Veritas and Virility:
a
Tale of Literature
Current Chapters
Prologue
Chapter One - A Young Girl of Promise
Chapter Two - In Which the Plot is Thickened, Then
Stirred: A View into the Past
Chapter Three - A Distressing Mishap from the Orphanagearium
Chapter Four: A Distressing Mishap at the Orphanagearium
Chapter Five: A Merry Day at the Royal Botanical
Zoological Bathing-Haüse-a-torium
Chapter Six: An Disengaging Proposition - An Engagement
Proposal
Chapter Seven: Our Heroine's Distressing Ride Upon the
Locomotive Express
Chapter Eight: Farewell, Oh Luminous Orb of
Phoebe!
Chapter Nine:
Pernicious Place: A Manor of Maleficence
Chapter Ten: A Most Perilous and Distressing Journey
Through the Darkenèd Wardrobe-Armoire
Chapter Eleven: A Possible Escape and a
Secondary Glance into Rachel’s Heritage: A Terrible Tragedy
Chapter Twelve: A Terrifying Succession of
Carriage Rides -- A Chance Meeting with Charlotte Temple
Chapter Thirteen: A Most Important Series
of Letter-Missives
Chapter Fourteen: Terrors within the Closeted
Closet
Chapter Fifteen: Our Heroine's Most Distressing
Incident with Murder
Chapter Sixteen: The Terrors of a Double Negative --
The Terror that Is Not Not
Chapter Seventeen: A Most Terrifying Encounter
with Corsairs
Dear gentle reader,
The tale which appears on the following pages is a tale which is composed of the barest facts of reality, and literature. The emotions and feelings which are bound in this text are certain to be felt by even the most cold-hearted of readers, for this is a tale, a tale of literature and truth which I tell. Many feelings may arise in your tender breasts, but I ask you to remain as calm as possible, and perhaps not to overexert yourself while reading this. Take in each chapter gently, reflect upon it, and learn from every word what this tale of literature has to tell you.
The title of the work, Veritas and Virility, has an obvious meaning. So obvious that to remind you of it would be counterproductive. Yet, I find it paramount that I, the author, remind you, my dear readers, of that meaning. The first word is in Latin, and therefore important. A learned scholar will tell you that it means truth, for the tale of literature which I tell is also a tale of truth: one which I hope you take into your heart. The second word is one who’s meaning isn’t mentionable among proper company: I suggest you find yourself someone from a lower-class to explain it to you, a farmer, perhaps, might know best. If, by some odd chance you do know the meaning of this word, I do sympathize with you, my dear reader, for the harsh and unbearable life you must have led, and perhaps still do lead.
Yes, dear reader, this is a tale of both truth, and that other meaning, all the while being a Tale of Literature. It is my hope that by writing this book, I may instruct other young persons, so that they, too, may not end up in the horrible states in which our Heroine, the young and tender Rachel finds herself in again and again and again. Read this, and yet keep your hearts simple and clean. Oh, gentle reader! Gentle, gentle, gentle reader! Stray not from the paths of the righteous and good! Never run with scissors! Remain forever young! Dear, gentle reader, I beg you to learn from this, this Tale of Literature, before it is too late.
Chapter One
- A Young Girl of Promise
The gentle footfall of a young maid hushed itself along a stony path through the well-kept gardens at Brinwith Herring Downs, the ancestral home of Miss Rachel Emily Jane Sarah Kenningworth. Brinwith Herring Downs was once a large and vast estate, but the family had fallen on hard times recently: Rachel and her family, though, took care of what was left of the grounds as well as if they could afford a thousand servants to take care of it: which they didn’t have.
The gentle footfall of the maid was heard through the gardens along the stony path, towards her home. Upon entering the door, Rachel greeted her mother, and eleven younger siblings.
"Mother, I have returned from my walk to the post office," said Rachel, "And I am so happy to be once again infolded in your maternal arms of affections."
"Oh, my daughter, your safe return was all that I have ever prayed for. You did not speak to any men without my approval, did you, daughter?" asked Mrs. Kenningworth.
"No mother, no one other than the post master, Mr. MacDuffald," she answered, looking sweetly into her mother’s face.
Oh, reader, is this not a beautiful scene? Does this not bring the pains of joy into your very bosom? The loving affection of a parent is worth more than the world to a young girl: and why should it not be? For, when a house is filled with Love, and Care, and Gentleness, and Kindess sit at your doorstep, and Peace and Affection tend to your garden, all while Truth and Chastity make your breakfast, oh dear reader! Is this not a tidy and loving domestic scene? Does it not Fill your heart with Joy? But, I have strayed from my tale, my Tale of Literature.
"Dearest mother, I know better than to speak to men, for if I were to speak to a man without your approval, I might forget the tenderness of your love, and forsake you, for a man who I am not appropriate for," continued Rachel.
"Oh, my darling dearest child, you are the apple of my eye, and of the eye of your father," said Mrs. Kenningworth. "I am certain that you are destined for a life of sentimental wonderment."
At that moment, the door to their cottage swung open, and a figure was silhouetted in the door frame: it was a dashing figure that was cut by that silhouette, one that belonged to a handsome man, perhaps a sergeant in the Royal Army. He said, in a strong voice, "I am a man! A man which you have never met before!"
Rachel looked at the figure for a moment, a gentle look of concern crossing her face. "Why, yes you are," she said.
Mrs. Kenningworth screamed. "Oh! My precious heart! You have spoken to a man! A man of whom you know nothing! You have spoken to a man! My heart is breaking!" The dear, afflicted mother of Rachel fell sobbing to the floor in a heap. Her other eleven children clustered around her, but still her heart-clenching sobs wracked through her body.
Rachel gasped, and a clap of thunder rang through the previously perfectly clear air. The strange man said, "Hahaha!" Her world swinging around her, Rachel found herself falling to the ground, fainting, and letting the letters from the postmaster fall in an untidy heap upon the floor. Our Heroine fell to the floor lifeless, in the presence of the unknown man, her mother, and her eleven siblings.
Chapter Two - In Which the Plot is Thickened, Then Stirred: A View into the Past
When Rachel awoke, she found herself staring into the eyes of the man who had come into the house, the man which she did not know. He leaned down over her, and touching her cheek, whispered in her ear, "The repercussions for speaking to a man, a man who is possibly in the army, whom you do not know can be very serious indeed." And then, almost as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared.
Rachel, our dear and misbegotten Rachel, sobbed softly to herself. A man, possibly in the army, which she knew nothing about, had touched her cheek, and been so brazen as to actually whisper in her ear. Oh, the impossibility of it all, it was almost impossible to think about. Pellucid drops of sorrow streaked down her fair cheeks -- she had been defiled.
"Oh, to think that my daughter is to become such a brazen strumpet! To forget the lovingkindness of her parents, and to ignore their warnings! Oh, my daughter! My daughter!" wailed Mrs. Kenningworth. "We shall have to keep this a secret most terribly. None but myself, you, your eleven siblings, and the mysterious man must know anything about this! Especially not your grandfather, for surely the news of it would send him to rest with his Gracious Creator!"
The door to the house swung open once more, and framed in the doorway was the saintly grandfather of Rachel. He had led a life of hard work and diligence, though the world was against him many times, he managed to raise a family where Love reigned supreme, and where Gentleness showered down the heavenly gifts of Fatherly Affection. Oh reader, such a story is his, that I feel compelled to tell his tale, his Tale of Literature.
Mr. Kenningworth looked down at his son, Kenningworth. "You, boy, are to wed the Viscountess Lady Amberline Whoratia Ungodlia. I have chosen her to be your wife, for various and sundry monetary and political reasons. I am certain that your marriage will be an unhappy and godless affair, much as my own has been."
"But father," said Kenningworth, "I do not love her. And, if one marries not for love, then what will one marry for? Foppish jewelries? Scullery maids? A team of fine horses? Nay, oh father, I shall not marry her. For, even though you are my father, and I am commanded by my Father Above to obey you, I find in this case that I cannot, I cannot obey you; for to marry without love is to marry for wrong reasons -- I cannot agree with this."
Kenningworth looked angrily at his son, "Fine then, oh bastard son of mine (for he was a bastard son, but it was not Kenningworth's fault, but instead the fault of his father, Kenningworth, and Kenningworth rose above his ungracious and unbecoming bastardly nature so that he could become a productive, if slightly lower-class, member of society). I forever remove you from my presence! No longer shall you inherit my vast sums of monies, nor shall you inherit my large estate upon my death. In fact, I shall make the Viscountess my third wife! Now, leave from my sight and never set foot upon this, your ancestral home's grounds, ever again!"
Oh, dear reader! The Pain and Sorrow that our dear grandfather of Rachel had to bear! It was not his fault, dear reader, for he stood for Honesty and Virtue where his father stood for Deceit and Perdition! Many were the nights that he spent, cold and alone, dear reader. Many were the days where he went hungry, oh gentle reader! I have not pages enough, nor ink enough, to tell of his sorrows and woes!
And then, a miracle of Fate occurred, one of astounding revelation and clarity; he was working as a footman in the household of one prominent Lord V____, when he chanced upon a scullery maid: She was meek, and humble, gentle as the lamb and soft as down upon the breast of the Bird of Paradise: everything about her person seemed to exemplify virtue and modesty, for here was a diamond hidden away in some far corner, a bright and promising future loomed before him. One day, after admiring her from afar for months, he finally managed to say hello to her, and she to him; in a matter of minutes, they were engaged.
Their wedding as a simple affair, there was no lacy gown, neither was a large retinue, there was merely Love, dear readers, for it was True Love that was their parson. Felicity wove her gown, while Kindness baked her wedding cake. Sexual Purity threw their rice, while Inability to Use First Names drove their carriage. Oh, dear reader, dear gentle reader. Their house, while a Poor one, was a Happy one.
The years passed, as years are wont to do, and Mrs. Kenningworth gave birth to her son, the future Mr. Kenningworth, and father of Our Heroine, Rachel. Now, dear reader, comes a tale that I wish I did not have to tell, but as it is that I am telling you this, my Tale of Literature, I feel that to leave it out would be wrong, most wrong indeed. Kenningworth recieved a letter from his aging father, Kenningworth, stating that he would like to be able to see his son just once more, before he died. Of course, Kenningworth, having a kind and gentle and forgiving heart, flew at once to his father's estate, with his wife, and his son.
Oh dear reader! To those of you who are faint of heart, I ask that you skip this paragraph! For I would not wish to take it upon myself for those of you with weak constitutions to be put into a case of the fits after reading the horrors that his paragraph entails. Oh reader! This is your last chance! Turn away now, lest you be scarred for life by these words that I, as your Author, feel compelled to reveal! When Kenningworth arrived at his father's estate, his father Kenningworth greeted him, oh dear reader! I beg of you to turn away now! None but my editor and the typesetter should have to bear the burden of this next sentence! Upon greeting Kenningworth, a shot rang out from the house, and a bullet pierced the Pure and Gentle Heart of Mrs. Kenningworth, the grandmother of Rachel! A horrible voice rang out, saying "You would not have me, Kenningworth, and I became jealous of your Happy home! For this home that I live in is an Unhappy home! A home that is Unhappy is not a home that I wish to have, and even more I do not wish for you to have a Happy home!" As the cruel Viscountess laughed at the weeping man, holding the bloody body of his wife in his arms, the chandelier fell on her, and she died.
"Oh, I have lost a daughter-in-law, and a third-wife all in the space of ten seconds!" gasped Kenningworth. "Call for the barrister!" The barrister arrived. Kenningworth changed his will so that his son would inherit his estate, the ancestral home of Brinwith Herring Downs. Kenningworth died shortly after, from a combination of shock, and syphilis. Sadly, even though the estate had gone to Mr. Kenningworth, his father had squandered his money on chandeliers and ineffectual syphilis treatments. So Mr. Kenningworth brought up his son, Kenningworth, until the day that he married his wife, Mrs. Kenningworth, and they became the heads of Brinwith Herring Downs.
"Oh, why is my granddaughter lying on the ground, and crying to herself?" asked Rachel's dear grandfather.
"She has spoken to a man!" said one of Rachel's eleven siblings, "She has spoken to a man, and he has whispered in her ear, and he has touched her cheek!"
"Oh, what did I tell you!" sobbed Rachel's mother. "None were to know but myself, Rachel, you eleven children, and the mysterious man! Her grandfather most especially was not to know of this, this terrible happening!"
"Oh, my dear heart!" gasped Rachel's grandfather. "Oh, I go to meet my Gracious Creator! Oh to think that such a thing could be brought upon this, my family! Oh, the pain!" Rachel's grandfather fell into a lifeless heap on the floor.
Rachel's mother screamed for the second time in about five minutes, and began weeping on the floor once again. Rachel, who had just managed to stand back up from her previous bout of fainting, upon seeing her poor, afflicted, dead grandfather, could no longer maintain control on her world around her; she slipped into the silence as she fainted, and fell prone on the ground again.
Chapter Three - A Distressing Mishap from the Orphanagearium
Rachel awoke, her eyes fluttering gently. Her hand brushed against one of the letters which she had brought back from the post office. She brought it to her face, dear reader, and while her mother sobbed, she read the outside: "Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs" was the first line which she read. Why had they received a letter from a home for homeless children, poor wretches of society, whose parents either no longer cared for them, or were no longer in This World, but instead The Next? Oh reader, if she only knew! She opened the letter, and read it aloud, over the sounds of her mother wailing over the corpse of Rachel's dead grandfather.
"To whome it may
concern --
A most distressing mishap has occurred, most distressing indeed.
According to our records, it appears that Mr. Kenningworth
is in actuality a BASTARD'S son. As you may be aware, in Our Glorious
Empire, it is not socially acceptable for a Bastard, or for the Son of a
Bastard, to own an estate such as your own Brinwith
Herring Downs, however run-down it may currently be. We eagarly anticipate your Expident
Reply.
Cordially Yours,
Auguste Meriwether Plutdevise,
Headmaster of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs
When Rachel's dear mother heard these words, oh gentle reader, it breaks my heart just to write these words that make up my Tale, my Tale of Literature, and yet I must go on. It is for the betterment of my dear readers that this Tale must be Told, I do this for you, my dear readers! For you! A deathly silence filled the room, accented by lack of noise coming from the dead body on the floor, but it was quickly replaced with the lively wails for Rachel's dear mother. "Oh, that this day would befall our House! To have your grandfather die before hearing this news, this terrible and awful news, is a blessing. For this news would have killed him, had not the previous news already done him in! Oh! If only there was something to be done! Oh! If only I, as a married woman, was allowed to act without my husband's permission outside of the home, I might be able to do something! Oh!"
The tenderly strains of daughterly affection moved in Rachel's dear heart. To see her mother so afflicted, dear reader! She thought to herself: Oh, if only she had not acted so whorishly with the unknown man, who was possibly in the army! This was surely punishment for her unseemly mannerisms. God, in His Justice, was rightly punishing her, but oh, if her family could have been spared this horrible fate!
Suddenly the door swung open, and framed in the doorway was the figure of Rachel's father, Mr. Kenningworth. Mr. Kenningworth looked around the room, and saw his father lying dead on the floor. "Oh! Oh my father, who raised me as a child, even without the care of a good and gentle mother! To be taken from me so, oh! Mrs. Kenningworth, Rachel, my eleven other children, what has transpired here? Why is my father lying crumplèd upon the floor of this, my ancestral home?"
"Oh dear father," sobbed Rachel, "this is all of my own doing. Grandfather has died, because I permitted a man to touch me, and to speak to me without mother's approval! And now, we have received a letter from Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs, stating that because you are the Son of a Bastard, we are no longer entitled to our ancestral home of Brinwith Herring Downs."
Rachel's father screwed up his courage, and looked grimly at the scene before him. The words came to him, much as they had come to his grandfather all those years ago, "Oh, I have lost both a father, and an ancestral home all in the space of ten seconds! Call for the barrister!"
The door to the house swung open yet again, and there stood the barrister. "I was passing by outside, when I heard someone say 'Call for the barrister', I say! There appears to be a dead person on your floor, surrounded by your wife, and your eleven children who are not Rachel!"
"Yes, my father, Mr. Kenningworth, has recently had a case of death," said Mr. Kenningworth. "We have yet have the proper arrangements made, my next professional call shall be with the Vicar." The tears of sorrow lined his cheeks as he tried to remain calm in front of one of his professional contacts, for even though it is a cardinal vice to show emotion outside of your family, one is allowed to reveal some upon the death of one's parents. "It has recently come to my attention that I, because of my heritage as the Son of a Bastard, am not allowed to own an Estate such as my own Brinwith Herring Downs. What can we do about this, this terrible happening?"
"As it happens, I am an expert in the Heritage Laws of this, Our Great Empire," said the barrister, opening his case, and pulling out some papers. "It seems that several years ago, one Lord Outofwedlockly was found out to be a Bastard. In a move which we in the legal circles are still attempting to figure out, he managed to make a Law, a Law which applies just to this Very Area, the Area where he lived, that allows a Bastard, or the Son of a Bastard, to put his Oldest Child, either male or female, up for adoption, and then adopt them the following day. The Estate then goes to the Oldest Child, but will remain In the Family, if the Oldest Child is female."
Oh, dear reader! The showers of blessings from Divine Providence which come when we are least expecting it! Such are the Dear Gifts with which we are Given every day! The bright sparkling hope that glistened on all of the faces, but that of Rachel's deceased grandfather, was enough to lift even the most wretched spirits from the Very Pits of Hell, into Sweet Bliss. Anything is possible, dear readers, anything at all is possible if it can be contrived!
"Oh, how wonderful this news is!" exclaimed Rachel's mother, her face filled now with the gracious tears of joy, "If only Rachel's grandfather were alive to hear this, this wonderful news! The only thing which could make this moment perfect would be his happy presence!"
Suddenly, dear reader, to write this most amazing of happenings stirs the feelings of Love and Joy in my soul! Suddenly, oh reader, this most glorious of happenings is almost without description! Suddenly, the body of Rachel's grandfather stirred! He slowly opened his eyes, and dear reader, how most wonderful! He opened his eyes and said, "Gracious me, I have fainted for some reason that I cannot remember! But now that I see my family around me with their shining faces filled with joy, I know that I am truly a happy man, and may die in Blessed Peace." Rachel's grandfather slowly laid back on the floor, and the Breath of Life escaped him. But this time, he died a happy and joyous man. Oh dear reader, if only we could all have such chances.
"My father has died for a second time today," said Mr. Kenningworth. "How extraordinarily Odd."
Rachel, her heart filled with such joy and peace, at seeing her grandfather once more alive, and then to be filled moments later with the sorrow of his second passing, found that the two emotions were battling each other in a furious battle of emotions. Her delicate makeup could no longer take this horrible strain within her, and she fainted, half of her face shining with the Peaceful Bliss of knowing her grandfather died happily, and the other half of her face contorted into a Mask of Sorrow, because of her grandfather's death -- both of them.
Chapter Four: A Distressing Mishap at the Orphanagearium
Rachel's parents thought it best if Rachel was put to bed, she had obviously been through quite a lot that afternoon, three faintings in the space of ten minutes is sure to place a strain upon even the most stalwart of constitutions. The next morning, when the gentle golden rays of the sun kissed the dappled fields of the countryside, and Lesser People began to till the fields, to eek out their meager living from the unforgiving soil, Rachel and her family awoke in the simple comfort of Brinwith Herring Downs, and set out to Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs.
Rachel, her mother, father, and eleven siblings, soon reached the grounds of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs, and got out of their carriage. The building loomed before them, with iron-wrought gates surrounding the grounds seemed to be a testament to the horrors that might possibly be contained within. The gates, oh those cold, cold, gates! They seemed to swing open of their own accord, though when espied closer, it could be seen that tiny wheels were being turned by orphaned infants, so as to keep their young bodies fit for service to This Great Empire. The very thought of the children held within this building, children without parents, the very thought chilled Rachel and her Family to the marrow of their bones!
As so it should, dear gentle reader! For, a child without a loving family is a child without a soul! Yes, it is true, for it is the Love of a Good Family that imbues a child with a soul, dear reader! The horrors of living without parents is beyond compare! Yes, for when a child forsakes the love of her family, she forsakes her Very Soul! Oh, reader, reader, reader, reader! You cannot comprehend the true meaning of this, having never been separated from the Love of your Family, this is my ever and present prayer! Oh, dear reader, and if you have forsaken the love of your parents, or if they have Passed On, I beg of you to Try and Grow to Love our dear Rachel, dear reader! For only in loving can you hope to attain a Soul, and if the Plight of Rachel cannot drive one to get a soul, then nothing, nothing can, dear reader! Find Pity in your heart, and regain your Humanity, dear reader!
I am sorry if the preceding paragraph did not apply to all of my dear readers, but I, as your author, find it necessary to tell you these Things Which I Know for Your Betterment, gentle reader; we must always keep in our minds the possible and wretched plights of absolutely everyone around us, for it is likely that they have not been as studious in their readings as you have, dear reader, and have not yet had the Joy of Purchasing a copy of this, my Tale of Literature, which will surely Bring their Situations Around. Tell your friends, your postman, your servants, dear readers! Tell the world! Let everyone know! Oh, dear reader, the future of Those Around You is at direst stake! Do not fear to approach even the Town Trollop, that even she may have a chance to better herself! Oh reader, I feel that I have strayed away from my Tale of Literature, but I feel that I, as your author, needed to do this, for you.
Rachel and her family went up the gloomy, depressing building, its ancient edifice perhaps made in some distant age of architecture, when the point of buildings was to keep people from actually going in. Row upon row of children, their eyes reflecting empty pools of nothingness, for they were without souls, stared glumly at the carriage. Here was a Happy Family, with many children, they were obviously not going to adopt any of these wretched waifs of society. The children went emptily back to their tasks, some of them mining for coal beneath the building, some of them acting as human looms, as they wove giant blankets, children running around, holding strings. It was a Model of the Efficiency which Our Great Empire expected of all of its inhabitants.
An imposing man approached the carriage, and said, "Greetings, I am Auguste Meriwether Plutdevise, Headmaster of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs. I have been informed that your daughter is to be put up for adoption, and then adopted by you on the following day for legal reasons."
"Yes, yes, that is our intent," said Rachel's father.
Oh reader, to tell of all of the tears that fell during those parting moments, it would take pages to list them all! The heartfelt expression of sorrow from being parted from her family, and from her family being parted from Rachel! Oh, dear reader, such a sad and lamentable tale that it is which I must tell! Yet, I must not linger on these moments, I must continue with this, my Tale of Literature!
Rachel was taken into the Orphanagearium, and there Auguste Meriwether Plutdevise, Headmaster of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs had another young girl show her around the building. This young girl, unlike the other residents of the Orphanagearium, still had a soul, for she had an Aunt who was yet living, but could not find the means to rescue her from the Orphanagarium. Oh, dear reader, perhaps her tale was even more sorrowful than that of any other young waif, for it was the knowledge of being loved that kept her soul intact, but the inability to return the love that filled her with so much unbearable Woe that it seemed as if every moment were a thousand hours, because she was parted from her family, every day a century spent in grief; she and Rachel became fast friends.
"My name is Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton," said the girl who's cheek's were sallow and pale from weeping almost perpetually. "And I am glad to finally have a Friend."
Suddenly, dear reader, there was a horrific shaking! Deep beneath the Orphanagearium in one of the coal mines, one of the soulless waifs had struck a vein of coal that caused a catastrophic cave in, creating a domino effect, that shook the very foundations of the building! It was as if an Earth-Quake had taken place just below the structure that Our Dear Rachel was in! Oh, the terror that took the girls whilst the walls collapsed around them! "Oh, help, help us!" shouted Rachel. "Dear Lamentation, I have hardly known you, but already the bonds of girlish friendship have forever endeared me to you, my dear friend!"
"Oh, Rachel, you are the first friend that I have ever had at Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs! The love which I feel for you is almost unbearable, and now to be separated from you, my one and only friend! Oh, the pain that I feel! Oh, I feel as if I might faint!" said Lamentation.
Rachel, too, felt the ever-present need to faint, yet she mustered up all of her strength, and tried to find her way through the tumbling house to her Friend. "Oh, if I only had someone to help me, but I have Only Myself!" she cried.
There was a sudden flash of light, and there stood a woman, robed in white, who's glorious appearance made even the most wonderful of earthly beauties pale beside her. She was sadly marred though, her blinding beauty was stained Black on her ear, and one of her cheeks. "I am your Virginity," said the beautiful woman, "I wear a robe of purest white, and in my hand I hold the Cup of True Felicity. I can make any marriage better, whether you be of rich, middle class, or poor lodgings."
"Can you help me to escape this crumbling building?" begged Rachel, "and my dear friend, too?"
"Yes."
"Oh, thank you!" said Rachel, "I have never appreciated my Virginity as much as I do right now!" Rachel's Virginity lead her over to where Lamentation lay, she had fainted during the struggle for her life.
"I am sorry, but because I was marred by an unknown man, who may or may not be in the army, I am not strong enough to take both of you out of here," said Rachel's Virginity. "Not even the Cup of True Felicity could Save her Now."
There was another flash of brilliance, and there stood yet another corporal manifestation of a Young Woman's Virginity! This one was slightly more marred than Rachel's, but it was still obvious that this had to have been the Virginity of Lamentation. "I am the Virginity of Lamentation," it said, reaffirming their suspicions, "and I will Help you."
