Blurb: A mashup of Jane Austen, Virgil, and Aristophanes, with Henry Tilney in the dual roles of Orpheus and Dionysus. Bordering on crackfic, beyond meta.

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"Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth;"
— Lysander, Midsummer Night’s Dream (William Shakespeare)

"O Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!"
― Valancourt, The Mysteries of Udolpho (Anne Radcliffe)

"But if the fates deny to me this prayer for my true wife, my constant mind must hold me always so that I can not return ― and you may triumph in the death of two!"
― Orpheus, Metamorphoses (Ovid)


The day Catherine Morland gave up her maiden name forever was a happy time for all concerned. She herself beamed with all the happiness of a full and grateful heart. The parson who performed the ceremony took joy in seeing his eldest daughter so well situated. His wife was glad all of the younger Morland boys and girls sat through the ceremony with nary an interruption. Their neighbor Mr. Allen believed the young lady had never looked better; his wife knew it to be true, as she had personally seen to the bride's apparel. The special guests of the day, the Viscount and Viscountess, beamed in mutual appreciation for a wedding day they might finally share with their favorite brother.

As for the groom himself, Henry Tilney was in such high spirits he warred between speechlessness and fluidity and only managed to keep from delivering the minister's part of the marriage custom by keeping his eyes fixed upon Catherine's, offering every comment he wished to make through raised brows and earnest smiles. His reward for these efforts was to inspire her to laughter just as they were declared man and wife, and to take his first kiss as her husband when said peals rose to her lips.

There was only one cause for concern during the festivities, occurring when the couple turned to sign the marriage registry. As Catherine dipped her pen to sign her legal address for the first time, the candles upon the altar smoked and sputtered as if a wind had blown through the church, and one went out altogether, dropping a full dollop of wax where the bride had stood but a moment before. "I hope we are not due for more frost," Doctor Skinner whispered to his wife in concern, "for there have been far too many colds this winter already."

Later at the wedding breakfast there were so many toasts to make, and so much gaiety to be shared, that it is a wonder the happy couple were able to eat at all. Afterward, their departure was delayed by the announcement that as the coach was being prepared, two of the wheels were found to have cracked and would need to be replaced. This unpleasant development cast a slight pall over the family until someone proposed dancing. Partners were taken, a line formed, and Miss Sally paid her tutor the compliment of performing upon the spinet with excellence. The general felicity ensured no one quite realized when the newly married Tilneys made their escape, as Henry led his wife for a walk amid the shrubbery.

The couple was overcome with the desire to release all the words so patiently withheld during the day's events. Metaphors, similes, quotations, and aphorisms threaded their conversation in such rapidity that no one listening could have understood much of it; and yet they were as happy conversing as during the joining of their hands. The following must suffice to summarize more rationally what was said with far less order, and many more sentences of tangential quality:

"I now see books are only half truths; for no novel has ever captured what I feel now."

"But my dearest, loveliest, and altogether sanest Catherine, must you doubt the sagacity of the authors we share such appreciation of? For I confess I have never done them justice in their expression of a lover's ardor till now."

"But do you not think it wiser to look to poetry in such matters? I have of late come to love a sonnet nearly as much as a hyacinth."

"And that by which we call a rose, though not endeared to you yet, must be just as sweet as the words describing it, whether in verse or prose. Do not so disdain the pleasure of your youth merely because you have gained a matron's grace."

"Oh as to that, I never can. Even when I try to apply myself to better things I must always love a horrid tale."

"Such steadfastness is a great comfort to me, for if you can still appreciate the merits of a Valancourt then the faults of a Henry may not serve to drive you away."

"Oh! nothing could ever make me leave your side now that we are wed."

This virtuous repetition of her troth was enough to still even their verbosity and would have led to a further repetition of their joined lips, had they not been interrupted by the appearance of Catherine's young sisters running by, begging her to join them in play again. Here it must be observed that for the first time in their acquaintance, Catherine delivered a statement of more hyperbole than truth, for she was quickly persuaded to give chase to the girls, leaving the husband she had just promised never to abandon for more maidenly pursuits. Henry only laughed seeing her run so freely and wished he had his dogs to join the spectacle, unable to recognize the danger of this further digression from reality in a day already marked by several.

It was not until he saw a different figure altogether run after the Morland girls that his frivolity was cut short. The man appeared of a sudden, leaping down from a horse in an oversized groomsman's habit and calling with lusty yells, "D—n stupid filly, and d—n bees that chase horses, and d—n the trouble I've had getting back into a narrative I ought to have played a more prominent role in." And seeing the astonished Catherine turn at his voice, the man called, "Heyho Miss Morland, here I am at last, and I shan't take no for an answer now that the Tilneys have abandoned you: here's my hand, let's dance a jig and call it square."

"Mr. Thorpe?" was her startled cry, forcing Henry to realize it was indeed his would-be rival, raised from the mortification of a barely passing mention in Chapter 30 and no appearance whatsoever past that number halved. Not enduring the practice of his brethren heroes in needing to seriously consider his ostensible villain during the chief of his courtship, Henry must be forgiven for reacting a bit slowly, as he was at first given to think it a ridiculous joke. But he was awakened from this stupor by Thorpe lunging to grasp Catherine in a clumsy embrace. She pulled back in fright as his nails pricked her skin, causing the other girls to scatter in terror and cry for help.

Henry started forward but was hampered by the horse collapsing before him in a lathered exhaustion, clearly taxed beyond all reasonable bounds by the fiend sprinting after Catherine, who had taken to her heels and fled along the familiar green slope. Wishing for far less dramatic stakes, and that he had worn proper boots rather than the more fetching buckled shoes purchased for his nuptials, Henry leapt over the poor beast and ran after them.

Being in far better shape than his opponent, he soon caught Thorpe by the coat's sleeves. "Hey now, unhand me, what's your confounded interest here?"

