I cannot begin to apologise for the delay but I hope no one has given up on the story and that most of you will still keep reading it. I didn't have Internet for quite a while and when the problem was fixed I had to deal with a lot of schoolwork but I managed in these breaks to write a new chapter. Again, sorry for the pause and the shortness of this chapter. Have a nice reading.
Chapter 26: Sorrow part 2
While the transaction aforementioned was transpiring in Mary's chamber, what can one suppose was happening to the misguided and unfortunate Theodore?
Out of all the fervent characters that had ejaculated their feelings and thoughts that evening to confuse us and make us forget, there remained yet Theodore, who was now truly alone and helpless.
Where was he to be found? Why, no more, no less than in the merry, riotous crowd gathered at Morel's house for the grand feast. People from all walks of life had joined the different parties there in hope of finding good wine and some pitiful pounds which were bound to be thrown around by Morel's "generosity". The gentleman was sitting in a corner, entertaining himself with two sisters of suspicious origins and a young bloke of merely twenty that was famed for smoking ten cigars a day. Morel looked ready for a diagnosis of consumption, poor soul, but the ladies were swarming around him.
Morel looked grand in his father's old suit that was trimmed and opulent for the occasion. He wore two rings on each baby finger and had specked his dark hair with a sort of oil that appeared so greasy as to make it unbearable to look at. His round belly overflowed his somewhat shabby waistcoat and he felt dreadfully aware of it. However, one of the sisters who lay gently in his arms had the "propriety" of saying gaily how fine it was that he was so gentle and soft so she could rest her elbows on his overflowing belly.
In his half-drunken state that was a pleasing compliment. But Mr. Morel was highly displeased, actually. He was getting a bit anxious and impatient. His most important lady was supposed to come, why hadn't she arrived yet? Where, indeed, was Margaret Stoddard? She was quite late, not even rightfully late and this entire business was getting tedious for him. He worried soon he would be so drunk as to forget to show the poor creature to his rooms.
He knew he had seen her brother somewhere in the crowd, but had lost track of it; he saw so many new faces, it was impossible to recognise even a quarter of them. Those he did recognise he would salute impudently with one finger raised in the air, as if warning them to take care of what they did.
And did he know, Mr. Morel, that he was being so intensely watched? Theodore kept his eyes on him firmly, watching his every move, but keeping well out of his sight. He was worried, more so upon noticing that not even James had arrived.
As he sat down at one of the window sills the thought that Mary had changed her mind struck him. If so, he was doomed, irreversibly doomed, since he saw no way out of it, but since this thought had come so quickly, its impact was not big enough to render him completely desperate. He took a deep breath and looked around licking his lips. There was food and he was hungry, there was wine and he would have liked better to be drunk, there was cheap love at every corner in the form of some young jilted lady. He could go all the way and damn it all, curse his love for Georgiana, mar his chances of becoming respectable and going back to being vile.
He did think she was far too good for him and that he could perhaps never see her in a rocking chair by the fire throwing him lovingly looks, as he dreamt she would, one day. She wouldn't for he did not deserve her, no matter what he would do. Wasn't it easier to give it all up and blame it all on fate?
It was, it always was, but somehow, no matter how much he felt desolate at the moment, he couldn't muster the scoundrel in him to surface once more, he could not go back to what he had before. For what was it? What was before? Some pennies, some brandy, some meatpies, some lasses? Now he had her! He had her love, he had won her single-handedly, the greatest treasure he could have had! Such an achievement! He would not throw away her gentle love and he would not throw away his.
No, he resolutely walked towards the exit to look one more time for Mary and James. Only the wind blew there, a draught that warned him he would have no support.
Pleased with that report, he went back inside and attempted to get around the house; his goal was to find Morel's study.
As fortune would deem it, he noticed Morel had left his spot and was walking out of the room. He hoped he would retire to his study as a respectable gentleman, though that was highly unlikely. Nevertheless, he went in pursuit of this allegedly horrible man, only to find that the rumours were true; he was despicably cunning, for in a minute, Morel turned again from the door and walked back into the Ball room.
