moralized | { psl: the storm }

{ psl: the storm }

[ The countryside around Meryton can be a delightful sight to take in on a mild day where white clouds glide slowly across the sky to far off places. This, however, is not one of those days. It had started out overcast and gray, and ordinarily Mary Bennet would have lit a candle in her room and read the day away, but today such an arrangement is not meant to be. Today her mother has been yelling all morning and has been in the most foul of moods that Mary cannot recall having ever witnessed its equal.

Today is the servants' floor washing day and that has sent Mrs. Bennet off on a tirade about that man and how he has ruined her floors with his blatant unconcern and cavalier attitude. Mr. Bennet escaped the breakfast room soon after realizing that his teasing was merely adding to the powder keg that was his wife's mood and Mary quietly excused herself to her studies. Studies which she simply could not focus on due to the yelling. And so she had done something that had truly been a last resort. She had put on her walking boots, spencer, bonnet, and picked up her reticule. With the housemaids so busy, she had decided to walk to Meryton alone to pick up the daily post. Perhaps when she returned the yelling would have stopped.

Naturally her plans were thwarted by her Aunt Phillips spotting her through her parlor window and uncouthly shouting down for Mary to come visit. Mary had been obliged to go, hearing the latest gossip about that mysterious Mr. Cartwright, of course, and after fifteen minutes Mary made her excuses and left. By now the sky was turning very dark indeed, but she decided to risk a little rain rather than spend more time in her Aunt's company.

And that is how Mary has come to find herself completely soaked as the heavens have opened up over her head as she travels the lane back home. She's miserable, with mud splattered across her dress and petticoat's hem, and the rain is coming down in sheets that are blinding. The only reason she is not completely lost is due to the ditch beside the lane keeping her on course. She's adopted somewhat of a jog in hopes of reaching home faster and that's lead to blisters forming from her not oft worn boots. Such a storm must not have been seen in England in an age. And suddenly the ditch veers and she follows it in confusion until a gate appears before her. Exhausted, she leans against it to catch her breath, trying to see what lies beyond. Whose house lies there? Surely she has not reached the village of Longbourn yet? Sneezing twice in a row, Mary places a hand to her nose and then her forehead. She's overheated from the exertion of jogging and is starting to feel a little faint. ]

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( while he agrees that mr. blake and his works could be considered "radical", their opinions differ on whether the term applies to atticus himself. what is radical? his living alone, away from society, wasn't intended to be interpreted as such. it's not unique behaviour. being a hermit has existed for as long as there has been a society to shun. they had their reasons as he has his. but if the good people of meryton believe that atticus and his hermit ways pollute the area, they shan't suffer for much longer.

the abruptness and awkwardness of her question jolts a hearty laugh from him. he drops his head against his palm and rubs his fingers across his brow as if to rub the mirth into his skull and ease the weight that sometimes presses there. laughter is a rare commodity around here. )

The validity of my statement could be challenged in the morning, but, for now, it's sincere: I am not discontent.

( miss bennet doesn't criticize the state of his home nor does she complain about his rough cooking more suited to sailors drifting on a ship in the mediterranean. if she has any disapproval of him, she keeps them to herself. of the small fraction of the bennet clan that atticus has met, miss mary bennet is perhaps the least burdensome. she is a shadow — silent, unseen, but ever present. mrs bennet, on the other hand, is a rockslide. if she had sought refuge at his home during a storm, atticus hesitates to believe he would've been so hospitable and willing to allow her to stay the night. after several minutes, he would've suggested that perhaps the rain isn't as hard as it seems and that she could easily make it home on pilot. for the price of mrs bennet's absence, he would sacrifice his horse. )

I hope you too are not discontent. Despite the circumstances. I must think this is your first time away from home without a chaperone.

[ The laughter that breaks through the night surprises her and her fingers flutter awkwardly near her chest at hearing the sound. Mary is used to the laughter of women: ridiculous laughter about the most banal of topics. Her father allows his amusement to show in a sparkling in his eyes, but never through laughter. Oddly enough, Mary is like him in that regard. She rarely ever laughs and doesn't smile much either. If only she knew that she shares her sister Elizabeth's sparkling eyes that light up when amused. With Mary always looking dour and serious, the likeness between them fades to nothing but similar hair and eye color.