"Aside from the duty any gentleman of breeding or conscience should feel seeing a lady so harassed," Henry said, not releasing his grip on the struggling man one bit, "I must insist as her husband that you remove yourself from this place at once, as your presence is neither requested nor welcome."

"Husband eh? Thought that was a bit of hullabaloo from Morland, wanted to get a little of his own back after abandoning Belle so foolishly. Do you mean to say you went and married that bit of baggage even after the General was so hot and bothered by her?"

"I do not feel the need to explain myself further; you must look to others for that office. I will only say again that you must either leave of your own volition, or by my appealing to the local authorities who will force you to. Either way, there is no cause for you ever to grieve the Morlands, or Mrs. Tilney, again." So saying, he shoved him back toward the road, and had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Thorpe trip over his coat tails to land in a patch of briers, making him look even more outrageous than before, and with all the suffering so long denied readers waiting to see him finally driven dumb by his own absurdity.

After this classical if ungenteel act of heroism, Henry went in search of Catherine, calling her name with assurances that all was well. Not being tutored by previous experience in the forms of an epic, Henry did not understand these pronouncements must always prove premature. At last he found her by a small cistern, and no sooner had he spied her face than he was made aware of his own folly, for she was dreadfully pale and still, barely acknowledging his happy greeting.

"Come no closer!" she whispered instead, her own eyes fixed on the ground with such fascination that Henry must direct his gaze down as well, and was startled anew to discover a snake circling the ground around Catherine's feet.

"It can not be too dangerous, for it is the wrong season and area for vipers," he reasoned aloud, confident in his Oxford education of all dangers spiritual and natural. "But I will drive it away so you will not be bothered."

"No!" Catherine wailed, stopping him with the terror in her voice. "It is an asp, and will strike the first of us who attack it."

"But Catherine, use your reason, consider the county we are in, the unlikelihood of such a beast being brought all the way from Egypt to torment us here. Remember that we are in Christian England, not pagan Rome or Cyprus. It is probable, is it even possible for the nemesis of Cleopatra to threaten us?" So saying he took out the pen he always carried, and would have attacked in the tradition of Saint George had Catherine not reached out her hand in alarm.

"Foolish or not, it is too dangerous: please will you not go and fetch someone to kill it!"

"And think you my pen is no mighty sword?" he asked knowingly, and a hint of irritation at the cruel tricks played upon them. "Really Mrs. Tilney, I think your husband may take on one lowly reptile, there is no need to involve more people in this farce than necessary."

He turned back to the creature, its eyes glinting with mischievous malevolence. With some hesitation Henry wondered if he had misjudged the beast's nature, and decided to use his hat along with his utensil to ward it off. Kneeling, he tried to shoo it on, and began to catch the spirit of their plight in acknowledging it would not scare as easily as should be expected. Instead it rose high and spread its hood, making Henry wonder whose ideas were being admitted into this bizarre horror, so that he was again slow to react to the threat before him as it drew back to strike.

Before it could sink its teeth into Henry's outstretched arm a slippered foot came crashing down on its head, and he looked up in admiration at this daughter of Eve fulfilling that fallen matriarch's divine purpose. As if in answer to this unspoken heresy, the snake turned and acted according to its prophesied role, biting the heel of she who had bruised it, then slithering off into the grass. Catherine cried and swooned, prompting Henry to rise and catch her in his arms. Picking her up, he rushed back to the Fullerton Parsonage with his bride, calling to any who heard to fetch the doctor.

What followed was as somber and painful as had previously been all gaiety and joy. Every attention was given to the suffering lady, and all hearts turned to prayer as she was ministered to. Sobs took the place of laughter in the children, and Mrs. Morland found it necessary to remove them completely from the house, accepting Mrs. Allen's invitation of refuge. The eldest brother James was so distraught on hearing of his former friend's disgraceful part in the affair that he had to be consigned to bed as well, faint with misery and shame. Henry found himself sharing an awful vigil with Mr. Morland, his sister and her noble husband, none of whom knew how to console him.

When Doctor Skinner at last came downstairs, his look alone bore his tidings. "I am afraid there is nothing else I can do for her. It would be best for you to see her now, if you will at all."

Henry had enough presence of mind to ask Eleanor to accompany him, worried she would be denied a second relation's valediction after missing their mother's passing. Yet it was clear when they entered the room that any parting words must be on their side alone; the lady moved not at all, nor breathed.

It was a sad day when Catherine Tilney née Morland was buried at the same church where she had so lately been married. Neither cleric present felt up to the task of officiating, and it was largely up to Mr. Morland's curate to ensure the service was performed. Henry composed a very eloquent eulogy which he delivered at the graveside, and all agreed he never looked so ministerial as at that moment. Yet though words had often been his closest companions and comfort, they offered no balm for Henry's present suffering. Rather they felt stupid and empty, a vain attempt to embody the lady whose life had been so cruelly cut short by a terrible, capricious fate.

The Morlands invited him to stay as long as he wished, and his sister just as generously offered to take him anywhere he might like to travel. Yet Henry was unable to fathom doing more than beg a week to consider what he would do. He walked along the paths Catherine had loved and went everywhere he could remember her describing; and though Henry talked as often as possible with those who had known his wife so well, nothing served to fill the awful emptiness of his heart. Everyone in the parish agreed Mr. Tilney was to be pitied above all else, but also that mourning very much became him: he spoke so well, and with such fervor, it inspired answering admiration with any who heard him.

"And really," Mrs. Allen said to Mrs. Skinner, "if he were not always speaking of her, I could see Mr. Tilney exciting any number of ladies' hearts; he always has been a very agreeable, fine young man. I must see about introducing Sally to my dressmaker."

But Henry was not thinking of ladies, or dancing, or any of his usual hobbies. Even when speaking to Eleanor, his dearest friend, he could not help feeling restless and uneasy. He saw her pitying looks, and knew she meant his good when drawing him into conversation on any other subject, but he could not adequately explain what so depressed his spirits. It was not simply Catherine's death; mourning was not unknown to him. Nor was it the added disappointment of not having consummated the marriage of his heart, though he grieved this loss as well.

