Gothic fiction; Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
These observations I made with great interest, as after a long period of
dreamy stupor, the "keen demands of appetite," or some indignant protest
of nature against such indolent inactivity, roused me; and raising
myself upon my elbow, I looked around with much curiosity and some
bewilderment. The room was entirely unfamiliar, long and old-fashioned
looking. The bed and the one window were curtained with white dimity;
the walls and ceiling were white-washed to a painful whiteness; the
counterpane, the pillows, the sheets, were one drift of snow. Indeed, so
forcible was this impression, that for a moment it was a question with
me whether I had not just waked up from a nap in one of those
snow-houses, so called, which it had been the delight of my childhood to
construct, being excavations in some adjacent snow-bank, achieved with
the help of a friendly spade, in which I would lie and dream of icy
palaces, and frosty fairy fabrics. The idea that I had been napping it
in one of these juvenile architectural devices, was favored by the
lowness of the white ceiling, which seemed almost within touch, and the
long, narrow shape of the room, terminating in a small, white-curtained
window, through which I caught a glimpse of cold grey sky, that
suggested snow and chill.
A tiny fire, however, in a tiny grate, and a woman sewing by what I had
conceived to be the mouth of the cave, but which, I was obliged to
confess, was unmistakably a window, quite dispelled the illusion, and I
had nothing left me but to come down to cold reality again, after a
sojourn in dream-land so long as to render me a little uncertain and
bewildered on all mundane matters. I looked quite attentively for some
time at the woman by the window, then startled her very considerably by
saying suddenly:
"Are you the one they call Mrs. Arnold?"
She dropped her work, started up, and approached the bed, saying, in her
precise manner and sweet voice:
"That is my name, Miss. Can I do anything for you?"
"No," I said slowly, looking at her, "I don't think of anything, thank
you."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account