With the power of both of the young girl's Virginities, they managed to escape from the falling wreckage, into the Hall of Records, which was mysteriously untouched by the chaos surrounding it. Lamentation's Virginity looked sorrowfully at Lamentation and said, "She has been so sad since she has been here, and now that I have left her, I'm afraid that she shall die. A Young Girl's Virginity is a driving force in her life, without me, within her, I am afraid that poor Lamentation shall die. You see, Lamentation had nothing to live for, but the hope that her Virginity may some day be of use to her, preferably in marriage. I have been too far absent from her frail body, and now that her hope has been realized, she no longer has anything left to live for. Look, even now I fade away. Goodbye!" Lamentation's Virginity faded away, leaving only her Remembrance.
"Oh!" wailed Rachel, "You have given up your Virginity to save my life, and in doing so have ended your own! Oh, the Sorrow and Pain that I now bear! Lamentation, I lament your passing!" Rachel's Virginity was quick to dematerialize, and become a conceptual force for her, so that Rachel would not die as well. The Sorrow of seeing her Only Friend dead, at her expense, was too much for Rachel to bear, and weeping, she collapsed on the floor, where she passed out and knew nothing of the chaos around her.
Chapter Five: A Merry Day at the Royal Botanical Zoological Bathing-Haüse-a-torium
"My dear Miss Kenningworth," said Mr. Auguste Meriwether Plutdevise, Headmaster of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs. "I beg of you to rouse yourself." Mr. Plutdevise had spent the Earth-Quake in a wardrobe, where he had been taking a nap, and thus escaped the destruction. "I have fortuitously found your adoption-papers and have signed you over to your parents. The problem of your father's bastardship is no longer in question. Your lying prone on the floor is now unseemly for a child with a family. I must insist upon your rousing yourself."
Such an insistent bequest from someone who regularly ordered around children was impossible to resist. Rachel awoke, dusted herself off, and stood up. She looked hurredly around her, for her dear friend Lamentation. "Oh sir, I abjure you, I conjure you, I evoke you, please, please tell me where I might find my bosom friend Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton. She was here passed out on the floor, when I passed out on the floor. Please, sir, might you tell me where I may find her? My heart aches, not knowing what horrible fate may have happened to her."
"Ah, yes, Miss Goodlyton," said Mr. Auguste Meriwether Plutdevise, Headmaster of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs. "We've had her cremated, you may have this ornate urn filled with her ashes as a Token of your Friendship." He presented Rachel with a smallish blue urn, the contents of which were the ashes of Rachel's only friend, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton.
"Oh, my only friend, Lamentation!" cried Rachel, taking the urn and clasping it to her youthful bosom. "My heart is filled with Sorrow, unending and eternal Sorrow, that you have died in saving my own, worthless, Life." The Water of Affliction worked its way down Rachel's face, furrowing her cheeks with the Trails of Suffering, where it would water the Pools of Misery at her feet.
At that moment, the door to the Hall of Records suddenly swung open, and fell off of its hinges. Framed in the doorway was Rachel's own dear and loving father. "O! My daughter! My dear and darling daughter, you have survived this horrible accident: my heart fills to bursting: I'm so thankful that you are here. Come, today is a day of celebration! My daughter who, for a day, was not my daughter is restorèd to being my daughter! We shall make a trip to the Royal Botanical Zoological Bathing-Haüse-a-torium to celebrate." He embraced his darling light of hope in his arms.
"Oh father, I'm so happy," said Rachel, "I'm so very happy to once again be a member of the family, but I have a favor to ask of you," she said, her girlish charms working upon her father.
"Anything for you, my darling child," her loving parent answered. "Any request you can make of me, I will fulfill if I am able."
"Father, I wish to bring along my Only and Truest friend, Lamentation," Rachel said, holding the urn out for inspection.
"Your friend appears to be a jar," observed Mr. Kenningworth.
"An urn," Rachel gently corrected. "She's been cremated since I last saw her."
"That would explain the urn, then," he said gravely. "Yes, my darling, you may bring your friend Lamentation, only you must be careful not to spill her. That would be unseemly."
Rachel's father then led her away from the crumbling remains of the orphanagearium and into the awaiting carriage. Peering around the corner of the remains of the building, though, was the silhouette of a man, a man who may or may not be in the army.
"Quickly!" said the mysterious man to one of the surviving orphans, a thin-looking young boy. "Latch yourself onto their carriage, and see if you can divine where they are going, then come back here to tell me. As your reward, you may become my manservant, whom some day I may adopt, if I so choose."
The boy's deadened face stirred with the pangs of joy, and he hastened off, and caught onto the back of the carriage. Some minutes later, and coated with a fine layer of dust, he returned. "Oi, guv'," said the young waif, "sw'elp me, but the missus an' 'er farver 'ave gone to th' 'Oyal Bootanical Zoological Barving-Haurse-a-torum, they 'ave."
"Good, this is Prime, Prime indeed," said the Mysterious Man. "I shall hatch a most devious plan to meet yet again with the ravishing Miss Rachel Kenningworth. nothing shall keep her away from me, not even possible engagements with the army. Come..." her he paused, "what is your name, boy?"
"Numver Free-'undred-twelve, gov'" replied the urchin.
"Well, that certainly won't do. Now, what to name you? I like the name Paul," said the Mysterious Man.
"S'a good name, gov'."
"But I also like Philip," mused his benifactor.
"S'a good name too, gov'."
"I shall call you... Paulip," said the Mysterious Man. "It is the Best of Both Worlds."
Paulip said nothing.
"Oh, what a fine day this has been," said Rachel, as she and her family left the Royal Botanical Zoological Bathing-Haüse-a-torium. "What a fine and Merry Day at the Royal Botanical Zoological Bathing-Haüse-a-torium we have spent."
The devious man who may or may not be in the army watched as the family left, the youngest of Rachel's eleven siblings holding papier-mâché replicas of the newly-discovered African Reorzam, possibly a plant, possibly some sort of animal, possibly a cleverly disguised rock. He turned to his manservant Paulip, and said, "It is time for me to meet with them, but I cannot risk them Recognizing me." The man pulled a large and flimsy piece of insubstantial cloth from a pocket on his jacket. "This piece of cloth, whose very appearance is akin to spun spider webs, is the famèd Slight Veil of Fiction. Using this ancient relic, I may pass amongst them unknown."
"Cor!" exclaimed the young Paulip.
"Right. Now, watch as I transform from Jonathan Marchington, a man who may or may not be in the army, my Real and True identity, into Joseph Shipton, a man who may or may not be in the navy." Marchington threw the veil over his form, where it melded into him, and changed his continence slightly, just enough that he would be able to pass off as Joseph Shipton, possible navy-man.
"Cor!" the young Paulip exclaimed.
"Right," answered his changed master. "Now, to woo the Fair Rachel."
Rachel and her family were heading towards their carriage, when suddenly a dashing young man who had the appearance of someone that one might possibly know, but one isn't very sure about it, and is most likely that one is merely making things up, appeared. "Greetings," he said.
Rachel, her mother, Lamentation's Urn, and Rachel's female siblings fainted dead away at the sight of the man. Joseph looked down at his new form - apparently, during the slight transformation, his pants had been altered to knickerbockers - a heinous error.
"Sir," said Mr. Kenningworth, "The next time you choose to call upon my family, I do suggest you attire yourself in a pair of pants."
Chapter Six: An Disengaging Proposition - An Engagement Proposal
Joseph Shipton, who was in reality Jonathan Marchington, excused himself from the group, bowed to the ladies who had fainted on the floor, and quickly left. "Curses! My plot has been foiled, all because my clever usage of the Slight Veil of Fiction was too clever, and my leg-coverings were transformed with the rest of me. I must find some other way in which to woo the fair and delicate Rachel Kenningworth - I stake my reputation as a possible military man upon it. Paulip!" he hissed into the shrubbery.
"Aye, guv'?" asked his faithful manservant.
"Come, we must away, until I can devise yet another method of falling into the good graces of Miss Kenningworth. I have not yet run out of devious plans, I must merely arrange them nicely about in my head until I find the proper one. To my carriage!"
And with that, the two set off for Mr. Shipton/Marchington's estate, where the two could yet again attempt to assail our Dear and Gentle Rachel! Oh, if only he knew, reader! If only he knew!
Meanwhile, Mr. Kenningworth and his various sons were reanimating the prostrate forms of their female relations. "My dear Mrs. Kenningworth," said Mr. Kenningworth, "I must beg of you to rouse yourself. If other women were to see this large grouping of females passed out, it may possibly set off a chain reaction of sympathetic faintings - Our Glorious Empire would crumble as the nation's men attempted to rouse their wives."
Mrs. Kenningworth's eyes fluttered gently, and she looked up at her loving husband. "Oh, dear husband, it was not my intent to cause the downfall of this, Our Glorious Nation - but I could not bear to see the sight of the knees of a grown man who was not my husband. Surely, surely you may understand this?"
"Yes, of course I do, dear wife. It was not your fault that this Mysterious Man flaunted his knees wantonly."
Our heroine Rachel had still not yet revived, as her delicate young emotions had been overdone by such a horrific sight, a sight most improper for a young woman to witness. The comfort of having Lamentation near her, though, eased her situation, and by degrees, she eventually came to. "Oh, my, I feel so wronged," said Rachel. "Such a sight is one which I should not have witnessed, and yet I have witnessed it, what is to become of me now? Oh, my only friend Lamentation, it strengthens me to know that you are here to help me, to bear this horrible burden with me. To know of a man's knees before marriage is Carnal Knowledge that I should not know."
Lamentation's urn continued to be there for Rachel, just as she always had, since her Passing On.
"Oh, Lamentation, we must hurry ourselves back home," said Our Dear Rachel. "We mustn't be late for the dinner hour, and prayer. To forget Our Gracious Creator would be a grievous oversight indeed."
Rachel, her family, and the Urn all went back to Brinwith Herring Downs, the once-again-ancestral home of Rachel's family. There they spent an uneventful evening, feasting upon the fruits of their meager table, and praying for the just and proper punishments to shower down upon them from Blessed Heaven for each and every one of their Misdeeds. Rachel also spent the evening creating a most Clever sachet for the Conveyance of Lamentation's Urn from an old coin purse. Industry, dear reader, is a most useful and helpful friend to have, and one which Rachel tried to never be without, though occasionally Industry needs visit her cousins Commerce, Diligence, Assiduousness, and Incontinence.
"Young Paulip, I have set upon it!" exclaimed Marchington. Marchington had removed the Slight Veil of Fiction, and had given up his disguise as Joseph Shipton, to take up his normal habit of being Jonathan Marchington. "I have set upon my next plot to win the Fair Rachel as my wife."
"S'welp me, but whot is it, gov'?" asked the inquisitive young Paulip.
"I shall send to her a love letter," cackled Marchington. "No female's heart is safe from the power with which a love letter can Ensnare her very heart. Once her eyes have set upon it, she shall be forever mine! Quickly, fetch me my rhyming dictionary, I've a poem to pen!"
Dear Gentle Reader,
As your Author, I sometimes find it both necessary and useful to break up a chapter in such a manner as I am now currently employing. I do realize, dear reader, that this can place a strain upon you, my dear reader, by forcing you to try and Balance two different plot threads within the same chapter. It is not my intent to Confuse, but instead to Enlighten. I do hope that you can put up with my Whimsy, and remained as focused upon this, my Tale of Literature, as I should like you to. These lines that I Employ, I Employ them for You, oh reader. Do not let them Discourage you, but instead, I beg of you, Keep On Keeping On, oh reader. But now, I feel that I must focus, not upon you, my Dear Audience, but the Characters of my Tale, so I must bid you adieu for now. I leave you, as always,
Your Caring Author
The next morning, Rachel took about her usual haunts, and was eventually sent off to Mr. MacDuffald, the Postmaster, to fetch the Letters of the Day. After the kindly old Postmaster handed her the letters, she gave them a cursory glance. There were, thankfully, no further dispatches from Saint Bruce's Orphanagarium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs. There was, however, a letter addressed to one Miss Rachel Kenningworth.
"Why, surely, this must be an error, Lamentation," said Rachel to the recently-constructed Urn-carrying arrangement hanging from her wrist. "Whoever would write a letter to me? This handwriting is the handwriting of a man. And I know that I am forbidden to receive letters from gentlemen, without mother first reading them through. Oh, Lamentation! What shall I do? I feel that you do not wish me to open this letter, yet I feel somehow that I must know what its contents shall bear. Oh, the girlish Curiosity! I am torn between the Love of my Parents, and the Contents of this Letter!"
The forbearance provided by Rachel's Only and Dearest Friend was not enough, dear reader. Oh, she let her girlish emotions grip her, instead of Dear Reason. Reason could have saved her, dear reader, but she forsake it all, so that she could read a letter, possibly from a man! Oh reader, if only she had known better. Instead, she opened the letter, and let her eyes Fall upon the contents. Oh reader, dear reader. The emotions which that letter stirred in her bosom, dear reader, she had fallen into the trap of the devious Marchington!
"Oh, Lamentation!" exclaimed the young Rachel. "My heart feels a flutter! I know not what to do! It requests that I meet with him tomorrow! Oh, Lamentation, if only there were words enough in the Dictionary to express what I now feel -- but there are not."
Rachel walked back home slowly, her entire world whirling about her in whirls. Did she dare tell her mother about this letter: no she dare not: for to tell her mother would surely be to drive her to an early death, yet to not tell her and then have her find out later would also drive her to an early death: what was she to do? Though it went against her better judgment, she chose to not tell her mother, and instead to meet with this new mysterious man, to ask him to cease sending letters of a romantic nature.
"I must disguise myself, young Paulip, but until I have fixed my Slight Veil of Fiction, I do not wish to trust it to disguise me in an effective manner. Surely, there must be some germ of an idea festering in your head -- tell it to me," demanded Marchington.
"Well, gov', I think yoo'd look right noice wif a moostash," said the orphan-manservant.
"Aha! You have struck upon it! Quickly, Paulip, go into town and purchase for me the finest moustache which money can buy!"
The next day dawned, and Rachel's dear and Loving family felt that there was something Amiss with Our Dear Heroine. Still, she managed to belay their worries for a time, and when the appointed hour came, she Stole away, to meet with the mysterious letter-writing man.
The area was a desolate windswept crag, overlooking a large body of water, possibly an ocean of sorts. The desolate area bespoke of Rachel's own heart -- desolate, and breezy. "Oh, Lamentation," said Rachel, as she gazed out over the sparkling expanse of water, "whatever shall I do? I must tell this man that he must No Longer send me Letters expressing his Love, and yet, part of me Does Not Want To. Oh, Lamentation, my only friend, I know that you would know what to say, if only your ashes could speak."
Suddenly, there was a sound almost akin to that of a door swinging open, and behind the Young Rachel stood the Devious Marchington, cleverly disguised with the aid of a large and prominent moustache. "Greetings to you, my fair child. It is I, the man who has written to you, and expressed his Never-Ending love for you. Come, I must beg of you to be my bride, elope with me, and become Mrs. Rachel... Moustachio." He twirled one of the ends of his fake moustache with a finger.
Oh, the feelings that went though Rachel's head and heart. An engagement proposal is what every girl Dreams of! How could she refuse? Rachel turned her doe-like eyes up to meet those of Mr. Moustachio, her meekness and innocence overcoming her. "Oh, sir," she began, "to be wed is the dream of every young girl..." and here she faltered, dear reader. Her eyes, in their slow travels from his feet to his face encountered something very peculiar resting upon his upper lip. The finest moustache that money could purchase was, indeed, a very fine moustache. Sadly, it was a vibrant red color, while the hair upon Moustachio-Marchington's head was jet black. "Oh sir," she continued, "I am afraid that I cannot marry you at this time, for, your mustache does not match with the color of your hair, and, forgive me for saying such a thing, but this does not speak well of your breeding; I am sorry, but I simply cannot be wed to you; I must disengage myself from your proposition of an engagement proposal; I must ask you to stop sending me letters of love; I bid you good-day, sir."
She and Lamentation left the devious Marchington standing on the cliff, to contemplate his error in using a moustache that did not match with the rest of his hair. As the two walked back to Brinwith Herring Downs, the sun seemed a bit brighter, and the flowers seemed more vibrant and fragrant. "Oh, Lamentation!" exclaimed the joyous Rachel, "I have managed to take care of things all by myself! Mother needs never know, I shall not receive any more letters from this Mr. Moustachio, and I have shown the fortitude to refuse an engagement proposal from a man of lesser breeding! And I managed all without fainting, Lamentation! Gracious, what headstrong a feeling it gives me. I feel as if I am being overcome! Oh gracious, I feel faint!" Rachel's poor body could not take the strain from being so successful in such a dangerous endeavor, and she succumbed to her delicate feminine emotions, collapsing in the garden of her home.
Chapter Seven: Our Heroine's Distressing Ride Upon the Locomotive Express
When Rachel awoke, she dusted herself off, and headed for her home. Once inside, she again embraced her mother, with a renewed affection and endearment, for, in rejecting the future espousal to Marchington, she had realized exactly how much she truly loved and appreciated the love of her parents -- so much more suitable to a young woman than the love of a man of poor breeding. "Mother, my love for you is refreshed and renewed upon my every meeting with you. It is both my filial duty, and my honor to love both you, and father."
"O, my darling daughter, I know not what has brought about such tidings of joy and felicity, but I shall forever remember this moment in my memory, so that in my old age, I may think upon it, and not Despair. Yet," said her mother, a coy grin on her face, "I myself have had an unforeseen epistle from your Uncle Aghastshire reach me this very day. He sends word that he has grown lonely at Pernicious Place, his manor house, and wishes for someone to spend a few gentle weeks there, to brighten his days." Rachel's mother's face was taken by an extraordinarily large grin, "and I have chosen you, my precious child, to spend the course of several weeks with your belovèd Uncle. What a happy and delightful vacation this shall be for you, my daughter."
"I have never before met with my Uncle Aghastshire," said Rachel. "But if he is a member of Our Family, then he must be a good man. I shall certainly look forward to this lovely vacation. Tell me, where is his manor, and when is it that I shall leave on this unexpected stroke of good luck?"
"This is only half of the excitement which I have in store for you, my dear daughter," burbled her mother. "His manor is Far to the North, and would thusly take a journey of many days to reach by carriage, but, thanks to the Wonders of our Modern Era, such a journey may be accomplished in but a day, thanks to the marvel of the Locomotive Express."
"O! The Locomotive Express?" gasped the young girl, "Why, I never dreamed that I should ever have a chance to ride within such a luxury of steel and pistons until I was married, or perhaps, at the very least, engaged!" Rachel's continence was overjoyed with the thought of having the privilege of riding in such a conveyance. "Tell me, mother, when shall I be able to ride upon the Locomotive Express?"
"The Locomotive Express leaves on the morrow!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenningworth, "my heart is aflutter just thinking about it."
"Gracious!" said Rachel breathlessly, "I must pack immediately. Oh, thank you, my loving and kind mother, I am sure that absolutely nothing will go wrong on this trip."
"I, too, am certain that nothing could possibly go wrong," her mother said, hugging her, and sending her off upstairs to pack. Rachel spent the remainder of the afternoon in packing for her visit to her Uncle, and in making a most fetching traveling purse for Lamentation.
The next day loomed brightly in the minds of Rachel and her family. Her father escorted her to the Locomotive Express station the next morning, and sent her off on her journey. "Be careful, my daughter," he said to her, "pistons are not nursery toys for you play about -- they could do a grievous injury to you if you were to be caught in one."
"Oh, yes, father, I shall be most careful," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "As I told mother, I'm sure that everything will go splendidly, there is almost no chance of an accident occurring."
"Also, be careful to explain to the conductor that your friend Lamentation needs only pay for the freight fare, as she is no longer technically a passenger," her father instructed. "And be doubly certain to read the entirety of your ticket, for you are traveling First Class, and there may be especial instructions to keep you separated from the riff-raff in the other carriages."
"Of course I shall, father. Do not fear, I am not such a simpleton as all that!" giggled Rachel simply. "Come, Lamentation, we must find our seats upon the Locomotive Express!" Rachel and Lamentation bounced off to the platform, while several freight-men lifted her massive steam-trunk into a storage compartment. Rachel gave a cursory glance at her ticket, the instructions seemed straightforward as she skimmed through them. She was distracted by the sounds of someone dropping some heavy object. She looked to make certain that it was not her steam-trunk, which it wasn't, and she placed her ticket in the purse which was not filled with Lamentation.
Rachel took her seat in the first-class carriage. She was almost blinded by the glistering opulence of it all. She felt so honored just to be able to ride in the Locomotive Express, and then to place the honor of being able to sit in First Class upon that was almost more than she could possibly believe.
I find that my readers may not be knowledgeable about many of the Intricacies and Scientific Principals which go into the construction of the Locomotive Express, upon which this chapter hinges. Because of this, I have chosen to ask for the help of a friend of my father's, Dr. Z______, who is a Professor of Engineering at The University. One of the classes which he instructs is "The Morality of Engineering: Construction to Accommodate the Balance of Emotions Upon Physical Structures." Because of this, I humbly consider him to be an expert in the field, and so I ask you, my dear readers, to please listen to Dr. Z______, and Learn from him.
Greetings to you fine readers! My name is Dr. Z______, and I am a professor at The University. Among the many courses which I teach is "The Morality of Engineering: Construction to Accommodate the Balance of Emotions Upon Physical Structures." Now many of you may be asking yourselves, "Professor, I have never heard of such a subject! Whatever could it be about?" I'm sad to say that that is a common lament heard even amongst those bright young minds entering the field of Engineerology. The deplorable state in which Our Glorious Empire has fallen into, when even the basics of Science, Morality and Mathematics are disregarded in the Classroom of Today! Why, in my day, such topics were required to be taken by everyone (excepting women, of course!)! Nowadays I believe myself to be quite in luck if I can come across even one student who is remotely aware of the principals of Morality and Science! Oh, I hearken for the days of yore! A curse upon the Modern Times! A pox upon it! D___ it all!
Please excuse me, my esteemed Dr. Z_____, but I do not believe such language to be necessary for this, my Tale of Literature. I would also ask you to speak upon the subject for which I had originally planned you to speak upon -- the Morality Balance. The book which I am writing is a concise book of Truth, and Literature, and I find that I have no room for superfluous and extraneous writing as you have currently provided. As my Late-Grandfather told me as I was but a babe, "One must always be concise in whatever one does. No matter what the cost, one must spurn using supernumerary and supererogatory phrasings when but a simple word may be utilized in its stead. Simplicity is the Mother of Ambition, who in turn is the Mother of Success -- a most congenial family indeed." I have this done in needlepoint above my nightstand, so that I might always remember these kind and noble words from my Late-Grandfather. I do hope that you can see what I am trying to say, Dr. Z____, and I humbly ask you to please, stay upon the topic at hand.
Please, madam, to allow me to offer my most express apologies. I had forgotten for a moment that this was a Tale of Literature for the Improvement of Young Women. I will curtail my usage of that word immediately. Now, on to the topic on which I was asked to answer. Morality is a force, as real as any Kinetic or Locomotive force available. This Moral Force, or M.F., is what keeps Devices and other Machines of the Modern Era from getting out of control. The M.F. works against the D.M., or the Daemon of Machinery, which is inside each and every device wrought by the hands of Man. You see, only Jehovah may create with Perfection, as Man, we create with Imperfection. Thusly, each machine which is built in Our Glorious Nation, or in less Blessed lands, is filled with a spirit of Malice and Inefficiency. The M.F., provided by fine, upstanding, moral citizens, keeps the D.M. from acting out on the E.M., the External Machinery, and instead C.I., confines it, to the I.M, Inner Machine, where it is rendered U.T.F.P.T.P.T.U.F.H., or Unable To Function Properly, Thusly Protecting The Users From Harm. This, of course, is derived from the function
(E.M. + D.M.)/M.F. = I.M.(D.M.) + E.M.(M.F.) = U.T.F.P.T.P.T.U.F.H.
Of course, since everyone knows that the when the Locomotive Express is involved, the First Class Passengers, F.C.P., are the most moral, most of the M.F. is drawn from there. If something were to happen to the M.F. taken from the F.C.P., the whole Locomotive Express, L.E., could be thrown into Jeopardy, J.
L.E. - F.C.P.M.F. = J.
This is, of course, a touch advanced, but, if you still have questions, I advise your Young Readers to petition their fathers to explain the previous paragraphs.
Thank you very much for enlightening these, my dear readers, Dr. Z_____. I trust that your classes will go well this upcoming semester at The University, and I wish you the best of luck. But now, we must return to the scene of Our Dear Rachel, to see what is happening on her Locomotive Express ride, where she has been assured that absolutely Nothing Can Go Wrong.
The Locomotive Express lurched forward, and they were off on their journey! Rachel was so excited, that she hardly knew what to do, or to think. Perhaps if she hadn't been so distracted, she wouldn't have done what she did next, but I cannot say. She noticed that the conductor was taking the tickets of people in her carriage, and speaking with them in a professional, and civil manner. 'Oh,' she thought to herself, 'he seems so very nice and professional. And he has such a nice voice, as well. I almost wish, no I do wish, that he would speak to me as civilly as he is speaking to that gentleman with the large hat.' Rachel's wandering eye glanced up at him, and she thought, oh how she thought to herself, 'He cuts such a nice form, as well, I do wonder what he might look like without his jacket on, in just his waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt.'
