|
Story
IX - We Have Mrs. Radcliffe to Thank
(Author's Note:
In this Northanger Abbey variation, things are not always
as they seem.)
No one who had ever
seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her
born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of
her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all
against her in equal measure. She was the eldest daughter of
a country clergyman, and while certainly not rich, she was not
destitute either. She loved her family, her home, and her romantic
novels and expected very little else out of life, except for
a handsome man to sweep her off her feet and carry her away.
As the chances of that occurring were very slight, her life was
very ordinary.
Thanks to her friends,
the Allens, Catherine was taken to Bath, where she made the acquaintance
of Miss Eleanor Tilney, the beautiful daughter of a local retired
army general, and her brother, the equally handsome Mr. Henry
Tilney. Acquaintance rapidly grew into friendship, and just as
quickly, an invitation to Miss Tilney's home was extended and
accepted.
Catherine never
had such an adventure before in her young life -- visiting a
country estate as the particular friend of a lovely girl with
her extremely agreeable brother as escort! Such things did not
happen to clergyman's daughters from Fullerton!
Northanger Abbey
was a disappointment, however. As a faithful reader of the novels
of Mrs. Radcliffe, Catherine could not help but be delighted
at the prospect of the expected gothic grandeur that was sure
to be the Tilney estate. However, the reality was nothing of
the sort. The abbey was a short, squat hall on level ground.
Inside, the furniture was in all the profusion and elegance of
modern taste. The fireplace, where she had expected to find the
ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted
to a Rumford, with slabs of plain, though handsome, marble and
ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows,
to which she looked with peculiar regard from having heard the
General talk of preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential
care, were yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure,
the pointed arch was preserved -- the form of them was Gothic,
and they might be even casements - but every pane was so large,
so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for the
smallest divisions and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass,
dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was very distressing.
Another blow was
that Mr. Tilney did not reside there with the General and Eleanor.
Woodston, nearly twenty miles distant from the Abbey, was his
establishment. For at the age of seventeen, Catherine had found
someone as worthy of her admiration as her dear novels. In Henry
Tilney she found all expectations of her necessities of an agreeable
gentleman. He was smart, in both mind and dress, and was clever
without being cruel. And there was another accomplishment besides
- a depth of feeling she had never known existed in the world
outside what her mother called her "dreadful novels."
As much as Catherine enjoyed Eleanor's company, she anticipated
Henry's visits with sweet eagerness.
The General, however,
was not so agreeable. Dark and foreboding was his aspect. Catherine
seldom saw him except at dinner, and sharp was his questioning
of his visitor. He insisted on prompt attendance, and his only
other command was that Miss Moreland refrain from entering any
room in the family wing, save Miss Tilney's.
For a girl raised
on novels Gothic, this was the same as an open invitation. Catherine
longed to explore the bedrooms there, particularly the room of
the late Mrs. Tilney. Ever since she beheld the portrait of the
woman in the family chapel, Catherine was convinced that the
lady had been a victim of foul play. Moreover, it was fixed in
her mind that the perpetrator of the heinous deed was
none other than the poor woman's husband. Why else would the
General, usually so attentive, glower so at her at any approach
to the prohibited room?
For several weeks,
Catherine tried to talk her friend into an exploration of the
chambers to no avail. Eleanor, due to fealty and fear, could
not be moved. Catherine's curiosity had to be appeased. She came
to the resolution that she would make her next attempt on the
forbidden door alone. It would be much better in every respect
that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her
in the danger of detection, to court her into an apartment which
must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend. The
General's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might
be to a daughter, and besides, she thought the examination itself
would be more satisfactory if made without any companion.
Of the way to the
apartment she was now perfectly mistress, and as she wished to
gain entrance before Henry's return, expected on the morrow,
there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage
high. At four o'clock, the sun was two hours above the horizon,
and she would be the only one retiring to dress a half-hour earlier
than usual.
Catherine found
herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to
strike. There was no time for thought. She hurried on, slipped
with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and
without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one
in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and luckily, with
no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tiptoe she
entered. The room was before her, but it was some minutes before
she could advance another step.
She beheld what
fixed her to the spot and agitated her every feature. She saw
a large, well-proportioned apartment, a handsome bed with dimity
curtains, arranged as with a housemaid's care, a bright Bath
stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which
the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash
windows!
Catherine had expected
to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment
and doubt first seized them, and a shortly succeeding ray of
common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not
be mistaken as to the room, but how grossly mistaken she had
been in everything else! This apartment, to which she had given
a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be all that
was delightful. True, it had not been used in some time, but
it bore the mark of the servants -- not a speck of dust could
be found. There were two other doors in the chamber, leading
into dressing-closets, no doubt, but she had no inclination to
open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney last walked
or the volume she had last read remain to tell what nothing else
was allowed to whisper?
No -- whatever might
have been the General's crimes, he had certainly too much wit
to let them sue for detection.