Now he could see Theodore who had come out to follow him, but being ever so in spirits, he could barely make out something to say, other than mutter something about Margaret and her impudent tardiness.
Theodore was panic-stricken but his heart did not fail him and he quickly made his way back into the crowd, hoping that his white face was not too conspicuous. It was now Morel who was following Theodore and the latter, in his excitement, not only knocked a tray full of scones, but also dashed right out of the room after such a blatant mischief.
Morel's house was not grand but it was a remarkable labyrinth with only one way out, the front door, a shameful retreat. Theodore walked through rooms and saloons, not knowing where to turn next. He ran through halls and chambers and eventually found a small room to his liking into which he found refuge at last.
It was, to his mind, a very small and modest drawing room which was more than unlikely for Morel. There was an old pianoforte in a corner with one broken leg, a heavy squat desk, several shelves full of china and porcelains that reeked of bad taste and in one corner a very large urn that had written on it James T. Morel, probably a relative of Morel's.
The wallpaper was crumbling off and the bare walls had many stains on them, some of wine, some of stake. It was a disgusting place that made his stomach turn but it was the last place Morel would look in.
He found an old footstool and sat down drearily, exhausted from the tension the evening had produced. He would do with a cup of tea right about now, but the only thing he could drink was the insipid air around him. As Theodore sat there, contemplating the small specks of dust that were falling carelessly on his lapels, some strange sounds erupted outside, laughter and boisterous banter, both of which distressed him terribly.
As the noises came closer he feared the feasters might want to step inside for who knows what debauchery and without thinking he tried to find a hiding place.
Indeed, his old senses had not tricked him; a young couple, formed of an eighteen year old young man, a student of Economy and a thirty two year old courtesan, mother of five, burst into the room in hideous clamour. The dame was holding a plate full of cake and the young man held the wine.
'To what shall I compare thee?' the young man mocked her kissing her free hand. She laughed harder and tried to run from him, as if playing a game of her own.
'Compare me to a mad banshee if you like!' she giggled rudely bumping against the shelves. She threw her shawl on the carpet and the young man started kissing her neck.
Crumbles of cake were falling on the floor.
Meanwhile, our unfortunate hero had found some hiding place in the nick of time, behind the massive urn in the corner and was waiting patiently for a good moment to leave the room unnoticed.
Somehow, Lady Fortuna was on his side that night, for right before the fervent young man tried to run his hand through her flaxen hair, she pulled back smiling daringly and lifted her palm up.
'I know how you pretty blue-eyed ones go. You all say it's just one time and you want to try it, that you all have fair ladies at home to whom you are engaged and so forth…how sickly…how puny of you! And while I give you spasms you all scream their names, how rude! Well, no, no, not that trick again…so darling, early payment please.'
The young man looked at her confused, his drunken state not allowing for any reasonable thoughts.
'Oh, I have to coax it out of you! Cough up, darling, cough up!'
He smiled innocently and lifted his bottle of wine as a sign that he had no penny whatsoever on him and wouldn't have any until his generous father sent him some for his yearly tuition. Just to be sure she was not prevaricated she started searching him herself, hands in his pockets, like a collier's wife asking her spouse for some weekly share off his drinking.
'You really have no ounce! You coxcomb! I ought to slap you, but I shan't since you are so darling and young and were fed only with milk and rice, but stay out of my way! Out of my way, you're wasting my time!' she said angrily, rushing out of the room, leaving her already stolen shawl behind.
The young man saluted her politely and when he saw she was off, he sat down near the shelves and fell asleep, with pieces of cake near his head.
Theodore had ogled at them all throughout the scene and it had reminded him of his old days so much that a new wave of determination had marked him as a decided hero.
He got up quietly and made to leave the room silently, but a sudden cough from the young man scared him so much that he pushed against the urn recklessly and the old thing fell down with a heavy but not crashing thump since a very solid carpet lay on the floor, moth-eaten, like everything else there.
A great load of cinder flew down its mouth onto the floor, too much so for only one deceased person and Theodore felt strangely drawn to that grey mass. He went over to examine it properly and tried to clear off some of the cinder with his foot.