The train gave a horrible lurch, as the delicate balance of Good Intentions and Moral Thoughts that was keeping the train from Running Amuck shifted into the negative. A large suitcase came tumbling down upon the head of a man three rows behind Rachel. "D___!" he said. A young child looked up at his horrified mother and said, "Mother, what does d___ mean?" Upon hearing this, the child's mother fainted, leaving the child to cry to himself. The train lurched again, this time much more violently. A woman who had been walking down the aisle flew into a seat most haphazardly, and when she landed, lewdly exposed the gentleman behind her to a view of her ankles and lower calves! The train gave yet another horrid lurch.
"Oh, Lamentation!" cried Rachel with sorrow. "What has happened! I know that, somehow, this must all be my fault, but why?" Lamentation's urn glinted in the light, sparkling knowingly. "Oh, I should check my ticket, Father instructed me to read it wholly, and yet I did not." In front of her, the Conductor found that he had caught his coat upon the upper luggage rack, and was entangled in his own clothing! Rachel quickly scanned the ticket which she had been holding. "OH! Lamentation, hear this!" said Rachel, tears of sorrow streaking down her cheeks, "The Owner of This Ticket is reminded at all times to keep his or her own thoughts and actions Pure and Clean, lest they invite disaster upon the Entire Locomotive Express."
Amid the confusion, Rachel wept to herself. It was her original lewd thought that had brought about this horrible mess. This Utter Chaos was wrought with her own thoughts. If only she had read her ticket, then Nothing Would Have Gone Wrong, and yet, Everything Did Go Wrong. The conductor who struck a fine figure finally managed to get free from the upper luggage rack, but he was forced to take off his coat. Rachel looked up, and screamed, for now she was presented with her original lewd thought in corporeal form; the train gave one final, gigantic lurch, and its passengers could feel it jumping off of the tracks.
"Oh!" screamed Rachel, she was sure that, somehow, something had gone horribly wrong with the pistons. The train and it's occupants were tossed about as one tosses a medicine ball, and Rachel could feel herself instinctively begin to pass out for self-preservation. The final thought that flitted through her head was that she never had a chance to tell anyone that her friend, Lamentation, was traveling freight fare, and then she left into the world of unconsciousness.
Chapter Eight: Farewell, Oh Luminous Orb of Phoebe!
Rachel awoke several hours later, and attempted to ascertain if she was all-right. Nothing seemed to be bruised or broken, but of course, it might possibly be that she had been mortally injured, and it just was not apparent yet. "Oh, Lamentation," moaned Our Heroine, "I certainly hope that my vile thoughts have not killed or maimed anyone." Rachel's mind flew to the thought that her one and only friend was composed of fragile porcelain, and spillable ashes. She quickly looked in the attractive traveling purse in which she had placed Lamentation. In the dim, and oddly silvery light of the carriage, she ran her hands over Lamentation's Urn, searching for imperfections in it's blue surface. Finding none, Rachel sighed in relief. "Lamentation," thought Rachel aloud, "since you are no longer living, you could have no impure thoughts to draw injury and ruin to yourself. You died in Humility and God's Intentions, nothing bad can possibly happen to you now."
Rachel happened to look out the window, and gasped in shock. The scene spread out before her eyes was not a Familiar one, but an Unfamiliar one. The landscape was rough, and whitish looking; there appeared to be a faint radiance which suffused through all. Strange and solitary birds flew in the air past the carriage. "Why, wherever are we now?" Rachel asked of no-one in particular.
A voice from behind her answered, "the mooooon."
Rachel gasped, and placed her delicate and slender fingers in front of her dainty mouth. "The silver'd orb which revolves around Our Glorious Empire? The Chariot of Diana? The Lamp of the Night-Heavens? We are there?"
"Yes," answered the voice behind her. "That is where we are."
"Oh, gracious," Our Heroine exclaimed. "However shall we return to the Noble Sphere which engendered us?"
"The engineers are currently trying to work that out," replied the voice. "Currently, they are working on stabilizing the delicate balance of the pistons. We managed to make one trip through the Æther which separates the Earth from our Celestial Sister, the moon -- they are working their best to prepare us for a second." Here the voice formed its face, as the conductor who was the previous fount of Rachel's attention came into view. Racheld blushed profusely, and looked down at her folded hands in her lap. "I have been sent around, advising the passengers to get out of the train, and walk about, to see the moonscape and stretch their legs, before we return. The engineers have need to go over the entire train, and it isn't every day which one gets a chance to gaze upon the moon quite so closely."
Rachel merely nodded and mouthed the words, "thank you," to him. After he had gone further down the aisle, Rachel whispered to her Only Friend, "Oh, Lamentation, what a horrible thing I have caused! I have given all of these good people a Most Distressing Ride upon the Locomotive Express. I must escape the confines of this horrid train, so that I might weep in express solitude."
Rachel left the Locomotive Express, and walked about on the surface of the moon, until she had found a solitary spot, perfect for weeping. She sat down upon a rocky looking bench, underneath a silvery moon-tree, and wept to herself, imagining Lamentation hugging her and clasping her hands in her own.
So intense, pious, and mortifying was Rachel's weeping that she did not hear footsteps approaching towards her secluded spot. Along a path came a young and well formed man, also profusely weeping. His very continence bespoke of good breeding. "O," he moaned to no-one in particular, "I am so very sorrowful. I have upset my manservant, Moonathan. I did not notice his newly coiffed hair, until it was Too Late. I have upset him, and there is nothing which I can do. O, I am so sorrowful." The young lunar man rounded a corner of his walkway, and came upon the weeping form of Our Heroine. He gasped, and attempted to disguise his own tears from her prying eyes, his attempts were unsuccessful.
Rachel looked up through her crystalline drops of distress at the man who had come upon her. She looked at him for a fleeting moment; his silvery eyes were rimmed with tears, much as her own doe-like eyes were. From the cut of his suit, it was obvious that he was well-off, and the contour of his face bespoke of a long lineage of good breeding. Her tear-stained cheeks instantly flushed a bright scarlet. She broke her gaze with his eyes, and looked own, towards his feet.
The young man turned away from Rachel, his cheeks also burning with the Crimson of Embarrassment; he managed to stifle his tears. "I am so very sorry that I came upon you so unexpectedly," he said through his obvious discomfort. "If I had but known that there was to be a person of the female gender, unattended, also using this spot for the act of weeping, I surely would have chosen another place in which to release my tears."
"Oh, sir," said Rachel in barely a whisper, "the fault is entirely my own. I am but a visitor upon this glistering orb, and any right to choose a place for the crying of tears would of course go to one of its native inhabitants. I am so very sorry for taking your spot for weeping."
"Not from this glistering orb?" he asked in shock. "Why, whither did you come? Surely you have not fallen from the heavens?" asked the man curiously, yet still not daring to gaze upon her possibly celestial form.
"I have fallen from the Earth," she said, pointing to the buoyant orb. "There was a mishap on the Locomotive Express, it was most distressing." Here she began to weep profusely again.
"Dear miss, please, I beg of you," he said, "stifle your tears, lest I, too, join you in them."
"I would not wish for you to do such a thing, dear sir," she replied. "These are not your sorrows, but mine." 'To think,' she thought, 'I am speaking to an unknown man, and yet do not feel the need to faint, or run away. Whatever is this feeling which I am feeling? Might it possibly be Conjugal Affection?' She blushed further, and tried to shade her face with her hand.
"Oh miss, you are far too modest," he answered.
"Sir," she replied in barely a whisper, "I am afraid that you are so much more modest than I, for while you have turned totally away from me, I am afraid that I have been wholly transfix'd by your foot; my gaze has never left it."
"Which one?"
"The left."
"Your left, or my own?"
"Yours."
"Yes," he said absentmindedly, "that always has been my favorite."
"Oh sir," she said, "you flatter me so even though I have many faults, and yet I do not even know your name."
"I am extremely sorry," he answered, "it was most rude of me to not introduce myself; I have far more faults that you, miss. My name is Lunnotar Oliver Victor Edmoonson, of Moonoaks Grove. It is a pleasure to meet you, if I even only viewed you briefly."
"I, sir, am Miss Rachel Emily Jane Sarah Kenningworth, of Brinwith Herring Downs, the Earth. It is also a pleasure to meet you."
"I wonder if I might be allowed to look upon you again," he said meekly, blushing hottly.
"I have looked upon your foot for so long, that it would only be fair for you to return the action."
Mr. Edmoonson turned around, and gazed upon Rachel's dainty foot. His eyes slowly climbed upwards, while Rachel's did the same. Their eyes met again, for the briefest of instants. The emotions which their eyes conveyed to one another were of the purest and noblest sorts: Humility, Chastity, and Patience sped between them. Their gaze again parted from each other. Rachel's heart was aflutter, the feelings in her bosom were manifest and multifold.
"Miss Kenningworth, surely the women of Our Celestial Sister must be among the most beauteous and modest, if you are an example," he said, as he turned away yet again.
"Mr. Edmoonson," said Rachel, her voice scarcely audible, "surely you cannot be serious in this statement. I, myself, am extremely plain; claims of my modesty are also highly over-rated, it was my fault that the Locomotive Express derailed, and landed upon the moon."
"Be that as it may, I am certain that gracious Fortune has smiled upon this occurrence; for if it had not happened, I would not have had the chance to meet you, Miss Kenningworth, the most honest and meek young lady whom I have ever met upon the moon," he said in her defense.
Fortune herself! Rachel felt as if this young man was reading her very thoughts. Not only was he Courteous, Genteel, Modest, and Kind, but his Plain-ness seemed to complement Rachel's own perfectly. 'We should have such plain and mannerly children,' she found herself thinking. Rachel gasped, not only was the thinking of marrying a man from the moon (who she was quite certain that her parents couldn't possibly know, and therefore pre-approve of), but the word 'mannerly' reminded her of her Only and Dearest Friend, Lamentation. "I am afraid that I have been terribly forward, and have forgotten my duties as a friend." Here she held up Lamentation's urn, "this is my truest friend in the world, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton."
Mr. Edmoonson turned back towards Rachel, and bowed to the urn. "Any friend of the dear Miss Kenningworth must indeed be a worthy person -- inanimate or no. It is a distinct pleasure to meet you, Miss Goodlyton."
"Mr. Edmoonson, you make us both blush," said Rachel, puling a hand-fan out of her other purse, and using it to fan their flushed faces.
Such youthful modesty was sure to infect the heart of Mr. Edmoonson with Endearment. He felt as if he had been destined to wait for his entire life for this short conversation. If only he could have an opportunity to meet with her parents -- but the lived far across the Æther stream, there was almost no hope of his arranging a social call -- he would forever have to pine for her on the moon. He was about to speak to her again, when the foreign sound of a whistle sounded. "Why, whatever is that noise?" he asked, startled.
"That must be the Locomotive Express!" gasped Rachel. "The pistonry must already be fixed! Lamentation and I must hasten to it, for it is my only hope of returning home." Rachel quickly deposited Lamentation in her purse, placed the fan in her other purse, and got up from the stony bench. "We must excuse ourselves, Mr. Edmoonson."
"Yes, of course," he said, looking at her longingly. 'Oh, to be one of the many and frequent tears which travel down her soft and gentle cheek.' "I hope your travel back to your Home is as safe and uneventful as possible, Misses Kenningworth and Goodlyton."
'He and I are so terribly plain, and prone to crying...' "Yes, thank-you, Mr. Edmoonson." She tore herself away from him, worried that if she did not do so soon, she would be forever entrapped by his plainness.
"O! Angel of my lunar-heart! Wend your way back to heaven, but forever carry my soul with you, for you have stolen it!" he said, after she had gone. Here he began to weep again, then he sobbed out, "Miss Kenningworth... Moonathan's hair..." He walked slowly back to his large and well-kept estate, Moonoaks Grove.
Rachel hurried back to the Locomotive Express, knowing full well that if she were to miss it, her chances of ever returning to the Noble Sphere whence she came would be vastly diminished. "We must hurry, Lamentation," she said, "for if we do not get there Soon, we may Never get there at All." Rachel and steadfast and encased companion managed to make it back to the Locomotive Express before it departed, though. She was terribly worried, for how was she to be certain that she would not again cause such a Distressing Incident Upon the Locomotive Express?
"I have some especial instructions," said the conductor. "As you all know, since ancient times, man has known that the moon's divine essence is feminine. Diana's Chariot, Artemis' Carriage, the Footstool of Beatrice, the Queen's Night-Pouf, the list goes on and on."
"But what of the man in the moon?" asked a passenger.
"Merely a short-term visitor, I assure you. Now, here is what we shall do. Since the moon is composed of female essence, once we achieve a proper speed, if we manage to turn off all female sensibilities at once, we will naturally gravitate towards Our Noble Sphere, which is of course composed of masculine essence." There was a murmur of distinct approval among those in first class.
"Capitol idea."
"Proper usage of scientific principals."
"Terribly clever."
"Bang-up job."
The conductor continued. "To facilitate this, we will ask all females on the train to faint at the same time. After the initial wave of femininity, they will all cease to give any off. To aid in this, we have especially prepared lithographs of a criminal's profile, stored in the train for such an occasion."
Rachel sighed a sigh of relief. She would not have to worry about her Thoughts, for she would not be Conscious. She settled in her seat, with Lamentation next to her. One final thought flickered in her head. "Oh, Fate, how cruel is thy face upon the window!" as she looked at the moonscape through the glass, and thought of Mr. Edmoonson.
The conductor warned everyone as they began to move, and then removed the cover from the lithograph. Oh, how horrific was the face of a criminal! One almost expected him to climb out of the frame and assault one! Screams and gasps of shock rang out throughout the entirety of the Locomotive Express. Rachel and Lamentation sank into the Bliss of Unconsciousness, just as Rachel whispered, "Farewell, Oh Luminous Orb of Phoebe!"
Chapter Nine: Pernicious Place: A Manor of Maleficence
"Excuse me, miss," said the conductor, shaking Rachel's shoulder
gently with his gloved hand, making certain that at no point did his bare flesh
touch Rachel's own, and thus further marring her, "but we have arrived at
your stop."
Rachel stirred -- apparently she had spent the remainder of her journey wrapped in the Gentle Embrace of Unconsciousness. "Thank you, sir," she answered, blushing. The conductor nodded, and continued down the aisle. "Come, Lamentation," she said, "it is time to meet my dear Uncle Aghastshire." She and Lamentation disembarked from the Locomotive Express, and went down to the platform, where three porters were carrying Rachel's modestly-sized traveling trunk.
Our Heroine scanned the throng of people, searching for someone who might possibly bear the appearance of one of her noble house, a man who would introduce himself to her as her belovèd Uncle. Noticing one who seemed to possess the bearings of her ancient, yet recently fallen upon hard times, line; she noted that he bore a striking resemblance to the painting of her grandmother which hung over the mantelpiece of her Familial Home of Brinwith Herring Downs. There was something disturbing in his continence, though -- almost as if he were just very slightly deranged. She quickly put that thought behind her -- surely her mother would not have sent her to spend several weeks with a disturbed person. "Are you, pray-tell," she meekly asked, "my dear Uncle Aghastshire, with whom I am to spend several weeks with?"
The man chortled just as Rachel might expect a loving uncle to chortle; never knowing of her loving uncle, she often spent her younger days imagining how he might chortle; the manner in which he chose to chortle was one of the ways which she had always imagined her loving uncle might chortle. "Then that must make you my dear and belovèd niece, Miss Rachel Emily Jane Sarah Kenningworth." His face broke into a wide and friendly grin. "I'm so very happy that you could come." Uncle Aghastshire looked down at Rachel's wrist, and noticed the fine handbag. "Ah, I see that you've brought a traveling urn -- how charming."
Rachel blushed -- how terribly observant her uncle was! "Yes," she replied softly, "this is my truest friend in the entire world, whose dear companionship extends as far as the celestial orbits, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton; we Almost Died together."
"How unfortunate that the two of you could not share the same fate," he replied.
Rachel cast such a glance of trepidity at her uncle: to die as Friends Together was, indeed, a Noble Death: to wish it upon someone, though: she couldn't believe it.
Here her uncle laughed again. "Oh my, you think that I meant the two of you to die together? Why, nothing is further from the truth; I only wish that your friend might have lived. She would have been more than welcome to accompany you while still living." Rachel blushed an even deeper shade of red, bringing the very Rose to shame, compared to that which blossomed in her cheeks. "Come," said her uncle, "we must hasten to Pernicious Place, so that we must begin your stay."
The carriage ride to Pernicious Place was uneventful, until they approached their destination. The mighty edifice of Pernicious Place loomed over the massive, and somehow feral looking grounds. The structure itself bespoke of the Gothic -- flying buttresses adorned the entirety of the East and West walls, while the fearsome faces of stone gargoyles, their cruel faces bespeaking of a life of torment and pain, peered from the top of the edifice. Such a place must have been built hundreds of years ago! Rachel's Youthful Imagination began to take her upon a Fantastic Journey of Terror -- surely this building had seen its share of Dramatic Murders -- dozens of secret passages must reside within its corridors -- Oh, the terrors that might lie within!
"Uncle," she meekly asked, "how many people have been murdered in the days of yore in your current residence?"
"Dozens, if not hundreds, I'd expect," he said cheerily. "Pernicious Place was, at the time of its construction, Our Glorious Nation's first insane asylum."
An insane asylum! Why, what if some Specter, refused entry to either Heaven or Hell, still resided within these walls? Rachel almost fainted at the thought of it, but managed to be courageous enough to stand up to her fears while sitting down in the carriage; it was, as of yet, too early in her relationship with her uncle to faint over imagined terrors.
They dismounted, and servants seemed to pour out from nowhere, taking Rachel's bags and traveling trunk, and escorted them into Pernicious Place; they then disappeared almost as quickly as they had come. Rachel's mind was in a whirl, she hardly knew what to think. They stepped through the massive portal, the carved images of Saints, once fresh and beautiful, now worn by time and aged, giving them a sense that, with their empty eyes, they were peering into Rachel's very soul, discovering all of her most secret sins, surrounded the doorway. As they stepped inside, Rachel could feel, in her imagination, dozens of eyes, peering out from secret and crevassed corners. Oh, reader! Gentlest of readers! Is it possible for you to even imagine the utter terror of Our Heroine? I certainly hope that you cannot, lest it place a strain upon you, dear reader! Being a well-read damsel, Rachel knew what to expect from such an ancient and imposing household.
Her uncle turned to Rachel, and proudly proclaimed, "This was once an insane asylum, but I have had it refurbished to become my Manor House."
Rachel gasped, to hear it referred to as a former insane asylum once more, and asked, "Oh, uncle, are you most certain that it is safe to turn a Home for the Mentally Unstable into your Manor House?" Our Heroine quickly glanced around, now expecting both secrets and specters of tortured souls. A new thought entered into her delicate head. "Why, what if one of these Mentally Disturbed individuals is still lurking about, unbeknownst to you, perhaps in the basement, where they prey upon unsuspecting visitors?"
"My dearest and most darling niece, surely you have a very vivid imagination. I give you my word," her imposing relative said, "there are absolutely no insane persons in the basement who spend their time preying upon the Mentally Secure that I do not know about."
Rachel breathed a relieving sigh of relief. Her belovèd uncle's words calmed her girlish soul. Surely, she was letting her imagination run away with her again -- there was nothing to fear whilst in the safe care of her Uncle Aghastshire.
"You must be tired, after your extraordinarily long trip to the moon," her uncle said. "I'll have you shown to your chamber, where you might freshen up, and prepare yourself, and your dear friend Lamentation, for the evening meal." Her uncle clapped his hands once, and a tallish looking manservant stepped out of the shadows and to his side almost immediately. "Ressington, please see my niece and her guest to the Myrtle Chamber, where they will be staying."
Ressington gave a short bow, and whisked the girls off down corridors and up staircases until they reached a large set of double doors. He shewed them into the room, and then politely left, closing the doors behind him, leaving Rachel and Lamentation in the room by themselves.
Rachel jumped at the sound of the closing doors, and gasped at the antique terrors before her -- never had she seen furniture with such an air of disquietude about it in her life! Her imagination once again began to run away with her; the large mirror, surely that was once used to aid in the disguise of some devious scoundrel doing his hair! The desk! The stately and yet horrifying desk! Rachel felt as if there must have been dozens, nay, hundreds of Letters of Blackmail composed upon its lacquered tortoiseshell surface! Her eyes flitted over to the wardrobe-armoire; Rachel was certain that at some point in its long career, young kidnapped heirs had been tossed into it! The steam trunk painted a menacing shade of tan; at some point it must have concealed a body from the authorities! The four-poster bed! Countless murders and deeds too dark to mention must have occurred upon its silken sheets, surely! The wash basin; surely, the blood of Innocents was washed off of the hands of the Murderous with this wash basin! The stuffed porcupine; surely upon its quills, and here, dear reader, Our Heroine halted her fervent imagination. The wash basin reminded Rachel of her need to freshen herself before dinner was served. She allowed a nervous giggle to escape from between her pearly teeth and rose-hued lips. Since there was no refined female presence in the household, the decorating was surely the job of her uncle, who, being unaware of the female sensibilities, was certain to improperly decorate a room for a Young Woman of Promise, such as herself. Surely, a male would have no troubles in this room, she would merely have to manage and do her best to make it as comfortable as possible during her stay. "This seems a very inappropriately named room, for I see no hint of the gracious myrtle plant," exclaimed Rachel as she made her toilet. Lamentation, of course, agreed with Our Heroine, as she readied the two of them for supper.
An hour later, after their preparations were finished, Rachel pulled a long bell chord, which rang in a far distant part of the house, and summoned a servant to take her to dine. The rest of the evening went without note, except to say that the roast was Quite Good. Rachel and Lamentation retired to their room, after their refusal of and after-dinner cigar and sherry from Rachel's uncle. Rachel and Lamentation changed into the nightwear, said good-night, and prayed earnestly for the better part of an hour, before going to bed.
Rachel awoke several hours later, because of an especially ominous feeling which had settled itself upon the room and around her heart. It was the feeling of many eyes watching her slumbering form; Rachel scarce not open her eyes for fear of what she might find. Rachel finally opened her eyes and gave a shrill scream, for standing over her was some sort of terrible spectyre! Her horrid visage, with a mass of tangled hair streaming about it! Oh, the inhuman eyes that stared down at her so cruelly, oh, the discolored flesh!
Rachel's scream sent a flurry of activity in motion around her room -- there were more of these horrible creatures in her chamber, each more hideous than the last, each a mockery of womanhood. Why, there must have been five or six of them in differing portions of her room; that's when she saw the sight that filled her ehard with the most dread -- one of the foul persons was holding Lamentation in her claw-like hands.
"Oh, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton!" cried Rachel, "my Only and Dearest Friend! Run! Run for your life! Escape these foul creature's clutches, alert the household to our situation!"
Lamentation was unable to break free from the vice-like grip of the evil monster, no matter how much her porcelain'd form might inwardly struggle. The five, or possibly six, disturbed by Rachel's screams, fled into the interior of the Wardrobe-Armoire, leaving a hysterical Rachel alone in the room.
The thought of her friend being held captive by the horrid apparitions sent Rachel's already unbalanced emotional state into fits. Her mind could no longer cope with the horrors of the situation at hand, and with a whimpering sob, fell back amongst the pillows, her world gone totally dark; her senses shutting off for Self-Preservation.
Chapter Ten: A Most Distressing and Perilous Journey Through the Darkenèd Wardrobe-Armoire
Rachel awoke several minutes later, and upon remembering the terrors of a few moments prior, almost succumbed to the peace of unconsciousness again; however, she did not. "Oh!" she moaned piteously. "Oh, my one and only friend Lamentation! Oh, my dearest and truest friend! To be captured by those hideous monsters, in whom have no share in the bounteous Glories of He Who Died For My Soul! Oh, the pain!" The Water of Purest Sorrow stole once again down Rachel's fair cheek. Rivulets of Pain and Distress bathed Rachel's wringing hands. "Oh, if there was but one person in this house in whom I might trust; though there is not."
Rachel looked again at the horrific room in which she was housed. The Silvery Moonlight cut through the inky blackness of the room, illuminating the terrifying surroundings. She glanced up at Our Celestial Sister, and thought fondly of Mr. Edmoonson; she quickly put her thought away, knowing that theirs was a love, or possibly lack of dislike, that would never be. Assessing her situation, Rachel saw but one option before her -- she had to confront the five, or possibly six, creatures who were hiding in the Wardrobe-Armoire!
She stood up shakily, tremors and tremblings running through her girlish frame. The four layers of her nightgown could scarce keep out the chill of the room -- oh, if only she had the foresight to take along her night-gown with the petticoats; yet she did not. Scarcely finding the strength to pick up the phosphorus-tipped match, she managed to strike it and light her bedside candle. The taper sparked to life, casting a sickly yellow glow over all. Rachel looked about the room for something which she might possibly be able to use to protect herself. The room was filled with possible weapons, yet none of them seemed well suited for the small and dainty hands of a Young Girl of Promise -- here was a poker for the fireplace, but the heavy weight of the iron was certain to break her wrist; there was a sword hanging on the wall, but Rachel was afraid that it was not rust that was bespeckled upon its surface, but instead the blood of innocents; the pistol which was housed in a glass case would be certain to misfire in the hands of an inexperienced female; the porcupine was simply too unwieldy to use properly.
