A/N: Hello, everyone. Thanks so much for all the kind comments that have been left the past months - I have been reading all of them, and each and every one has made my day.
A sincere apology for the unannounced hiatus - aside from just being overrun with my school/work responsibilities, I have also had a rather intense writer's block for this story, and though I have already plotted/planned most of what happens, I didn't want to force it when my heart wasn't quite in the writing anymore.
But after a break with my other fanfic, I have finally been able to come back to this story and dive back in - I already have the next chapter written, and will be posting it in a few days. As a fair warning, I will probably be neglecting my regular posting schedule, and will simply try to write/post whenever I have time.
Again, thanks so much to everyone who has read, followed, and commented up to now, and thanks so much to everyone who is still reading. All your support truly means so much to me - this is the first passion project I have truly committed to, and I'm so excited to see through Mary's journey with you guys.
Chapter 24: The Unexpected Richness of Autumn
But perhaps it is apt here to say that, as the turbulent months of summer began at last to dwindle gracefully into a serene autumn, the most heartening companions to Mary at this time where not found amidst her family, nor any new acquaintances at Meryton, nor even the infrequent letters arrived from Pemberley.
No, they were found where they had always been found before - among the Berkeleys, the Burkes and the Benthams, the Descartes and the Humes, the Lockes and the Hutchesons – those same sacred, august philosophers on whose every word Mary had first teethed and been formed into a young woman – these were companions far more familiar to her than any other could ever be – and to whom she at last turned, after a spell of abstinence, now that her self-inflicted stupor had finally begun showing signs of abatement. Her first few dreadful months at Longbourn, she had not had the heart to search out her treasured tomes, and if she read them at all, she did so with a hollow attention, an almost callous disinterest. The words did not reach her – or more precisely, she would not allow them to reach her; their comfort was cold comfort, her soul was impenetrable to them.
And yet, now that at last her stupor had been punctured, her shock of acute sensibility somewhat faded by the intervention of time, it was inevitable that her ever rational temperament should finally resurface, and that she should begin again to yearn for the familiar instruction and insight on the human condition which her studies had once provided to her.
But as she turned to them for succor at last, it was with a great astonishment she was to discover that, rather than being her well-known companions, the words which sat on the page were wholly unfamiliar to her. Lo, she thought to herself, these were not the texts she had read so many times over, which she had strained over studiously, which had so long comprised her extracts and her musings; they were the same books, undoubtedly, the same creases and familiar smudges, but the words, alas, were all different! The thoughts and the meanings all foreign!
Or was it, perhaps, that she had never understood their true meaning at all? – now, when she read of Hume's treatise on 'the force and violence' of amorous love, she almost trembled with the certainty of it – words which had before been so empty, so distant to her, over which she had once passed unthinkingly, were now the most evocative, the most veritable ones in the entire text – to read Descartes' writings, on those passions of the souls, 'whose effects we feel as being in the soul itself' – a concept previously so indistinct and irrelevant – but she understood it all perfectly now! The distinction between the sentiments and the passions, the uneasiness called desire, the desire which may lead to love which may lead to joy, those trains of passions on which Descartes wrote – how could she have ever been under the illusion that she had even a semblance of comprehension, of conception for all these fantastic notions?
Thus, as she read them now, she read as if she were discovering all these tomes wholly anew, for the very first time – it was akin to a shuttered window which had been thrown suddenly open to allow the fresh morning light to stream in. How long had she been gazing at the opaque page, at the shuttered window, mistaking them for the illumined truths, the warm sunrise? Where had all these meanings been so long hiding, where had all these revelations been concealed?
She read them, reread them, reread them more – savoring each new insight as if it were precious kindling to her, letting her fingers hover over the ink, pressing the volumes tightly to her chest as her heart beat wildly. She began to take long, ambling walks around Longbourn each day – to Meryton, from Meryton, to Lucas Lodge, to Netherfield, to the fields, anywhere her feet would carry her – she wished they would carry her all the way to Pemberley, so that she may grasp Georgiana by the shoulders, and say to her, "Look, my darling Georgiana, look, at what is here! – look at these new treasures – it has been here all along, and I have been too blind to see it – this gift has been here all along, and I have been too obstinate to grasp it!"