No, what plagued him was the utter imbecility of the entire episode, causing him to abandon company for the respite of more solitary walks and time to think through matters. How, he wondered, could so undeveloped an antagonist intrude so preposterously late into the plot? What logic could there be in the sudden personification of Lucifer, never foreshadowed during their courtship and so unlikely to be found in this mundane setting? Wherefore these absurd disturbances in weather and whereabouts, equipages and equines? He could believe God and Heaven might allow the just and the unjust alike to die, as Scripture clearly taught; he did not credit Providence so fantastically vengeful as to take his bride by means outside of those set by the laws of reason, probability, and nature.

At last his puzzling led him to one conclusion: Catherine's death had been a peculiar, cosmic mistake. He realized how mad it sounded; he was certain telling anyone of his thoughs would cause nothing but pain and distress to those already sharing concerned whispers when they thought he was out of hearing. But just as he had not let his father bully him into accepting the loss of his beloved prior to marriage, Henry was determined not to let anything so stupid as an error, even of supernatural origin, keep him from her now. With this thought in mind he sat down to pen a letter, laboring over it with all the practice contained from their recent season of clandestine correspondence, and sent it to London with all his prayers and hopes.

In less time than was to be expected, he received his answer, and read it with eager anxiety:

"Dear Reverend Tilney,

"I was much astonished to receive your note, and have debated whether it would be kinder to reply or not. But though I have lately been uninspired to meet the public's demand for literature, yet I could not resist the opportunity to give whatever solace my words may contain. Your situation must provoke sympathy from any who read of it; and I am not immune to the flattery of understanding that one of your late wife's chief attractions was the appreciation you both shared for the work of novelists, including that of your humble correspondent. There is no greater compliment than to credit the pleasure of one's love as inspired, even in part, by the pen of another. Therefore I have determined to act as you desired, and have included the pages you requested I write, with no demand for payment except the gratifying notion that this simple fiction may be of some service in guiding you to a place of restoration and cheer. I have left the ending open according to your wishes; may you complete it yourself with all the grace to be found this side of our final rest. In the worst of times it is useful to recall that though human nature is stained by the calumny of sinful disruption, yet even before that happy day when the revealtor's prophesies will be made complete we may find humor and joy through the powers of our mind and the best-chosen language.

"Believe me," &c.

"Mrs. Radcliffe"

The pages that fell into his lap after this encouraging epistle were taken up at once. After a thorough examination of all they contained, he performed three activities in rapid succession: he offered thanksgiving to his Lord, further gratitude in written form to the authoress of said deliverance, and then went in search of his sister with a request.

"You wish to go to Milford, alone?" Eleanor was all concern.

"I know it is asking much." Henry found it no trial to keep calm now that he had a purpose in mind; in fact, it was increasingly difficult to appear properly oppressed, and he attempted a more melancholic air. "But there is a personal matter I would undertake, one having to do with Catherine, and I would like to complete it without company, even your own dear self. Know I would not ask if I had not very good reason, and I promise when I return to explain myself more candidly."

"If you feel you need to, of course we will help," was her reply, "but take care Henry: I could not bear to lose you as well."

He felt some pangs when assuring her he would do everything in his power to prevent that fate; had his sister been aware of his errand, he was sure she would accuse him of playing her false. But he meant his promises with every fiber of his being. For Henry was determined not only to deliver his own person back to her, but she who was loved by them both.

The Viscount's carriage was readied and Henry lost no time in hastening to the coast, using the time to read and reread Mrs. Radcliffe's writing. It began with the warning that while she usually contented herself with the machinations of foreign shores, this tale would involve a very English port, even older than the race inhabiting it now. "For such as our ancestors, brave souls ahead of even the Roman invasion, used this place for their defense, as another more famous poet (also more prone to the ways of Danes and Italians) has described in his own history of that afflicted king of the Britons known as Cymbeline. It is to that blessed bastion of our ancient past I begin, the constant beacon of our hopes and fears."

The town that greeted Henry's arrival did not appear as a gloomy portal to antiquity; the newly built harbor and shops, and fresh boats along its wharf, belied any connection to history or myth. Our hero did not allow these modern activities to baffle him but dressed in his darkest blacks; and with a fresh hyacinth secure in his hat, he followed his directions out into the countryside toward the relics of a medieval chapel. Henry enterted the the crumbling ruin with caution and found the altar, while disused and covered in debris, still intact. Upon examination of this edifice he could no longer claim surprise in discovering the same signs promised by his pages: for into the stone was the outline of a door, and Henry had only to push to find a passage contained behind it.

It was not as dark inside as he had expected, nor did he seem to be descending deep below the ground. Indeed, he thought he heard the wind and the rush of water nearby. It soon became apparent he was ascending on steps carved into the rock, and it was not long before he came to a wooden gate which opened to a pier where a small boat was tethered. Approaching it, Henry saw the man on board wore no uniform but instead the rustic garb of a primordial yeoman out of some story never written by lettered minds. The sailor looked up and greeted him by name.

Henry started despite himself at this further departure from the ordered world, but smiled all the same. "I thank you for your courtesy. May I ask, where do you sail to?"

"That depends," the ancient mariner replied, "and as I know you have not died by hanging, poison, or accident, I do not see how I may accommodate you. My task is not to ferry the living to their destinations."

"But surely you might allow a visit, if I were to help with the boat?"

"And are you a sailor? A laborer? A soldier? What profession gives you currency for this journey?"

Henry considered the plight of his own inabilities. "I am but a young parson: I have a decent education, a good living, and only the modest virtues of my wits and humor to distinguish me from my fellow man. But I have on occasion had cause to lift their hearts with my words, and am fond of stories: I would be glad to provide you with any entertainment desired."

His offer was considered, and at last the man nodded. "I will take you where you wish to go, but you must keep your word and not be distracted from your purpose. As a mortal you are susceptible to all the vagaries and temptations this passage contains; if you become enamored with any other beyond the intention of your heart, you will be lost beyond what help I may provide."