Rachel's eyes fell upon a slim, leather-bound book sitting in a place of honor upon one of the room's shelves. In the faint and flickering light of Rachel's poor, and surely soon to sputter out taper, she read its gilded title -- "The Holy Psalms." Ah! Even without the gentle influence of a woman, her uncle was still thoughtful enough to provided moral and instructive reading materials. Rachel remembered back to the most recent sermon which her minister (who was a Five-And-One-Half-Point Calvinist (no-one was really certain what the extra half point was (it was rumored that he would soon reveal the extra half point in one of his upcoming sermons, attendance was at an all-time high (many of the surrounding ministers, however, believed that he was merely bluffing about Calvin's Secret Half-Point, in on attempt to drive up church attendance (I find, Dear Reader, that I am now five parentheses in, and, there being no good way of getting myself out, I must simply end with all five at once, I hope you'll pardon the excess.).).).).), in which he said that the Word of God was sharper than any two-edg'd sword; surely, Rachel could not hope to find a better weapon against such foul creatures as Holy Scripture.
A sudden draft from the fireplace caused Rachel's tiny candle to flicker wildly, almost to the point of going out. Rachel shrieked briefly, and quickly snatched the Book of Holy Psalms from the shelf. Rachel knew that she had to act quickly, there was no telling what sort of terrible dangers her Only and Dearest Friend might possibly be subjected to -- not to mention the fact that her candle was sure to go out at any moment. It was now or never; candle in one hand, Psalter in the other, she threw open the doors of the Wardrobe-Armoire, and said loudly, "Come out of this Wardrobe-Armoire this instant and return to me my Only and Dearest Friend, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, lest I be forced to use the Word of God upon you!" The rush of emotions almost caused her to faint, but the total shock of finding not five, or possibly six, Spectyres holding Lamentation's Urn in their claws, but an empty Wardrobe-Armoire. Strangely enough, the Wardrobe-Armoire did not seem to contain a back -- its dark depths seemed to extend far into the wall. Rachel had stumbled across one of the secret passages which she was entirely certain existed in Pernicious Place.
Rachel knew her duty -- as Lamentation had once saved her life, so would she save Lamentation. Hastening to her bedside table, she quickly scribed a note, telling any who might seek her what had happened.
I have gone to take a Distressing and Perilous Journey Through the Darkenèd Wardrobe-Armoire, seeking the safety and release of my Only and Dearest Friend, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, after her abduction by five, or possibly six, nefarious and foul creatures, masquerading as females. If I do not return, please tell my family that I am extremely sorry that I have been such a failure as a loving and devoted daughter, and that I have died as I have lived -- in an asylum, put to death by terrors.
Lovingly,
Rachel E. J. S. Kenningworth
Finishing her short message, Rachel placed it upon her pillow. Gathering up an immense amount of girlish courage, she grasped the Book of Psalms in one hand, and the timid taper in the other, and meekly charged to the Wardrobe-Armoire, and peered into its inky-black depths. Oh, terror compounded upon terror! The palpitations and flutterings about her fragile heart as her foot first placed itself within the d___'d piece of furniture! Surely, this was a fate to Hades itself, for Rachel abandoned all her hope of ever finding Lamentation as she entered. The terrors redoubled as she placed the second of her two feet within the Wardrobe-Armoire. The terror was too much, she could neither go on, nor turn back, for she was rooted to the spot -- unable even to faint, so great was this terror that clutched her very heart.
In the shaky light of her candle, her eye caught sight of her Book of Psalms. Ah! Surely, the Word of Divine Providence -- surely it would be an inspiration to her! Barely able to open its cover, she managed to flip it open to the middle and read:
I am afflicted and ready to die from my youth up: while I suffer thy terrors I am distracted.
Thy fierce wrath goeth over me; thy terrors have cut me off.
They came round about me daily like water; they compassed me about together.
Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.
Ah! How refreshing were the Psalmist's words! Hope once again sprang up in her youthful bosom! Oh, how blessèd the words of peace and comfort! May they always be there in times of trouble and sorrow, Dear Reader!
As the tiny spark of hope fixed itself in Rachel's soul, she found that her limbs once again were gifted with the power of motion. She stepped further into the Wardrobe-Armoire, and gazed upon the dark and terrifying walls which surrounded her in an envelope of fear. She had always known that Pernicious Place contained many secretive passages; it was only her first evening and already she had found one. A sudden draft from further down the passage caused Rachel's wildly flickering candle to flicker even more wildly. She let out a sharp gasp as the shadows grew around her -- Oh, the terror of being left alone, in the dark! "I carry with me the Sacred Texts of my Religion!" Rachel cried out shrilly. The draft ceased its drafting at Rachel's ministrations. The tiny taper stopped its terrible trembling, and resumed shedding its normally tremulous beams. She descended further and further into the depths until she reached an old stone staircase, whereupon she continued her decent. The chill and stale air seemed to penetrate her night-gown and invade her very being. Rachel could almost see the breath coming out of her mouth as she constantly let out tiny gasps of terror.
Finally, she reached the bottom of the ancient staircase -- surely she was deep within the foundation of Pernicious Place by now! She barely had the strength to touch the door, yet at even the lightest of touches, it swung open to reveal a terrifying sight. There, in the room, were the five, or possibly six, foul creatures which had abducted Lamentation, doing some sort of devilish dance about her Only and Dearest Friend's Urn. Woe and Misery shot the arrows of Despair into poor Rachel's heart. To be forced to witness her friend be the focal point in this Bacchanal Frenzy! "Halt!: she cried, holding aloft the Psalter, "return to me my friend, whom you have stolen!" At the sight of the Holy Book, the false women stopped their dancing, and stared at Rachel. Their eyes seemed transfix'd upon Rachel, looking almost greedily at her -- but for fear of the Psalms remained where they were.
Rachel's resolve strengthened and she brought the book before her. She read a few lines to the lunatics, when suddenly, feeling over-confidant, her fingers betrayed her. The Book of Psalms slipped from her grasp, and fell to the floor with a resounding thud. Rachel then remembered another of her Five-And-One-Half-Point Calvinist Minister's favorite verses. Rachel shrieked out, as the Holy Book plummeted from her vain fingers, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall!"
The five, or possibly six, sprang into action -- Rachel remembered too late that there was nothing which an insane person loved more than the delight of fire! Their horrid hands grasped for Rachel's tiny candle. Oh, cruelest fate! Terror beyond all tellurian terrors! Rachel wailed, "Run, Lamentation! While they malign me! Now is your only chance to survive!" For indeed, the rapture of flame was more than the delight of a Saturnalia around Lamentation's Urn.
The candle fell from her hand, and landed upon the Book of Psalms. Instantly, the candle flared up, and consumed the book in a giant conflagration. The mockeries of femininity scattered, for now the fire was fed with the Word of God, turning it into a beacon of holiness, driving the five (or possibly six) away.
"Oh!" Rachel wailed in deepest sorrow and grief. "Surely, this fire shall spread throughout the entirety of this dismal and stony basement, up the secretive passage, and into the remainder of the house, burning down the entirety of Pernicious Place!" Here, Rachel dropped to her knees, and clasped her hands together, crying out supplications before Divine Providence. "Oh, that the Word of the Lord should be so defiled! Oh, that the very Gates of Heaven would open, the vast multitude of Angel's Tears would dampen this raging inferno! Oh, but that Your Word would Endure! Oh, I care not for myself, yet please, spare the rest of the household, and my dearest Uncle!"
There was a sudden flash of blinding light which reminded Rachel greatly of the events of Chapter Four. Yet, this was different, vastly so -- for rather than the corporeal form of Rachel's own Virginity, there stood Rachel's Only and Dearest Friend, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton! Yet, this was not the fleshly form of Lamentation, but an Æthereal one, more vibrant, more translucent, and glowing more brightly than when she was alive!
"Lamentation," gasped Rachel, rising to her feet. "You have come from Beyond, to Comfort me as I die, or to perhaps Guide me as I die, like a ministering Angel, or perhaps I have already died of terror, or perhaps my hysterical and girlish mind is merely delusional."
The awe-inspiring, yet meek, heavenly apparition shook her head and made a few steps towards where her earthly remains lay. Rachel wailed, "Oh, I am to be sent to Hell, and this is the first of my innumerable punish-ments! To be forced to see my only friend, who gave her life to save mine, just before I am to be dragged, screaming, into the Pit! Oh!" Rachel wailed, sinking back to her feet again. "If I but had the will to pluck out my eyes to escape this sight, I would -- but I do not! Oh, the barb upon which I am caught is cruel indeed!"
Lamentation finally spoke, "Nay, I have not come here for those reasons, but instead to once again give of myself to Save your Life." Rachel halted her caterwauling, and stood back up again. She watched, breathlessly, as the form of her Only and Dearest Friend picked up the urn which contained her ashes -- a moment rife with metaphysics, surely -- and glided over to the small fire which was certain to burn the house down. With a deft motion of her saintly hand, Lamentation turned the Urn upside-down, sending a shower of her cremated ashes upon the fire, snuffing it out almost instantly. With a final, sad smile, she disappeared, the smallish blue run falling to the floor, and shattering.
"Oh!" wailed Rachel once more, now almost hysterical. "Come back, Lamentation, come back! Again you have saved my life with your own! Oh! My Only and Dearest Friend! Oh! How shall I ever be able to repay you! Oh! How shall I ever be able to carry you now! Oh! My heart! Oh!"
In Rachel's wailing, she failed to notice that one of the five, or possibly six, insane women had come back behind her. With a deft motion of her hand, she tore off, oh Reader! If only it was not so! Oh, if cruelest Fate had not decreed Rachel to be tormented so! Oh, Dearest Reader! I record these events, as it is my duty to do so, for this is my Tale, my Tale of Literature which I tell -- but the pen in my hand trembles as I continue to not tell you what happens; the very thought of it makes my blood turn cold, oh Dear Reader! The wretched woman ripped, oh Reader, she deftly, with a smooth motion of her hand, ripped off an almost weightless and invisible piece of cloth -- one might call it a veil -- and revealed herself to be, in reality, the devious Jonathan Marchington -- possible army-man!
"Ah-ha!" he laughed viciously, folding up the Slight Veil of Fiction, for that is what it was, "it is I! Jonathan Marchington, a man whose background suggests possible military connections!"
Rachel turned around, and shrieked for another time today. It was that horrid man from before -- the one whom had defiled her, in front of her mother! "Oh, that my Only and Dearest of Friends might save me, so that I shall fall into your terrible clutches!" she wept, tears streaming down her beautiful, yet marred, face.
"Yes!" he agreed. "It is a commonly-known, well-kept secret that your Ungle Aghastshire," he said, explaining himself thoroughly, "has five insane wives who spend their time in his basement. Using my Slight Veil of Fiction, I altered things so that I might become a possible sixth! From this point, it was easy enough to insinuate myself in the household, thanks to the spare time afforded me by your Lunar Expedition aboard the Locomotive Express! Learning of your Uncle's plans to ask for your friend's hand in marriage," and here, Dear Reader, Rachel gasped in shock in-between the tears of sorrow and the wailing, "I knew that I had to act quickly. I rallied the mentally-disturbed women around me, and crept into your room via one of the dozens, if not hundreds of secret passages which this estate affords. We captured Lamentation, then fled into the bowels of the house, waiting for you in your girlish devotion, to attempt a foolhardy rescue. I hadn't counted on you discovering a Book of Psalms, or on that holy-fire, but now that both have been taken care of, thanks to your deceased friend's metaphysical actions I am free to do as I please! Ah-ha!"
Rachel sank back down to her knees for a third time in twice as many minutes, and cried profusely. To be abducted in the household of her Uncle (who was apparently interested in Lamentation before she had fallen to pieces, much like all of his other wives) by Marchington (previously disguised as one of her Uncle's wives), oh! A sudden vision of Marchington with a red moustache came into Rachel's credulous head. "Moustachio!" she gasped.
"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Marchington, "you're far more clever than I gave you credit for!" he grabbed her by the upper arm, and pulled her to her feet. "Now, off to my waiting carriage!"
As Rachel was jerked unceremonially to her feet, she swooned. To go through everything which she had gone through -- abductions, heavenly visitations, fires, psalms, insane persons, and then to be whisked away into a carriage by a ne'er-do-well? It was too much for her, and she passed out, languidly held by her abductor.
Chapter Eleven: A Possible Escape and a
Secondary Glance into Rachel’s Heritage: A Terrible Tragedy
Rachel awoke, and almost promptly lapsed into unconsciousness again. There
was the sound of hooves upon pavement, and a rocking back and forth that
bespoke only of being abducted into a carriage! She dare not open her eyes, for
the fear of it all, what sort of carriage could such a ne’er-do-well afford? Scarcely one suitable for such a Young Girl of
Promise such as herself!
Keeping her eyes squeezed firmly shut, she heard a familiar voice, a terrifying
voice, the voice of her kidnapper say to a driver, "Drive onwards, young Paulip, to the nearest Port, where we may gain easy egress
from this, Our Noble Empire, to some faraway land where marriage laws are not
so sacred as they are here -- perhaps France."
"Oi, guv!"
replied a youngish sounding voice from outside of the carriage -- it must have
been the driver! "I’m on ‘er likes a jam tart, I
am"
"I have absolutely no idea what that means," said Marchington
with an air of disgust.
"Aye, sir," came the cheerful voice.
"Right, carry on."
Rachel kept her eyes shut very tightly, and refused to move. ‘Perhaps,’ she
thought, ‘if I stay extraordinarily still and do not open my eyes, he shall
think that I have died, and leave me off on the side of the road, and this way,
gain my escape.’
As if he could sense her inner monologue, Marchington
took especial interest in Rachel’s form, which occupied the seat across from
his in the second-rate carriage. "Ah, how lovely she looks, passed out and
lying in a misshapen heap across from me in this second-rate carriage. I cannot
wait until she becomes mine forever!" Here he laughed maliciously.
"As soon as we gain entrance to a county of loose morals where I will be
able to wed this Young Girl of Promise, perhaps a French Colony, we shall be
forever bound together by the power of Religion!"
Rachel, unable to contain her feminine feelings, let out a sob. "Oh,"
she sighed, "oh, oh, oh!" Here the carriage reached a very rough spot
in the road, and the latter two of her ohs were
exclamations of discomfort aimed towards the poor quality of the street, rather
than at her situation in general.
"Ah!" Marchington said. "You have
awoken from your fitful fit of unconsciousness! I am glad, my darling, for we
are speeding off to points unknown and possibly French so that we can be
wed!" He looked at her greedily, his eyes seeming to pierce Rachel’s heart
through, slaying her hopes and dreams with a glance.
"Oh, is there to be no hope for me, an unassuming and meek young
lady?" said our Heroine. "Sir, I beg you, and implore you, to cease
these ministrations which you have towards myself. The delight of a young girl
is in Pleasing her Family, and being wed to a man of," and here she
faltered for a moment, oh reader, "unknown attachments, such as yourself,
would only cause the most grievous disappointment for my father, and certainly
my mother would succumb to unconsciousness, perhaps fatally, much like the
women in my family are prone to do, and my grandfather, if he were alive again,
would certainly die a third time upon hearing this news! Oh, please, most noble
sir, I beg you to allow me to return to my family; permit me to return to
Pernicious Place, so that I might gather the slain form of Lamentation’s ashes
and urn and place them in a slightly larger urn, painted so as to remind me
forever of the Bond of Friendship which even Death himself could not break that
I might forever remember the sacrifice which she twice gave for me! Oh, sir! I
conjure you," she wept, "let me not be the cause of my father’s
disapprobation! Let me not cause my parents to forever
spurn my name! Let me not live with a heavy heart, knowing that I have cruelly
slain my mother, as suspect as the females of my family are to the Fatal
Fainting, such as happened to my mother’s mother, Charity Unconsciousworth!"
Here, gentlest of readers, I find it needful to once again look into the familial history of Rachel, and tell the sorrowful tale of her grandmother, Charity Unconsciousworth. I beg of you to forgive me for this slight diversion from this, my Tale of Literature, but I am certain that the tears which this extra story shall cause to fall from your limpid eyes will of course be the only justification which you will need for this, my digression.
Charity Unconciousworth walked humbly across the
hallway of her house, she was on her morning trip from her personal chambers to
the scullery-kitchen. Every morning, her only thought was bent towards the
daily care which she would shower down upon her family. Today was the day in
which she would prepare the humble morsels which her meager allowance could
provide for Sunday, as work upon the Sabbath was strictly forbidden.
"I delight in the preparation of these simple foods for my family,"
she said to herself as she worked with them. "Though we live a Poor life,
it is a Happy one, one which I hope will continue for
quite some time." Charity kneaded the flour, which had been mixed with
chalk to stretch it, into the dough which would become the Bitter Loaves of
Toil which her family would feast upon on the morrow.
She had but three children, all whom she loved dearly, and a caring husband who
worked in the mines. Her constant delight was in them, for without her family,
she had but nothing. Two daughters and a son were her lot, and Charity knew that
if anything were to happen to any of them, her fragile heart would shatter. Her
eldest was recently employed as a scullery maid at one of the Better Houses --
the pennies which she sent home almost doubled their meager income -- she was
such a thoughtful and resourceful daughter.
It so happened that, though he worked in the mines,
Mr. Unconciousworth was quite well-known about the
town, as he was respected for his gentle-manner, which even poverty could not
diminish, and the hard work which he put in, to be able to provide for his
family. It was, perhaps, this strong drive to provide that would bring about
his downfall.
A certain gentleman approached Mr. Unconciousworth,
and told him that if he were to wait in a certain place at a certain time, to
meet a second certain gentleman who would then instruct him to hold onto a
certain package until the first certain gentleman could arrange to pick it up
at a yet-to-be-mentioned certain time and place, that he would be most
handsomely rewarded. Mr. Unconciousworth, as loving
as he was to his family, did not love the Law enough, so it seems; he took it
upon himself to do this certain job, one that was fraught with uncertainty,
surely it could not be dealing with legal goings on! The handsome sum which he
had proffered to Mr. Unconciousworth was surely far
too much to have anything to do with the legal matters. It seemed that to
Provide, he would turn away from the Law; a grievous error.
Mr. Unconciousworth did as the certain man asked, but
because he strayed from The Law, it seems that his fate was not to enjoy his
illegal gains. They were ambushed by a militia force as the certain exchange
was in progress; Mr. Unconciousworth paid dearly for
his sins against Man and God, for he had been shot by a musket fatally.
Mr. Unconciousworth managed to stumble back to his
paltry homestead, opened the door, showcasing his bedraggled form in the
doorway, his vital humours spilling out from his deep
wound. His dear wife gasped at the sight of her beloved husband, and as she
rushed to the door, he managed to gasp out, "I regret the illegal
activities which I had taken part in in an misconstrued attempt to provide for my family without the
righteous consent of Heaven upon my deeds! I am forever Lost, farewell my
love!" He collapsed to the floor, dead.
Charity shrieked at the sight, and fainted dead away, though not yet dead
herself. Her two children rushed into the room, and looked upon the horrific
sight which lay before them -- their father, dead in a crimson pool of his own
vital essences, and their mother, her skin as pallid as a ghost, fainted upon
the floor.
"Oh, mother!" cried her daughter. "Father!" she wailed.
Looking there upon her mother in the ground, and her father, dead in the
doorway, she became terribly afraid, because now that her father was dead, they
had only her older brother to provide a masculine protection for the family.
And her brother, she knew, was terribly rash. What would he do?
Their son looked grimly at the scene before him; unbeknownst to his sister and
mother, he was aware of the certain task which his father had been involved in,
but had said nothing about it. Now, enraged at his father’s death, he declared,
"I shall challenge the certain man whom father was illegally involved with
to a duel, for his honor!"
"Brother!" gasped the girl, "you cannot! Care not for the honor
of our wretched family, instead care for those members
of it that still live! It is not your portion in live to be an avenger, dear
brother, we need you here, at home, to protect mother," she said, pointing
to the crumpled heap that was she who carried the Unconciousworth
children in the womb, "and myself! You must seek for gainful employment,
perhaps replacing father in the Mines, to help support us! Do not duel, I beg
of you, for if you do, you may never return to us; and then it shall fall to myself and mother to prepare for the funeral arrangements
not for one, but for two!"
Though his dear sister tried to keep him from leaving, nothing could keep
Charity’s son from leaving. "I am sorry, my sister, but Honor bids me
follow him, to seek out the Revenge that my father’s spill’d
blood calls for! Even now, the man whom hired father lives in Decadence, while
our father is dead, shot through by a musket. I make my departure, I shall not
return until I am led here by Slaked Justice!" Here he stepped over his
father’s prostrate form, and left; while her mother was still comatose,
Charity’s daughter dare not leave her mother’s side. "Make certain that
whatever funeral arrangements which are necessary are made!" he called out
to the hovel behind him.
When Charity recovered, she almost fainted again, to hear of what her son had
done, yet she held out the hope that he would be fine, and possibly avenge the
death of his father. "Daughter, do not yet lose all hope, your brother may
yet avenge your father’s grievous death by a musket. Perhaps everything will be
fine. Come, we should move your father’s body somewhere where his blood shall
not stain our doorstep, as it is currently doing."
Charity and her daughter managed to remove the corpse from off their doorstep,
when there was a knock at the recently closed door. When it was a young boy
from the village which came to the house, instead of her son, all her hopes
died within her. "It was terrible, missus," the youth said.
"Your son had caught up with the man in the recently-opened Pistonry Works."
"Horrid, dangerous things," Charity whispered, tears streaming down
her face at the thought of her son dead and surrounded by pistons.
"Yes, missus," agreed the young boy. "Your son came across the
man, and challenged him to a duel. The man accepted, but your son, being too
poor to afford any sort of firearm or weaponry, was forced to use a piston
which was lying about..."
Charity gasped, and her daughter shuddered. "He, he hasn’t been trained in
the proper use of a piston..." she murmured, imagining the scene in her
mind, and tottering slightly on her feet.
"No, missus," the lad said, regretting the words that he would have
to say next. "The man with whom he was dueling didn’t have to do a thing,
missus. Your son he... the piston... it... discharged while your son was
holding it..."
Charity’s scream would have pierced through the heart of the most soulless
creature in all of Creation. She fell to her knees and grabbed the hand of the
young man, "tell me, oh tell me, that he yet
lives! Tell me that I have not lost both my husband and my son to this
man!"
The young boy looked away as he said, in almost a whisper, "the piston
killed him almost instantly, and the man has invoked a certain but little-known
rule in this county that if a man die by his own hands, through use of
mechanical means, while attempting to slay another, he will be left to rot and
denied a proper burial."
"The Luddite Protection Clause!" Charity
wailed, remembering the law from happier days. Charity promptly succumbed to
the darkness, and her daughter almost followed her into its inky depths. The
messenger then relayed a vital piece of information to her -- that the certain
man was not allowing for her brother to receive a proper burial. Knowing that unless he was properly interred, that his spirit would
forever wander the earth, she sped to the village to see that he received a
burial.
I am so sorry to relate to you, my Dear Reader, that
upon hearing that the young daughter, named Antigona,
had tried to give her brother a proper burial, he had her promptly thrown into
jail. Antigona bemoaned the fact that now she, too,
had disgraced her family. She sent off a note to her fiancé, whom her parents
had approved of, apologizing for everything. She had disgraced her now fallen
house, and so took her own life, and hung herself in her cell. Her fiancé,
Herman, arrived Too Late to do anything about her death, and so stabbed himself, to join with her in death.
News of the suicides quickly spread throughout the village; even reaching so
far as to the home of the certain man for whom Mr. Unconciousworth
had been doing certain illegal deeds. The certain man’s wife, upon hearing of
the horrors that her husband had committed, could no longer stand the situation
herself. Setting down her knitting, she went to her personal chambers, and
there slit her own throat, dying as the aqua vitae streamed in crimson pools
from his body.
It has come to my attention from some of my more Well-Read editors that the
previous passage bears a striking resemblance to another tale already in
existence. Dear Reader! Dearest and most Serene of Readers! You know that this
is my Tale! My Tale of Truth and Literature which I, your Trusted Author, am
sharing with you! This is a Tale of the sternest Truth, and also Literature!
Surely, no fault is to be had here! Why, this tale is one which is meant for
the edification of my Readers; if I have written something which bears some
meager resemblance to some fable, I assure you, my Dear Readers, that this but
strengthens my argument, and I also know that you are less likely to have
adverse reactions to reading something similar to what you have already had a
chance to react to! Reader, this is all done for you and the betterment of your
soul; think not about the paltry details, unless instructed to, but rather
reflect about the Glorious Truths which this novel sheds like the radiant beams
from the sun! Worry yourself not, for everything is as planned! Theatre was
banned not so very long ago; since the novel’s inception, it has shone as a glorious beacon of instruction; think upon this
before you make your final judgment!
In my explanations I fear that I have strayed from my Tale of Literature and
Truth; my apologies, Dear Reader. I shall begin the tale anon!
The certain man had been robbed of his wife; though Charity had been robbed of far more. When the news reached her of her daughter’s death, she fainted once again -- the doctor had to be brought, fearing that she might die from the shock. She managed to recover, however slowly, from the terrors that constantly surrounded her. She still had one tiny hope left, and that was her daughter, her dear and darling daughter who would do nothing to ever upset her, and provided for the family with her job in one of the Better Households.