For a moment she fears he's mocking her and immediately regrets that she allowed herself that moment of vulnerability. People never seem content in her company no matter what topic she tries to discuss. They always seem to want to move away to talk to others as quickly as they may. She should not have asked; it was ill-judged. His reply leaves her puzzled a moment longer as she contemplates what she could even do between now and the morning to cause him to revise his statement. If she had been better educated, perhaps not everything would seem like a vexing puzzle to her. The way she has navigated life has been to try to sound as sensible as possible while not knowing exactly how to do that. ]

Oh. No, I— I admit that I am troubled at what the future might hold, but I also know that no good comes from making assumptions about it. And yes; this is my first time away with no chaperone, but I have rarely traveled. I have been to London a few times to stay with my aunt and uncle when I was younger, but I am like my father in disliking town. Three of my sisters now live in the north and I have been invited, but it seems such a long journey to make that I would really rather not go.

[ Well, Lizzy and Jane have both invited her. Lydia only writes to ask their mother for money and Mary would never go visit her and Mr. Wickham. As for her other sisters, she does not see what benefit there would be to traveling so far to see sisters who never seemed to desire her presence before when they lived together. ]

( even though london is not even a day's journey from her home, the meretricious appeal of the capital appears not enchant her as it does others. years ago, london was briefly his home and he detests it more now than he did then. atticus was fortunate enough to live on the west end, away from the overwhelming stench, miasma, and misery of the other boroughs, but even he was driven out and has purposefully not returned for those exact reasons. nowadays, he only travels to london for meetings with his book publisher and limits the amount of time he is forced to spend. the eldest former miss bennets now reside in — did mrs. bennet say derbyshire? derbyshire is a familiar name so it must be that. when he attended trinity college, he visited derbyshire but stayed only a handful of days; it had been raining then so he was unable to properly take in the land and, thus, hadn't committed it to memory. the youngest bennet sister lives far north in scotland. as atticus has recently been to the area whence she lives, the name appears more easily and immediately. it's cold, damp, and aside from the moors and the regiment, there's very little activity or amusement. a fitting perdition for the man atticus is most unfairly likened to by the townsfolk.

given the current miss bennet's choices of destinations, it's not unsurprising she decides to stay at longbourn. but, as a great and enthusiastic pilgrim, atticus is compelled to put forth a case for travel in order to change her mind or, alternatively, placate himself of miss bennet's true feelings. he sips his tea. )

I trust that your disinclination is due to the undesirable destinations, not the act of traveling itself, for you are wise not to be intransigent against an entire discipline. If you'd pardon the misattribution by Mr. Feltham to St. Augustine, "The world is a great book, and none study this book so much as a traveler. They that never stir from their home read only one page of this book." ( as the words spill from his grinning mouth, his face begins to glow in the dim light and his fingers drum against his knee. )

Alas, young women rarely have the luxury to read that book freely and aimlessly. I won't pretend that I don't behold immense privilege and freedom only afforded to a minority. Tis a shame for I believe many prejudice and ignorance among our compatriots would be expelled just from a change in scenery and society. In your case, perhaps a desirable location or reason for you hasn't appeared yet. Then again, you may just not possess the tolerance or partiality for traveling, and I should not censure you for it. After all ( — sighing, his shoulder lifts up in a slight shrug as his green eyes lose its excited luster — ) someone needs to stay home to tend the hearths.

