Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons

by Jane Austen

  Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain Tilney’s account, expressed her concern by silent attention. She obliged Eleanor to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude.

  “My dear Catherine, you must not—” were Eleanor’s first connected words. “I am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such an errand!”

  “Errand! To me!”

  “How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!”

  Even Eleanor’s angel floated dejectedly, like a solitary waning candle flame overhead.

  A new idea now stunned Catherine. Turning as pale as her friend, she exclaimed, “’Tis a messenger from Woodston!”

  “You are mistaken, indeed,” returned Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately; “it is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself.”

  Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to the ground as she mentioned his name. His unexpected return was enough in itself to make Catherine’s heart sink. For a few moments she hardly supposed there were anything worse to be told.

  She said nothing. Eleanor collected herself and, with eyes still cast down, went on. “You are too good to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed between us—how joyfully!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many weeks longer, how can I tell you this?—But—My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. Explanation and apology are equally impossible.”

  “My dear Eleanor,” cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as she could, “do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended. I can finish my visit here at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this, come to Fullerton?”

  “It will not be in my power, Catherine.”

  A very strange weight started to settle on Catherine. “Come when you can, then,” she tried, feeling something amiss.

  Eleanor made no answer.

  Catherine mused aloud, “Monday—and you all go. Well, I suppose I need not go till just before you do. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and mother’s having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general will send a servant with me, half the way—and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, then only nine miles till home.”

  “Ah, Catherine! Were it were so, it would be somewhat less intolerable! But—how can I tell you?—tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us. Not even the hour is left to your choice! The carriage is ordered. It will be here at seven o’clock, and no servant will be offered you.”

  Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless.

  “I could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it,” continued Eleanor. “And no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at this moment, can be more than I myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double distance from your home—to have you driven out of the house, without even decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult. Yet, I trust you will acquit me—for you must have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, my real power is nothing.”

  “Have I offended the general?” said Catherine in a faltering voice.

  “Alas! All that I know is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy. Something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree. Some disappointment, some unknown vexation!”

  Catherine could only attempt to speak for Eleanor’s sake. “I am sure,” said she, “I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very little consequence.”

  “I earnestly hope that to your real safety it will be of none. But to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease. But a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!”

  “Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think of it. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later makes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time.” Catherine spoke bravely then, like a true heroine.

  Eleanor saw that she wished to be alone. “I shall see you in the morning.”

  Catherine’s swelling heart indeed needed relief. In her friend’s presence, pride and friendship had restrained her tears. But no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in torrents.

  The twelve angels surrounding her with their sweet radiance, were hardly enough to refill the empty vessel of her heart—indeed she needed dozens more!

  And as Catherine wept, the guardians of heaven came, more and more of them, from every direction, through shuttered windows and walls, through drapery and ceiling, floating down gently like snowflakes of luminosity—until Catherine felt herself in a field of angelic brightness, the centerpiece of a radiant glowing flower made of pure otherworldly light. . . .

  Catherine’s heart was thus gentled, but her stunned bewilderment remained.

  To be turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason or apology that could justify the abrupt rudeness, nay, the insolence of it!

  Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope or expectation from him suspended—and who could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again?

  And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. He has no angel of his own, Catherine reminded herself. There must be sufficient reasons for this!

  Indeed, the manner in which it was done was so grossly uncivil—hurrying her away without allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her traveling—as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see her!

  What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means she must have offended him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe that anything could provoke such ill-will against a person unless there was a solid reason for it.

  The night passed heavily. Sleep was out of the question. That room, in which her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers.

  Yet how different now the source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully superior in reality and substance! No Legion of demons filled the darkness, no ghostly sighs, breaths, or moans resounded—not even hiccups!—not, furthermore, even those abysmally tedious chains (ever since her communication with the ghost of Mrs. Tilney, she had ceased hearing them, realized Catherine). The chest and cabinet stood dead to any supernatural presences. No mystical Capital Letters appeared carved on wood or scrawled on washing-bills, or stood up in fiery script in the air itself to signify an ancient Udolpho Code.

  And there had been decidedly no treasure. Not in Bath, not in Northanger.

  The dragons, thought Catherine, the dragons came and searched for naught. . . .

  And so did I.

  Catherine lay awake thus, hour after hour, without curiosity or terror.

  Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance where it was possible. But very little remained to be done.

  Catherine had not loitered. She was almost dressed, and
her packing almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger should pass away and kind repentance succeed it?

  But Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on meeting. Each found her greatest safety in silence, with only few trivial sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs. Catherine in busy agitation completed her dress, and Eleanor, with more goodwill than experience, filled the trunk.

  When everything was done they left the room. Catherine lingered only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting glance on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared.

  She tried to eat, to make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast between this and her previous cheerful breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery. Happy, happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped her.

  The appearance of the carriage recalled them to the present moment. Catherine’s colour rose at the sight of it. And the indignity with which she was treated, struck her with peculiar force—made her for a short time sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

  “You must write to me, Catherine!” she cried; “you must let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour’s comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. To know that you are safe at Fullerton, your family well, and I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown’s, and, under cover to Alice.”

  “No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. I will get home safely.”

  Eleanor only replied, “I cannot wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you. I—” The look of sorrow accompanying her words was enough to melt Catherine’s pride in a moment, and she instantly said, “Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you indeed!”