"Agreed, and my thanks for your warning. Now, what fable would you have me recount?"

"You might begin with Troilus and Criseyde, as a remembrance of what fate you are bent on unmaking."

Stepping into the boat and taking a seat, Henry smiled more broadly. "I hope you will accept Shakespeare's account over Chaucer's; regardless, I do not fear to speak of one woman's inconstancy, knowing the vice is so evenly dispersed among the sexes, and that she whom I seek is the epitome of the opposite virtue."

They set off, and Henry found that he fell into the same rhythm of the boatman's oars as he went up and down the conceits of the play, first raising the poor lovers into the height of passion before sinking them into mires of fear and distrust. It was as he struggled to recall some speeches in the fourth act, skipping or reworking any lines he could not catch in his mind, that he became aware of murmurs nearby. They were alone upon the water yet in looking about he found the waves held traces of forms, some eerily familiar. As he assumed the role of the sad Trojan prince, who despaired of ever seeing his true love again, Henry could not help turning his head when he heard a line from a different play altogether, and recognized Romeo calling to Juliet at her balcony.

Remembering the admonition to avoid the influence of this strange sea, Henry attempted to keep up his own words even as more sirens assailed him: Virgil's Aeneas, the Bard's Portia, Marlowe's Faust. But it was not noble creations alone who caused him to look first this way and that, his story dropping in spurts as he was beguiled by the absurdities of Ensign Beverley with his languishing lady, Molière's miserly villains, and the many lovers of Camilla. It was as if every cherished character were alongside him, all speaking at once, and yet all clearly understood: he need only turn his ear a little to enjoy first one, then another.

He lost his train of thought completely. Which speech had he last spoken? Or what scene delivered? Which tale had he begun? What did it matter when poor Emily and hapless Gulliver beckoned? He barely realized how far he had leant over the boat's side, the better to hear and enjoy the rippling dialogue, nor how close he was to going over completely. It seemed he need only step forward and he might be the Harlequin, or Hero, or any part he pleased.

It was only his hat that saved him, for as Henry bowed low it hit the waves first; and he was made aware of his danger when he recognized it sailing away upon the tide, the purplish flower it held catching his attention in time. Flinging himself back into the boat, he shut his eyes and stopped his ears, willing all other specters to fade save Catherine's sweet face. When at last he felt his senses returned, Henry haltingly started back upon the final act of the play. With deliberate absorption in the progression of these words rather than the sounds around him, Henry never stopped his speech even when he finished the play and had to depend on his own imaginings. He might have spent a lifetime thus, dead to anything else, had the sailor not roused him.

"We have arrived: you are safe to disembark. But mind your way. Remember you are yet mortal and may still be caught unawares."

Henry thanked him most heartily, and before parting asked if there was anything else he might do for the man. "I fear I was a very poor companion."

The boatmen had already taken up his oars, and shook his head. "You were better than most, and braver than many. If you would do me kindness, care as much for the living as you do for those who never breathed." With this parting advice he rowed back onto the fantastic sea.

Turning to explore the countryside, Henry found it impossibly beautiful: all was bright, airy, peaceful, and alive with color. Though the sun shone full overhead the heat was not oppressive, nor did he feel any chill beyond a refreshing breeze, inspiring him to such lightness of heart that his breath caught.

The first sign of life he found was a dog, which he thought he recognized. "Why, Garm, is that you? You died when I was but a boy in a hunting accident." The dog answered to his name and Henry bent to pet its head. "Do you know," he said, accepting the hound's tender ministrations, "I sometimes think you were the first funeral I performed? I helped the gamekeeper bury you, and he let me say a few words. I hope I did you justice." To judge by the dog's enthusiasm, it was very satisfied with any and all attention bestowed.

Accepting the animal's company, Henry continued walking, and found it leading him along a nearly indiscernible path uphill. Occasionally he thought he recognized figures moving amid the trees, or heard familiar voices nearby. At one point he stopped, certain he had just spied the form of an ancestor whose portrait he had seen a thousand times in the abbey's gallery, and yet could not tell when he looked back whether it was truly him or a mirage. The dog pushed at his legs, urging him forward, and Henry allowed himself to be led on.

Eventually they came to a plateau of sorts, and Henry was by now unamazed to discover a banquet: glorious arrangements of fruits, meat, and wine lay upon a solid oak table with the best china set at each placement. A great host gathered round in luxurious chairs, some he recognized from paintings or memory, and many he did not. But only three commanded his attention: his mother sat at a place of honor to the right of her own father, his Grandfather Drummond, at the head of the table. And on that man's left, eyes downcast and without food upon her plate, was his own dear Catherine.

Henry at once ran forward to greet her, but she neither heard nor saw him, only kept focused on her folded hands. Touch availed him not: his hand would not rest on her shoulder or arm, but passed directly through to the chair, without any sign she was aware of his presence. The rest of the party was similarily unmoved, only his two nearest relations seeming to notice his person at all.

"You should not be here," the older gentleman said, shaking his head. "I am surprised at you Henry: though distractable, you were always an obedient child, and you have been very faithful to your calling. But you never could leave well enough alone. I have told your mother many times: that boy will get into trouble from those brains, mark my words. It does not do to fill your head with so very much if it turns your wits askew."

"But it is not selfishness that prompts my appearance," Henry replied, turning from one revered face to another. "I come as much for the lady's own good."

"You know we love you dearly," his mother said with such sweetness he felt as safe and loved as when a lad upon her knee. "But I am afraid you have been very foolish. Your wife has died; there is no coming back for her, and you risk being lost yourself in insisting on your prerogative."

"Why, if it were not for your helmet, you might have already drowned. Do not think it will be any easier for you to return either: best you go back at once and pray for salvation."