And that, Dear Reader, was when the final stoke came. Please, Reader, I beg of you, if you are faint of heart, and have grown to become fond of Charity, as I am certain many of you have, please, do not read the following three paragraphs and the italicized-letter between them! I realize that I have put you through such a terrible strain already, with the tale that I have woven for you, the deaths of her family, but readers, the worst is yet to come! Please, divert your ocular-viewing organs to some other, more pleasant passage!
A few minutes after she had awoken from her previous bout of fainting, still
trying to make sense of the world around her, Charity heard the clatter of
horseshoes upon pavement -- someone else was coming to her door! Oh, what else
would further darken her grim household this day? Was not the
deaths of her husband, son and youngest daughter not enough? Would she
be forever tormented by her family’s sense of honor?
It was the post, bringing a very important dispatch indeed. Charity read:
My Dear Parents,
It is I, your eldest daughter. I realize that this letter may seem curious, it not being the time of year for my wages, but I have very important news to share with you. I have recently attracted the attention of a young gentleman by the name of Kenningworth. He professes an undying love for me, and promises that he would be able to provide for me a life of Marital Bliss. I feel that Love, Chastity, and Fortune have smiled upon this, for he seems as good a match as any I am likely to come across on my own. My only regret is that you have never met this man, and cannot have possibly approved of him before I had the chance to speak with, and subsequently, become engaged to him. We are to be wed the 2_th of M___, 179_, though by the time you have received this missive, it will already be past that date. I regret that you never had a chance to approve of him, but please, do some and visit us at our cottage, Hovelton.
Your Loving Daughter,
The Soon To Be,
Mrs. Kenningworth.
Charity gasped aloud. Who had she left, now? No one! She was Alone! Not only had her husband died while engaged in illegal activities, her only son dead from pistonry, and her youngest daughter dead because she could not give up familial honor, but now her eldest daughter had been wed to a man whom she had never met, nor approved of! "Oh, has my eldest no honor?" she whispered, as she once again fainted at this most shocking of news. She never again awoke -- she had suffered the fatal fainting, the terrible Fate that hung over the head of every female in her family line -- the Fate that Claimed more females in her kindred than any other. Rare indeed was the girl who escaped this fate, it shadowed over the fore of all the Unconciousworth women, the lineage of which Rachel was a part.
"Bah," said Marchington. "I care
not for such feminine complaints! No, we shall speed onwards to the Port, and
afterwards, be wed."
Rachel buried her face into her dainty hands, her eyes dropping pearls of
sadness. She raised her head, however, when she heard a new sound from outside,
it sounded like it was a second carriage, approaching them swiftly from behind!
"Oi, guv’!"
shouted Paulip, "there’s annuver
carriage commin’ at us wiv’
fire unnerneath ‘er!"
"What?" Marchington asked incredulously.
"What carriage? Who is it?"
Rachel’s heart leapt -- perhaps it was her uncle, coming to rescue her from Marchington’s clutches! Oh, speed on, speed on, she thought
to herself.
The carriage continued to gain upon Marchington’s
second-rate carriage. "Curses!" Marchington hissed. "Their carriage must be of
high-quality, unlike my own!"
The sounds came closer and closer, until the carriages were matched, side by
side. There was scarcely an inch between the sides of the two hurtling
conveyances. Paulip attempted to spur the horses on,
but they could go no faster. "Uncle Aghastshire!
Save me!" yelled Rachel to the carriage next to her.
A hand darted into the carriage, and grabbed Rachel by the shoulder. Promptly
pulling, the hand managed to remove Rachel’s frail body from Marchington’s carriage, and whisked her off into the new
carriage.
"D__!" explained Marchington, as he threw
himself across, and attempted to grab Rachel himself, his hands just brushing
against her nightgown (for Rachel was still improperly dressed). "She
slips out of my clutches again!"
Rachel looked up at her savior’s face, and realized that this man was not her
Uncle Aghastshire, nor was he anyone who had been in
the employ of her uncle whom she had met while at her stay at Pernicious Place.
She quivered all over, in terror, at who this new person might be.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle" he said, revealing his French-inclinations,
while twirling his long moustache.
French? Rachel knew, or rather, knew that she couldn’t
possibly know about the horrors of a Frenchman! Why, a Frenchman was worse by
far than a possible military man! There was but one thing, she had been told,
that all Frenchmen were after, though what that was, she was not totally
certain. She would have been better off with Marchington
-- he, at least, spoke English, as God intended persons to do. She gasped a
ragged breath, and at the very thought of a Frenchman touching her shoulder,
fainted dead away, his Continental hands violating her with their very presence
to the delicate girl.
Chapter
Twelve: A Terrifying Succession of Carriage Rides -- A Chance Meeting
with Charlotte Temple
Rachel awoke, and fluttered her eyes gently. The first thing that caught her
eyes was a coat, of exceptional quality, cut in the highest of French fashions,
that looked to be composed of diamonds woven together by gossamer threads, so
brilliant and well-made was it. The finest purple cravat, a collar of almost
unimaginable height and gaiety, and a pair of breeches - oh! Rachel covered her
eyes with her hands, she was certain that for a young, impressionable maid such
as herself, such finery was only meant to confuse and befuddle her heart.
"Bonjour," again said the man, removing any suspicions Rachel
might have had that the gentleman in the carriage with her was French, and not
merely dressed as such. "I hope that you are tout bien,
mademoiselle?" he said, grinning at her. "I have saved you
from that homme terrible who was
carrying you off in his second-rate carriage."
"Oh sir," Rachel said, trembling, "I would thank you for your
intervention in this manner, but I find that my situation remains much the same
as it was half an hour prior -- instead of being abducted by the devious Marchington, who has assailed me constantly for these past
few weeks, I now find myself being abducted by an unknown Frenchman, and I am
not sure if my situation has bettered, or worsened."
"Chere mademoiselle," said
the man, leaning over, and grasping Rachel’s hand. "I mean you no harm,
above ce que ma culture insists upon," he said coyly,
waving about a scented handkerchief in his free hand, as if to brush the
thought aside. "I trust you, mademoiselle, you are in much better
hands than avant."
Rachel tried to pull her hand away from his, but found that his grip was far
stronger than her own. "Sir, I beg you, let me alight from this carriage,
I cannot spend any more time away from my Dearest and Only Friend Lamentation
and the strengthening influence of my parents -- I know not what may happen to
me without their constant aid!" A gentle tear slipped down her face, and
fell upon her clutched hand.
"Come, mademoiselle, I beg you, tell me your name, that I may set
it dans le ceil avec touts of the
angels." His eyes seemed to pierce through Rachel’s own soul.
"Oh, sir," she gasped. "Please, allow me egress from this
carriage, I feel as if I am being carted away yet once more! I fear, not only
for my mortal soul and body, but for my reputation -- I would break my mother’s
heart if I were to do anything that might tarnish it! I had always hoped, sir,
to be joined some day in hymeneal bonds to a man suitable to me, in form and
thought, one whom my loving parents approved of, but if I remain in this
carriage any longer, I am afraid I will never be able to attain this
dream."
The Frenchman smiled, as if he knew something that Rachel didn’t. He opened his
mouth as if to reply to her, when a voice from outside the carriage -- the
driver! -- made itself known. Whatever the voice said, it was in the
unintelligible French tongue, and the gentleman replied in the same. What
enigma was Rachel being left out of? She knew not her own fate, merely that the
voices had a sense of urgency to them.
Off in the distance, Rachel heard a clattering of hooves that were not the ones
pulling the current instrument of abduction that she was confined in. In fact,
from the sounds of things, they were coming down the street in the opposite
direction. Why, unless something is done, and quickly, the carriages would
crash, resulting in the End of them All. The Frenchman and his manservant threw
French phrases at each other -- the rakish Frenchman was clearly getting upset
-- but in Rachel’s mind, she knew that nothing could save them now, her death
was clearly foretold the moment that she stepped foot into a carriage, unattended
but for her abductor.
The carriage rocked as the driver quickly pulled it to one side of the road;
Rachel was tossed about as a rag doll; her abductor was tossed about in a like
manner; however, Rachel’s fate was far the worse. "O!" she cried,
"as Phaeton was tossed out of his celestial chariot, so I am tossed out of
my abductive carriage!" Our Heroine was Thrown out of the window, as the carriage Tipped, and was
unceremoniously deposited by the roadside. Her senses left her, and she drew
into inky blackness.
A lone chariot would soon pass by, and notice the destitute girl on the side of
the road but what, what, Oh Gentle Reader would be the Outcome?
Rachel awoke some time later, once again to the clattering sound of
hoof-beats, and the gentle sway of a carriage. Her eyes opened, and found that,
at least superficially, her prayers had been answered -- no longer was she in
the carriage of the foppish Frenchman, and neither was she in a carriage with
the Devious Marchington. Instead, she found herself
looking into the face of a familiar character, but one which was heretofore
only alluded to in prior chapters -- that of Post-master MacDuffald!
"Oh, kind sir!" she gasped, "you, a man whom I may speak to with
the approbation of my parents, have rescued me from such a horrific situation!
This very day I have been Abducted Twice, have Lost my Only and Dearest Friend,
and had to Descend into the depths of my Uncle’s abode, Pernicious Place, to
try and rescue said Lost Friend!"
"Nae trouble whatsoever," assured the
Scotsman. "Happy to help a lovely lass like
yourself." Post-master MacDuffald’s mouth was
almost wholly hidden by his massive mustache, so the words seemed to come from
the luxurious facial hair, rather than from a human tongue.
"Oh sir, you cause me to blush," she said, the tinge of rose coming
to her fair cheeks. She paused for a moment, and looked at the carriage, it was most certainly a first-rate equipage, far
above the means of any regular Post-master. Timidly, she dared to ask a
question, "Post-master MacDuffald, where did you
come by such a fine carriage?"
"Oh, my new chaise-and-four?" he asked, chuckling. "I have
recently inherited a large sum of money. Now that I command such a large
fortune, I have decided that it is time for me to find a mistress," he
looked at Rachel with an evil glare, "and I believe that heaven has sent
me one along the roadside."
Rachel shrieked; previously, she had always suspected, but was never certain of
intentions -- Marchington had at least suggested
marriage, and the Frenchman never really said anything either way, but here,
Rachel was presented with a clear picture of what was about to happen to her,
and from a man whom she respected, no less! "Oh sir, please, I beg you, do
not invalidate the trust which my belovèd parents
have placed in you! Return, return to the blissful bosom of morality, turn from
the unrighteous path that you have set yourself upon!"
Post-master MacDuffald merely grinned sinfully at
Rachel, his mustache twitching in anticipation. Rachel sobbed to herself, when
for the second time that day, the sound of approaching hooves reached her ears.
The road was wide enough at this point, wherever it was, so that two carriages
could comfortably pass side by side. She flung upper body and hand outside of
the carriage, and cried "Oh, help, help! I am being abducted! Save me,
passersby! Save me!"
Rachel turned her gaze to the approaching carriage, and prayed that Post-master
MacDuffald would not be swift enough to stop her
progress. The second carriage approached, and suddenly, a female form looked
out the window and cried, "Oh, my parents, I regret my actions, I beg you,
passing carriage, save me, remove me from this situation, so that I may return
to your lovingkindness! I never meant to elope!"
Rachel looked at this young woman, and instantly felt a kinship with her -- the
other young lady reciprocated. Both cried out at once, "Oh, save me, my
sister-in-unending-trials!" The carriages passed by each other, and the
two feminine forms collided, knocking each one senseless. Rachel’s arm became
caught underneath the collapsed form of the Mysterious Girl, and she was pulled
out of Post-master MacDuffald’s carriage, and dangled
from the window of the passing-by carriage.
"D___!" exclaimed Post-master MacDuffald.
It was too much trouble to go back and retrieve her from that other carriage, he drove on, searching for another woman to become
his mistress.
The two women revived at almost the exact same moment. "Oh!" they
said in unison. "Where am I?" Rachel looked around, and saw the four
other people in the carriage, and was happy to note that none of them were
Post-master MacDuffald, the Frenchman, or the devious
Marchington. The second girl looked around, and a
solitary tear stole down her face.
"Oh, thank you for rescuing me," Rachel said to the four gratefully.
"I am Miss Rachel Kenningworth, and have been
abducted thrice today, I cannot possibly repay your
great kindness."
One of the men sneezed, and the other seemed to pick up on some sort of hidden
message. The other girl, whom had collided with Rachel, spoke now, "Miss Kenningworth, I am happy that one of us might escape the
never-ending sorrows that hound us daily, and your case does seem especially
terrible. My name is Miss Charlotte Temple, recently of my Parent’s Loving
Home, now en route to an unwanted elopement with Mr. Montraville,
currently in the employ of the army," here, Rachel gasped,
"accompanied by my former schoolteacher, Mademoiselle LaRue,"
a second gasp from Rachel, "and Mr. Belcour, Mr.
Montraville’s traveling companion."
"Miss Temple, you, too, appear to be surrounded
by horrible happenings, much as myself. I weep for you, much as I would pray
any sensible person would upon hearing the situation that you have found
yourself in. I know the pangs of an unwanted elopement, and have briefly
experienced the demoralizing effects of a Frenchperson."
Rivers of Sentiment coursed down Rachel’s fair cheeks.
The glistening drops of human sympathy also dropped from Charlotte’s fair eyes.
"Oh, Miss Kenningworth, I can see that we are
sisters in constant suffering, my only reply to your sorrows are the tears that
threaten to fill oceans, currently dropping from my doe-like eyes."
"Oh, Miss Temple, tears are my only repayment for you, too," Rachel
said, as she clasped Charlotte’s hand in her own.
"Come, Belcour, you’re constantly on the look
for a new woman, are you not?" asked Mademoiselle LaRue,
"here, one has fallen into your lap," she
said wryly, "why do you not accept this one?"
Belcour responded, "Mademoiselle, I scarcely
know what you’re speaking about -- you know as well as I that I am an upright,
virtuous man." The two laughed immensely at this comment.
Rachel could feel their spheres of immorality that certainly had turned the man
who was certainly in the employ of the army to the wrong path, for his was a
weak will indeed. The one beacon of Truth that comprised this party was
Charlotte, the one least able to be in control of the situation. Rachel wept,
not only for her own fate, but for the fate of Charlotte Temple.
Mademoiselle whispered something into the ear of Belcour
that no-one else could hear. Oh, Reader, if only Rachel could be privy to that
piece of information! "Really?" Belcour asked Mademoiselle incredulously.
"Oui, I am most certain. We can always tell
these sort of things you know," the Frenchwoman
answered back. "Now, what to do..."
As if in an answer to LaRue’s question, the sound of
hooves yet again met with the carriage riders ears. LaRue cast her gaze outside of the carriage, and smiled
with delight. "An answer proposes itself. I am well acquainted with the
carriage that is coming towards us, and I am quite positive that Rachel would
be well cared for and taken exactly where she needs to by it -- I am afraid
that we cannot possibly deviate from our current course, lest we be late."
"Any help at all would be greatly appreciated," Rachel murmured.
"Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle," said Charlotte. "I am glad that
you can arrange things so easily for her."
LaRue grinned coyly, and giggled a touch. "Of course, Miss Temple. Driver, hail the fore-coming
carriage! I wish to speak with the rider within!"
The two carriages stopped, side by side, and Mademoiselle and the lady within
exchanged a few words in the French tongue. Apparently, the arrangements were
soon made, as Mademoiselle informed the others that the second carriage would
be willing to escort Rachel to exactly where she needed to go. Rachel,
heartened by this, clasped the hand of Charlotte one last time, and bid her
adieu. Charlotte was sad to see her friend go, but was happy that at least one
of them would escape from the horrible fate that Fate had assigned them -- Oh! if only She Knew!
Rachel stepped out of one carriage, and was about to step into the other, when
she asked LaRue, "Your friend does speak the
English tongue, does she not? I would have a very difficult time having a
proper discussion with her if she did not."
LaRue answered sweetly, "Of course she speaks
English -- though she is French by birth, she has been a Lady of Pleasure for
many a distinguished Englishman."
Rachel gasped, and fell into the arms of the driver of the second carriage, who
had opened the door for her. She was placed in the second carriage in her
unconscious state.
Rachel awoke, and the tears began to flow almost immediately. She had an
idea what had transpired between LaRue and this
mysterious woman, and was deathly afraid that she might be correct. "Oh
madam, is it true? Are you really a... a... a..." Rachel could not find it
within her to say the words.
"A French whore?" the woman asked.
Rachel sobbed and shook her head in an affirmative.
"Oui, I am," she answered.
Rachel could feel the icy hand of death already gripping her. "And, do
you, do you plan on, taking me to a..." again, she could not bring herself
to speak the words -- the thought died in her throat, much as her hopes did.
"A house of pleasure?" the woman responded. "Of course,
it is where I work, and where I will find you suitable employment."
Rachel fell to her knees in the spacious carriage, and grabbed the hem of the
woman’s skirt and wailed, "Oh, please, please, do not do this to me!
Please, I beg of you, send me back to my familial home, where my parent’s will
surely take me in!"
"Oh, Miss Kenningworth, I scarcely think that to
be a possible future. And, do call me Madame Harlotte,"
the woman answered.
"Oh, Madame Harlotte, why, why do you not
believe it possible for me to return to the waiting bosoms of my parents? The
one’s who would love me no matter what happens, save one horrible option!"
Rachel wept, her tears marking the silk hem of Harlotte.
"A Lady of Pleasure, such as myself, must be in
full possession of a variety of skills, gifts, and talents. Not only must I be
able to take part in the gay world, but I must also distinguish myself through
other means. Those of us of French decent have an especial inborn gift, Miss Kenningworth, my good friend Mademoiselle LaRue first noticed it in you, and I, having more
experience in these matters than my friend, confirmed her suspicions. If you
parents care anything at all about morality, about the rules and regulations
which society and the church impose upon us, they cannot, they will not take
you back in."
Rachel stopped her weeping, and looked into the face of Madame Harlotte. "What... what are you telling me?"
Rachel asked, her voice breathless and wavering.
"Ah, already, I can see it in your eyes," mused the woman, "the
light of virtue and probity is fading, your eyes
become dim with unchaste virtue. You, my dear, have become burdened with Issue
sometime today; your parents will never be able to Accept
you now!"
Rachel trembled at the feet of the woman, unable to speak a single word in her
defense -- somehow, she knew it to be true -- she could feel a heavy sensation
deep within what she assumed was her womb. "Oh, if I could but die of
SHAME, I would pass into the next life, and receive my eternal punishment
now!" Rachel wailed, and she sank to the floor of the carriage,
unconscious and unaware of her travels, as she drew ever nearer to the only
place where a woman in her condition could ever hope to find work.
Chapter Thirteen: A Most Important Series of Letter-Missives
Most
kind and generous of readers, contained herewith are a series of
letter-missives between several of the personages which you have assuredly
grown to Love and Tremble over. I assure you, these few Fragments form a
vital an important part in this, my Tale of Literature. I humbly submit
them to you for your perusal; think not that I am diverting from the horrors of
Our Heroine, Rachel, all will become Clear upon the reading of these modest
epistles, I pledge you.
Third of May
MR. ROBERT Q. LAWRENCE LAWMINSHIRE
I would very much like to arrange a meeting between you and myself. It
would seem that my niece has been abducted from my estate, Pernicious Place; I
am aware of the accusations which will be lobbied at my person and my family,
so I would trust you to keep this as quiet as possible. The incidents of
the case are very clear - my niece descended into the depths of my estate, in
pursuit of her One and Only Friend, who currently resides in an urn, who had
been abducted by one, or possibly all five, of my Mentally-Unhinged Wives.
It seems, however, a sixth person was involved, as all of my Wives are
accounted for, but pieces of what may or may not possibly be Army paraphernalia
were discovered in the inky blackness of the basement, as well as near the
front entrance. To have my niece abducted, as it were, from directly
underneath my nose (my chambers are on the second floor), is preposterous; I
should have been informed of this abduction before it took place,
it has spoiled all of the niceties and enjoyments which I had planned for the
next few weeks. I should very much like to speak with someone
well-informed in the Law over this, which is why I have contacted you.
Yours Humbly,
U. AGHASTSHIRE
Post Script - Perhaps you could inform the authorities about this matter, as I
am rather busy at the moment, trying to re-arrange some funeral-interment for
my niece’s Friend.
~*~
Third of May
MR.
KENNINGWORTH
BRINWITH HERRING DOWNS
According to our records, it appears that I gave to your daughter the Funeral
Urn of one Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, as your
daughter Rachel was the One and Only Friend of Miss Goodlyton.
Recently, at Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium - A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs, we were visited by
Miss Goodlyton’s only surviving Aunt. Her Aunt
requested both the urn, and its contents, to be returned to her. I again
await your Most Expedient of Replies.
AUGUSTE MERIWETHER PLUTDEVISE, Headmaster of Saint Bruce's Orphanagearium
- A Moste Suitable Home for Young Waifs
~*~
Fourth of May
MR.
MOONATHAN
SMITHMOON
THE MOON
I seemed to have misplaced my favorite hat; are you aware of its location?
LUNNOTAR EDMOONSON
~*~
Sixth of May
MR.
U.
AGHASTSHIRE
PERNICIOUS PLACE
We are pleased to inform you that we were in
possession of the article which you requested, which accompanies this letter;
though from your description, the carrying case must have been the work of some
caring relation or friend, and as such, we are not aware of the precise
construction desired.
MESSER. J. ALOYSIOUS, FUNERARY
~*~
Seventh of May
MR.
LUNNOTAR
EDMOONSON
MOONOAKS GROVE
I have not seen Your Moonship’s hat recently, I hope
it is located posthaste. I find myself, though, that I never cared for
that hat especially, as it has a tendency to ruin finely coiffed hair.
MOONATHAN SMITHMOON
~*~
Seventh of May
MR.
U.
AGHASTSHIRE
PERNICIOUS PLACE
I am just sending you this short missive, as to an inquiry about the recent
events surrounding the apparent abduction of your niece: Are you aware of
how many persons actually abducted her, and the state
of her Chastity beforehand? A great deal of our laws
revolve around these two points.
Yours, &tc....
ROBERT Q. LAWRENCE
Post Script - Did the authorities ever arrive, and do you have the facilities
to take care of five insane wives? Not many men would.
~*~
Eight of May
MR.
U.
AGHASTSHIRE
PERNICIOUS PLACE
Dearest brother-in-law, I am writing to you to make certain that everything is
going splendidly at your spacious estate, Pernicious Place, with our daughter,
Rachel. I was absolutely certain that nothing could go wrong with the
Locomotive Express, yet I have received word that they were accidentally
derailed, and spent some time on the Moon. I hear that none of the
persons which were on the Locomotive Express were not Harmed, yet I would still
appreciate hearing news of Our Daughter’s Safety. I am also curious as to
why she has not yet written to us, as I spend my moments Waiting
for the post to arrive. Please inform my daughter I am eagerly awaiting a
letter -- I would send one to her myself, but she promised to write me first,
as such I could not possibly write beforehand. Also, inform her that our
Postmaster has mysteriously disappeared; without Leadership the Post has been
befuddled lately, so her missive might have been lost.
Expectantly yours,
MRS. KENNINGWORTH
~*~
Ninth of May
MR.
MOONATHAN
SMITHMOON
THE MOON
Moonathan, how in the moon would you know my favorite
hat ruins finely coiffed hair, unless you yourself have been wearing it?
LUNNOTAR EDMOONSON
~*~
Tenth of May
MR.
ROBERT Q.
LAWRENCE
LAWMINSHIRE
Yes, the authorities did arrive; they have determined there were two involved
-- a driver, and the actual abductor. As to the state of my niece’s
chastity, seeing as how she was not with issue when she arrived (she was not
sent to me for that reason); I must assume she was as Chaste as the day she was
born when she was abducted. By now, though, I of course cannot make such
a statement -- she was abducted into a carriage after all.
Yours,
U. AGHASTSHIRE
Post Script - Seeing as how my Manor was once an Insane Asylum, I am
technically allowed to house as many insane-persons as I am able.
~*~
Tenth of May
A.
M. PLUTDEVISE, H. of S. B's O.- A M. S. H. for
Y.
W.
S. B’s O.
Miss Goodlyton is currently sightseeing with my
daughter, and is unavailable to be met by any sort of relation. I suggest
you inform her aunt that after her niece’s ashes have returned, she may make
arrangements to have an audience with the deceased.
Sincerely,
MR. KENNINGWORTH
~*~
Eleventh of May
MR.
LUNNOTAR EDMOONSON
MOONOAKS GROVE
It is entirely possible that I might have been carrying your Moonship’s favorite hat sometime last week, and it might
have accidentally fallen on my head, ruining my finely coiffed hair, during the
incident with that Locomotive Express. That was an exciting day; I snuck on board the Locomotive Express for a few
moments, to look at the alien Earth-persons and their bizarre Technologies.
Quite riveting. I had many fine
compliments on my hair once I had rearranged it. Your Moonship
has many other hats, and I am certain that you look far better in the hats that
do not ruin finely-coiffed hairs.
MOONATHAN SMITHMOON
~*~
Eleventh of May
MR. & MRS.