( atticus is of the strong conviction that everyone should travel — if not for the adventure, but for exposure to different communities and a resistance to ossification. but he cannot condemn someone for so innocuous an opinion. was he not of the similar mind over a decade ago? he cannot expect for someone to change their mind so quickly. but she may never change her mind. his use of flattery is perhaps instead a misunderstanding of miss bennet by assuming she's not the intransigent type. her mother certainly appears to be of the ilk, especially against him. it is presumption and inappropriate of him to impose traits onto miss bennet that she may not possess. that is very unkind of him. )

Now, if you'll excuse me, that is the end of my sermon. ( laying back on his chair, he finishes his tea. )

[ For a moment, she thinks he's speaking of a real book until her mind catches up and realizes he's speaking of the metaphor. And she cannot deny that it is apt. For her who counts reading as the main pleasure of her life, she can only say she's read the foreword of such a book. London has been as far as she's gone. It has never seemed that her lack of movement impeded her from learning a great deal. Her father's library provided all she had needed. Though she will never see far off places, there are often engravings in books to give her an idea and her imagination fills in the rest. Granted, her imagination has never been strong but she figured it suited well enough.

Now, however, she wonders if perhaps she could learn more by seeing places rather than simply reading about them. It's truly a fancy, for traveling requires money and the act itself is often not worth the trouble. Hard carriage seats, bumpy roads, and hours in a confined space seem more a torment than a necessity on the road to a pleasurable experience. And yet his words: After all, someone needs to stay home to tend the hearths, causes a twist to her insides. Why does it seem so bleak when he says it? Is it because of the way the brightness of his eyes fades, or the tone in which he says it? For the first time in her life, Mary — who has always preferred being alone in her apartment to read or play music — feels as though she is missing out on something more. ]

Perhaps it is wholly dependent on a well-cushioned seat and smooth roads. My experience has been very little as I have said, but should I be invited somewhere than sounds like it would be an experience I should wish to have, I will make the journey and report back on my findings.

[ Is it likely she would be invited on such a trip at someone else's expense? Most likely not. Her new brothers are wealthy but they probably would not invite a sister that has not taken strides to meet with them. Such ideas Mr. Cartwright puts in her head! She returns to her stew, biting down on the salted pork and very quickly realizing her mistake. He had warned her. Covertly, she looks over at him to see he has leaned back in his chair to attend to his tea. Carefully, she slips the bite out of her mouth, holds it down low, and tries to grab the attention of his dog. The creature will surely like it better. ]

( setting his cup on the chipped, millefleur saucer, he smiles. ) I'm very glad to hear that.

( then his expression turns acerbic from the realization of his empty teacup. in his past life, as a member of the peerage, many great privileges were rendered onto him. among them were a vast staff of servants willing and ready to wait on him. from the time of his infancy until the age of four and twenty, he wanted for naught; anything he desired could and would be immediately granted. however, that nimiety of helpfulness became overbearing, stifling, too much. he never had a moment of true privacy to himself. not until he joined the navy, that is. even with the ever-present threat of death, rats, and stockfish, the first several months at sea for atticus was liberating, freeing. it was a reprieve from the constraints of his life, duty, and father.

but, at this moment, in his heart of hearts, atticus admits the one aspect of the cage that he does miss is summoning a servant to replenish tea with the correct amount of sugar and at the correct temperature so as to not burn his noble lips or tongue. for lo! the saucer with cup and spoon is bare of grateful liquor, which many deem as ichor. now he must rise, trek to the kitchen, pour china's earth himself, and await for the perfect temperature, lest he suffers injury. and, doubtless, the speed and easiness of this expedition is contingent on if tea still remains in the kettle. otherwise, his absence from his chair will stretch to an indeterminate time as he stands there awkwardly under miss bennet's perspicacious gaze until the tea finishes steeping.

atticus directs his grimace to the crackling fire, placing his cheek, rough with a day's old stubble, on his palm, quiescent in both action and mind. next to him, dustros hops off his pillow and scampers away to the general direction of the kitchen. he leaves the comfort of his plush pillow and fire for rare occasions, one being the appearance of food, or a rat, which, to him, is also regarded as food. the presence of other humans holds no interest to him. he and atticus are alike in that regard — they do not seek out human contact, instead keeping to themselves and their joie de vivre.

aside from the soft taps of the dog's feet on wooden planks and the crackling from the fire, it's silent in the cottage. no minacious behavior from dustros or squeaking so it's very unlikely a rat has surfaced. which probably means that miss bennet has encountered the salt pork. dustros wouldn't leave the comfort of his seat for anything less. )

Temperance, Miss Bennet ( , he chides her. ) You feed Dustros too much and he's liable to think you're now his owner.