But alas, she remained steadfastly near Longbourn, left to wander the avenues, the familiar paths, the sprawling fields alone, accompanied only by her thoughts, which at times soared and at others flew dishearteningly low to the earth, but always they circled unwaveringly around one singular object. How his expedition was faring, what vista lay before him at this precise moment, what sentiments her name conjured in his mind – had he repented of her memory, had the violent agitation of the soul which had at one time seized him now safely passed, washed away with the interceding months; or rather, had it hardened and solidified into something ineffable, unwavering and certain, much as it had for her? If he were to ever see her again, should it be with relief, at a terrible blunder averted, or with tentative hope at a reclaimed chance?
Love – for there was no other name for what burned in her chest, Mary now knew – was a fickle, terrible creature. A great many philosophers had written on the subject, and yet all their musings on the matter seemed somehow insufficient to her; for every page she read, she wished there to be ten more. None gave her the answers for which she searched. Love seemed to her to somehow lie both inside and outside of reason – if a gentleman in love was pressed upon to explain his affections, he would readily procure a catalog of rational arguments in favour of it, among which may sit her beauty, her character, her circumstances…But if, on the other hand, before any such affection had been borne, he was asked to predict which young lady should inspire in him such love, he would quickly find the task to be nigh impossible.
What, then, was that intractable kernel sitting at the heart of the passion which was love, which dictated such willful disregard to reason? Other passions were not at all so difficult to foresee – one might easily predict the stirrings of envy, of anger, of happiness. Why, then, was it, that love had proven itself to be so unpredictable an animal? Perhaps – perhaps it was because love was the truest line to the soul, the only charting of the unknowable wilderness of the heart – without knowing one's own vast expanse, one would never know what the charting might reveal to themselves – to love was perhaps not a decision one made, but rather a compulsion, a preordained atlas, in which one merely turned over the pages as they were filled. Mr. Crawford was merely a charting of her own soul; to fall in love with him was merely to begin to fill the pages.
Her fingers burned, suddenly, with the desire for a pen with which to write; she had been overcome just then with an overwhelming need to unburden herself, to give voice to the disparate and disarrayed thoughts which currently swam in her head; what should pour out from her, whether it should be coherent or some mad, indistinct ramblings, she could not possibly say, but she knew something would pour out nevertheless, and the feeling that she would no longer be trapped in fear of the blank page was somehow exhilarating to her in its novelty.
But she was startled from her revery by the sound of approaching footsteps; she was just then quite close to Meryton, she realized, frozen in place along the path, and the dusk suddenly much closer than it had been when she had last noted it.
It was Mr. Radcliff who was coming down the path, and he greeted her cheerfully. "Miss Bennet! I have found I am just in the spirits to take a few moments of reflection before returning to my work. Might I walk you back to Longbourn, presuming that is where you are indeed headed?"
Mary could not think of a proper reason to refuse; without the ill intervention of her mother, Mr. Radcliff was not so unpleasant a prospective companion as he had been before; and observing him for the first few minutes as they began to amble unhurriedly towards Longbourn, Mary could not note any concealed motivations in escorting her, save curiosity and general agreeableness.
As they walked, he spoke charmingly of Meryton, and how he was getting along with his new placement; of the area surrounding, the beautiful tableaus it offered one, and the lively, redeeming walk which led one from town to Longbourn. In short, there was nothing with which he could find fault in his present situation; he was thoroughly satisfied with his circumstances, and if anything was wanting, it was only the presence of his small family; but this, too, was manageable; he would doubtless be visiting them come Christmas, or even sooner, in the case of his sister, whose current situation was removed, but not impossibly distant, from Meryton.
"And your work? It is agreeable to you thus far?" Mary inquired of him.
"Oh, certainly!" Mr. Radcliff said. "Mr. Phillips has proven to be a perfectly civil employer, and the work is taxing enough where one may properly enjoy the reward of a spirited stroll at the end of the day. I myself think there is little better for the spirits than a spirited stroll, and especially so with a companion, who might amuse me, or discuss with me diverting, trivial matters."
Mary considered this a moment, but could not find that she agreed with him. "And indeed, is that all you are to desire of your prospective companion, Mr. Radcliff – one who amuses you?"