"Even so," Henry said, attempting to remain confident even as he felt his maturity shaken by these combined authorities, "I must ask for her restoration. It is not merely that I wish her back, though that is true: all reason, all wisdom demands it. She did not die naturally, at least not by any coherent nature known to man. Catherine was by spectacular means removed; I have only used the same methods in retrieving her. You must see the logic in it. Look, she is not like anyone else here in this company: she has neither senses, nor taste, nor even a share of the dinner. Surely that marks her as not belonging to this realm."

"As to that, we none of us belong here," his Grandfather answered without concern. "This place is not permanent, for it is not yet the Bridegroom's time, and the full wedding supper has not been served. But we will tarry until then, safe in the knowledge that our ways are not Heaven's. We have the confidence of a promised land to come. If you will be patient, Henry, you will have that as well, when it is your turn to join us."

"But as a bridegroom myself, you must allow me to object when the bride is not fashioned for this age any more than I. Why does she sit so dumb, when we may speak freely with each other?"

His mother shook her head, and though he could not believe sadness was permitted at this table, there was the hint of apology in her tone. "It is very strange; usually, when we make the passage, our hearts are so full we can think of our loved ones with ease, and our spirits so lightened no past disappointments burden us. If she would only taste and see that all here is good, she might revive, but she has been unable to do so."

"Most irregular," the lady's father agreed. "It makes one question her devotion, were it not impossible for any truly wretched soul to join us. But however long it takes to overcome her pains, we will care for her, you need have no fear on that point."

Henry considered their assurances, struggling to find any argument that might sway them. He looked back along the table and realized there were far more than just his own family: kings and philosophers, servants and ministers, of various ages and races. All spoke and shared the meal as equals. Though he had assumed he was at the head of the table, it stretched so far in the other direction there might very well be a higher host to appeal to. For that matter, even if his family agreed with his aims, they likely had no power to assist him.

Turning back to his Grandfather, he bowed low. "You have been the chief influencer of my principals, sir, and I am thankful for your example. But I ask, I beg of you, let me at least try to move Heaven with my petitions. May I take your chair?"

The two souls who had so guarded his early life turned to each other in private communication. At last Grandfather Drummond stood, and gestured toward his seat. "But know," he warned as Henry accepted with gratitude, "it is not truly mine to give. We are all beggars at this table."

With this allusion in mind Henry looked down the length of the gathering, and found even now he could not peer to its end. Undaunted, he held up the glass at his setting and rang for attention. All those he could see turned toward him. "Honored souls," he began, nervously considering how to begin this singular homily, "as I see you are full of good society and victuals, I will not demand your indulgence long. But I wonder if I might share a story to entertain the assembly."

His confidence wavered when he saw how indifferent they appeared, especially she who sat to his left. Clearing his throat, he continued, "But perhaps it is not a story alone that will satisfy you, who must have plenty of your own to share. I wonder if we might instead have a contest, to see who might better guide this narrative to its rightful ending?"

He thought he heard the man standing behind him mutter something about Tilneys and their rivalries, but was heartened when his mother kept smiling. "If there are any nominated to best achieve this purpose, please come forward."

There were murmurs, but not as Henry had experienced at any dinner party before. For there was no coarse posturing or haughty pronouncements against the scheme, but only a shared camaraderie of interest. Eventually two persons approached, and Henry very nearly lost his nerve when he recognized one as none other than the poet of Stratford himself, ruff and all. "I did not realize you would be here," Henry said stupidly, realizing he had set himself up for a most abject failure.

The man doffed his hat with a grin. "There are more surprises dreamt of here than even my philosophy could devise; but if you seek a muse of fire, I hope I might be more than a poor player upon this stage."

In some confusion Henry turned to the other figure, who his mother greeted with warm affection. "Eliza, it is so kind of you to volunteer when you are so newly arrived yourself. Henry, you will know her name if not her face: this is Mrs. Haywood, who I know you have read of."

If anything, Henry's surprise was even greater upon realizing a novelist with her reputation could appear among the assembled party without blush or dismay. Before he could disgrace himself by questioning her, the other contestant bowed in formal greeting. "I am honored at your accepting this challenge, madame, more than words can say. And that, you know, is not easy for one like myself to admit even now!"

Mrs. Haywood, for her part, returned the courtesy with obvious merriment. "And I am happy to say my love of your wit makes me even more eager to vie in this sport. Do not worry Mr. Tilney: I am not offended by your chagrin. It would be strange indeed if you did not have some misgivings about any of our fates, given your ordination; but I trust you recall that a woman, like a man, may place her security in the mercies of our Lord above any offenses committed by or upon the sinful multitudes."

Their speeches, delivered with true art, convinced Henry he could never hope to gain mastery over either of his challengers. He should have recognized there were masters of rhetoric far beyond his measure among the dead, who since delivered from their mortal struggles could devote themselves to scaling the height of their genius. Though he prided himself with a certain talent, he had no delusions of his abilities in comparison.

He looked to Catherine again, and saw she was as unaffected by these grand purveyors of the written word as his own person, or indeed anyone else. Nor, he decided, would she have been overwhelmed had she been aware of these august persons, for while always respectful and kind to all, his wife was no less pleased with the dialogue of her young siblings as that of any book, and had often claimed to love his own speeches as much as the skilled tragedian. She would abhor bringing conflict to a place where none should be.

"I wonder," Henry started again, "if you would both indulge me further, and rather than spar with each other, we might instead set our aim to a higher purpose than overall mastery."

"There is wisdom in the generosity of the soul," Shakespeare replied gamely, "but it is our nature to beg what reward our labors may bestow."

"Are not happy people always made more so by the contemplation of their condition? And there is a heavenly quality that draws us ever nearer to the Great Author through the repetition of our virtues." Mrs. Haywood smiled as she spoke, and was rewarded by the poet saluting her.

"The lady has spoken, and never more so true; what say you, young sir? How mayst we serve?"