[ Dustros quickly snatches the food from her, leaving Mary to wipe her fingers off on a napkin to remove the dog drool. It seems to have been a successful plot, until Mr. Cartwright admonishes her for it and her cheeks flush scarlet. Her eyes lower to her lap and she carefully composes a retort before allowing herself to speak. ]

I would hope the loyalty of a dog to be more than a few salted pork could turn. But I will refrain from indulging him anymore, on his master's wishes.

[ And since the bowl is left with nothing but salted pork and gravy, she finds herself done with it. She pushes it back from her by a few inches, unsure what to do with it now. Like him, Mary is used to servants controlling so much of daily life so she does not have to. Without a silent hand there to remove the dish, to help her undress, to unpin her hair, how is she to know what to do? It seems almost cruel to be raised to be so hopeless on one's own. Of course, no one assumes such an occasion would arise where one would be without servants, but here she is in this odd man's home. She studies his profile a moment, realizing that this is a perfect opportunity to uncover more of his history. ]

Have you traveled much yourself, Mr. Cartwright?

( a hint of a smile touches his mouth. next to books, travel is his favourite topic of discussion. )

I wear red heeled shoes. ( the smile dissolves as an acute awareness that miss bennet may not understand the context of that statement dawns on him. the sensation of neglect and involuntary ignorance foisted upon one by another is a woeful experience. one which is familiar to him and one he refuses to impose. atticus clarifies himself, ) Which means, yes. I've traveled quite extensively. ( how insensitive and presumptuous it was of him to assume she knows the meaning and story behind his reference. it's been near twenty years since that trend was popular among young men returning from their grand tour of europe. certainly miss bennet isn't familiar with the concept, based on her young age and her presumed disinterest in such baubles.

brimming with repentance and in a low voice, atticus apologies. ) I apologize. My words and their subtleties ought to be... more apparent so as to avoid further confusion and discomfiture. Or ah — ( his eyes screw up and he drops his head against his palm, rubbing his fingers across his brow. ) — perhaps being mindful of my words overall is the best solution. If I am to reengage in society, I should understand that genteel ladies such as yourself may not appreciate my teasing.

( neither would general society. that kind of crude, blunt behaviour and language is only appropriate with gens de guerre, active or retired. in society and company like meryton, it's best to speak of jejune and pleasant topics and form superficial connections. for more simulating conversations and kinship, atticus will have to relay on mr. bennet, but even that is unlikely to evolve beyond a shared characteristic of frankness in trivial matters such as books and ripostes. but enough of the jeremiad. he was aware of the isolation he would endure from the world. indeed, the isolation he would bring upon himself by not being true and honest to others. that is the toll

atticus places his empty teacup on the floor under his chair and jumps up, reaching down next to the couch for his violin and bow. ) Some music, Miss Bennet? Taking it into one's soul fosters its growth, wouldn't you say?

( just the idea of playing his violin fosters the growth of his soul. )

[ The puzzling phrase is explained so quickly that she hardly has time to ponder it, nor ask the origins of such a phrase. It's almost refreshing to get an explanation so quickly. When things are beyond Mary's understanding she is usually left to figure things out for herself and more often than not she comes to the wrong conclusions. She's desperate to be wise — at times she thinks she is — but there are other times when she wishes to understand, to say the right thing, to impress everyone around and yet knows that she can't quite reach the heights she strives for. Even now as Mr. Cartwright speaks, she tries to come up with intelligent questions for him to contribute to the conversation. One thing that strikes her is him saying "If I am to reengage in society" as if he was a man recently returned from being marooned on a deserted isle. What can he mean?

Yet his mind is quick to shift away from the topic at hand. Had she asked something too personal of him, or is he really the type to get distracted so easily? Though it is disappointed to not hear him speak more on his travels, as his guest she thinks it only right to be conciliatory. ]

Yes, if you wish it. What shall you play?

