Christian fiction; Wingfold, Thomas (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
"I do not know what I might have taken to had I been made like other
people, or what plans my mother cherished for me. But it soon became
evident, as time passed and I grew no taller but more mis-shapen,
that to bring me up to a profession would be but to render my
deformity the more painful to myself. I spent, therefore, the first
three years after I left school at home, keeping out of my father's
way as much as possible, and cleaving fast to my mother. When she
died, she left her little property between me and my brother. He had
been brought up to my father's profession--that of an engineer. My
father could not touch the principal of this money, but neither,
while he lived, could we the interest. I hardly know how I lived for
the next three or four years--it must have been almost on charity, I
think. My father was never at home, and but for the old woman who
had been our only attendant all my life, I think very likely I
should have starved. I spent my time mostly in reading--whatever I
could lay my hands upon--and that not carelessly, but with such
reflection as I was capable of. One thing I may mention, as showing
how I was still carried in the same direction as before--that,
without any natural turn for handicraft, I constructed for myself a
secret place of carpenter's work in a corner of the garret, small
indeed, but big enough for a couch on which I could lie, and a table
as long as the couch. That was all the furniture. The walls were
lined from top to bottom with books, mostly gathered from those
lying about the house. Cunningly was the entrance to this nest
contrived: I doubt if anyone may have found it yet. If some
imaginative, dreamy boy has come upon it, what a find it must have
been to him! I could envy him the pleasure. There I always went to
say my prayers and read my bible. But sometimes The Arabian Nights,
or some other book of entrancing human invention, would come
between, and make me neglect both, and then I would feel bad and
forsaken;--for as yet I knew little of the heart to which I cried
for shelter and warmth and defence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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