Read Online Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons by Jane Austen, Vera Nazarian - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Austen, Vera Nazarian
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Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries . Those will last us some time.”
“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?” Catherine pretended she was eager for a good literary fright, but for once she was not in the mood—not with Isabella and her true horrid visage directly at her side. With all that, who needed Mrs. Radcliffe or her ilk?
But the tedious charade must now be maintained.
“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.”
“Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?” Catherine could not help saying earnestly, though she now knew very well that all manner of peculiar things were to be expected from this abominable Isabella.
“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends, ” said Isabella meaningfully.
And then Miss Thorpe went on, in a preening, unnaturally modulating voice (that now sounded to Catherine a bit like the clucking of a hen, followed by the honking of a rather large and ghastly duck): “I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature . My attachments are always excessively strong. I told a certain Captain Hunt I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel—”
“Fie! She has no notion of angelic beauty!” whispered one of those very beings into Catherine’s right ear.
Indeed, our heroine thought, if this Miss Andrews properly looked like an angel, she would also be winged and about three inches tall.
“The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, dearest Catherine, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews lacks, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with you.”
Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again, wondering meanwhile where all this was leading. What kind of verbal trap was this creature laying out for her?
Isabella laughed (sounding to the world like a dulcet proper lady and to Catherine like a much-pained horse). “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking more seriously—“once the heart is really attached, it cannot be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
“Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!”
“ No, indeed, I should not .” Catherine made a point of saying “no” and “not” very succinctly this time. “I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him . . . But while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.” Catherine almost forgot with whom she was conversing, so caught up she was again in recalling the story . . . For a
“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?” Catherine pretended she was eager for a good literary fright, but for once she was not in the mood—not with Isabella and her true horrid visage directly at her side. With all that, who needed Mrs. Radcliffe or her ilk?
But the tedious charade must now be maintained.
“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.”
“Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?” Catherine could not help saying earnestly, though she now knew very well that all manner of peculiar things were to be expected from this abominable Isabella.
“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends, ” said Isabella meaningfully.
And then Miss Thorpe went on, in a preening, unnaturally modulating voice (that now sounded to Catherine a bit like the clucking of a hen, followed by the honking of a rather large and ghastly duck): “I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature . My attachments are always excessively strong. I told a certain Captain Hunt I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel—”
“Fie! She has no notion of angelic beauty!” whispered one of those very beings into Catherine’s right ear.
Indeed, our heroine thought, if this Miss Andrews properly looked like an angel, she would also be winged and about three inches tall.
“The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, dearest Catherine, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews lacks, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with you.”
Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again, wondering meanwhile where all this was leading. What kind of verbal trap was this creature laying out for her?
Isabella laughed (sounding to the world like a dulcet proper lady and to Catherine like a much-pained horse). “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you”—speaking more seriously—“once the heart is really attached, it cannot be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I perfectly comprehend your feelings.”
“But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.”
“Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!”
“ No, indeed, I should not .” Catherine made a point of saying “no” and “not” very succinctly this time. “I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him . . . But while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.” Catherine almost forgot with whom she was conversing, so caught up she was again in recalling the story . . . For a
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