Lady Fortuna marched in again as he suddenly discovered something gleaming white in all that greyness and when he bent down to inspect it, he found it to be a wad of documents. He picked it up carefully and brushed the dirt away, opening it hesitatingly.
He couldn't believe his eyes, but the reader might. He held in his hands the real ownership papers of the Bartley House in South London, owned by Mr. Darcy, the documents which were supposedly hidden so well by Morel and in which Mr. Darcy had placed many of his hopes.
In his joy he almost woke up the young man who had only stirred at the sound of the urn falling. Theodore was beaming and he hastily placed the documents inside his waistcoat.
Ah, the milksop, hiding them here! But it was no match for my skill! he thought blithely and exited the room in the utmost care. As he traversed the long corridor a new thought perched up in his mind.
What if someone steals the documents? No, the waistcoat is not a safe place.
He took his top hat and stashed the documents inside the hem of the chapeau, feeling more secure and we can affirm it was a clever move on his part, for barely had he turned the corner when a tall and stocky steward suddenly seized him as a voice reverberated in his ears.
'There he is, the little meddler! Theodore Stoddard!' shouted Morel.
Morning came too soon for Mary Bennet who had got to bed in a miserable state and was now waking to more wretchedness that was sure to come from her uncle and aunt, both curious about her disappearance the previous night.
She was in no mood to reply to either of them, but luckily, her now staunch chamber maid, Anita had managed to produce some form of excuse for her, saying that she was terribly ill, a common cold only a lot nastier and that last night she had rushed home, in her embarrassment to avoid being seen in such a state.
'Without saying goodbye, without paying her respects to Lady Isabel? How peculiar! She should have taken care! I knew she should have worn her shawl!' Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed. However, she only bothered to fetch the physician, she was a terrible nurse to all those who were bedridden.
The physician was quite alarmed upon seeing how discomfit and nervous Mary was, a great fever had overcome her and her thoughts were in a muddle, all about the events of the previous night and a terrible fear of having to face the consequences of it.
On the one hand, she was reminded of luckless Theodore and her abandoning him. His destiny and the outcome of the evening were all unknown to her. On the other hand there was Mr. Prowler, who would naturally call on her again and torture her more. She would avoid him, but how?
Chiefly, she worried her mind sick over the ethicality of her actions; whether having produced such misfortune to that young man and consequently to Georgiana had been the best of choices. She decided she had been selfish, but her selfishness had only gone so far as to preserve her principles. She was not the kind of human being to tramp over all her beliefs and she was not what a dress could make her or what others might see in her. Mary knew she wasn't charming and bold enough to even appear like a fashionable lady, so her attempt to do so made her feel more wretched. She wondered whether she had tried it all to escape her sense of plainness. If so, she needed to remind herself that plainness can only reside in the mind.
From time to time she felt angry remembering Margaret and her misleading character. There she could compare the apparel of that seemingly genteel lady and her true worth when it came to principle of mind. But this was no excuse for her own behaviour, she knew well, she was only clinging to something to put her conscience at rest, at least for a while.
London had obviously been a bad idea, she saw that now. Her place was in the country-side, with her father and her quiet books. It was not because she thought herself a peasant that she considered so; it was more because Mary could clearly judge now the difference between town folk and country folk and she decidedly raised the latter in esteem and propriety. Her sole wish now was to go home and sleep safely in her little bed, wake up and see the marshes and meadows all gleaming in a red dusk.
Little did she know she would have her wish of parting with London granted, but, unfortunately for her, home would not be her destination.
On that very day, a letter arrived for her from Mr. Collins. The contents of it I shall reveal in the following lines.
Dear Miss Bennet,
I am writing to you since the situation calls for it, else I would not dare disturb you from your enjoyments of London, though I dare say it is an inopportune place you find yourself at. The news I give might make you feel the shame of having amusement while your father is terribly ill.
But there! I've said it before I intended to, so I may go on, I may well finish.
I heard Miss Bennet, that you approved of your elderly father driving alone on such rainy weather to Rosings for a visit to my abode that was most unsuited since I have recently become a vicar, a position given to me by Lady Catherine upon hearing Charlotte is with child and I am up to my eyes in work.