Well, I shan't twist your arm ( , he laughs. ) But pray, allow me an indulgence. I very rarely play to an audience, especially one so musically inclined.

( his usual spectator, dustros, hasn't grown an appreciation of music as atticus had hoped. no regard for the idiosyncrasies of mozart, the emotion of beethoven, or the sport of rossini. most distressingly are times when the dulcet tones of bach is interrupted by the adenoidal snores of his dog. and so atticus plays mostly for his own pleasure and, if the windows are opened, the birds, the bees, and the wind. a most noble aspiration — to perform for one's own self without thought of others or of glory. however, there are times when it is prudent to perform for others just for the satisfaction and delight of their approval. in order to maintain and quantify a sense of one's self and abilities, they must take into account others' opinions. as a sort of measuring stick, one could say.

merely possessing the violin brings on the straightening of his back; his shoulders, which are normally tucked in as if in an attempt to make himself as small as possible in a crowded and cramped room, lift up and back. a noble mien materializes about atticus, like the unfurling petals of a fresh rose. he places his chin on the chinrest, raises the bow, and slides it across the strings in several smooth motions as a warm-up. then he lifts it up again, taps his stockinged foot to set the brisk tempo of the piece, and begins. in homage to the arrival of the new season, atticus plays the first movement of autumn from signore vivaldi's the four seasons, a scarcely six minute piece which he plays with such celerity and ease that it's finished in under five and a half.

a warmth and richness, both from the piece and the timbre of the violin, permeates the small cottage. the act of playing enlivens atticus as his strikes and sweeps against the violin become animated as if a series of springs replaced his bones. but even with his flourishes, his eyes are shut and his expression calm, almost blank. his countenance is like a breeze against blades of grass: serene and untroubled.

he finishes the piece and the look remains even as his eyes reopen. but it's cracked by a slight smile. ) Perhaps when it's winter, I may play the next concerto of The Four Seasons. Until then, we shall have to content ourselves with L'autunno.

[ Her heart leaps at being recognized as musically inclined. The sentiment is of course shared by everyone in town, but here is a new person also saying the same. In Mary's mind, "musically inclined" means the same as "musically skilled" so she feels it as if it was a great compliment. And as he begins, she listens with the quiet judgment she gives all young women whom she considers competition for accomplishments. It's in her nature to do so, because she has never learnt to appreciate music for the feelings it creates. Being self taught, Mary has always focused on playing well, but that has resulted in her playing without passion or freedom of expression. She focuses only on the skill involved with playing difficult pieces; playing Scottish reels affords her no pleasure as no one is acknowledging her talent while they dance merrily. She never deviates from the instructions on how a piece should be played and trains herself relentlessly on playing every note correctly. And therefore she soon becomes aware that Mr. Cartwright is not doing that at all.

His eyes close and he seems to be experiencing what he plays in a way Mary never has. The way his body moves suggests a lightness of mood, but the expression on his face seems to war with that notion. There is a calmness there; a satisfaction at what he's doing that Mary only obtains once the last note rings out from the pianoforte and there is polite applause. The whole time she's playing her body is rigid — as tight as his bowstring — while she tells herself to play perfectly without a single mistake. She must be better than all the other ladies in order to be noticed, because this is all she has. This is the only time she's mentioned in conversation or even remembered to exist. This is the only reason people speak to her at dinners and parties: to ask her to play.

Suddenly all the judgment and critique she was prepared to silently have in her head melts away and her shoulders sag. He enjoys the music so much more than she does. It always seems like a challenge to overcome to reap the rewards, but this? This is someone playing music because they enjoy it. It strikes her so suddenly that she feels overwhelmed, but she's trapped here in this chair and cannot simply rush away without notice. Despite her best efforts, tears come to her eyes and she quickly closes them, willing herself to regain her composure before this movement ends. She trembles slightly and clutches her hands together in her lap while the beautiful music washes over her and she allows herself to just listen and appreciate it for once.