Catherine was sick
of exploring and desired nothing more than to be safe in her
own room with only her own heart privy to its folly. She was
at the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when
the sound of footsteps - she could hardly tell from where - made
her pause and tremble.
To be found there,
even by a servant, would be unpleasant, but by the General would
be much worse! She listened -- the sound had ceased -- and resolving
not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door.
At that instant,
a door beneath her was hastily opened. Someone seemed with swift
steps to ascend the stairs, the head of which Catherine had yet
to pass before she could gain entrance to the gallery. She had
no power to move.
With a feeling of
terror not quite definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase,
and in a few moments, it gave Henry to her view.
"Mr. Tilney!
Good heavens! How came you here? How came you up that staircase?"
He looked astonished
too. "How came I up that staircase?" he replied, greatly
surprised. "Because it is the nearest way from the stable
yard to my own chamber; and why should I not use it?"
Catherine recollected
herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to
be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her
lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery.
"And may I
not, in my turn," said he, as he pushed back the folding
doors, "ask how you came here? This passage is at
least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast parlor to your
apartment as that staircase can be from the stables to mine."
She could not lie
to his bright, penetrating blue eyes. "I have been to see
your mother's room," said Catherine, looking down.
"My mother's
room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?"
"No, nothing
at all."
"You look pale.
I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.
Perhaps you did not know -- you were not aware -- of their leading
from the offices in common use?"
"No, I was
not." She changed the subject. "You have had a very
fine day for your ride."
"Very, and
does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in
the house by yourself?"
"Oh! No, she
showed me for the greatest part on Saturday - and we were coming
here to these rooms - but only," dropping her voice, "your
father was with us."
"And that prevented
you," said Henry, earnestly regarding her. "Have you
looked into all the rooms in that passage?"
"No, I only
wanted to see --" She realized how foolish she appeared.
"Is not it very late? I must go and dress for dinner."
"It is only
a quarter past four. There is time enough."
She could not contradict
it, and therefore, suffered herself to be detained, though her
dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their
acquaintance, wish to leave him.
"My mother's
room is very commodious, is it not?" Henry said. "Large
and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed!
It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the
house. Eleanor sent you to look at it, I suppose?"
"No."
"It has been
your own doing entirely?" Catherine said nothing. After
a short silence during which he closely observed her, he added,
"As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity,
this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's
character, as described by Eleanor, which does honor to her memory.
The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not
often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic,
unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create
that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt
a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great
deal."
"Yes, a great
deal. That is - no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting.
Her dying so suddenly, and you -- none of you being at home -
and your father, I thought -- perhaps had not been very fond
of her."
"And from these
circumstances," he replied, his quick eye fixed on hers,
"you inferred perhaps the probability of some negligence,
some - something still less pardonable?"
She raised her eyes
towards him more fully than she had ever done before.
Henry reached out
his hand. "Come, Catherine, please. Come with me, if it
be your will."
Without hesitation,
she placed her little hand in his. Immediately, he turned and
walked with her to his mother's apartment. A moment later, the
two were in the middle of the room. Catherine could know no reason
why he did this, except to prove to her that her suspicions were
wrong.
He said nothing.
Instead, he stood before her, both her hands in has. Deeply his
blue eyes searched hers, searching for she knew not. She felt
her soul open - he knew her every secret, including her love
for him.
In a soft voice
scarcely above a whisper, he spoke. "Would you like to meet
her?"
Catherine blinked.
"I…I beg your pardon? Meet who?"
"My mother."
"Your mother!"
she cried. "Is not your mother dead?"
A half-smile marked
his countenance. He half-turned, never releasing his hold on
her hands, and to one of the doors on the far side of the room,
he called out softly, "Mother?"
At once, the door
opened and a beautiful older woman entered the room. Her face
was unlined and her hair a soft shade of gold. Her ivory dress
was of an older style, at least twenty years in the past, yet
it shown as if the dressmaker had just completed her labors.
Her features favored Eleanor, but she shared the same blue eyes
as Henry.
The woman looked
at a shock-stilled Catherine with intense interest. Her eyes
never leaving the girl, she said in a low, throaty voice, "Henry,
is this the one?"
"I believe
so, Mother," he answered. Henry turned to Catherine. "Forgive
me, my love, but I must know."
Catherine felt her
very mind invaded.
Do you love me? A voice filled her head. She felt
compelled to answer truthfully.
"Yes."
Do you say this
of your own free will?
"Yes."
Do you want to
stay with me for all time?
"More than
anything else in the world."
Henry turned to
the woman. "Yes, Mother. She is the one."
The woman smiled.
"I am so happy for you, my son." She spoke to Catherine.
"Do not fear, my child. A kiss and you will join us for
all eternity."
"Oh, yes --
please."
The woman floated
to Catherine's side, her hands gently cupping the girl's face.
"So pretty, so pure. You have chosen well, Henry. What is
your name, sweet child?"