KENNINGWORTH
BRINWORTH HERRING DOWNS
Accompanying this letter are the remains of Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, recently placed in a larger-sized urn; her
previous urn broke under mysterious circumstances, and was mixed in with a
burnt Psalter. Miss Goodlyton’s ashes, her
prior urn, and the ashes from the book were placed in a medium-sized urn, also
of a blue color. No carrying arrangements are currently available.
Miss Goodlyton will spend the rest of her death
interred with Holy Scriptures, rather like some sort of nun or anchoress; how
lucky she must be.
Since your daughters abduction from the basement of my
Manor House, I see very little reason to keep her friend here, as unsuitable
for marriage as she is. I hope she finds more joy in your household,
since she has spent more time there, and knows your family better than myself.
A bit of good news, my lawyer has informed me that I am in no way responsible
for your daughter’s disappearance. Best of luck in
getting her back.
Yours,
U. AGHASTSHIRE
~*~
Twelfth of May
MR.
JONATHAN
MARCHINGTON
RAMSHACKLETON
Our records state that you still owe our fine
moustache company, Finest Moustache Company, for the purchase of one (1)
red-colored Moustache. We hope to settle your account soon, though we
cannot accept French Francs in payment for your purchase; however, any other
sort of currency, or even bartering will do.
FINEST MOUSTACHE COMPANY
~*~
Thirteenth of May
MR.
U.
AGHASTSHIRE
PERNICIOUS PLACE
What the H___ do you mean our daughter was abducted from your house?
Angrily,
MR. KENNINGWORTH
~*~
Thirteenth of May
MR. MOONATHAN
SMITHMOON
THE MOON
Moonathan, are you telling me that you left my
favorite hat on the Locomotive Express? Why, by this point, it has
assuredly gone to the Earth, our Celestial Sister; now, both my favorite hat,
and my heart have left me for that glistening orb! O, the sorrow, the
pain which I now feel! I cannot continue moving my pen! O, my heart
is pained, even though I may no longer be in possession of it!
Woefully,
LUNNOTAR EDMOONSON
~*~
Fifteenth of May
FINEST MOUSTACHE
COMPANY
FACIALVILLE
Enclosed is the slightly-used Moustache which I purchased from you. It did
not match the color of my hair, and thusly, caused me to look like a person of
low-breeding. My lawyers, which I assure you are many and quite
voracious, inform me that such an error on your part is slander; consider
yourselves lucky that I do not take you to a Court of Law.
JONATHAN MARCHINGTON
~*~
Sixteenth of May
MR.
KENNINGWORTH
BRINWITH HERRING DOWNS
I should have thought that all would have been made perfectly clear, especially
since the arrival at your household of the only person to witness the
abduction, aside from your daughter and her abductor and possibly any number of
my insane wives, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton.
Your daughter was abducted into a carriage by someone masquerading as one
of my wives, the authorities have yet to track her down; there is little hope
of finding her, as I am certain they took pains to elude all forms of
circumspection. If memory serves, you are in possession of eleven other
children -- comfort yourself in them, as there is no hope left for your
firstborn. Even if Rachel were to be found, the best you could hope for
would be to take care of her child after she passes away.
Yours,
U. AGHASTSHIRE
~*~
Seventeenth of May
MLLE. LA
RUE
NEW YORK
Bonjour! Just writing a short missive to inform you about our
newest acquisition; I cannot thank you enough for sending her to us.
Since she is, of course, expecting, she is not available for certain of
our services; however, she makes a fine maid, and we have given her the post of
book-reader, for those of our gentlemen customers who enjoy that sort of thing.
She spends a fair amount of her time weeping, which is a bit of an issue,
but in her sorrow she scarcely eats, so we are saving money on her this way; it
all evens out in the end. We have, of course taken pains to elude all
forms of circumspection in this matter. Work is going well; I hope you
are keeping up with our National ways!
Vive la France!
MADAME HARLOTTE
~*~
Seventeenth of May
MR. LUNNOTAR EDMOONSON
MOONOAKS GROVE
Sir, I hope that you have not again went off to weep by yourself, the last time
Your Moonship was gone for two days and things about Moonoaks Grove simply fell apart. I especially hope
that you have not gone off to try and go to the Earth, in a brash attempt to
retrieve either your hat, or your heart; I hear that it takes just over eight
months to traverse the Æther, the only means possible
is terribly dangerous and will quite likely result in death, using only our
Lunar Technologies. I can only imagine how hectic things would become if
you were to do this; hardly any time would be left at all for the needed and
necessary hair-treatments which the curious elements of the moon impose upon
us.
MOONATHAN SMITHMOON
~*~
Nineteenth of May
MR.
KENNINGWORTH
BRINWITH HERRING DOWNS
I have a piece of good news for you, for this very day I have received a
letter-missive for Miss Goodlyton which appears to be
in your daughter’s hand. I send it unread, not desiring to pry into a
young woman’s correspondence needlessly. Apparently, all hope is not yet
lost, and she may yet be found.
U. AGHASTSHIRE
~Enclosed Letter-Missive~
Twelfth of May
MISS LAMENTATION MANNERLY
GOODLYTON PERNICOUS PLACE
All hope is lost, and there is no hope of me ever
being found! I cannot write to you to tell you where I am, I simply write
to you to inform you that there is no chance of me ever being able to return to
my loving family, as my condition is unforgivable, even by the love of adoring
parents. I apologize for not being a better friend,
and I hope you have found a new urn to reside in. Do not attempt to search
for me, for I am certain they took pains to elude all forms of circumspection!
RACHEL KENNINGWORTH
Post Script – I am extremely sorry for not sending this out earlier, but I fainted several times in the effort to write it; please excuse any blots of ink, where the pen fell out of my hand, or the many, many spots where my sorrowful tears marred it.
Chapter Fourteen: Terrors within the Closeted Closet
"Oh," the pitiful Rachel wept to herself, "If only, if only I had heeded the sage and sound advice of my parents, I would not have fallen into such a downtrodden and wretched state as this." A lone tear slipped down her sunken cheeks, and fell to the floor beneath. She had been placed in Madame Harlotte's House of Ill Repute, but because of her peculiar condition, was unable to do certain jobs -- for this Rachel thanked her Father In Heaven Above, for her one Sin that like a Canker growing in her womb kept her from committing Others. "I feel tender feelings stirring in my bosom for that which resides in me, against all rational thought, which states that I must despise this swelling."
A sudden sound grabbed the attention of Rachel, forcing her to snap out of her despair, if only for a moment -- it was the sound of a door opening! Oh, if only behind that door was some kind and caring creature, whom Rachel could confide in! This time, as in all others, it was not a reassuring face, but instead, another call to her duties. "Rachel," came the thin voice of one of the other women who worked there, "Mr. B______ has come in for his afternoon session."
Rachel dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and stood up from the place on the floor where she had been weeping. "I shall be there in just a moment," Rachel called. Of all of her duties, this was perhaps the worst -- Rachel would scrub any pot, would clean any scullery, and in fact would rather clean the stables, even considering her delicate Constitution and her Condition, than to further the true purpose and aims of a place such as this!
With a hesitant footfall, she passed through the hallways, more like a Spektyr than a Creature of Flesh, so pale had she become of late. When Rachel thought of the task set before her, it seemed as if her very heart was breaking anew; never before had she conceived that such a previously pleasant experience could be so turned by Sin -- but Rachel reflected that, truly all sins were but Perversions of the Divine Will, a taking of something of Good and of Value and using it in a manner Against the Deity's intended purpose. Rachel herself felt this -- she knew that the coming of a child was to be a thing of Joy, but in her case, it brought nothing but a world of Dread and Woe.
Mr. B______ was waiting in the sitting room, much as he had always done, and there, resting on the table, was the object of his vice. Rachel could scarce place her eyes upon it's form -- to think, that she once found delight in this object, but now, oh but now, how it brought nothing but utter terror to her girlish heart! To sink so low, oh Gentle Reader! Rachel, with trembling hands picked up the object, and noticed a look which terrified her in Mr. B______'s eyes, a look of yearning, desire for what was to come next. Oh, Dear Gentle Reader! No such young maid should be forced into such a circumstance! Guard your Heart and your Morality and your Virtue, lest the same happen to you! Oh, terrors! "So, shall we begin?" asked Mr. B______, hungrily.
Rachel, barely able to compose herself, merely nodded and asked, "shall I continue, then, where I left off in Foxe's Booke of Martyrs?" Mr. B______ merely nodded, and leaned back in his chair, as Rachel read to him from that book -- a book of moral instruction, and examples of good Christian men and women who gave up their lives for their faith. Oh, how Rachel envied them; as she read to Mr. B______ about young maidens who, rather than give up their Chastity, died, she considered her own experience and realized that she could never be like them -- she hadn't been strong enough, or wise, or faithful enough to know that she should have killed herself; perhaps then she could have been included in a future edition: no such hope existed now. Even the pleasure of reading had now been taken away from her, now that she was forced to read to gentlemen -- gentlemen whom she did not know, and whom her parents certainly did not know -- against her own will.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Mr. B______ finally fell asleep (much as he always did), and Rachel could finally stop reading. Again, she began her weeping, softly now, so as not to awaken Mr. B______, or he would expect to be read to until his allotted time was over. A shudder of revulsion wracked her poor frame. Oh, if she only had her One and Only Friend Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton with her for consolation! Lamentation, who had Given of herself to Save Rachel, who even know, unbeknownst to Rachel, was threatened by outside forces of her own!
Dear Reader, consider this wretched scene! Our Heroine, trapped against her own will, forced to provide Services which no Chaste Young Maid should ever have to Perform! Not only this, but now her place of residence, oh Reader, is naught but a place for the Dredges of Society, Ruin and Despair lay the board at such a house, setting a place for their Best of Friends, who is Death himself! While Rachel did not yet live in squalor, for the French manner had been garishly applied to the entire house and it's inhabitants, at it's core, there was naught but moral decay to be found! Though lavishly done, all of the fine adornments in the world cannot make a manure-pile lovely!
From far off, a clock struck the hour, and Rachel's form eased ever so slightly -- Mr. B______'s allotted time was done, and no longer did she have to fear his awakening. Putting her hand forth, then drawing it back quickly, she drew it to her lips, and ever so softly whispered, "it is time for you to awaken, sir." He did not stir, so more boldly, she repeated, "Sir? It is time for you to awaken." Still, he did not move; Rachel grew Frightful, for typically he woke up very easily, more than once he had been awoken by her soft, almost inaudible sobbing.
Her hand shaking as the aspen leaf in a gale, she touched his shoulder gently, but to no avail – he did not awaken. Now the Terror seized her fully. She shrieked, "Mr B______, awaken yourself! Sir, I beg of you, rouse yourself from your slumbers!" The patron of that House of Immorality still did not stir, but instead was as motionless as he had been for the past few moments.. Her hand darted to his forehead – cool to the touch, far too cool! In his moment of Literary Passion, he had expired! Another shriek found its way out of Rachel’s mouth and into the perfumed air, resounding throughout the establishment. Shrieks were not out of the ordinary at such a place, but such a bloodcurdling shriek of Utter Despair had not been heard for over a month; the residents of the establishment managed to rouse themselves from their languid activities enough to wonder exactly who it was this time, before they returned to their sinful acts.
Rachel darted from the room, knowing not where it was that she was headed, and she burst into another room – this one being a common room where hair ornaments and facial-treatments were applied. Within were two or three of the workers, adorning themselves in a way which they thought Attractive, but which any man of character will find Vile and Repugnant. Rachel, barely able to breathe, managed to gasp, "Oh, he has died while I was with him, he has died and now I am a murderess!"
One of the girls looked over at Rachel, "So, I suppose that wretched shrieking was you, then?"
"Yes," she gasped, "it was I, but what am I to do now? He has died, and I know not what to do!"
The other girls in the room giggled amongst each other. A voice from the back of the room admonished, "and what are you to think of it? So, he died; patrons are constantly dying from One Thing or Another," there was another chorus of laughter at this, "what should it bother you except that now there is one less source of income? He wasn’t the sire of your unborn babe, was he?"
Rachel was almost knocked over by the appalling quality of this statement. "How could you even ask such a question, or treat the death of a human being so lightly?" Rachel felt the warm drops of humanity falling down her sunken cheek, "I am not certain who has sired my child," a Knowing look passed between the other women, "but to treat the death of any person, no matter how depraved, of being no consequence is almost unforgivable. Who is to say, this man might have had a wife, or children, who are now forever without a father, and must now live off of the kindness of relations, if because of his lecherous passions he has spent all of their money, leaving his wife and children destitute! I have had a hand in his demise! Already I find it Difficult to Continue with life each day, and now I must awaken each morning knowing that I have helped to kill a man! Oh!" and here, Dear Reader, she broke down into tears again, unable to constrain her Emotions.
The other women looked at each other, then back at Rachel; they were accustomed to her frequent times of Sorrow, and knew that the only thing for her was to simply give her a chance to cleanse her Sorrows by her Tears. One of them pushed her out into the hallway, and shut the door behind her, not wishing to have her Weeping in their boudoir.
Rachel, alone, confused, her eyes filled with her own tears, stumbled down the hallway blindly, not knowing or caring where she was going. Eventually she stopped her wandering, and threw herself to the ground, her face flush and her organs of sight moistened. After the course of an hour, her Torment lessened, and she regained some of her Senses. She looked around, and realized that she was in a suite of rooms which she had never seen before, not even when she functioned as a maid had she seen this room. The furnishings were of the highest quality, though there was something ever so wrong with them. A sudden realization flashed through her mind – there was but one set of rooms which she had been forbidden to enter! Oh, terrors! Rachel was inside the private chambers of Madam Harlotte! Rachel now recognized the lines of the furniture to be French in nature, thus accounting for their unnaturalness. She had to escape these chambers, for if she were found here, she would surely be thrown out; in her condition, this would surely mean her death.
Rachel picked herself up off of the floor, and hastened to the door, when lo! Her delicate ear heard the footfall of at least two personages approaching this door from down the hallway! She dared not escape the room with someone approaching, so she glanced about her for a place where she would not be observed if someone came into the room. Woe! There was none to be found! Because of the curious construction of the French furniture, there was no available hiding place for Rachel! She knew what she had to do, even though the very thought of it once again sent Terrors through her frame: she must hide herself in Madam’s closet! Her most private of chambers!
The footsteps drew closer, and Rachel felt that no more time could be spent in hesitation! She quickly, yet silently, crossed over to where the closet was, opened the door, and stepped inside of its dark interior.
Not a moment too soon, for Rachel heard the doorknob turn – how amazingly thin this door appeared to be, for it transmitted sounds with harmonic perfection – and the footfall grew more clear. It was apparent that two people had entered the room; Rachel’s greatest Fears began to materialize themselves in her head – what if she were found out by these two unknowns? She soon found that her greatest fears could become even greater when she heard the voices begin to speak.
"So, you say that a girl fitting this description is in your employ at this establishment?" asked a masculine voice that Rachel could not quite place.
"Oh, oui, I assure you, monsieur, that she is within our keeping. According to my ledger, she was scheduled to read to monsieur B______ this afternoon," responded Madam Harlotte.
Rachel realized that they were speaking about her, but what foul purpose could Madam Harlotte have for being in intercourse with this man? Rachel prayed to He Who Died For Her Sins that she might escape whatever fate was about to befall her.
"Perfect," replied the male voice, "and since we’re in your private chambers, I can remove this slight Veil of Fiction which I had put on to elude all forms of circumspection." Here, there was the sound of someone moving a thin sheet of material, and with it, Rachel’s fears multiplied themselves tenfold. "It’s good to take that thing off," said the clear voice of Joseph Marchington, possible army-man. Rachel almost fainted, but her curiosity got the better of her, because now she had to know why he was here, and if there was any hope for her to escape it. Oh Reader, if only she knew!
"There is one tiny thing I should mention, monsieur," continued Madam Harlotte, "Miss Kenningworth is, how do you English say it, expecting a child."
"What?" gasped Marchington. "Are you certain of this?"
"Oh, monsieur, I assure you, I am well trained in these matters, and by this point, it is obvious to any who care to look. She has been in my employ for several months."
"You mean to tell me that since she came here, she’s gotten herself…" Marchington began, irate.
"Oh, monsieur Marchington, mais non! Mademoiselle Kenningworth came to me in this state," she interjected. "Do you think a girl such as herself would work in a place such as this unless she were forced to by circumstances outside of her own control? Oh, I find the English-speaking to be so droll!" Here Madam giggled to herself.
There was a distinct pause in the conversation, Rachel wished that she could view this scene that was but inches from her; this was impossible, for to open the door even the tiniest bit would be to invite her own destruction.
"There are ways," Marchington began, and then suddenly he hushed again. "Lo, I hear the footfall of someone coming down the hall towards us," he said incredulously. "You promised me that we would not be disturbed."
Madam Harlotte’s voice responded with a sigh, "I had forgotten, monsieur, it is the hour for my chambermaid to come to clean and arrange my toilette. But, come, we may continue our conversation further inside of my closet. This way my maid might have a chance to set things aright in here, but we will still have our privacy."
The closet! Horrors piled upon horrors! This was where Rachel herself was hiding, and she knew that if she were to be found hiding, and eavesdropping inside of Madam Harlotte’s private chambers, all would be lost! She would be handed over to Marchington! She would rather die than be alone with that man again! Oh, grevious Fortune! All was lost, all! Rachel cast her gaze about her in the dim half light. She tried not to take in any of the details (to do so would be paramount to a sin!) but tried with all of her might to find any other place in which to hide; sadly, much like the other room, this was also furnished in the French style, and there were no places where she could secret herself away. This would be her undoing! If only she had listened to the sound and prudent advice of her mother and father, none of this would have occurred!
Just when all seemed hopeless, she noticed, hidden in a corner was another door! How could such a thing be possible? The entire point of a closet was that there was but one means of egress! How could private chambers be private if one was constantly worrying that someone might pass through them from one chamber to the next? Rachel, knowing not what she might find, knew there was but one thing which she could do to save herself, and that was to open this newfound door, and step into it, praying that whatever lay on the other side provided a place for her to hide herself away! Into the other door she hurried, and not a moment too soon, for in came Marchington and Harlotte not moments after she managed to silently shut the door.
Rachel, trembling, cast her gaze around her, and discovered that she was in a yet more private chamber! Rachel had managed to find a closet within a closet! Such things seemed almost incomprehensible to her, but she realized that but a short year ago, she never could have imagined the terrible circumstances which now made up her everyday life! Reader! Hearken to what this Tale of Literature has to say to you! Do not let yourself be placed in such a situation, Gentle Reader!
"Oh," continued Madam Harlotte, "now that we cannot possibly be overheard, as I had my closet especially created so that sounds cannot be transmitted out of it, but only into it – ideal for eavesdropping I assure you – I feel that there is something I can share with you. We seem to be similar sorts of people, Monsieur Marchington. The reason why I cannot find Rachel for you at the moment is, quite likely, she is off crying to herself because the man whom she was reading for died in the middle of his session. She will turn up later, she always does. It is a pity that you came at the moment which I had chosen to kill Mr. B_______."
Here, dear reader, Rachel almost let out a cry of shock! For Rachel had though herself the murderess, but now she found out that it was Madam Harlotte who had murdered Mr. B______! What other startling information would she glean while hiding inside of the closeted closet? Rachel bent her ear closer to the door, and listened intently.
"Why did you kill off one of your patrons?" asked Marchington. "It seems, if I may say so, counterproductive. You have lost a source of income, have you not?"
Madam laughed. "Oh, but I have omitted one petit detail, monsieur. In doing so, I have managed to steal thousands from him! In one day I have made more from him than I could in a decade!" Here she laughed cruely, "leaving his wife and children to the poorhouse!"
Marchington joined in with her, his harsh laughter joining in with her own, making Rachel tremble, and slowly fall to her knees. She was employed by a murderess, and what was worse, the man who was constantly attempting to abduct her approved of it! Silent tears again coursed down her face.
"Tell me, my dear Madam, how did you manage to murder him without my dear Rachel being aware of it?"
She laughed coquettishly, "Oh, monsieur, it was but too simple. Mr. B______ always partook of a petit cordial before his accustomed leisure-time, I merely allowed my hand to permit a few drops of a poison to slip into his boisson. In less than an hour, he has slipped away into death, and I find myself several thousand plus rich."
"I do so enjoy living the sort of life that you and I enjoy," said Marchington. "People speak of the evils of vices; the only reason they say so is because they have not tasted their delightful pleasures."
"Oh, oui monsieur, I agree with you wholeheartedly. And to think, had I listened to the advice of my mother, I might have wasted my life away with virtuous living and marriage!"
"I agree fully," Marchington said. "Had I listened to the sage advice of my father, I would have spent my life with but one woman as my lawfully wedded wife, and I would have come into possession of a small estate. I have found, however, it is so much more fulfilling to just take those things by force."
Rachel silently wept to herself, knowing that for her, all was lost, and knowing that, had she listened to the advice of her parents, and had not spoken to Marchington on that fateful day, she wouldn’t be hiding inside of this closeted closet, listening in as two villains discussed her fate.
"So, what would you be willing to part with in exchange for Rachel?" Marchington asked. "I am willing to work around her peculiar condition; there are ways of dealing with it." A knowing look passed between the two that Rachel was not privy to. "Surely she cannot be all that important to you, her tendency to faint must be a hindrance in your line of work."
"There is that, yes," responded Madam, "but come, I no longer hear my chambermaid, let us discuss monetary issues while I have my accounts book."
"This is one acquisition with which I am certain I shall be quite pleased indeed," said Marchington, as Rachel heard the door shut in the outer closet.
Purchased! Like a tawdry piece of merchandise! To belong to Marchington! And what was he planning on doing to deal with her unborn babe! Rachel fell in a senseless heap within the closeted closet – the strain and the stress was far too much for her to bear alone, and she welcomed the oncoming darkness.
Chapter Fifteen: Our Heroine's Most Distressing Incident with Murder
Rachel awoke from her stupor an undisclosed length of time later, stiff and tired. She realized that her fate was suspended over a Yawning Chasm of Woe - if she left the closeted closet, she would eventually be found by Marchington - Rachel knew she could never love him, for she had given her Heart to Another - yet if she remained within Madam's Most Personal Chambers, she would eventually be found out - the censure which would follow would be harsh indeed. "Oh, that my life could be so wretched!" she exclaimed. "I know that once discovered, I will be turned over to Marchington, it is not in my power to prevent our meeting, yet perhaps I may be able to Persuade him to Abandon this course of action - I cannot think of any reason why a man might desire me in my current condition, no matter how depraved he may be." Oh Reader! If only Our Heroine were aware of the Depths to which a Man may Sink!
Timorously, Rachel placed her ear upon the door, and heard naught in either of the two chambers without. Quickly, so as to prevent her being seen, she dashed from the innermost closet to the next, and finally, into the less-personal chambers of Madam Harlotte. Again, she placed her delicate ear to the door leading into the hall, and hearing no-one, she exited the room, relieving herself from Madam Harlotte's future censure, but not the rendezvous, for there is no suitable term in any moral tongue to describe such a meeting as what would befall Our Poor Rachel! The Terrors of Marchington await her!
Rachel walked towards the front salons, an air of Preternatural Sorrow suffusing through her limbs and countenance. "Why," exclaimed one of the other Women of the House as Rachel entered, "here she is at last! Where have you been these past two hours? We had begun to think that perhaps, you had attempted to venture outside, to escape the fate of all who toil here -- yet such a choice would be Foolhardy and Contrary to anyone's Desire for Life. All have been looking for you; there is a man who wishes for your Express Company, though why I do not know; I suppose you were having another one of your Episodes?"
Rachel meekly nodded, and in a supremely quiet voice murmured, "soon after I discovered Mr. B______ to be dead, I found my powers of sense and animation taken from me -- I know not how long I have been away, only that for a few moments, at least, I was allowed, for a brief respite, to forget my sorrows; it is, perhaps, the one Blessing still afforded to me."
The woman laughed, "Why, but you are lodged in one of the Finest Houses of its kind in this, or any land! In your condition, surely, this is a blessing far greater than your frequent and lengthy periods of senselessness."
"What joy do material comforts bring to one who is destined to depart from this frail world? My doom draws nigh, and I know not at what time or when -- for it shall come to me as a Thief in the Night; little difference does it make when I die -- better would it be for me to reside in a rustic and poor lodging, populated by some honest and hardworking peasants, than to live a life of opulence and debauchery. I pray that, much like Rahab, your namesake, you too may come to realize this."
Rahab, for that was her name, laughed again. "Oh, I have not heard such talk since I abandoned both Church and Faith! There is an endearing quality about you when you exhort the charms of Religion; almost as if you truly believed!"
Rachel wept a solitary tear for the girl before her, who had been cast to far into the darkness, she could no longer imagine the light. Her sorrow was not to last, however, for Madam Harlotte and the devious Marchington, at this moment, entered the chamber.
"Aha!" Madam Harlotte exclaimed, "Here you are! Where have you been all day long? This man has been waiting for you for almost two hours -- two hours for which I cannot exact payment!"
"I am afraid that, after the untimely death of Mr. B______," here Madam Harlotte and Marchington laughed, "I found myself in a state of unconciousness; I have only recently regained my awakened state, and I was unaware of any who were searching for me during this time."
