by Jane Austen
She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed in motion—surely, nothing but the violence of the wind penetrating through the divisions of the shutters. She stepped boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune, to assure herself of its being so, peeped courageously behind each curtain, saw nothing on either low window seat to scare her, placed a hand against the shutter, and felt indeed the wind’s force.
A glance at the old chest (now perfectly silent and harmless) was not without its use. She scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and began with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for bed. The angels alighted in various bright spots around the room.
Catherine resolved to take her time; not hurry herself. She did not care if she were the last person up in the house. But she would not make up her fire (that would seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she were in bed).
The fire therefore died away. There was only a single candle left burning—and angel light.
Catherine, having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was about to step into bed. But, glancing round the room, she was struck by the appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.
Oh dear . . .
Henry’s words—his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape her observation at first—immediately rushed across her. And though this could mean nothing, there was something whimsical—certainly a remarkable coincidence!
She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold. But it was black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind. And as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold.
Could it be? A clue to secret hidden treasure!
The key was in the cabinet door. And once again, as with the horrid chest, she had a strange fancy to look into it—not, however, with the smallest expectation of finding anything this time, but it was so very odd, after what Henry had said.
In short, she could not sleep till she had examined it. It beckoned her, like a siren—
“Oh no, dear child!” whispered the angels. “Forsooth, not again!”
But of course, they were talking to a heroine, no less.
So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, Catherine seized the key with a very tremulous hand and tried to turn it; but it resisted her utmost strength. And at the same time, there came a sound of distant humming.
Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way. A bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused a moment in breathless wonder.
“Heaven itself is telling you not to proceed,” whispered the angels like sweet rustling leaves, holding their heads.
But what heroine ever heeded heaven?
The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the genuine Udolpho awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be in vain—sleep was impossible with the knowledge of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity.
Again, therefore, she applied herself to the key. And after moving it in every possible way, the door suddenly yielded to her hand. Her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory! And having thrown open each folding door, a double range of small drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them—and in the centre, a small door, closed also with a lock and key, secured in all probability a cavity of importance.
Catherine’s heart beat quick (and indeed, there was almost the hint of that familiar awful humming sound), but her courage did not fail her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer and drew it forth—
And out came the screeching pulsating black smoke again! The darkness, filled with ghostly creatures, billowed out rapidly, as it had come from the chest earlier, and the accompanying screams of the damned were bloodcurdling and wild, true sounds of the inferno.
Catherine jumped back and screamed a bloodcurdling scream of her own that (unfortunately for her but fortunately for the sleeping denizens of the abbey) was muffled by the sounds of the storm outside.
This time the angels, all twelve of them, encircled Catherine immediately and their light flared into radiance.
And the darkness held itself back, jut a foot away, and it screamed and howled and screeched like banshees (Catherine, even in her terror, thought momentarily and almost wistfully of Isabella).
“What are you?” our heroine exclaimed at last, gathering herself in courage. “What do you want? Who are you? Wait—did you not come out of the chest earlier? Then how did you come back around and—”
And the contorted ghostly faces and limbs clawing at her seemed to shape words out of the air, words in many octaves, so that the sound came like a terrifying and perverse chorus.
“PWWEEEEGGEEEEOOOOOOONNN!!!” they sounded, “HWEEE-HHHAWWWRRRR-WEEGEEHOOOOWWNN!”
Catherine paused in suspense, listening so closely that she completely blanked out on the notion that she ought to be afraid. Her countenance displayed a host of emotions and a forced grasp for understanding, painfully reflected in a baffled frown.
“I am sorry,” she said after a moment of flailing darkness and contorted demonic faces, now mere inches away from her and the angels. “Pardon, but—did you say ‘pigeon’?”
“HWEEE-HHHAWWRRRR-WEEGEEHOOOWWNN!”
Catherine blinked. “You’re a pigeon? Are you saying ‘You are a pigeon’ or ‘We are a pigeon?’ Oh dear! Are you asking for one?”
“WWEEGEEHOOOWWNN!” roared the voices in reply.
“I am sorry, I still don’t understand,” said Catherine. “That is, do you mind terribly repeating, and this time speaking clearly and enunciating? For, I dare say elocution is very important, and I am afraid I have no notion of what it is you are saying, what it is you want—”
The roar that came from the darkness was horrifying.