"Catherine."
"Welcome to
our family, Catherine." With that, Mrs. Tilney lowered her
face to Catherine's neck.
Catherine's world
went dark.
Catherine sat on
the sofa with Henry in Mrs. Tilney's apartment. They were quite
alone, for Mrs. Tilney had retired to her room again. Henry began
to tell his bride of their history.
"My mother's
malady," he continued, "the change which ended in her
death, was sudden. At first, we thought it a bilious fever. But
she seemed to waste away, and no doctor could cure her. My father,
brother, and I remained in almost constant attendance for four
and twenty hours. On the fifth day, she died. As her disorder
progressed, we saw her repeatedly, and from our own observation
can bear witness to her having received every possible attention
which could spring from the affection of those about her or which
her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent,
and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in
her coffin."
"But your father?"
said Catherine. "Was he afflicted?"
"Immensely.
You erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her
beyond all reason, I am persuaded. I will not pretend to say
that while she lived she might not often have had much to bear,
but though his temper sometimes injured her, his judgment never
did. His value of her was sincere, and he was truly afflicted
by her death."
"I am very
glad of it," said Catherine. "It would have been very
shocking!"
Henry laughed. "Not
as shocking as it was when she returned to us! Oh, I thought
I had gone mad with grief, and my family, too, but it was no
ghost. It was my mother, more beautiful than she was in life.
Her death killed all illness. She was whole and well."
"And dead."
"Un-dead, yes.
We do not know to this day from where the vampirism came."
"She shared
her gift with you?"
"With all of
us -- yes."
Catherine tried
to take all the changes in. When she awoke from her swoon in
Henry's arms, she knew her world had changed. She felt new and
free. Catherine Morland was no more. Though not yet officially
married, she was now Catherine Tilney and would be so forever.
"I do not understand.
How can this be? You have been out in the daytime and Eleanor
too. I thought the sun was the enemy of vampires. Yet, as I sit
here in your arms, watching the sunset, I feel not the least
discomfort. And you do not sparkle."
Henry laughed. "I
believe that most of what is written about vampires is rubbish,
my love, much like your beloved 'dreadful novels.' In actuality,
only Mother is a full arch-vampiress. She does not like the full
sun all that well. And she can only consume fresh blood -- not
human, of course," he hastened to assure her. "She
is partial to lamb, but cow's blood does well enough. The rest
of us are gifted with partial-vampirism, like you. We carry on
as we always did. The only exceptions are that we age very slowly,
we are impervious to normal death, and we like our meat raw."
"But my meals
here - the food was well cooked."
He smiled. "We
suffered so as not to offend your sensibilities, my love."
He grew serious. "You now understand why we are so reserved.
We can be destroyed by the frightened and uninformed. A stake
to the heart, beheading by a silver blade, that sort of thing.
We pose no threat to king and country -- in fact, Frederick,
being invulnerable, is a great weapon for England - but as we
are considered unnatural, we are feared."
"And your father
is gatekeeper to the family secrets?" Catherine stated with
new-found prescience.
"Yes. He is
perfect for the task, as he is naturally suspicious. It is why
Eleanor's admirer has been held off at arm's length. We are not
certain that the Viscount would accept the price of joining the
family."
"And I was
judged worthy?"
Henry smiled. "Yes.
Thank you, my love."
Catherine's own
smile faded. "Henry, what of children?"
"I do not know,
love. As we are only half-vampires, we may yet be blessed."
He pulled her into a close embrace. "I do want children
with you, Catherine, but that may be denied. Will you hate me
if it is so?"
"Never!"
she cried. "My life is you, Henry. If that is all I ever
have, I will be more than content." She shivered.
"Catherine,
are you well?"
"Never better,
Henry. I…I feel so alive! Is it not strange to say that?
Yet, I feel…" She blushed. "Henry, may we marry
soon?"
Henry's blue eyes
seemed to glow. "Are you…impatient?"
Catherine's eyes
glowed in return. "Yes! You know I am! Such…such feelings
course through me! I can hide nothing from you, my darling. I…I
feel completely wanton!"
His lips captured
hers in a kiss that was so all-consuming that they would have
died of suffocation, if they were still fully alive.
The door opened.
"Henry? Are you -- oh, my!" cried Eleanor.
Henry turned to
her, but kept Catherine in a close embrace. "Wish me joy,
Sister. Catherine has met Mother!"
"She has?"
Eleanor squealed. "How wonderful! Welcome to the family,
my dear friend!"
Catherine left her
lover's embrace and turned to her sister. "Thank you, Eleanor.
But tell me, is dinner ready? I feel positively ravenous!"
Henry laughed. "Come,
darling. We cannot have you starve."
As they left for
the dining room, Catherine said, "And after dinner, we must
speak about this viscount of yours, Eleanor. I think we need
more gentlemen in the family." She laughed. "Oh, how
right Mrs. Radcliffe is -- and how very wrong!"
The End
|