"Well, it is certainly what I would hope my companion would desire of me," Mr. Radcliff replied, laughing. "In my opinion, it is much more gratifying to be amused or entertained by one's companion, than it is to be bettered by them – do you not agree, Miss Bennet?"
"I am sorry to say that I do not, Mr. Radcliff," Mary said solemnly, though without any particular vehemence. "I think it is never a detriment to a person, if they have the power to impart upon you some knowledge or instruction which you are wanting."
But it was quickly made clear to Mary that it was not at all in Mr. Radcliff's nature to debate, or to speak abstractly for any prolonged time, and he only said, "Ah, no matter; I see that we are, you and I, quite different sort of creatures, Miss Bennet; but then, that in itself can provide one a diverting sort of amusement as well – to converse with one very dissimilar to oneself."
To this remark, Mary could find no particular reason to dissent; though, at the same time, she perhaps did not think it quite solemn enough to be considered clever.
"You are acquaintances, perhaps, with Miss Maria Lucas?" Mr. Radcliff asked as the topic was changed, and Mary assented that their families were indeed quite intimate.
"I confess I have made her acquaintance only recently," Mr. Radcliff continued, "but when I mentioned to her my sister's situation being reasonably near Southend-on-Sea, Miss Lucas was quite taken by the idea of gathering a group for a weekend trip to the seaside. I admit I am myself partial to the idea, as it has been some time since I have had the chance to reunite with my sister; and happen also to think a weekend by the sea to be a sufficiently pleasant prospect even without the advantage of such familial incentives. I fear, however, that it is, without a large enough party, a rather fruitless endeavour. What say you, Miss Bennet, to reserving your place among our ambitious expedition?"
Mary could not rightly recall a single conversation she had ever had with Miss Lucas, which was not merely pleasantries or general civilities. She would not have normally been inclined to accede to the offer, but the thought of escaping, even for a mere few days, the taxing company of her mother was, in its own way, an attractive familial incentive of a rather different breed than the one which tempted Mr. Radcliff.
"I might be amenable to it, if it really is a matter of rounding out a party; but if you have already gathered enough willing members by the time preparations are in place, I shall easily cede my coach seat in another traveler's favor." This seemed to Mary a reasonable compromise – she was committed only insofar as to help with the trip's execution, but the decision of her attendance would be now a matter of circumstances rather than her own verdict.
"Ah, but surely we shall procure a place for you, Miss Bennet," Mr. Radcliff said cheerfully. "And I think you shall find my sister a far more pleasurable companion than I, for she is an avid reader herself, and a great deal cleverer than I have ever made pretense to be."
Mary sensed he would not be moved, and that, having already ascertained a possible interest from her, would be true to his word in securing accommodations for her joining them on the journey. It was perhaps the first time her presence and company was to be particularly requested by someone since she had departed the side of her good friend Georgiana, and Mary could not fail to be slightly moved, even in knowing the kindness was likely borne of his natural good humor, and to allow her opinion of him to be tempered in his favor.
She was left by him at Longbourn as he bade her farewell with his usual good spirits, and with a promise to keep her abreast of the plans for their trip.
Mary turned back to the house, realizing her own agitated mood had calmed a great deal as she'd been speaking to Mr. Radcliff; and along with that calmness, she had been granted a greater clarity of mind, and a more precise astuteness of thought. The words no longer threatened to pour out from her as some frenetic tide, but they were, nevertheless, still there; they sought to be set down on paper, they desired to be traced out, their direction carved before her as clearly as a stream carved its embankment. She came into Longbourn hall already imagining herself seated at her desk, pen in hand – There are those, indeed, who write of the passions as being distinct from the sentiments…
But she was greeted in the hall immediately by her mother, and her heart sank cruelly, for it was inevitable then that any hope of solitude had been directly forfeited. It took only a moment for Mary to gather, however, that Mrs. Bennet's nerves were much more distressed than usual; something, it seemed, had transpired in her absence. She seized on Mary immediately.
"Oh, Mary, silly girl! Where have you been?" Mrs. Bennet wailed unhappily. "We have had a visitor! A gentleman has been all this time waiting to see you!"