But for some peculiar reason, it, the horrid collective thing of many limbs and forms, started to comply, and, humming, it started to speak something that was in rhythmic syllables.
“WWEE GEEH OOOWWNN! RWWEE GEE HOOWNN! WWEE GEEH OOOWWNN!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I still don’t understand,” she replied, showing some frustration, while completely forgetting to be afraid. “Upon my word, there are no pigeons here! None! And unless you are referring to yourself, I dare say you do not appear to be a pigeon at all, not even a monstrous duck!”
“RWWEEEEH GEEEEE HNNNNNNNN!” convulsed the darkness, fury rising, by the indication of increased contortions and flailings of common limbs.
“If you are saying ‘region’ or ‘smidgeon,’ possibly, it still makes no sense. Is that the first word? And I am sorry, but I am not very good at charades; never did well, indeed even Mrs. Allen has a better grasp of it—”
“AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” the darkness roared in pure fury, spreading itself across the room, like billowing smoke, then breaking up into rounded balls of vaguely human matter, and verily pounding itself against the walls.
But Catherine was nonplussed. The angels continued to shield her with their light, and she felt rather empowered enough to proceed in this conversation.
“So you are saying this is a region, or you are a pigeon, or I am a pigeon, or—”
“EEEENNOOOOOOUUUUUUUGH!!!!!!” said the boiling darkness. “LLLLEEEGGGGGIIIIIIIIOOOHHHHNNNNNNN! WEEEEE ARRRRRRRRRRR LEEEEEEEEEGGIIIOOON!”
It seemed to have at last found an auditory key and fixed in it at last.
“Oh! ‘Legion’!” Catherine exclaimed with what nearly was actual pleased comprehension. “You are legion! You are—”
And then it sank in.
Oh dear . . .
“Yes, dear child,” sounded the angels. “We could not warn you for we are not allowed to invoke its name. And you
are not to repeat it if possible, for by naming it, you give it power.”
“What, you mean le—”
“Hush!” exclaimed Lawrence, or possibly Florence, or one of the other new guardians.
Catherine quickly put her hand to her mouth, and stared in stunned horror at some possibly high-ranking demon’s contorted face, making grimaces at her just beyond the veil of angelic light. What was she to do?
But they appeared to be at an impasse. Several long moments went by while the storm raged outside, rattling the shutters with an almost demonic force.
And then from the door outside, somewhere in the corridors, came a different kind of roar.
And Catherine, though she had never heard it in her life, was entirely certain this was the voice of a dragon.
In that moment, the Legion of demons gathered itself—if such a thing were possible—and moved in a whirlwind around the room, and then again, as it did earlier the same day, rushed against and disappeared into one of the walls.
Catherine remained frozen for a few moments, then let out a gasp of relief, saying, “Well! So much for that!” And then, in a very practical way, she returned her full attention to the cabinet before her.
“Dear Catherine!” the angels started talking in both her ears from all directions. “Have you not had enough for now? We must educate you more on the dangers of that which may not be named—”
But Catherine was busy staring at the drawer she had pulled open. That same odious drawer which had contained the dark demonic hive . . .
It was entirely empty.
With less alarm and greater eagerness she seized a second, a third, a fourth; each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not one was anything found. Not even a tiny squat demon with putrid belches as the one that guarded Isabella!
It was getting rather late, and Catherine was as sleepless as can be. She had established that there were indeed demons here, in more than one spot in this room, possibly merely infesting it (and doing so, apparently, regardless of time of day; what kind of demons were these?), but—more likely, doing other more meaningful things such as guarding other secrets; such as secret clues!
One need not be as well read in the art of concealing a treasure as our heroine. Indeed, the possibility of false linings to the demon-guarded drawers did not escape her, and she felt round each with anxious acuteness, but in vain.
The place in the middle of the cabinet alone remained now unexplored. And though she had not expected to find anything else there (a hive of super-demons was quite enough, thank you), it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was about it.
It was some time however before she could unfasten the door (the same difficulty with this inner lock); but at length it did open, and not in vain!
Her quick gaze directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale.
She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters. And while she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, she resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.