"I assume you are aware of the sad events that have transpired of late," Henry said, and was glad to see they both bowed their heads in acknowledgment, as much because they did not overwhelm him with their own talk as for listening to his own. "I have not been able to accept the cold hand of fate, not least of all because it was poorly done. Even my wife, so generous of heart, can not be made to see it as anything but a petty joke, considering her insensibility to the beauty around her. Death may be indifferent to our own sorrows, but not to the rules of creation itself. As you have both the experience of crafting worlds outside the common way, would you help me rewrite this pitiful scenario, and provide Catherine with a better finale than has yet been devised? The contest is to find the means of waking her; for I could never rest believing her unhappy."

He was rather proud of this speech, delivered without preparation or even much thought, and hoped it would stir their hearts to his cause. Gentleman and lady considered his proposal, and Henry saw many a head look on in anticipation from the length of the table.

"To compose anew will certainly prove a challenge; and to know whether it will prevail upon her is beyond the strength of any author's touch," Mrs. Haywood remarked. "But I am ready to make the attempt, even so."

"As am I, by honor, by wisdom, by any means at my disposal, to seek the reward of a noble lady's smile," Shakespeare agreed. "Thee have but to set the terms, gentle sir, and we will set to it at once."

It was gratifying to hear, and Henry was sorely tempted to ask for even more, given the persons now at his disposal. But remembering his recent misadventure, ever aware of Catherine's stillness at his side, and recognizing that delaying the story's end much further would prove a detriment to even the most intrepid reader, he accepted their offer with sincere thanks and asked that they begin with the wedding itself, so little described, yet so important to any composition.

It would strain the credulity of anyone still following this overgrown invention to accept actual lines thrust into the mouths of such famous authors as Mr. Shakespeare and Mrs. Haywood. Know that Henry was not disappointed by their competing narrations, and found he vacillated in his admiration of the two: the poet's soaring stanzas and clever verses made even the most humble events inspiring, yet the lady's general wit and expansive paragraphs were as well able to arouse delight. In their combined hands the tale was transformed from the nonsensical to the incredible by nothing more than a turn of phrase, or even a mere changed word.

But through it all Catherine remained as she was. Indeed, surrounded by so much vivacity, she looked even less substantial, neither blithe nor dour, but only of a strange ephemeral quality quite unlike her normal state. At last they came to the very moment he had dreaded, the present; for with all his cleverness and schemes, the would-be deliverer had still failed. His heart was at war: more full of amusement than ever he could remember, yet emptied of any hope for the success of his mission. Henry reached out again, feebly attempting to hold her hand at least, and was denied even that. It appeared his bride was truly lost to him forever.

Looking up, he beheld two expectant sets of eyes trained upon him, and realized the entire table was rapt with the same occupation; he could even feel his Grandfather's gaze from behind. "What is there to be done?" he finally asked, giving up all pretense of wisdom, at a loss for how to proceed.

"The play may catch the conscience of the king, and music be the food of love," the Bard spoke feelingly, "but it is mercy that droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven. Charity itself fulfills the law. And who can sever love from charity? So said one foolish knave of my invention. But what words will you offer: the sounding brass, or a cymbal rang?"

Mrs. Haywood was no less forthright. "No man may know how he will love before it falls upon him; yet of all the beauties, it is that which attracts the most lasting admiration, gives the greatest charm to every thing we say or do, thro' every stage of life, which we must acknowledge with all our hearts. You have forgotten the most maladjusted aspect of your drama: no hero should escape making his declaration of love, even by the contrivance of a letter."

"And if I may," the other said, "for the lady has said truest, yet I will commend you not to be too tame in thy admission. You have suited deed to the outflow of thy heart, but not word to the action. Recall the purpose for our talents, first and now, was and is, to hold the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature. Speak the speech, in the accent of good English."

Not to be outdone, and with a knowing smile of contrariety, the lady concluded, "To know ourselves, is agreed by all to be the most useful learning; to know others is perhaps beyond any ken, ay and not without its dangers. But in my thought, it is not enough to be good, without behaving in such a manner as shall make others acknowledge us to be so. The first lessons, of any man or marriage, ought to be on that subject. What would you say to prove the justice of your ardor?"

After surrendering the battlefield to those worthier of the office, it had not occurred to Henry he would need to compose a soliloquy, though at this point he acknowledged there was little left to comprehend the fullness of their sport. Nor should he have thought he could steal the words of others to regain his beloved. If there were deficiencies in his narrative, it was not for others to make amends. Leaving his chair Henry turned away from the multitude, and instead kneeled before the only one he wished to attract.

"If it be right, and you will hear me, I promise to speak only what is true: no prevarication, no flights of fancy. I see how little embellishment will avail. I can not swear to have loved you with the same constancy you have bestowed on me. Nor claim that I came for you only out of passion alone. If able, I would be more than I am, I do not deny the need—but what I lack of perfections I profess to admire in you. For where I may falter, you have never failed; and no contrivance or disguise could bid your affections hide. All virtues as you possess are further proofs of divine tenderness. It may, in fact, be wrong of me to ask you to leave behind this expectant green, so fitted for your open spirit, and which you must return to at last. I will only say in my defense that if I was slower in my adoration, I am no less conquered by it; though circumspect in courting, have I not the same result? Kindness opened my heart, not mere beauty or youth; the loveliness of a candid nature which must brighten all who gain your attachment, and lessen that same when separated. So I ask, dearest and most delightful Catherine, if you will allow me not to possess but share the remainder of what days the Lord allows us, if only to teach me to accept better the time when we must, for the brevity of a life, part again?"

A hush followed his words, but Henry was not paying mind to anyone else in attendance. Instead he decided even a tired conceit might be redeemed by the sincerity of its execution, and giving no thought for the gaze of his family, the apprehension of great minds, or even whatever of celestial continence might be demanded, he laid a kiss upon her waxen lips.