When he finishes and speaks, she knows she must open her eyes. She does so, hoping the dim evening light masks the redness of her eyes or the wetness of her lashes. She forces a weak smile and nods her head in acknowledgment. ]

I should like to hear it then.

[ Her voice betrays her, heavy with her tears and she half turns in her seat, embarrassed at her emotions. ]

( to live without passion's gale is to accomplish nothing of note in the world as passion is the spring that enriches the soul. consistent cultivation of it and its accretion will sow seedlings in others. accomplishing that should be a soul's greatest aspiration. merely inspiring another to feel is experience enough in this puritan society, which values propriety over emotion. the overwhelming attitude of their world shackled him for most of his life, eroding his individuality and passions. his few escapes were the brief moments he was allowed to read in solitude or play his violin. however, the caveat with the former is that he was not to read too much and with the latter is that it had to be in the company and enjoyment of others. simply playing for oneself to become and let one's soul grow was disapproved of and rejected.

becoming and being — a concept atticus could only discover in despair and loss. it is just to spend each day becoming and fostering passion for the health and growth of one's soul. though he may be poor in wealth, he is rich in spirit, which neither moth nor rust doth corrupt. for now, in the presence of others, atticus does not play for them nor indeed even think of them — only of thoughts replete with gratification that his passion and efforts will be rewarded in glorious providence. of his accomplishments, his satisfactions, his joys, and of the sentiment of his late mother's pride in his skills and performance, atticus plays with his entire being. it's his belief that a display of passion such as this will sow seedlings in others. )

Quickly, Miss Bennet. ( his eyes narrows, attempting to discern her expression, obscured by her half-turned position in the dim light, by the softness of her voice. ) For you must be tired, I think.

( a trek in cold rain can drain the strength from anyone, whether they be a veteran mariner or a demoiselle, so atticus mustn't keep her up any longer. as the second movement is mostly a harpsichord piece and quite restrained in dynamic and notes, he will move on to the last movement, which is a more cheerful piece that should send miss bennet to bed in good spirits. thus, he plays that, lifting the violin, playing with the same feeling and skill, and again becoming. )

[ The lack of conversation is appreciated as it gives her time to compose herself as he focuses on the music. Before long she has put a stopper on her emotions and sealed away her tears. Now she can listen once more without incident, because she expressly forbids herself from comparing his style of playing to herself this time. She listens, she enjoys, but she refuses to lament. It is something that will surely keep her up tonight, but it shall not be visited in front of him.

The music is a lively piece, made all the more so by his movements. Once he finishes, she claps politely and smiles ever so faintly since it's not a common expression her face makes. ]

Very beautiful. You take much enjoyment out of the instrument.

[ More than she ever does. No; she must not think on it. ]

Have you played long?

( as he returns the violin to its case, his shoulders regress to their customary hunched position and the genteel air about him furls. within the span of a moment, the unfamiliar stranger vanishes and familiar sight of mr. cartwright, the perhaps untrustworthy but certainly interesting enigma, is restored. )

Long enough to learn a few pieces. ( the response is deliberately vague. as are most of the answers to prying questions regarding his past.
this is no willful cruelty or deception towards his acquaintanceships and certainly no scheme, but rather an abundance of caution. possibly an overabundance of caution at times when it's illogical and unnecessary.

but there's comfort in anonymity. before, he had to operate and live in the narrow confines his father, his family, and society had entrenched him. now, stripped of his titles, wealth, and connections, his person is bare. without anyone's preconceptions, atticus can enter a room and let only his character define others' opinions of him. and the knowledge of whom is his neighbour and whom is merely a sycophant amuses him. on his part, his altruism and courtesy will never at a price. after all, he always was and is the same as everyone else. but neither statements are the creed of all, especially those in meryton. he is still unsure which category miss bennet falls under — either a neighbour or a sycophant — but he will be her neighbour until distance, malice, or fulsomeness arises. )

As soon as I could hold up a violin, I played ( , he admits. )

[ She allows herself a moment to reflect on that before deciding that's all she wishes to know for now. He has a way of slipping past anything too deep about himself, but this is at least a hint. ]

As did I. My home has always had a pianoforte, but I was the only one who took an interest and pursued it with vigor.