Marchington eyed Rachel, a change had been wrought in her form, she was no longer in appearance the young maid she had been the last time he had set his organs of sight upon her. It repulsed him, this change, and yet he was not quite willing to give up on her so easily. To such a man, there are always options unthought-of by moral citizens. "My One, my Love!" he exclaimed, "I have traveled so far and so long to find you -- surely you must be happy to see a familiar face in these distant haunts!"
Rachel stifled a sob.
"Madam Harlotte, would it be possible for Rachel and myself to have a private audience? For a fee, of course," he added with a flourish.
"Of course, such things, even parlance are not free here. You may escort Monsieur Marchington to le salon which you had earlier with Monsieur B______. We shall bill you for 'Intimate Conversation,' I trust you shall limit yourself to such. If not, Monsieur will of course pay toute-suite." Madam shone with pleasure; investing in Mademoiselle Kenningworth looked as if it would pay off well indeed.
Rachel, downtrodden and dissolute, led Marchington to the parlor. Oh! such pains which she felt! Trembling, her hand turned the doorknob to the accursèd room; never before had she destested it as much as she did now. There was no trace of Mr. B______ in the room once they had entered -- a small comfort.
"Now, where shall we begin?" asked Marchington with the air of a dandy.
"Oh sir!" Rachel cried, falling to her knees and clasping her hands together, her eyes gazing upwards, much as one might imagine a Martyr in fervent prayer moments before their death, pleading before her captor. "Abandon this pursuit! Leave me here to molder and pass away, I cannot stand such proceedings! From the moment I first spoke to you, not heeding my parent's Kind Advice, my life has become a Succession of Terrors! Please, if you have the Smallest Portion of Sympathy within you, quit me, and lay no more of these terrors, like burning coals, upon my head!" The rivulets which coursed down her face threatened to cover the world o'er with a Flood of Sentiment.
"Ha!" exclaimed Marchington, "I shall not yet abandon this course of action. I have a proposal to make to you," he said, holding up a phial, the contents of which swirled menacingly in it's glassy prison, as if threatening to escape from it's crystalline cell. "While traveling abroad, quite possibly as a member of a regiment, I found myself in the curious country of the Spaniards; while there, I met a curious fellow, a monk, well versed in the curious study of herbology. He told me of the many and various properties which plants native to the area could produce, if only one knew how. Of all the queer extracts and potions he shewed me, this one had, perhaps, the most interesting ability of all." He waited, poised on the word, as if expecting something yet to come.
The strain was too much to bear. "What foul property lies contained within that phial? In imbibing it, shall my Will and Affection be turned to your own? A love philter, so crafted that you may Artificially sow Adoration in my heart?"
Marchington laughed, "Ha ha! Nothing so simple as that, my dear. This potion does not cause things to grow unnaturally, but instead it causes them to wither away."
"The cessation of my Dread of you would not Endear me to yourself without True Affection and Sympathy," Rachel answered simply.
Marchington, as he was prone to do, laughed again. "You still do not ascertain what it is that I hold in my hand. This phial will affect you only indirectly."
"I do not understand," Rachel said, "what then is its purpose?"
"So innocent, even after such an extended stay in such a place!"
"Tell me!" she cried, "for I shall surely die of suspense if you do not! Torture me no longer with these vicious half-truths! The reality of that potion cannot be as wretched as this!" Oh Reader, if only she knew the truth!
"It is," he answered simply, "an Abortive potion."
Rachel gasped, and pressed her hand to her rapidly beating heart. "You cannot mean what you say, sir!" she managed to weep.
"Oh, but it is. Once taken, this infusion slowly weakens the unborn child in a woman's womb, and if the antidote is not taken by the eighth month, the babe will certainly be stillborn, with relatively little risk to the mother."
"You would have me cover the stain of one sin with an even larger one? You ask me to be rid of the proof of my unchaste nature by murdering the child within me? I have already destroyed my own life -- ask me not to destroy the life of the babe as well!"
"So, you refuse me, and you refuse my kind offer to rid you of the burden within you? You would rather waste your life away penned within these walls, forced to be in service to the whims of any man with enough copper in his pocket to pay for you, than to join with me as my personal companion, perhaps one day to be wed to me if I do not tire of you before then? Outside awaits a thousand places you have never been, and we, we could be the master and mistress of each group of fops, slatterns and papists that we came across! You would trade all that for a lump of flesh conceived in sin?"
"That you can say such a thing only makes my resolution stronger. For this 'lump of flesh' endears itself to me more with each passing day. Though my demise may be certain, killing the babe within me would only hasten my end -- for then I should die of a broken heart. I cannot support you in this most abominable act -- Heaven itself is set against its course -- I cannot permit it to be run, " she replied, her voice wavering with Raw Emotion.
"You defy my will, claiming it to be against that of Heaven!" Marchington spat angrily.
"Sir, when He Who For Our Sins Was Slain commands us to a life of Loving-kindness and Chaste Virtue, to slay a fellow-creature who is Free from Blame, save for the sins of his parents, yes! I cry out against it, being set against His Divine Will!" Rachel cried, "leave me here, and take these terrors with you, I abjure you!"
Marchington, his face suffused with carnelian, looked with scorn at the Young Girl, formerly of Promise, begging him to leave her. His long career in the army, perhaps, had possibly hardened his heart to such supplications. With his steely heart of flint, he looked upon her and felt no Pity -- only Rage. Rage and Indignation at this woman whom he had once looked upon as an Object of Lustful Desires -- but no more! Gone were the feelings of Attraction that had once immorally ensnared his heart -- now there was only Antipathy and Disgust! "Oh, I shall leave you," he spat out.
"Oh, sir," Rachel began, Hope welling in her heart, and the tiniest spark of Joy entering her visage, "there are not words enough to express my eternal gratitude!"
"Cease your infernal ministrations!" he yelled, slapping her across the face, and driving the spark far from his sight. "I shall leave you, but I shall not leave you the comforting reassurance of your yet unborn babe! If I cannot have you, then you cannot have your child!"
"Gracious Father and His Wing'd Seraphs!" Rachel cried out in terror, "save me from this fate!"
"Nothing can save you now," Marchington said, taking a stopper out from the phial. "You rob me of my pleasure, so I shall rob you of yours! There is no cure outside of Spain for you now! All Hope is Abandoned!"
"Oh please, sir!" she cried, clinging to his pantaloons, her cheeks flush and wet with fresh tears, "I shall go with you, I shall accompany you to whatever land you desire, and associate with whatever sort of persons you wish, but I beg of you, do not do this deed!"
Marchington spat in her face. "Once, perhaps, I might have considered that proposition, but now! Now you are as worthless to me as the dirt encrusted between Paulip's toes because I do not see to purchase him shoes! The only pleasure you can afford me now is the knowledge that neither you, nor your child, are long for this sphere!"
With that, Oh Reader! Oh Dear and Gentle Reader! Those of you with gentler sensibilities I must beg of you to abandon the rest of this chapter, much as Rachel's hopes are abandoned themselves! Turn, turn, turn from this and turn the page to the next chapter! Oh Reader! It is my job, as the Author of this Tale of Literature, to tell this story, but you are under no obligation to read it in its entirety! This is your Final Warning, and if you do not heed it, at least you should be seated while reading it, for surely your very senses will, much like Rachel's, be assaulted and you, too, may succumb!
Marchington forced her mouth open, and poured the
foul and maleficent concoction down her throat. As it's
heady essence overwhelmed her, she gasped, "I AM UNDONE! OH NOXIOUS
BEVERAGE!" and collapsed on the floor; Marchington
taking leave of her prostrate form, never to set eyes upon her again.
Chapter Sixteen: The Terrors of a Double Negative -- The
Terror that Is Not Not
Rachel awoke, her face awash with tears, for in her delirium, she had been sobbing.
She gasped, and then wailed. Even now, she could feel the abortive potion
coursing through her veins. "O, Vile Deed!" she cried, "Vile and
Foulest of Deeds! Fortuna’s Wheel turns ever on, and I have forced into the
mire o’er and o’er! The King becomes a Pauper, and I, I have become an Outcast!
O, if I could but abjure Heaven to undo this deed, yet I know that my prayers
shall go Unanswer’d, for who could listen to the
ravings of an Impure and Dying woman? Not even My Father Above could forgive me
now -- I am beyond Absolution!" The floor provided no comfort to her
prostrate form, but this was as Rachel desired it.
A glimmer of hope rang through her mind -- perhaps she was beyond hope, but her
child had committed no sins of its own; perhaps Rachel could atone, not for
herself, but for her yet-unborn-babe -- she might be shown Divine Mercy for the
child’s sake. "Oh! He Who Knit My Flesh Together! I acknowledge my Many
and Various Sins, and I beg You, not for my own life, but for the life of my child
-- spare the creature that my womb enfolds, for I shall make it my pledge to
save my child’s life, even at the cost of my own! This is my only plea, that I
might find the means to trade my own life for my child’s!"
Rachel stood up, weakly lifting herself from the ground, and looked about her.
She realized that the only earthly possessions which she owned were the
clothing on her back, her shoes, and a thin traveling cloak -- hardly
sufficient for traveling in winter, but it was all that she had for the past
few months; she had received no pay for her labours
of the last few months, and she must now find her way through a world of
strangers, with only her wits and the mercies of God to support her.
She found the cloak, put it on, and softly stole out of the door, never to see
this Den of Unchaste Intentions ever again, or its occupants, until the Day of
Judgment. The chill of the winter air filled poor Rachel’s bones, as the frost
underfoot numbed her feet. Before her stretched a lonely and dense forest -- one
which Rachel was certain stretched on for leagues, making her chance of ever
leaving them almost impossible. O! How piteous is this scene, Dear Reader? How
piteous and sorrowful! To see a Girl of such Promise taken Down
so low, and so far as to be in such a state! Oh Reader! My very heart pains to
tell you this Tale, this Tale of Literature, and yet, I must! I must tell it,
Dear Reader, for your own sake! Your future may as of
yet depend upon our Poor Rachel’s Fate, and it is my Duty, Dear Reader, to do my
absolute and utmost to see that you, too, are not brought to such a situation!
O!
The birds of the forest had flown to warmer climes, and the innocent forest
creatures were surely nestled in their dens during such a cold and bitter
season -- Rachel was certain that this forest was filled only with those
creatures whose ravenous cravings which drove them from their boreal slumber.
Rachel imagined terrifying predators, clawing at her and slaying her weak and
frail form -- wolves, bears, and tygers lying in wait
in the forest to rend her in twain -- not more than a morsel to satiate their
never-ending hunger that cannot be satiated! For a fleeting moment she thought
about returning to the false comforts of Madame Harlotte’s,
but then she remembered her Deep Promise which she had sworn to herself and to
the Deity -- to turn back and wait for her child’s death would make her a
murderess almost as much as Marchington was a
murderer! She marched on through the desolate forest -- surely, no one had ever
been so cold and so alone in a forest so filled with such predatory creatures
as she!
Finally, Rachel grew exceedingly weary, and through she knew the dangers of
resting in the cold and wintry air, she required a few moments of rest. Resting
up on a fallen log, she gazed into the frosty air and decided to pass away her
time in song - as soon as she was finished, she would go on with her journey.
Her mournful and plaintive voice rang out through the forest in these following
verses, of her own composition, which here I record:
How sad the course of Life,
Such pain and full of Strife!
When One by Evil is Seduce’d,
And the Bonds of Morality loos’d!
Speak not, yet children, I Abjure!
Without thy parents’ Approbation secure!
To men of possible Regimental Strain!
Lest ye, too, trod down my Path of Pain!
She would have continued in her sorrowful, mournful tones, except, in the
frigid air, she heard the petulant sound of one single tear falling upon the
snow with a crystalline sound -- the tear freezing on its trip through the
atmosphere, so as to find its rest upon the earth as a Pearl of Sympathy.
"Has some creature of the forest come to slay me for his sustenance, or
has my poor tale met with one of my own kin, and perhaps the bandit who is
about to slay me shall realize that the poor creature before him is already
expecting her end and he only hastens death on a little sooner?" Rachel
turned her gaze behind her, and found a man simply dressed, bearded, and
carrying an axe, its blade shining in the pale light. "Oh, strike me down
now, while I might still bear it -- let my rosy blood incarnadine the ivory
snow, yet let it be done quickly, for already, my resolve dissolves; this
cannot be borne and I cannot withstand much more -- I cannot bear to withstand
you! I place myself in God‘s hands -- may He pardon my innumerable sins and
forgive you for what you are about to do!"
"Oh my no," chuckled the man, "I’m nothing of the sort. I assure
you, most assuredly, I’m only an innocent woodcutter -- I am no common bandit.
I have not come to kill you in this lonely spot. I merely overheard your
singing, and I was drawn, as a moth to the flame, to this spot."
"I am sorry, sir," Rachel answered, "but I thought this wood was
populated only by cruel beasts and bandits, aside from Madame Harlotte’s. I was not expecting anyone else."
"Do I not seem like an honest woodcutter?" Look at my leathern
jerkin, a simple, rustic piece of clothing; gaze upon my axe, perfect for
hewing trees, not for the robbing of passing coaches; my beard, it also does
not speak of banditry -- for all know that bandits favor roguish moustaches,
not an honest beard such as I possess. I seem like an honest woodcutter -- I
must be one."
"How right you must be, sir," she answered, "forgive me my
incredulity. I was, until recently, forced to labour
as a maid against my will in a House filled with Women of Immoral Pleasure, so
I have learned to be wary. You appear to be an honest woodcutter, and so you
must be one."
Oh Reader! If only she knew!
"Come, I shall shelter you in my rustic abode for the evening, until the
gracious morn’, and I shall provide you with some of my wife’s old traveling
clothes, so that you do not freeze in this, the frigid, wintry air."
"Such kindness, sir, I can scarce believe! I have not met such a kind soul
as yours for so long -- since I departed from my Only
and Dearest Friend, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton.
You have rekindled my Faith in Humanity." If only, Dear Gentle Reader, she
knew how suddenly that flickering candle of Faith would be snuff’d
out!
Their walk through the snow-covered forest was not long, and soon they reached
a cabin, hewn out of logs, nestled in an idyllic grove -- such a quaint house,
such a charming arrangement! Poetry could not capture the sentimental emotions
invoked by such a scene! Painting could not convey the soft play of light
streaming from the windows -- beckoning to Our Heroine, "Enter! Enter!
Find refuge from the elements within! Warmth and Comfort await
all who enter these walls!" O, how alluring the Siren’s Call to those who
least expect it!
"I am certain that my wife will be happy to accommodate you tonight. Be
not too alarmed at her curious accent, for she does not hail from
English-speaking parts."
Here, Rachel gasped. "She is from the Continent, then?"
"Iberia," came his short reply.
"Is that," she said, her voice tremulous,
"a part of France?"
"Oh my no, a part of Spain," he answered her.
The mere mention of Spain caused Rachel to once more consider her predicament,
and the drop of humanity once again stole down her cheek. "How, sir, shall
I address her? Does she speak our native tongue, or is she unable to formulate
such a pleasant syllabry? and
how, sir, shall I address you? You have not yet told me your name, and neither
have I shared with you my own -- I am Rachel, my family name I am afraid I have
no claim to any further, having rejected the advice and sound counsel of my
parents. I am forever cut off from them and my inheritance."
The woodcutter wiped a lone tear from his eye (for who could not hear her tale
and not weep, does not even the crocodile have tears?) and said, "You may
call my wife and I Mrs. and Mr. Nottabandetti, her
name being too curious and foreign to pronounce, and it being improper for a
young girl, no matter what her condition, to call a man by her first
name."
"Why, Mr. Nottabandetti, that but furthers my
earnest belief that you are an honest woodcutter, and not a bloodthirsty
bandit," Rachel said.
"Yes, it does have that effect, does it not?" he said, grinning.
"Welcome to my humble lodgings," he said, throwing the door oopen and letting Rachel’s wandering eye and form observe
all. The cabin, though meager, was clean and inviting -- his wife was tending a
bubbling pot over the fire -- though her actions seemed pure enough, still, the
thought of a foreigner scared Rachel -- how could she trust someone who had
abandoned the land which engendered her, until Rachel realized that she,
herself, had acted in a similar fashion, abandoning her parents and a Life of
Promise. "My wife," continued Mr. Nottabandetti,
"cannot yet speak the English tongue, can you my dear?" he asked. His
wife shook her head; Mr. Nottabandetti explained,
"she can, however, understand basic English,
though she is, as of yet, unable to speak it."
Rachel sighed a small sigh of relief -- basic
comprehension of the English tongue was better than no understanding at all.
"Thank you, again, for your gracious benevolence." Rachel would have
continued in her praises, except here she sneezed. "I beg your pardon, it is
quite cold outside, and I am but scarcely protected from the winter’s chill --
I do hope that I have not contracted the ague."
Mrs. Nottabandetti, in an act of compassion
uncommonly seen by those from foreign lands, took from her bosom an handkerchief and handed it to Our Heroine. The Look that
she gave her, however, terrified Rachel in a yet previously unknown way.
Rachel took the handkerchief, and applied it to her eyes, and as Mr. Nottabandetti took his axe and placed it along the wall, she noticed that something seemed to be written upon a
corner of the piece of linen. Glancing down at it, Rachel read what was written
upon it:
Danger! This man is a bandit! He has captured me for ransom, and pretends that I am his wife. If you have no monetary value, he shall, in all likelihood, slay you while you sleep, for the perverse pleasure of it. Flee while you still can! Ruin and your Death awaits you!
Rachel
gasped, and turned around with alarum, for she realized that she had read this
aloud. Mr. Nottabandetti was looking at her with
perverse pleasure. "Mr. Nottabandetti!" she
cried, "is a bandit!"
Mr. Nottabandetti sprang up at her, grinning foully.
"It seems that someone will need to be punished for writing when I have
instructed her to act as if she were dumb and uneducated, but first, I have
other business to take care of!"
"Oh!" Rachel cried, weeping profusely, "I have ruined us both!
But, everything about you led me to believe that you were not a bandit! Your
clothing, your beard, your name, none of them speak of
banditry!"
"It is all a clever ruse!" he said wildly. "Behold!" From
the confines of his beard, he drew out two pistols, brandishing them fiercely.
"Pistols!" Our Heroine gasped.
Mr. Nottabandetti put the pistols into his belt, much
as a bandit might, and grabbed his beard and pulled. The sheaf of hair moved,
and it was soon apparent that his beard was not his own! Instead, as the beard
was removed, a large moustache was soon seen, waxed in such a manner as to add
to it’s alarming qualities.
He flourished it with a finger, reveling in it’s outlandish qualities.
"A moustache, of bandit-like aspect!" Rachel
screamed.
Further terrifying Rachel, Mr. Nottabandetti removed
his plain, unadorn’d jerkin, and turned it so that
the inside was now the outside, and the outside had taken the place of the
inner-lining. Bright, garish colors, unknown in either nature or good society,
assaulted Rachel’s eyes, with gaudy embroidery done along the edges, so as to
further create strain in the eyes of the one who gazed upon it.
"Vestments, of outlandish attribute!"
Finally, he asked "And my name?"
"What, what of your name!" Rachel bemoaned. "Unless you have
changed, or hidden a heretofore unseen, yet important portion of your name, I
cannot foresee how a name such as Nottabandetti could
possibly be in league with a man who is, in fact, a Bandit! I cannot stand
this; I am unable to even compose one further sentence of anguish and
disbelief, so strained am I now!"
"My full name is Knott Nottabandetti!"
"The double negative!" wailed Rachel, falling to the floor in a heap
of old clothing, certain doom, and pregnancy.
"Yes, all a clever ruse! Now, now I shall take your life, solely for the
debauched and perverse pleasure of it all!"
Here, Dearest and Gentlest of Readers, the bandit (for whatever claim to
civility he once had, he has cast away, and does not deserve to be called by a
name as a gentleman is), took one of the pistols that he had placed in his
belt, and aimed it at Our Heroine! How could she ever hope to escape? How could
she now fulfill the vow which she had made to He Who Died For
Her Sins, if she were to die upon the floor of a bandit’s cabin? How, Dear
Reader, could she possibly escape this most terrifying and horrible of
circumstances?
Just as Rachel was certain that her life was Forfeit,
and her Doom was upon her, there came a crashing sound, and in the doorway,
there was a man on top of a large horse, shouting something in a strange
language, unknown to Rachel (but thankfully, it did not sound of French). The
bandit whirled around, and let loose a shot, but it missed any sort of mark,
and did no damage. He tried to grab for his other weapon, but
the strange man upon the horse brandished a regal looking sword, and dove at
the evil bandit, skewering him thro’ the chest.
In the ensuing noise, commotion, falling of bodies, shrieks, bloodletting,
struggle, and banter of foreign words, Rachel’s poor heart and mind could no
longer take the strain. As she lay on the ground, the only thought that ran through
her head was that she would soon be killed by surely what could only be another
bandit, out for revenge on Mr. Knott Nottabandetti;
also, she hoped that she would not bled upon by the now-dead bandit while she
was still living -- then the darkness came.
Chapter Seventeen: A
Most Terrifying Encounter with Corsairs
Rachel
awoke, she knew not where she was, or in whose company she would find
herself. There was a darkness all about her, and it felt as if the world
around her moved – though it was not the sensation of a moving carriage, or
even the terrible power restrained only by Moral Force one encounters within
the Locomotive Express – no, this was at once more gentle, and yet larger,
larger by far than any other Transportive Force she
had yet felt. She arose stiffly, and pushed what she could only assume
were blankets, though they may have been especially comfortable sacks, or very
large garments, or perhaps towels of unusual quality and size, though in
reality they were blankets, and stood up.
Her legs could barely support her in her Advanced State, and she tottered over
to what she hoped was the door; although since it was wholly Dark in this
cavernous room, she could only guess at where the wall might be, or whether it
held a door; even if it did hold a door perhaps it would lead only to another
desolate closet, even though she fervently hoped that it was not a closet, but
instead a door leading to her escape from this dark chamber, the darkness
prevented her from ascertaining even these most basic of facts; though, to be
wholly fair, Rachel’s ability to determine the difference between a door
leading to a closet and a door leading to an exit, without ever having seen
what lay behind the door, having previously traveled through it or having been
told what lay behind it was not particularly good, even in well-lit
conditions. Sadly, what she had hoped was a door was merely a wall.
All hope of ever escaping this pitch black prison drained from her being, and
she cried, "I am Entombed! Never shall I
hope for egress from this vile pit! O! Like some sort of Medieval
Anchoress, I am forever to remain within this room, always and for all
eternity! There shall be no little window for me to dispense Spiritual
Counsel out of, no little window for me to receive Communion and
nourishment! O!"
Suddenly, a shaft of light appeared two feet to the left of her, and a doorway
appeared! A man stood in it, and looked at the tearstained Rachel in
confusing. "O! I am rescued from my Captivity! You are
my Moses and I, I am your Nation of Hebrews!
O!"
The man gazed at her and said something in the strange and unnatural tongue she
had heard spoken between the woman who was pretending to be Mrs. Nottabandetti, and the foreign bandit who surprised Our
Heroine and Knott Nottabandetti the bandit in the
previous chapter. "O!" she shrieked anew, "I am the
captive of bandits of a foreign persuasion! I am forever ruined! Ruined!" Here, Dear Reader, she fell to the floor
and once more began her wailing.
The door closed once more, furthering her Despair. Wanhope,
its icy hand gripped ‘round her heart, drove her to new depths of Hopelessness,
heretofore unseen previously in Human Emotion. As Rachel sobbed in a
pitiable heap upon the floor, let us consider her Situation, Dear Reader.
How could any girl live through such terrible Woes and Terrors as our Poor
Rachel? Oh, Reader. To think, she was at one time such a Young Girl
of Promise, and to be brought So Low by the Cruelties of the World! It
pains my heart, Dearest of Readers, to think but for a
moment of the wretched plight of Our Heroine. And yet, though my heart
begs me not to continue, for I share in the sufferings of our Poor Lost Child,
it is my duty to recount this Tale, this Tale of Literature for the Betterment
of Young Women everywhere! Heed not the Temptations of this World!
Cling tightly to your parents, the wellspring of your being! Speak not,
Oh Dearest of Dear Readers, to men who may or may not be in the army without first
seeking the permission, as God intended, of your parents, for they are older
and far wiser than you, for they have seen fit to allow you to read this novel,
one of the Highest marks of Wisdom imaginable. But before Our Heroine
plunges forever into Eternity, we must see Our Tale of Literature
through.
A few minutes later, though to Rachel it surely felt like days, the door swung
open a second time, except instead of the strange man, this time framed within it’s frame was the former Mrs. Nottabandetti! A rosy glow had suffused thro’ her
cheeks, and a dress of unimaginable beauty graced her form – it’s many folds
containing enough silk and damask to make a dozen lesser dresses; her fingers
shone with gold and precious stones, like stars fallen from the firmament,
while jewels sparkled upon her breast; her eyes glistened, as stars, from
underneath a headdress that seemed to grant Rachel a vision of an angel’s halo,
spangled through with points of light, like starlight on a night when the moon
(Oh, again the unending sorrow assailed Rachel, but then it passed); Rachel
gasped in wonder, awe, momentary unending sorrow, and amazement.