When he felt her respond to his touch, he opened his eyes to view her answering stare. Her quiet "Henry?" was so soft as to be said for him alone but greeted by all and sundry with huzzahs of the strongest celebration. There was no heart unmoved, no specter unexcited. Even the angels might have joined in the tumult for all Henry knew; he was lost in an embrace with his love, and might have been content to remain thus forever more, had the lady herself not asked to be taken home.

The adrmiable authors shook hands with the couple, each gratified to have been of the smallest aid in this transformation and receiving the kindest thanks in return for their efforts. It was acknowledged by all four that neither must be said to have carried the day, but each in their own turn furnished some part of the whole.

Grandfather Drummond bowed over the awakened lady's hand, and complimented her for inspiring his grandson's valor. "The characters of you both must be improved by the match, which is the best that marriage may offer. I trust you will not waste that which Heaven is granting you anew."

Henry promised to keep thanksgiving alive and well in their home, a vow Catherine joined in at once. His mother rose and offered her regards to a daughter so lately introduced and so quickly taken from her side. "I will look forward to seeing you again, though hopefully that will not be soon. But know I will always take a concern in you, no matter when we shall be reunited." And turning to her son, she said "I have but one request to make in our parting, and pray you will honor me as your loving mother for asking."

"Of course," Henry replied at once. "You have but to name it."

"When you are returned you may not speak of what you have seen; it will be as a dream, and impossible to describe except in the most broad and deficient overtones. But I have long wished to give dear Eleanor some parting words, as I was unable to do in life. Will you serve as my messenger, and bear my tidings straight to her ear?"

"There is no task I would like better, save the one I have nearly completed."

"You are a good son," she said, with that same air of calm, just the other side of regret. "But you do not know how difficult the task is. For the only way you will be able to remember is to carry the words upon your tongue, unspoken and untasted, borne fresh until you meet with her. From the moment I speak in your ear till the time you release them anew, you must be mute, not even to write them down, for you may not take anything back from this place except your bride. Will you still perform this errand?"

"Aye, with all my heart: after so much talk, it will be a relief to leave off conversation until then," Henry answered with confidence, which showed how little any of us may learn from our experiences, given the foolishness of his promise. Yet how great is the human capacity to believe in its own abilities where a labor of love is asked.

His mother bent forward, and her language was of such higher a value than any she might have provided while gasping for breath on earth, with encouragement of the finest quality, and heavenly counsels to make any heart rejoice, that Henry nearly wept at being made the bearer of it. But he took all in and sealed his lips, not willing less the slightest syllable should escape ere his errand was complete.

"You will need to take another way back," his Grandfather said, watching keenly what had occurred, "for if you are wetted now you may yet forget all; and the river is not to be crossed twice by those few chosen to revive. But do not be concerned: the dog is able to guide your way," and here the animal darted forward with an eager yelp.

With such adieus, and taking his wife firmly by the arm, Henry turned in silence to follow the faithful hound. It was well that Catherine was not so inhibited, and Henry was not the sorrier for listening to her raptures, or nodding appreciatively as she mused on their future happiness together. The pleasant, easy countryside was nothing to traverse, the weather so pleasing it could do no naught but enliven.

They were heading gradually south toward the shores of time, and could just see a crossing in the distance. Across that chasm the light was no longer so bright, but that might have been because the bridge itself was so brilliant as to cast a shadow on all else. Their guide was patient as they had to more cautiously pick their way downhill, the grassy path growing rockier and steeper the closer they came to their destination.

No longer did Catherine offer her happy commentary, as both she and Henry had to watch their purchase on the steepening incline. He took to leading the way, finding the best placement for their steps and reaching back to help her down. Once his hand came up empty and looking behind, he saw her turned back toward the sunnier plane they had left, a pensive expression on her features. Henry nearly called her name but checked himself in time, only grasped her hand in some urgency.

"Oh! I thought I heard someone call me," was Catherine's explanation and though she smiled it did not lift his unease, for it held a strange light, as if she could see what he could not, reminding him she was not mortal yet. "But let us continue, we must be close."

He nodded and returned her smile as best he could, but did not let go her hand again as they pressed on, reminded as he was of his own difficulties with siren calls. But hopefully, he comforted himself, on a platform so high above the water they would be spared its influences. And they were together again. Surely a miracle was enough to grant them safe passage.

As they came even with it, the bridge shown with such radiance that all beyond was veiled in even greater obscurity. But Henry thought he recognized the road near Catherine's home, and by her reaction believed his guess to be true. When they would have crossed at once, the dog leapt in front of them, a warning bark halting their progression. Henry realized a living being guarded the bridge, sword in hand: he had taken her for a carving, but a sharp click of the tongue put the lie to that notion.

"So, Catherine, how do you do? And where are you going?" were the questions posed by this fine personage, leaning on her walking stick without any appearance of needing to, its head as fiery as her looks. "I suppose you have good reason for being out of humor with your circumstances."

Henry nearly objected to this pointed address but held firm, only gripping Catherine's arm tighter. She answered, "I am sure I am not annoyed at anything, but I should like to return with my husband if I may."

The lady eyed them, a sharp scrutiny that put to mind sparks from a kitchen knife. "And has he nothing to say for himself, this presumptuous Adam's son who presses his claim past all delicacy?"

It is fortunate Henry was plagued with too many delicious replies to choose from as an aid to his sorely tested forbearance. He contented himself with a modest bow laced with mock deference, and wished he still had a hat to tip to this oh so nice madame. Catherine, perhaps still of a more heavenly persuasion, said, "You must excuse my husband, he has a message he is carrying for our sister."

"It is not the usual thing to permit, but imprudence can not be surprising at this point. Your owning it is sufficient. I will not refuse his errand, nor you to accompany him: it is well you have a partner, as a solitary walker turning back to the extensive gardens of the world might not be trusted to her own inclinations. As your breath stirs, and your heart swells with rising blood, see you do not ramble from your asserted goal: it is by your actions you will be judged."

"I will do my utmost not to disappoint, for no man could be better worth keeping than Henry."

There was little that could have been said in answer to this notion even had he been at liberty; it remained for Henry's cheeks to betray his thoughts.