The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with alarm. But there was no danger of its sudden extinction (it had yet some hours to burn). In order to better distinguish the writing, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! It was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. All that remained was angel light—an ethereal disembodied glow not truly of the world, and casting no shadow—decidedly insufficient for reading (not even if one held an angel up directly to the printed page—yes, shameful to say, Catherine had tried this once in her younger years).
Catherine, for a few moments, was motionless with horror. It was done completely; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the rekindling breath.
Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room, punctuated with spots of angelic glow. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment.
Catherine trembled from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted ear. And then came gentle sorrowing sighs, carried on the wind. . . .
Ghosts!
Dear God in heaven, not only were the ungodly legionnaire creatures out and about, but there were also genuine abbey ghosts! Catherine was certain! Thus, it was all true—all of Udolpho was real and coming to pass, all around her!
Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat stood on her forehead, and abstract peculiar panic gripped her in that single moment—more so than when faced with actual peril such as she endured already twice, earlier this day.
The manuscript fell from her hand, and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the covers.
To close her eyes in sleep that night, was entirely out of the question. With a curiosity at such fever pitch, and feelings in every way so agitated, repose must be absolutely impossible.
The storm too was so dreadful! She had not previously feared wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelligence.
The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning’s prediction—how was it to be accounted for? For, surely these were no silly clues she herself dreamed up in Bath amid the roaring ogre promptings of John Thorpe—this was the Udolpho Code, in all its occult glory; there was no doubt! It had to be contained within these pages, and it had to point to real wondrous treasure, of one kind or another!
What could it contain? To whom could it relate? By what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly strange that it should fall to her to discover it!
Till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have no rest. With the sun’s first rays she was determined to peruse it. But—how to endure until morning?
She shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm still raged, with various noises, more terrific even than the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. Sometimes there were moans, at other times, sighs, and occasionally the rattling and clanging of what appeared to be weighty chains . . .
Upon my word! Why, oh, why do ghosts always carry around odious chains, practically in every ghost story told? thought Catherine, again briefly forgetting to be afraid because of a flight of imagination. What is it about chains and ghosts? There are other kinds than gallows prisoners, surely. So, why must they, all of them, eternally and tediously carry chains, and not, let us say, pails of milk? Or even parasols? Do not people die in other ways and return to haunt with muskets, or possibly hedge-trimmers? Or—
The curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion. At another, the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to enter.
Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery. And more than once her blood was chilled by the sound of those annoying distant moans, and yes, tedious, odious, horrid chains.
Enough! This extended, fearful state of anxiety was no longer exciting or a bit amusing to our heroine.
But hour after hour passed away, and weary Catherine heard three past midnight proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she unknowingly fell fast asleep.
Chapter 22
The sound of the housemaid folding back her window-shutters at eight o’clock the next day, roused Catherine.
She opened her eyes (wondering she slept at all) on cheerfulness. Her fire was already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the tempest of the night.
Instantaneously, her recollection of the found manuscript returned. Springing from bed, the moment the maid went away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet (which had burst from the ro
ll as it fell, the night before), and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow.
The dozen angels observed her actions patiently, resting on valances and curtains. Admittedly there were occasional sighs.
She now plainly saw that the manuscript was of less than equal length with what she had shuddered over in books. For the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was of trifling size—much less than she had supposed it to be at first.
But, at last! She was about to peruse the Udolpho Code!
Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page—expecting arcane symbols, strange combinations of All Capital Letters, shuffled in terrifying order to form Meaningful Phrases or else, absolutely Meaningless Ones (which in turn were to be shuffled about until truth was stumbled upon in-between lines or every other letter taken backwards), eventually to spell out grand secret Clues—
She started in amazement. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false?
The pages were ordinary receipts and domestic lists.
Indeed, an inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her! If sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand.
Catherine seized another sheet, and saw the same, with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, cravats, waistcoats . . .
And yet—could all these be in fact secret code?
“Dear child,” said an eternally patient angel. “What is it exactly that you are looking for?”
But Catherine threw the angel one occupied glance, and frowning, returned to her task.
Two more sheets marked other expenditures: hair-powder, shoe-string, breeches-ball—
Breeches-ball! thought Catherine. What does that Signify?
And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first cramp line, “To poultice chestnut mare”—a farrier’s bill!