I must declare that your conduct was not at all recommending and you showed no care for your parent, not to mention you did not consider advising him that the visit was obviously something fruitless at the moment since in no case can I lend him any amount of money at the time.
He is, as I have said, quite ill, bedridden I am afraid, but Charlotte is taking care of him in one of our new rooms, since I managed to expand the house like I had planned, though I did not envisage on its usage being given to your father. However, we are of course happy to help as we've already done as much as we could. This damnable weather has made postal service incredibly slow so that I could only write to your mother several days after Mr. Bennet was declared ill.
When I did however, she had no notion that her husband would be visiting us, nor did she know anything about his leaving London. Once again, I am inclined to believe Miss Bennet that you have concealed such facts and have misled your own poor mother, not to mention put us all at ill ease. I cannot guess at the scheme at hand, but let me say that such follies of character are not acceptable and whether this is a secret of yours, or a fancifulness of age, you'd better revise your conduct and pay heed to my words, as a pastor of the community. My dear Charlotte is a charming creature trying to excuse your misbehaviour and insisting that you would have never lied with such purposes, but I know that females tend to fend for each other, which is admirable when there is true injustice done to them.
Under these circumstances, I advise that you come to Rosings at once to attend to your father, who is in need of all the possible care and attention. My wife is with child and cannot aid to him alone. Your mother arrived two days ago and Mrs. Jane Bingley came as well to see him. Mrs. Darcy will be arriving promptly as well, but I know nothing of your other sister Catherine or that unfortunate young girl Mrs. Wickham. Needless to say, Mrs. Bennet is appalled at your behaviour and demands serious explanations, but that will all come to pass when you manage to come.
Charlotte and I hope Mr. Bennet will be moved to the Bingley estate, where he will be much more comfortable and safe. Such discussions have taken place as of late and it seems in a week or so, or even earlier, the move shall transpire.
And here I end my epistle hoping that some of my words have perhaps pierced your heart, young lady and have rendered you pensive and guilty. I have met many an impetuous young woman like yourself, but with good guidance they all come to the right path. Pray and I shall pray too.
Respects, Mr. Collins.
What could be said of Mary's feelings after having read such an accusatory letter? In those moments she earnestly believed that Mr. Collins was right to make her the sole cause of all the misfortunes that transpired while her father had been gone.
She was double the foe now and her folly she exaggerated incredibly, forgetting that it had been her father who had insisted on her secrecy.
Her father was ill and it came at a time when she needed him the most; perhaps this was her punishment for having dared to be anyone but herself.
Her fever was too big for her to think rationally and she fancied he might die all because of her. She should have kept him by her side, no matter what. Those rainy days, oh how they were cold and how her father suffered!
There was one thought that persisted in her head. She must get up and get packed and take a chaise to Rosings immediately to stand day and night by her father's side.
She grimaced at the thought of her mother being "appalled" but she would ignore that; she needed to leave London as soon as possible.
That evening Anita came to see her bringing her medicine. The petite girl sat at her bedside looking worried in her eyes.
'Is missus getting better?'
'Yes…yes, I am recovering,' Mary said drinking her tea. 'Soon I shall be gone Anita.'
'Gone to where, missus?'
'To my father, to take care of him.'
'Ye mean ye'll leave London fer good?'
'Yes, I am afraid I shall.'
'Why must ye?'
'My father needs me. I have not been a good daughter, I must make up for it.'
'Wha' bout Mr. Prowler?'
'What about him?' Mary said frowning.
'Will ye tell him ye're leavin' ?
'I won't, he'll find out, but if you happen to talk to him tell him…'
'Yes?'
'Tell him I'm sorry I caused him misfortune and that I do not wish to part like enemies.'
'Is that all, missus?' Anita asked hoping for more.
'Yes, quite so…Anita, please write to me.'
'Me? Write?' she asked bewildered.
'Yes, I'd like you to tell me if you hear from a Mr. Theodore Stoddard…Mr. Prowler might inform you…please write to me of it and please let me know if the money I gave you was of any service and if you manage…'
'Oh, I shall missus, I shall! Aye, ye'll hear from me, though I write no pretty hand!'
'It's not needed, no indeed, not now…'