The mistress gatekeeper beamed in every sense of the word, though whither it was altogether approving was difficult to determine. "You are not unworthy of esteem yourself; you show a virtue I did not expect. Do not forget it soon." So saying she swept aside in a fuss of dress, each vivid strand defying even the minutest observer to determine its cost or purity, and lowered her sword in deference, the dog kneeling in similar farewell at her feet.

It was a sturdy bridge, ample enough to handle twice as many arm in arm, with a lustrous roof serving as shelter against the graying sky. Though a smoother and more easy road than what they had so recently traveled, each found their pace slowing, a latent heaviness creeping into their limbs with every inch gained. Henry strove to ignore the yearning to linger, a feeling only strengthened as the sensibilities of that other place weakened. He caught himself starting to open his lips, the desire to fill the air with some distraction nearly overpowering, and only by the strictest discipline kept his tongue in check.

At last the bridge's end could be sighted, the world beyond opening before them in all its base and dusky grandeur. Catherine's sigh was the only one heard, but not without a sympathetic echo in her partner's soul. Neither quite realized they had come to a stop, so gradually had their advance slowed, and it was difficult to say which was more reluctant to pass back into their imperfect lives. "But we must keep going," Catherine spoke with resolution, "if we are to be home again, with all those we know and love."

One stride more would take them to their journey's end, and it was the most terrible one to take of all, a thousand weights seeming to press upon them, the light so dim as to be unintelligible from night and a gloom thick as treacle. With leaden tread they crept over the threshold, expecting every oppressive fear to overtake them as they reached solid ground again.

Instead, it was as if they rose from bed, and the world presented itself as they had always known it: imperfect yet wondrously familiar. No dark and terrible forest guarded their way; rather the well-trimmed Wiltshire trees gave way to the stage road nearby as the sounds of trilling birds, humming insects, and distant chatter returned their senses to a more natural appreciation and awareness.

So happy was he to complete their awful journey that Henry took up his restored bride in a sudden embrace, which she received with commensurate excitement. Only when they relaxed their arms was it apparent that Catherine remained attired in her funerary garb, a flowing jaconet of overlong sleeves and heavy braiding, none of which offered much protection against the wind. Henry tugged off his coat to give her, amused at the sight they would make in town, when Catherine exclaimed, "How could they let me be buried in this dress, that I always hated, and hardly ever wore at all? And someone has tied it so awfully tight, I can barely move or breathe." Then she frowned with all the injured pride a very young and most certainly living girl might feel, and not like a shade at all.

What Henry might have said in reply was never to be known. It was not a word either of mirth or mockery that betrayed his will; a laugh burst from him unbidden, yet so needful for the relief of his overstrained and uproarious feelings. No sooner had this expression of his amusement sounded than the unvoiced message flew out as well, though he immediately shut his teeth closed again, nearly biting his gums in desperation to keep some semblance of that barely remembered report.

His chagrin must have shown, for Catherine was roused from her irritability to exclaim, "I am sorry: I have been the cause of your disappointment, which will be even the worse for Eleanor to bear, denied your mother's voice twice over! But I will fetch the words back, for I can see them rolling toward the water, they have not gone far." Then she fled back to the shore, no longer so clear to be seen or heard, and as Henry ran after he was dismayed to realize Catherine herself appeared to fade so that he could barely keep her in sight.

Unbound from his promise he called her name, begging her to ignore the loss and return to him. He could not make out the bridge or the other coast at all; only his clouded view of Catherine's stopped form showed where the water's bank must be. She knelt as if searching, heedless of her previous complaint. "Catherine, dearest, there is no need, I will explain all to Eleanor, it is my own stupidity to blame, not you."

But as he approached she cried out in triumph, and leapt forward to cup her hands in the barely discernible surf. Her garments dampened as she leant ever farther out, yet impossibly grew lighter and more gauzy; and rather than sink deeper, it was as if Catherine rose, her motions that of a fish, her position as a bird's, now so fine her outstretched arms disappeared completely. In alarm did Henry shout and try to follow, yet even as he lunged after her, she passed beyond his sight, along with any trace of those strange, treacherous waters. He landed in an ungainly pile upon the dirt, then scrambled up and searched all around him. Frantically he called her name again, and again, and again, walking this way and that, begging whatever guardian was closest to heal his blindness. He pulled out those precious pages so carefully penned for his use, but in vain: no ending had been writ upon them, only enough to set him on his journey. Flinging them aside in reckless abandon he climbed the nearest tree, heedless of any danger to person or clothes, and sought on high what could not be discerned below.

Stretching as far as his perch would allow he peered into the clouds, and thought he spied the slightest trace of a cotton hem. Without a second thought he reached out to grab hold of the garment he knew would heal the cavity within his ribs. But the flesh proved weaker and heavier than his spirit, and toppling, he flew toward the stony ground instead of the heavens.

The fall caused him to jerk and gasp, his eyes opening wide in terror, only to behold his own Parsonage's study, though from the position of the floor instead of his usual chair. Sitting up, he found a mess of letters and an overturned book scattered round him, obviously pulled from the secretary he had been working at before he so indecorously fell under the thrall of Morpheus, and thence from his seat besides.

He took a moment to shake his head, for the space of a breath unsure if this were the dream or no. His rational mind was swiftly brought to fore not only by the contemplation of all he had so fantastically envisioned, but also the realization that one of his fingers had been pricked by his carelessness. Henry looked down at the offending appendage, and smiled in bemused wonder. He had been woolgathering far too much of late; if his friends could see him, sick to the point of madness in love, driven to dreamy desperation by waiting for consent to marry, and unable even to finish a letter to his betrothed without coming into a scrape, he would never live down the raillery at his expense.

Undaunted, Henry resumed his chair, picked through the papers till he found the one he been working on, and lit another candle with extravagant glee as he brought his pen to bear. "I had meant to write that I missed you more than words could ever tell; but I think I may yet have some to offer...."