"You are transfiguréd!" Our Heroine
cried. "I am Fallen into the Pit, where
Satan, in his infinite Wickedness and Moral Depravity, deigns to show to me
what I could not hope for? You, madam, you belong to the angels now –
allow me to Mourn forever in Eternity alone; you will forgive me, I hope, if my
joy at discovering assurance of your Salvation is Abated."
A piece of paper materialized in the stately woman’s hand, taken, no doubt,
from one of the innumerable folds in the dress, and she pressed it into
Rachel’s own. Blinking back the tears, Rachel held it to the light, and
began to read its contents:
Fear not! (‘How precisely like an angel she begins,’ Rachel thought) My husband, Fernardo, Duke of Iberia (‘Iberia!’) has rescued me and I have been once again restored to my former Glory as Maria, Duchess of Iberia (‘O, Iberia!’). Since you were Instrumental in distracting the bandit Knott Nottabandetti, allowing my husband a chance to rescue me, we have decided to allow you to accompany us, insomuch as propriety will allow – even if I could speak your tongue I certainly couldn’t be allowed to speak directly to an Unwed such as yourself, thus this letter serves a double purpose – information and proper social isolation (‘O, how exactly Proper she is!’). You have been unconscious for almost a month now – and we had feared you might never Revive. Even now, we are but a short distance from Iberia, (‘Oh, Iberia’) and it is expected that we should arrive within a matter of days – I am pleased to announce that the preparations for your funeral have been indefinitely delayed as a consequence of your awakening. This letter was transcribed by a maidservant I acquired from Your Land several years ago – it is through her that we shall speak. Lift your eyes so that you may be introduced to her now."
Here, Dearest of Readers, Rachel turned her gaze upwards, away from the page,
and to a new figure, which had appeared while Rachel’s concentration had been
upon the written word. What met Rachel’s eyes shocked and amazed her to
such a degree that she first let out an unintelligible cry, and then threatened
to faint (she could feel the emptiness coming upon her), but a sudden urge to
wildly gesture and cry again broke her free of it, and she pointed at the
serving girl. "You!" she cried, still pointing at the
maid. Who, Dear Reader? Who could provoke such a reaction in Our
Heroine? "You! You’re
you!" Oh Reader! Who is it that Rachel is confronting?
Who? The mind boggles at the very thought!
Oh Reader, I tremble to say it. I fear that, perhaps, I Cannot! Oh,
the torture!
Finally, Rachel found a semblance of her Reason and, I tremble as I write these
very words upon the page, managed to gasp, "Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, my Only and Dearest
Friend, returnéd to me from Beyond the Veil!"
Yes, Reader! The girl standing before Rachel had the exact appearance and
semblance of Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, whose
broken urn Rachel left in the basement of Pernicious Place! Sudden
Realization crossed the face of the maid and a tiny gasp escaped from between
her lips.
"Oh, my Only and Dearest Friend!" Rachel
cried, throwing herself, sobbing, at the Duchess’
handmaid’s feet. "You are Restoréd
to me, to comfort me in this, my last and final hour! I was there at your
demise and now you shall be here at my very own!"
"Moonathan, for the final time, stop that
incessant counting. It’s been weeks and every day you count and count and
count. It’s enough to drive a man insane."
"Nine-thousand-seven, Your Moonship knows well
enough that my finely coiffed hair requires 10,000 brush strokes every day,
nine-thousand-eight. If you didn’t want to hear me brush my hair,
nine-thousand-nine, then you should have left me back on the moon,
nine-thousand-ten, like I suggested,
nine-thousand-eleven. But no, no, nine-thousand-twelve, ‘The Journey is
Too Perilous to take on my own, Moonathan,’
nine-thousand-thirteen, ‘I need your help Navigating the Æther,
Moonathan,’ nine-thousand-fourteen, ‘If you don’t
come with me, I’ll Cry, Moonathan,’
nine-thousand-fifteen, and Your Moonship knows I
can’t bear the sight of a man crying, nine-thousand-sixteen." Moonathan’s highly lacquered brush swept through his hair
with each numeral – each strand shone with a Luster heretofore unseen on Earth.
"Yes, I appreciate your coming greatly – nine-thousand-seventeen – for
this Lunar Craft could not possibly be driven alone – nine-thousand-eighteen –
and hope to Survive an Æther
Storm – nine-thousand-nineteen. But, still cannot you do something else
– nine-thousand-twenty – and do your hair in between, perhaps a thousand
strokes at a time instead of – nine-thousand-twenty-one – this Never-Ending
Stream of Ciphering?"
"We could look at my lunar snuffbox, nine-thousand-twenty-two, collection,"
continued Moonathan.
"Again?" Lunnotar
asked.
"Nine-thousand-twenty-three. It’s hardly my
fault that you couldn’t give me, nine-thousand-twenty-four, enough
time to pack properly. Not that it’s your fault,
nine-thousand-twenty-five, that the lunar tides wouldn’t be right for another
three months, but, nine-thousand-twenty-six, if you had waited, perhaps
I could have packed some playing cards, nine-thousand-twenty-seven, or a few
novels, nine-thousand-twenty-eight."
"Oh, Rachel!" wept Lunnotar. "I
could not bear – nine-thousand-twenty-nine – to be parted from you, and I
rashly choose to leave at the first available moment –
nine-thousand-thirty. Oh, forgive my rashness!"
As Lunnotar began to weep, Moonathan,
after months in the Lunar Craft and years in His Moonship’s
Service, was well aware if this wasn’t stopped immediately, it was likely that
the crying would far outlast the brushing. "Nine-thousand-thirty-one.
Did you know," Moonathan started, adroitly
changing the subject, "that they include little spoons in ladies sewing
kits, nine-thousand-thirty-two, for the express purpose of gathering ear
wax, nine-thousand-thirty-three? I assure you, it’s true, I saw one
once in one of the chambermaid’s, nine-thousand-thirty-four, quarters, and she
told me what it was, nine-thousand-thirty-five. Though, if you’re about
to ask me what I was doing in a chambermaid’s room, nine-thousand-thirty-six,
I’m afraid that my lips are sealed, I couldn’t possibly divulge,
nine-thousand-thirty-seven, the information. Unless, of course, you asked
nicely, but you never do, nine-thousand-thirty-eight. Anyway, as I
was saying, they use earwax to thread needles with,
nine-thousand-thirty-nine. Isn’t that perfectly dreadful? Nine-thousand-forty. Your pants are probably still
full of some old woman’s ear residue, nine-thousand-forty-one. I don’t
see how you can bear it, nine-thousand-forty-two."
"But Moonathan, why aren’t you
– nine-thousand-forty-three – worried about your own clothes?" Lunnotar asked, forgetting about his own problems, if only
for the moment.
Moonathan turned to Lunnotar,
and with a withering look said, "My vestments,
nine-thousand-forty-four, are made by a tailor, nine-thousand-forty-five, not
the seamstress Your Moonship seems so fond of using,
nine-thousand-forty-six. He uses beeswax, I’ve inquired,
nine-thousand-forty-seven."
"Oh Moonathan, what would I do –
nine-thousand-forty-eight – without you?"
"It’s best not to think of such things, nine-thousand-forty-nine, Your Moonship"
The Image before Rachel trembled and fell to where Rachel was clasping at the
maid’s ankles. "Oh! My heart! If I had
but known!"
"No, Lamentation, no, I would not expect you to recognize me in
this state – I am no longer the Innocent Young Girl of Promise you once
knew! Forgive me my inability to convey my identity to you in a more
straightforward and obvious fashion! It is I, Rachel Emily Jane Sarah Kenningworth!"
"No, it is I who must beg your pardon, for you see, I am not Lamentation
Mannerly Goodlyton, but instead I am her twin
sister, Penance Civility Goodlyton who has, for
ten long years, heard nothing of her family."
Rachel gazed with wonder into the eyes of the twin sister of her Only and Dearest Friend. "Then you are not
Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, but instead her
estranged twin sister, Penance Civility Goodlyton,
now in the employ of an Iberian Countess, who has heard nothing of her kin for
a decade, and I com bearing the news of her Only Sister’s Death?"
"Yes," replied Penance Civility Goodlyton.
"O ruinous and grievous day that I was born! I, Rachel Emily Jane
Sarah Kenningworth, feel the pain of Job! That
I had not been born from my mother’s womb, I think all things in this world
would be Improv’d!"
"Though the news you bring is ill indeed, you at least bring knowledge,
and if you were befriended by my Only and Dearest
Sister, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton, then I,
Penance Civility Goodlyton, shall befriend you as
well – no matter what state you may currently be in!" She reached
over to claps the sobbing Rachel to her bosom. Oh Reader! Such a
scene brings tears to my eyes – does it bring them to yours as well? If
you have any sort of a heart, surely it does!
"A friend!" gasped Rachel. "I have not had the
companionship of a bosom friend since I lost your sister’s urn far below
Pernicious Place, my uncle’s manor estate converted from an insane asylum, when
I attempted to rescue Lamentation from my uncle’s five insane wives and a
seducer who was posing as a possible sixth! My only companion I have had
since has been the child which I have engenderéd all
those long months ago! To finally find a friend, in
whom I might trust the care of my child before my timely demise!"
Before Pennance could respond to this entreaty, there
was a sound from above that sounded, to Rachel’s ears to be, "Oi, guv, land!" though she
was certain that her ears much have deceived her, as the ship was surely manned
only by Spaniards.
"Land has been sighted!" said Pennance,
"come, let us go onto the deck to see. It is only a matter of hours
before we reach Spain." She led Rachel through the ship, following
after the Duchess who lit their way as starfire
lights the night sky, and to the outside of the ship. Her sails were
unfurled and straining, carrying them onwards across the sea, and to a place
where, Rachel felt, she would soon be able to find the anti-dote to the
abortive potion – things, Rachel felt, finally seemed to be working themselves
out for the Betterment of her Situation.
"And I am particularly fond of this one, as I find it’s the perfect shade
of blue to match the hat I’m partial to wearing," Moonathan
said, showing off the particulars of his rather extensive lunar snuffbox
collection for what must have been the hundredth time since he and Lunnotar first departed.
"I believe," Lunnotar interjected,
"that you are referring to my hat – the one which you lost on the
Locomotive Express."
"Well, I certainly never said it was my hat. Now, if
you’ll notice, the hinge on this one is particularly fine – I believe it’s made
of solid moon-gold."
"Moonathan," Lunnotar
once again broke in, "I gave that one to you, and I told you, that’s not moon-gold, it’s moon-brass plated with
moon-gold."
"Really, Your Moonship.
If you’re going to be that way about it, I don’t know if I want to continue
sharing my collection with you. Just because you don’t believe it to be
real gold doesn’t mean I can’t believe it. If we aren’t going to
discuss my collection any more," he said,
closing the lid of a very large trunk, which contained a portion of his
snuffbox collection, "then what shall we talk about?" He didn’t
wait for Lunnotar to answer, but instead continued
on, "I have always wondered, Your Moonship,
exactly how you’re navigating this vessel through the Æther.
The earth, from what I’ve been told mind you, is quite large. How do you
propose we find this young girl who has ensorcelled you with her charms?"
"Ah, Moonathan," answered Lunnotar with a knowing look, "I’m letting Love be my
map, and my Heart its compass. As a magnet, I feel my Love drawing me
ever nearer to her Sphere of Influence. Like a moth drawn to a flame, so
I am drawn to where my heart resides – with Rachel."
"So, you’re being guided by love," Moonathan
interrupted. "Really."
"Yes, like a moth to the flame," began Lunnotar again.
Moonathan interrupted a second time,
"Your Moonship has already used that one, and,
if I may be so bold as to suggest it, usually the moth ends up burning itself
to death doing that. Perhaps you should consider another allusion that
doesn’t ultimately result in painful death to reassure someone with doubts
about your particular method of piloting; of course, not that I doubt Your Moonship’s leadership, it’s just that some people
might."
"Really Moonathan, the things you say are
terribly Unkind."
"Your Moonship, did I say that I
didn’t trust your piloting method allusion? Of course not, I simply
mentioned that some people might not find it reassuring, in case, at some later
date, you felt like using a similar allusion to someone less confidant in your
nearly limitless leadership capabilities."
"I’m sorry, Moonathan. Will you
forgive me?"
"I don’t know where you get these ideas of yours from, Your Moonship, but of course, I’ll forgive you," said Moonathan regally. "I suppose it’s
understandable – you are suffering from that Malady which can only be remedied
through death – either that of your own, or your Bachelor-hood."
"Come now, Moonathan, that allusion you just made is as bad as the one I
implied."
"Yes, I suppose the thought of one’s Bachelor-hood dying upon the
Altar of Love is a bit morbid. It turns one’s stomach thinking about
it." There was a pause. Moonathan
reached into a second chest, one that he hadn’t shut the lid to and pulled out
a pale green snuffbox. "It’s been rumored, you know, that this
particular snuffbox was once a gift from the Moon-King to the Moon-Queen for their
nuptials."
"I thought you weren’t going to show me any more of your
collection?" Lunnotar asked.
"I’ve forgiven Your Moonship, and so I’ve
decided not to deprive you of the pleasure of viewing the rest of my
collection," he answered benevolently.
"O! My Heart!" cried Lunnotar
aloud, clutching his chest and falling to the floor in convulsions.
"I feel as if all hope for my beautiful future was suddenly removed!
My Love, my Rachel must be in terrible peril, and my heart, being Entwined with hers, feels her pains! O! O, I am
dying!"
Moonathan tactfully placed the snuff box back
into the trunk, and shut the lid briskly. This was the third or fourth
time something like this had happened since they first left the Lunar
Surface. "Your Moonship,
really, if you expect me to have my continued and unending confidence in
letting your heart guide this vessel, you really need to stop having these
little fits of having your heart dying on you."
"Look!" cried someone, "to the forward part of the ship!
Keep your gaze upon the forward part of the ship! There is nothing to be
seen towards the rear, the land has been sighted towards the bow!" A
second shout went up in the curious and foreign Spanish tongue – Rachel could
only assume that someone had translated this request into the native language
of most of the crew. Rachel wondered at this – who would be speaking
English amongst all of these Spaniards? Oh, Dear Reader, if only she
knew! If only she knew!
As all on board set their gaze towards the direction in which land was
set to appear, a curiously familiar figure appeared at Rachel’s side. She
could not place his face – she was certain that she would have remembered such
a fine and voluminous moustache as the man to whom it was attached had
cultivated. It shone black, and luxurious in the afternoon
sunlight. The man called out again, "Remember to keep your orbs of
sight upon the bow of the ship! There is no land to be seen behind
us!" The command was again repeated through the crew in the strange
tongue.
Penance Civility Goodlyton spoke next,
"This man who also speaks our cultured speech is the navigator, whom we
acquired in the last port before setting out on our journey – our previous
navigator mysteriously disappeared under a set of inexplicable circumstances
that no-one could explain. We were so lucky to acquire him at the very
last moment, and even more lucky that his young
companion speaks both the English and Spanish tongues. This is Mr. Beardsworth Shipton. Mr. Shipton, this is Miss Rachel Kenningworth."
Mr. Shipton (such an oddly familiar name; if
only Rachel could have placed it) gave a short bow, "It’s a pleasure to
meet a fellow countrywoman, Miss Kenningworth.
Have you come out to view the land which has just been sighted by my assistant,
Phillaul? It is, of course, in the forward
direction – there is absolutely nothing of interest behind the ship, I assure
you."
Rachel, as best as she could in her Condition, curtsied. "The
sighting of land is of great interest to me – I have much desire to reach the
shores of Iberia in as much Haste as possible for reasons I feel I should not
share at this moment, due to the cruel hand which Fate has shown me. I am
how, however, strengthened, and the hope of reaching Iberia’s shore has renewed
my strength; adding to this is the fact that I have finally regained a
friendship, after so long without the close companionship a friend provides – I
finally have found someone to whom I may entrust the unborn babe which waxes
within me – and this strengthens my resolve even further."
The entirety of the ship, being reassured by Mr. Shipton
that there was, indeed, nothing behind the ship worth their interest, strained
their eyes towards the forward horizon, longing for a gaze of the land which
would soon welcome them home from the long, arduous sea journey. Oh Dear
Reader! If only they knew what was behind them! Oh, if only they
knew!
Mr. Shipton discreetly did not mention
Rachel’s Condition, but instead merely stepped aside to admit a new member to
their little party – a small, waifish boy that someone might possibly mistake
for an orphan, if one were not paying terribly close attention. He
reminded Rachel of someone she might possibly have met at an Orphanagarium at some time in the past; however, he was
wearing an eyepatch, which was something that very
few orphans were in possession of; she chose to ignore this feeling of
recognition; surely she had never met this boy before.
"Please," Mr. Shipton said, "meet my
traveling associate and assistant, Phillaul. It
was he who first sighted land."
"Oi, guv’,"
he responded.
"How is it," Rachel queried, "that your assistant Phillaul has such keen eyes so as to notice land when one
of his eyes is covered up in such a fashion? I should think that would
give him only half of the sight available to a regular man possessed of two
eyes."
"Not so," answered Mr. Shipton.
"Phillaul, would you please explain to Miss Kennington about your eyesight?"
"The covered up eye iz like a paarful tellyscope," he
replied.
"Yes, you see, he is possessed of such keen eyesight that, should
he keep his best eye uncovered, he would eventually pierce through the Veil of
Flesh that covers our bodies, and his gaze would soon be able to see to the
Soul. I do not find it prudent to pry into the secretive parts of peoples lives, and so we have decided that it is best that
he does not See into the very Souls of those around
him."
"How terribly remarkable!" exclaimed Rachel.
There was a sudden terrible lurch of the ship, as if something had
bumped into it from behind. This confused and bewildered almost everyone
on board – for it was a known fact that there was nothing behind them of
note. A few curious crew members turned their heads around and a sudden
cry was heard throughout the boat. Rachel could not understand the words
they were saying, but she could clearly detect the note of terror within its
inarticulate soundings.
She turned her gaze to the rear part of the ship, and there espied
something to terror-inducing that she herself let loose a shriek that
threatened to be heard thro’out the world. For
behind their ship, Oh Dear Reader, behind their ship was a secondary ship, and
coming down from it onto their own boat were a group that could only be called
the bandits of the sea! A band of horrid looking and uncivilized men had
descended upon them!
It was Penance Civility Goodlyton who finally
managed to speak aloud the word they were all dreading – "Pirates!"
she cried in her native tongue.
Mr. Shipton laughed heartily, "No, my
dear, not pirates, but instead, Corsairs!"
Penance, who was a seasoned traveler of the high seas shrieked
again. "But Corsairs are French pirates!"
Pirates! Bandits of the sea! The French! Seducers of
womankind and as immoral Satan himself! Rachel let loose another shriek,
and Dear Reader, who could blame her for this? To have
escaped one nest of banditry, only to fall into a second, more terrifying nest
populated by the French? Oh, I shudder to think of the terrors
this would provide.
The Duchess, as befitted a woman of her high rank, immediately
fainted. Her husband held her in his arms, and
yelled orders to the rest of the crew – though what they were, Rachel could not
know. She turned to the only people she could – Pennance,
and Mr. Shipton and his assistant Phillaul.
"Mr. Shipton! Pennance!
What shall we do?"
Mr. Shipton laughed cruelly.
"Do? You shall do nothing! Once again, I have managed to trick
you! Can you not guess at who I really am? At the
real man who exists behind this very fine moustache?"
Rachel, for one fleeting moment, realized exactly who it was that she
was facing. Another shriek pierced the air, overtaking all of the other
sounds around them – drowning out the sounds of the battle which was now being
engaged at the far end of the ship. One word escaped from between her
lips – "Marchington!"
Mr. Shipton, or as we should now call him, Marchington ripped the very fine moustache from his face,
revealing it to really be the accused. "You’ll notice, that I’ve
decided to give you a second or third or fourth chance, my dear! I
conscripted these Corsairs to aid me in my quest to bring you back to me – it
was I who kept all eyes away from the rear of the boat for them to stealthily
sneak up to us, and give them a chance to board! The duke carries a
ransom in riches, for leading them to this ship, I have been promised safe
passage for myself, you, and my assistant Phillaul,
or should I say Paulip (here Rachel gasped
again) to whatever whore-filled port they next enter."
"Were you the Mr. Shipton with the
short-pantaloons all those long months ago?" Rachel cried. "And the Mr. Moustachio, with the
moustache of a violent red color which bespoke of Low Breeding?"
"One and the same. You see, I have had my eye on you
for quite some time, and I do not intend to give up. I shall prevent you
from ever reaching the shores of Iberia, to save the life of your child by
sacrificing your own!"
"O! That Heaven would leave me to such a Fate!" Rachel
cried, falling into a heap upon the deck of the ship. "My babe shall
die, and instead, I shall be forced to accompany you until you tire of me,
casting me away when you no longer burn with immoral desire for me! This
is the End!"
Penance was moved at this proclamation of Rachel’s – and reader, who,
who would not be moved by such a yearning, heartfelt cry of woe? – so much that she spoke up in her defense. "Mr. Shipton, or whoever you really are, can you not see the terrors
which you have inflicted upon this poor, innocent girl?" Here, Dear
Reader, she interposed herself betwixt Rachel and the seducer, "You cannot
do this, sir! It is not Civil! It is not Moral! It goes against all the teachings of
Society! Leave her, turn from this fate!"
"I shall not permit you to prevent the acquisition of my
desire!" And here, Oh Dear Reader, I can barely manage to tell of
it. The horrors it sends down my entire body, even now, after such a long
time, I can barely begin! Oh, the terrors! Oh, Dear Reader!
For Marchington, the vile, despicable Marchington, in whom none of the Truest Sympathy which
blossoms in the breast of normal men is found, shoved Penance aside. As
he did, Dear Reader, she lost all semblance of balance, and found herself cast
aside, tottering at the edge of the boat, a hairsbreadth from the side that, if
she were to fall over, she would Surely be Lost Forever to the World of the
Living, and instead, join her twin in the World Beyond!
"Penance Civility Goodlyton, my Only and Dearest Friend since I was forced to abandon my
prior Only and Dearest Friend, Lamentation Mannerly Goodlyton,
your twin! No!" cried Rachel. She attempted to rise, to aid
her friend and she lunged forward, grasping for Penance’s hand. At that
moment, a wave rocked the boat and Penance, the composition of her balance,
already on the brink of disaster, finally broke and Penance began slipping
backwards. Over the edge she went, Rachel all the while trying to reach
her before it was Too Late. Sadly, the moment Marchington
had set foot on the ship, Penance’s life was forfeit – for such a reckless and
immoral man seeks to destroy the pure and the innocent in everything, and
Penance, a model of womanly virtue, was certain to be destroyed.
Rachel grasped forward for Penance’s hand, but she could only grab the
tip of her glove. Off slid the glove, and down went Penance into the
frigid blue waters, leaving the poor, destitute Rachel alone on a boat with Marchington, Paulip, the fainted
Duchess, the Duke who was rendered ineffectual by the state of his wife, a crew
of Spaniards, a teeming mass of horrible French Corsairs, and Penance’s
glove. "O! O, my Only and Dearest
Friend, now joined by my other Only and Dearest Friend! Into the Arms of Heaven
you go, while I, I remain here for a time! Oh, Penance, you have left me
Naught but your Glove!" Here, Dear Reader,
Rachel brought the glove up to her tender face, and wept into it
profusely. "O! I was at least comforted by Lamentation’s
Ashes, but now, now I am left with but a Glove to console me in this Moment of
Sorrow! O!"
Rachel clasped the glove to her tearstained face, and wept
profusely. The devious Marchington advanced
upon her, ready at a very moment’s notice, to subdue her and take her
captive. Just then, either Providence or Fate intervened on behalf of Our
Poor Rachel; which it was, I do not know. For the crack of cannon fire
tore through the air, and a large cannon struck the
mast of the ship which Rachel, Marchington, Paulip, the unconscious Duchess, the occupied Duke, and
Penance’s glove were. There was a horrid splintering sound, and the proud
mast toppled into the sea. The sail, once unfurled in glory before the
wind, now snaked itself about the form of Marchington,
and dragged him screaming into the sea – certainly the world had seen the last
of him and there was absolutely no chance at all that he would recover from
this alive. His fake moustache fluttered listlessly upon the deck of the
ship – the only reminder (aside from the corsairs and the broken mast and Paulip) of his treachery.
"O, Penance"! cried Rachel, clasping
the glove tightly in her hand and using it to wipe away her tears, "I am
to die here upon this ship, at the merciless hands of French pirates. All
Hope is Lost!" She continued her weeping into the glove so much that
the world around her seemed lost and unimportant.
Such was her state of profuse weeping that she did not notice the hand
that guided her through the tumult to a slight, awaiting craft, prepared for
such an emergency to allow the for the safe egress of two or three
passengers. Eventually, she set her gaze upon that which was around her,
and, in realizing that she was no longer on the boat over which the corsairs
were, even now, spreading their immorality, she looked for her savior.
When the beam of her eye found him, however, she gave a horrid shriek, and
collapsed, senseless on the deck of the small boat. Her savior was none
other than Paulip, whom she was certain was taking
her away to some faraway place where Marchington,
should he ever return from his unreturnable fate,
would find them. Her only solace was in the deep slumber of falling
unconscious.
List of Forthcoming Chapters:
None of these are relevant any
longer, but I'm keeping them here just because!
Chapter Fourteen: The Willful Will of William Williamson
Chapter Fifteen: Our Heroine's Distressing Incident with Death
Epilogue