decryption, and still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her.
She wished them luck with the bovine pursuits, bade her adieu, and returned home with the procured ribbon, pleased that James and Isabella managed their excursion successfully without her.
Chapter 15
Early the next day, a note from Isabella—filled with peace and tenderness, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance—hastened Catherine, in happy curiosity, to Edgar’s Buildings.
The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour, sorting cowbells, dinner bells, sleigh bells, and tiny Christmas tree bells in various piles of cryptic relevance.
Anne left her task to call her sister, and Catherine took the opportunity to ask the other for particulars of yesterday’s party. Maria—apparently not entirely interested in bells—eagerly paused her occupation to speak of it.
The angels floated about the room, and gently moved among the piles of bells. Presently, there arose a constant inexplicable general tinkling sound that was of course accounted for by drafts and breezes.
Catherine was informed by Maria that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the world—they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the water, laid out some shillings in purses and spars; ate ice at a pastry-cook’s, swallowed their dinner in haste back at the hotel; then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, it rained a little, and Mr. Morland’s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along . . .
Catherine listened with satisfaction. It appeared that a visit to Blaize Castle had never even been thought of. As for the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria ended with an effusion of pity for her sister Anne, for missing the party.
“She will never forgive me, I am sure. But John vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles—”
Isabella now entered the room with an eager step, a northern ice-wind, and a look of happy importance, engaging all notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away and told to take some of those tedious tinkling things with her.
Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: “Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed! You see through everything!”
Catherine thought it was certainly a curious turn of phrase, all things considered, but replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
“Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the other, starting her familiar shrill, “compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Surely you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! I am so agitated!”
Catherine’s understanding began to awake. A terrifying idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind. Blushing, she cried out, “Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you—can you really be in love with James?”
Oh, angels! Oh, dear God in Heaven! she meanwhile thought in veritable panic. No, no, she cannot! This frightening harpy scarecrow demonic dried out stick-creature with yellow eyes and freezing weather cannot think to love my poor brother!
This, however was soon revealed to be only half the dreaded news. Apparently, in the course of their yesterday’s party, Isabella received the delightful confession of an equal love from James.
Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James.
Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and terror. Her brother and her monstrous friend engaged!
Oh, dear God in Heaven!
The most impossible thing about this was that now Catherine instantly considered herself to be entirely at fault for allowing this to go on. To be frank, she had never in her wildest sanguined nightmare—direct out of Mrs. Radcliffe’s complete works—could have imagined that James would be so enchanted, bewitched, and befuddled, as to take his unnatural attraction to this female fiend thus far!
For days now Catherine had been meaning to sit him down and divulge certain things about the beauteous Miss Isabella Thorpe—naturally without revealing the full horror of her nephilim origin. The difficulty of explaining herself to her brother (and possibly the rest of her family), of having to possibly reveal her own metaphysical ability to see certain supernatural things, held her back from having this painful conversation. Catherine held on to a vain hope that James was simply having a pleasant but casual flirtation; and surely with time he too would notice the yellow avaricious eyes, the shrill harpy voice, and oh, the beastly arctic cold. . . !
Even the dear angels had been patient with her, agreeing that it will be done “all in good time;” that truth will be established, and Catherine will eventually make her warnings to her brother, without unduly enraging the nephilim brother and sister in the process. For, according to the angels, there was still great danger in her path.
Thus, our heroine had to be on her guard. And although never untruthful, for the present she had to remain as friendly as possible with Isabella—at least until she could properly warn her brother (who in turn would artfully, careful
ly extricate himself from the engagement without having to explain the whole underlying supernatural aspect of it to their parents—or so Catherine dearly hoped would happen).
And so Catherine took a deep breath, and while the angels settled around her, she returned her attention full of seeming delight to her friend. The happiness of having such a sister would have been a natural first effusion (had it been genuine on Catherine’s part), and thus the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy.
Though Catherine made the sincerest attempt at rejoicing, Isabella far surpassed her. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I shall be so much more attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”
This was far beyond Catherine’s ability to emulate.
“You are so like your dear brother,” continued Isabella, “that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. The very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas—” And she tenderly screeched at length about how she had worn a yellow gown and thought him so handsome.
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love, even in unnatural creatures; for, though exceedingly fond of her brother, she had never in her life thought him handsome.
The lovelorn monstrous shrilling went on for some time, and, “Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother’s account! I am grown wretchedly thin; I have betrayed myself in my partiality! But my secret I was always sure would be safe with you.”
Catherine could not imagine how much more thinner spindly “inner vision Isabella” could become, and likewise felt that no secret had been safer, considering her complete ignorance.
Meanwhile, her brother, she found, was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask for parental consent. Here was a source of some real agitation to Isabella.
Catherine did not endeavour to persuade that her parents would never oppose their son’s wishes. But she readily vouched that they were kind and desirous of their children’s happiness.
“Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella; “and yet, my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!”
Here Catherine again discerned the abysmal force of love, and could only respond in jest. “Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune signifies nothing. Not to mention, any one of us, at any instant, might stumble upon hidden treasure!”
“Oh! My sweet Catherine, and your generous heart!” The squealing cries from Isabella resounded to the ceiling. “I know it would signify nothing! I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.”
The notion of a “command of millions” gave Catherine tiny pause. But having not the foggiest notion of how to respond, she only smiled her best.
“For my own part,” said Isabella, “the smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy—Now, my dear, remind me again of some of your brilliant Udolpho Code significant Clues.”
Catherine was glad to change this controversial subject, and the next few minutes were spent in discussion of whether “Orphans of the Rhine” and O-O-T-R referred to little children or turnips and potatoes.
Then Isabella once again said, with a deathly-frozen sigh, “Oh! I will not allow myself to rest, till we have your father’s answer. Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow. Tomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. It will be the death of me!”
Catherine attempted to interest her in guessing whether “Necromancer of the Black Forest” was indeed a black magician or merely not Beatrice Foster. But it was in vain. A brief reverie succeeded—and when Isabella spoke again, it was on the quality of her wedding-gown.
Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself. James came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate and warn him in one breath, but instead knew not what to say, and her anxious eloquence was only in her eyes.
Meanwhile James said his hundredth tender adieus, while frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that he go, in order to hurry the inevitable. Twice was he called back almost from the door by her eagerness to have him gone. “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how far you have to ride. For heaven’s sake, waste no more time, my love!”
The two friends, with hearts now “united” in schemes of sisterly happiness, were inseparable for the day.
Mrs. Thorpe and her son—acquainted with everything, and only waiting for Mr. Morland’s consent—considered Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their family. But until the happiness was made formal, Anne and Maria were not informed. They however engaged in much whispering and giggling; and it remained only an affected secret.
Catherine was with her friend again the next day, supporting her spirits, and to while away the many tedious hours of distress before the delivery of the letters.
But when it did come, “I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents,” were the first lines—and in one moment all was joyful security.
Isabella’s spirits became almost too high for control. She screeched, she sang, she cooed and hallooed, and caused flurries of snow to appear—verily, Catherine had to blink it away—and she called herself the happiest of mortals.
Are nephilim mortal? Catherine pondered momentarily, then had to remind herself that yes, indeed they were.
Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness.
Even the angels in the room could not help smiling and circled around energetically, narrowly avoiding the two nephilim, while greater light than usual streamed from their wings. Terence, or possibly Clarence, collided with each other in mid-flight and both landed on top of Mrs. Thorpe’s bonnet.
John himself was no skulker in joy. He named Mr. Morland one of the finest fellows in the world. Bellowing, he swore off many sentences in his praise, sending waves of infernal heat about the room. At some point near the middle, and just beneath a chandelier, Isabella’s cold front and the heat wave met . . .
Catherine sensed that, at some precarious point, and soon, indoor precipitation was entirely inevitable.
Meanwhile, the happy letter from James was short. But for the details Isabella could well afford to wait. By what means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her disinterested spirit took no concern.
It was enough to feel secure. Her imagination took flight; and she saw herself admired and envied, by friends old and new, at Fullerton and in Putney—a carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.
John Thorpe, who had only waited for the momentous letter’s arrival, now prepared to set off to London. “Well, Miss Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the parlour, “I am come to bid you good-bye.”
Catherine wished him a good journey.
Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune in a tender roar, and seemed wholly self-occupied.
“Shall not you be late?” said Catherine, wishing the inferno gone.
He made no answer; but after a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland’s and Belle’s. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion.”
“I am sure I think it a very good one.”
“Do you? That’s honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to matrimony. Did you ever hear the old s
ong ‘Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?’” And Thorpe muttered self-indulgently, in a most delicate ogre rumble, about something—but Catherine was unsure what it was exactly.
“Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home.”
“Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may be together again? A devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”
“Then why stay away so long?” replied Catherine tiredly.
“That is kind of you—and good-natured. I shall not forget it. But you have more good nature than anybody living. A monstrous deal of good nature! And not only that, you have such good brains for those secret clues, I say, and you have such—upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you.”
“Oh, dear! There are a great many people like me.”
“Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not disagreeable.”
“Pray do. My father and mother will be glad to see you.”
“And I hope—I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me.”
“Oh, dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see. Company is always cheerful.”
“That is just my way of thinking. And I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. Blast it, Miss Morland! You and I think pretty much alike upon most matters.”
“Perhaps; but it is more than I ever thought of.”
“By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what does not concern me. Let me only have the girl I like, with a comfortable house over my head, and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my own. If she had not a penny, why, so much the better.”
“Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune looking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest thing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at Fullerton, whenever it is convenient.”