  There was yet another embarrassing point which Miss Tilney was anxious to settle. It had occurred to her that after so long an absence from home, Catherine might not be provided with enough money for the expenses of her journey. And, upon suggesting it, with most affectionate offers of accommodation, it proved to be exactly the case.

  Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment, but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home. The distress at this notion filled the minds of both. And scarcely another word was said during their remaining time together.

  The carriage was soon announced. Catherine rose instantly. A long and affectionate silent embrace followed, as they bid each other adieu. And as they entered the hall, Catherine paused a moment, unable to leave the house without some mention of one whose name had not been spoken by either. With quivering lips she left “her kind remembrance for her absent friend.”

  But with this reference to his name, there was to be no more restraining her feelings. Hiding her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, Catherine darted across the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.

  Chapter 29

  Catherine was too wretched to be fearful.

  The journey in itself had no terrors for her—indeed, the world itself held no more terrors at all—and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness.

  Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head. And the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it.

  She was thus unable to see the wondrous sight of a dark speck ascending into the sky—an airborne creature that was not a mere bird, but of a familiar reptilian shape to indicate a dragon.

  The dragon flew at a great distance, unobserved, yet was distinctly following the carriage. . . .

  Unfortunately, the road she now traveled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston. And, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was intensified by the familiar view of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings. And when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry—so near, yet so unconscious—her grief and agitation were excessive.

  It was in that moment that her grieving eyes scanned the heavens in passing, and she saw the dragon, flying closer now, low to the ground, and thus the details visible—its familiar dark leathery hide with sharp glittering scales along the tips of its wings, gilded into liquid metal by the sunlight.

  Catherine stared.

  And then she had occasion to stare again, and open her eyes wide, and forget her tears.

  From the direction of Woodston, another dragon arose.

  This one, she had never seen before, she realized now.

  This dragon was pure white.

  It was of the same monumental wingspan as the other; grand, fierce, violent in its approach. Its skin was supple leathery pallor, smooth on the underbelly and on the outside, bejeweled with razor metal scales. But it was white as day, blinding brightness—light itself.

  And for a moment, the dragon was an angel.

  The dragon beat its wings, racing closer to the crossroad turning. And when it was near enough, only the height of a cathedral overhead, it engaged the other dragon.

  But first, Catherine heard its battle cry.

  There is no manner of words sufficient to describe a dragon’s voice, nor its song, nor its secret whisper. But its cry—it is like the voice of the earth itself wedded to thunder. . . .

  Catherine and her fellow travelers in the carriage, the driver, all could not help but stare through windows, some trembling, others stunned, and the driver just about losing control of the horses, then urging them on frightfully.

  Overhead, the other dragon, dark and gold, had turned its head, its burning coal-red eye toward the approaching enemy. And the next moment the dragons came together with an impact that could be heard like an explosion of distant cannon.

  There was the beating of wings, the striking of claws of steel, the maddened eyes, one crimson, the other amber-gold. Scales of white and gold metal began to rain upon the moving carriage, and indeed upon the road and all the countryside, falling like a downpour of coins; a strange manna indeed, an unearthly harvest. . . . And the two great ones hurtled back and forth at each other, tearing and striking and rising high up toward the clouds, then falling back again.

  The ordeal went on for an hour at least, then it seemed the dragons disappeared, lost to view beyond the turning road and the trees. But soon enough they came back again, two unrelenting shapes in struggle, the white one pursuing the dark gold, neither of them winning or losing, it seemed.

  Eventually the carriage and its denizens realized they were not to be harmed, and only a few half-joking comments were raised, and natural comments of wonder and amazement—for none of them had seen dragons in their lifetime, though it had been a thing of discourse and historical significance.

  Catherine did not share in the conversation. But her heart was beating violently in her chest, as though she too was soaring aloft in the heavens, engaged in a mortal battle.

  And in her supernatural vision, somehow she was indeed there, together with the dragon of light. It was important somehow, important that he was to win.

  What was it that connected them? Surely not her silly thoughts of secret clues and Udolpho and imaginary treasure? Why had the dragons come indeed, both of them; and was it in any way possible that they had come for her?

  Catherine sometimes stopped looking out of the carriage and up at the embattled sky, and allowed her strange, confounded, splintered thoughts to
dwell on what she had left behind, just now, some miles away, in Woodston.

  The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, on that day, that the general used such pointed expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had spoken and looked in a way that could only give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago he had elated her by his regard—indeed, confused her! And now—what had she done (or omitted to do) to merit such a change?

  The only offence against the general of which she could accuse herself, was a ridiculous secret. Only Henry and her own heart were privy to it—her shocking suspicions of his murdering his wife. And Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance, his father should have learned what horrors she had thought of him—no wonder his indignation, or his even turning her from his house. But she dearly hoped such a bitter explanation was not the case.

  However, now there was an even more urgent, anxiety-causing issue plaguing her. How would Henry think, feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and discovered her gone? What would he do? She was uncertain. Sometimes her imagination painted the dread of his calm acquiescence to his father’s decision; at others there was but the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment.

  To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak (how could he oppose the will of his father?); but to Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?

  Catherine sometimes remembered, throughout the musings, to glance outside the carriage. And there the two dragons continued to battle in the sky.

  In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, the hours passed away. Her journey advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing anything before her, and only occasionally the dragons overhead, saved her from counting the passage of the moments. And though no other object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found none of it tedious, and some, when looking up at the unreal sky battle, oddly exciting.