(no subject)
Early yesterday evening, an enjoyable conversation with the viscount was interrupted by the return of that monstrous creature that has, for the past three nights destructively appeared. There were screams from the kitchen, so he, Heathcliff and I fled upstairs where we would not be caught in the insanity. It seems no matter how politely I try to engage the handsome young man in conversation, he is intent on remaining quiet and answering in as few words as possible. While moving through the dark and dusty halls, we three came upon an undiscovered room with a wardrobe filled with the most extravagant of old clothing. We sorted through it, amusing ourselves with hats and gowns, but were soon joined by Mr. Rochester and Mr. Campbell. It is one matter to indulge in a bit of lighthearted fancy, but the childish foolishness of their behavior quite soon began to bore me and Heathcliff and I took our leave.
The doctor is right when he refers to Mr. Rochester as a child. It frustrates me incredibly to know that I sent him off to bang down the doctor's door in hopes that he would settle the matter of the hateful assistant with the strength and reasonability of a man--but instead he only annoyed the poor doctor with such childish petulance and I at once regretted ever breathing a word.
Is there truly no man here capable of doing something about that Hyde? If only they knew what I knew, they would not be so resistant... But dare I tell the detective? Would it really destroy the doctor or does he just say so to break my heart in order to protect his friend? I hardly know what to think of the doctor or his motives at all. I want to trust him... I cannot help but trust him... And yet there is something not quite right--something not quite honest. I cannot touch upon it, and yet I do think I find that I do not mind. We all have our own dark secrets here, it seems. And I want to confide in him, but he now avoids me. Not a day after I told him I wished to speak to him privately, he told me that he has realized he has been spending too much time focusing his attentions on the needs of others and not on his own affairs, and has since become much more scarce than before. He did not say it exactly, but who else could he mean but me whose concerns have been monopolizing his time? He is too kind to ignore my need unless, he says, I were request it of him. But am I to be entirely selfless and release him from his feelings of obligation? Am I to feel guilt knowing how ill he is and how much he needs to focus on his work? I try to ask him for as little as possible, but how can I help but feel fear and need of assistance in this place and accept him when he offers of his own accord? And he, more often than any other, is always there. And yet every time he lets me know he is available to speak to me, privacy or time happen to be conveniently unavailable. Well, I shall not allow him to evade me any longer. If he wishes never to speak to me again after I have said my piece, so be it, but I must discover some sort of truth, and I can think of no other way to go about it... Perhaps it may work, perhaps it may lead to nothing at all, but I must at least attempt to find a way to let myself know what to do with the knowledge Liza has given me. I will not, in my heart, be able to make up my mind to compassion or crualty until these dark secrets are uncovered. Something is not what it seems, and even if it has not to do with him, I at least suspect he knows quite a bit more than he lets on.
Oh, my head aches, but after my unnerving encounter with Mr. Todd the other night, I am quite terrified of going anywhere near Mrs. Lovett's cooking. I will have to make certain that it is only Liza that gives me my tea from now on... He made me swear to tell no one, but I certainly intend to at least tell Heathcliff. I have not slept a night free of nightmares in days. Is it poisoning we must fear from another unsuspected foe? Or perhaps something far worse?
The doctor is right when he refers to Mr. Rochester as a child. It frustrates me incredibly to know that I sent him off to bang down the doctor's door in hopes that he would settle the matter of the hateful assistant with the strength and reasonability of a man--but instead he only annoyed the poor doctor with such childish petulance and I at once regretted ever breathing a word.
Is there truly no man here capable of doing something about that Hyde? If only they knew what I knew, they would not be so resistant... But dare I tell the detective? Would it really destroy the doctor or does he just say so to break my heart in order to protect his friend? I hardly know what to think of the doctor or his motives at all. I want to trust him... I cannot help but trust him... And yet there is something not quite right--something not quite honest. I cannot touch upon it, and yet I do think I find that I do not mind. We all have our own dark secrets here, it seems. And I want to confide in him, but he now avoids me. Not a day after I told him I wished to speak to him privately, he told me that he has realized he has been spending too much time focusing his attentions on the needs of others and not on his own affairs, and has since become much more scarce than before. He did not say it exactly, but who else could he mean but me whose concerns have been monopolizing his time? He is too kind to ignore my need unless, he says, I were request it of him. But am I to be entirely selfless and release him from his feelings of obligation? Am I to feel guilt knowing how ill he is and how much he needs to focus on his work? I try to ask him for as little as possible, but how can I help but feel fear and need of assistance in this place and accept him when he offers of his own accord? And he, more often than any other, is always there. And yet every time he lets me know he is available to speak to me, privacy or time happen to be conveniently unavailable. Well, I shall not allow him to evade me any longer. If he wishes never to speak to me again after I have said my piece, so be it, but I must discover some sort of truth, and I can think of no other way to go about it... Perhaps it may work, perhaps it may lead to nothing at all, but I must at least attempt to find a way to let myself know what to do with the knowledge Liza has given me. I will not, in my heart, be able to make up my mind to compassion or crualty until these dark secrets are uncovered. Something is not what it seems, and even if it has not to do with him, I at least suspect he knows quite a bit more than he lets on.
Oh, my head aches, but after my unnerving encounter with Mr. Todd the other night, I am quite terrified of going anywhere near Mrs. Lovett's cooking. I will have to make certain that it is only Liza that gives me my tea from now on... He made me swear to tell no one, but I certainly intend to at least tell Heathcliff. I have not slept a night free of nightmares in days. Is it poisoning we must fear from another unsuspected foe? Or perhaps something far worse?