Penelope : $b or, Love's labour lost. A novel. Volume 3 (of 3) — John Shaqi
Penelope : $b or, Love's labour lost. A novel. Volume 3 (of 3)Scargill, William Pitt
General
Penelope : $b or, Love's labour lost. A novel. Volume 3 (of 3)
Scargill, William Pitt
England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
The building--if such a term be applicable to so miserable a
composition of sticks, stones, and mud--had but two apartments; one
below, which was entered by three descending steps; and another above,
which was accessible by means of nine or ten steep, black, broken,
creaking, and tottering stairs. The door was not fastened, and it
yielded to a gentle pressure of the hand; it seemed indeed not capable
of being fastened; the three worm-eaten planks of which it was composed
were far apart, and the long rusty hinges were almost unequal to the
duty of supporting its weight. The young ladies cautiously and quietly,
one by one, entered the lower apartment, and they simultaneously
shuddered at the sight of such destitution and wretchedness as appeared
in the miserable hovel. They had been walking in the broad sunshine,
and their eyes so felt the sudden transition from light to darkness,
that they could not at first discern whether or not there was any one
in the room. There was indeed a window, but its absent glass was so
supplied by patches of dingy paper and stuffings of old dirty fragments
of woollen wearing apparel, and the deep black thatch, of which the
roof was composed, projected so far over the aperture of the window,
which was also near the ground, that little light could reach it and
less could pass through it. When the eye was so far reconciled to the
degree of light which was within the cottage as to be able to see the
extent and contents of the room, the young ladies thought they were
in an unoccupied apartment. For they could see very little that bore
any resemblance to furniture. There was neither chair, nor table, nor
bedstead. There was a large fire-place, having no grate, but two thin
little bars of iron which contained the ashes of some recently expired
fire, and there stood by the fire-place an earthen pipkin, black and
empty. In one corner of the room, the most remote from the window and
the door, was a heap of straw, very dirty and partly covered with an
old rug of no shape or colour.
And when they lifted up their eyes in astonishment, they perceived
that the room had no ceiling, and the boards which served as the floor
of the upper room were widely apart, letting in light through the
crevices. And they heard the sound of a feeble voice and the faint
moanings of sickness. And as they were hesitating whether they should
venture to ascend to the room above, they heard a footstep quickly
moving, and presently from the top of the stairs they heard one calling
out, “Who’s there?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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