Criminy! She even missed their silly chains.
And then Catherine sadly realized she had not seen any more dragons. . . .
The painful remembrance of the various breathtaking wonders the abbey had helped to nourish was the only emotion remaining. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who had so longed to be in an abbey! Who hungered for the flaming letters of the arcane and secret Udolpho Code!
Now, there was nothing so charming to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!
It did come—and Catherine trod on air. By ten o’clock, the chaise and four conveyed the two from the abbey. And, after an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant.
Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it—the general seemed to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village. But in her heart she preferred it to any other place, admiring everything they passed.
At the further end of the village stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house. As they drove up to the door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive them.
Catherine’s mind was too full, as she entered the house, for her either to observe or to say a great deal. When called on by the general for her opinion of it, she had very little idea, but soon perceived it was the most comfortable room in the world. But she was too guarded to admit it.
The general started to justify the small house due to her perceived coldness of praise. “We are not comparing it with Fullerton and Northanger—we are considering it as a mere parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and habitable.”
Catherine did not hear enough to understand it. A tray full of refreshments was introduced by Henry’s servant, and the general was shortly restored to his complacency.
The room in question was handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour. And on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was shown many others. Catherine was delighted enough even to satisfy the general, and expressed her admiration of a specific room with all honest simplicity. “Oh! Why do not you fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!”
“I trust,” said the general, with a most satisfied smile, “it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”
“Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is among the apple trees!”
“You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember. The cottage remains.”
Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s worry, and silenced her directly. She said little more in response to the general’s other such consultations, until it was time to observe the ornamental walk and meadows near the premises.
A saunter into other meadows, an examination of some improvements, and a charming game of play with a litter of puppies (oh, how the angels flew and danced among the little ones!), brought them to four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it three. At four they dined (the abundance of dinner did not create the smallest astonishment in the general); at six, set off on their return. Never had any day passed so quickly!
So gratifying had been his conduct throughout the whole visit, so well assured was her mind on the subject of his expectations, that, could she have felt equally confident of the wishes of his son, Catherine would have quitted Woodston with little anxiety as to the How or the When she might return to it.
Chapter 27
The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella:
Bath, April—
My Dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner, but in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifle or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home.
Thank God, we leave this vile place tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything (what with all the digging of roots); and everybody one cares for is gone. Furthermore, there is no treasure here. Of that we are now certain. Only many gentlemen with walking-shovels and ladies with bells and potato sacks—all horribly tedious, at this point.
I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine, many now incorporating bells.
I hope you spend your time pleasantly. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know their minds. I rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow.
He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even look at him. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that chillingly affected his spirits.
I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone.
Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, but made wretched work of it—I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother’s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.
Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella—ashamed of ever wanting to love her, despite her nephilim self.
Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty; her demands impudent. “Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella’s name mentioned by her again.”
Catherine was done, entirely and irrevocably, with both the nephilim.
On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their elder brother’s safety from Isabella, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation.
When she had finished it—“So much for Isabella,” she cried, “and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so. But perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. Among other things, she is a vain coquette. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her.”
“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.
?
??There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had unsuccessful designs on Captain Tilney; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?”
“I have very little to say for Frederick’s motives. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe.”
“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”
“I am persuaded that he never did.”
“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”
Henry bowed his assent.
“Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?”
“But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment.”
Catherine suddenly wondered if Henry possibly suspected Isabella’s true nephilim nature.
“It is very right that you should stand by your brother.”
“And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe.”
And Catherine fully agreed. And yet, she still felt a momentary pang of regret for that awful, scrawny, screeching, monstrous hollow creature’s sake—regret, worthy of a true heroine’s heart.
Wait, was she not done with the nephilim? Stop it!
Henry continued, as though fully reading her inside and out. “But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge.”
Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness in regard to her very first friend—who, she realized, Isabella had been, in her own twisted way—and she let go, once and for all.
Indeed, that is what had made it so awful, so truly awful: the loss and dismissal of her first friend. But she—who could see angels, and demons, and the true visage of the nephilim; and who had managed to see beyond Udolpho and the abbey, and into the true heart of a silent ghost—she now at last saw enough to let go of an illusion.
Incidentally, Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. Thus, she resolved on not answering Isabella’s letter, and tried to think no more of it.
Chapter 28
Soon after this, the general was obliged to go to London for a week. He left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him of Miss Morland’s company, and bid his children grant her every amusement.
His departure convinced Catherine that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general’s presence had imposed. She was most thankful for their present release from it.
The resulting ease and delights made her love the place and the two people more and more every day. And if not for a dread of soon having to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would have been perfectly happy.
But she was now in the fourth week of her visit. And perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration. Eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once.
She took the first opportunity of being alone with Eleanor, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor declared herself much concerned. She had “hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time—if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would not hasten her return.”
Catherine explained: “Oh! Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied.”
A brief but happy exchange ensued in which Catherine and Eleanor made it clear that they both wanted Catherine to stay very much longer, and continue her visit.
The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor’s manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry’s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without.
She did—almost always—believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them. And believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations.
Henry was unable to obey his father’s injunction and remain wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London. The duties of his curate at Woodston obliged him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights.
The loss of his company was not now what it had been while the general was at home. It lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort. The two girls found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o’clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry’s departure.
They had just reached the head of the stairs, with a garland of angel “lamps” cheerfully illuminating the way for Catherine’s inner vision, when it seemed (as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge), that a carriage was driving up to the door. And the next moment confirmed the idea by the loud noise of the house-bell. “Good heaven! What can be the matter?”
After the first perturbation of surprise had passed away, Eleanor decided it had to be her eldest brother. And accordingly she hurried down to welcome him.
Catherine walked on to her chamber, preparing herself for a further acquaintance with Captain Tilney, and hoping their meeting to be not entirely painful. She trusted he would never speak of Miss Thorpe; that he was ashamed of the part he had acted. As long as all mention of Bath scenes were avoided, she could behave to him very civilly.
In such considerations time passed. Eleanor had to be most glad to see him, with so much to say, for it was half an hour since his arrival, and Eleanor did not come up.
At that moment Catherine thought she heard her step in the gallery, and listened for it; but all was silent. However, the noise of something moving close to her door made her start (oh dear! Udolpho mysteries momentarily rushed into Catherine’s fertile mind but she firmly denied herself that path of thought). And in another moment a slight motion of the lock proved that some hand must be on it.
She trembled a little at the idea of anyone’s approaching so cautiously, but was resolved not to be again overcome by trivial alarm, or misled by a raised imagination. She stepped quietly forward, and opened the door.
Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine’s spirits, however, were calmed but for an instant. For, Eleanor’s cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. She intended to come in, but was almost reluctant to enter the room, or to speak.
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.”