[ But not with passion. It sinks into her again and she looks away around his room. It's so stuffed full. Surely one can get a sense of who the man is from how he lives alone and keeps his things. He could do with being a little neater but she will never discredit someone with such a collection of books. ]

I suppose I should retire.

[ It's not that she wants the morning to come with what that will mean for her, but she has never excelled at holding successful conversations. ]

A smart idea, Miss Bennet. ( atticus goes to the kitchen, plucks a rushlight out from a box next to the stove, then returns to the sitting room to light the rush at the fire. it takes little effort for the fat soaked rush to light and he is careful not to let it touch miss bennet's still damp clothing. from the speed of the flame licking the drippings, she shall have roughly fifteen minutes of light before being plunged into the darkness of his chamber. the sky is still choked with rainclouds, preventing any moon or starlight from providing relief.

however, he hopes that any turmoil on her mind should be eased by the cosiness of the horsehair mattress, the warmth of the wool blanket, and the perfume of the dried lily of the valley flowers hanging above her head. he hopes the gentle rain tapping on the window lulls her into a restful sleep. tomorrow will be filled with vexation and obstacles, which she may have to face it alone as further interference from him may yield further complications. but that is for tomorrow.

he holds the rushlight out to her to take. ) Before I depart for Longbourn, I shall let you know so you have adequate time to dress and prepare yourself. If you don't mind the company, I will leave Dustros behind. ( he smiles and hopes the gesture will additionally put her at ease. ) He is not inclined to rise before midmorning anyways.

[ Rising to her feet, Mary takes the rushlight and nods silently. These things might be faced and she will do her best to stay rational and calm. For some reason she doesn't want Mr. Cartwright to see her crumble under her mother's ire. ]

That would suit me well, sir. Good night.

[ With that she retires to his bedroom for the night, feeling most uncomfortable at having kicked a man from his own bed. After setting the rushlight in a holder, she quickly works on unpinning her hair and braiding it to one side, though she has no ribbon to secure it. Letting it go, it unravels a bit as she sets herself on the bed, looking around the space that seems so much smaller in the low light. How strange that he should use this for light as opposed to a candle. Even one of tallow would make more sense than what the poor farm tenants use. He is such an enigma in that way. Here he has a home full of books which must have cost a fortune, not to mention a violin which also has a great cost. Yet he uses a rushlight, he keeps no servants, no one knows from where exactly he hails. A little shiver passes over her and she slips under the blanket.

He is wholly a mystery and she has never found herself so curious to dig down and see what she might discover. These thoughts preoccupy her mind until she falls asleep. ]

( atticus bows at miss bennet's retreating figure into his chamber. while she sleeps in a bed, he will sleep on the couch. a sacrifice he does not take delight of, but one that is kind and necessary. the couch could provide no relief to her. nay, it will provide no relief to him either. however, he has experience and talent in finding sleep in places which only offer discomfort.

the news that an unattended woman spent a night at his home will spark outrage, such of the palpable kind which will only be heightened by the fact that she slept in his bed. however, if she had slept on the couch while he slept in his bed, the outrage would remain the same. indeed, none of the circumstances of this situation will attenuate the disgrace they will suffer from the town.

the stew is forgotten. instead, he sits by the fire and smokes a cigar for roughly an hour. what he thinks and mulls over is not worth recalling but, suffice to say, his thoughts are mostly occupied by the memory of a garden in florence, heavy with perfume and spice, and gazing upon the full moon. at this point, dustros is deep in slumber.

afterwards, atticus snuffs out what little remains of his cigar and goes into his writing room, which is next to his chamber. even without miss bennet's presence so nearby, ordinarily he is silent, bar the scratching of his quill pen against parchment. conversation, discourse, and debate occur silently within him. there is no need to articulate what he feels in his soul.

he writes about moonlight. )

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