entertain each other.”
“Did you?” asked Susan, as she wiped the tears from her face. “Are they good stories?”
“You must be the judge of that.”
“Well, go on then.” Susan moved back up against the head-board and smoothed the quilt, making room for me on her bed. “Tell me one.”
My stomach fluttered as I sat down. I glanced at the others. “Shall I really?”
“I do not mind, if it will get her to stop whining,” replied Leah, with a corroborating nod from her sister.
“This is stupid!” sneered Amelia. “We are too old for a bedtime story.”
“You may leave if you do not wish to listen,” said Ellen, curling up beside Maria Brooke.
Amelia hesitated, then sank down reluctantly on a nearby chair. All at once, our three other school-mates strode into the room. “What is going on?” asked Mary Taylor, who was wrapped in a quilt, her dark hair (as with most of us) tied up for the night in curls.
“Charlotte is going to tell us a story,” answered Hannah.
“Oh! How lovely!” Mary spread her quilt on the floor and sat down. She was joined by Cecilia Allison and Mary’s boisterous, twelve-year-old sister Martha, who cried, “I love stories!”
My heart began to hammer with distress. What ever had compelled me to speak so rashly? The tales that my siblings and I had invented while traipsing across the moors, or gathered around the fire of an evening, were private stories, concocted for our own amusement; we had never shared them with any one. The girls were looking at me expectantly, however; if I did not follow through with a tale of some interest, I knew I should never live it down. It would be best, I decided, to invent a brand-new story, tailored to the tastes of this audience. Taking a deep breath to still my nerves, I began, in a low, dramatic tone:
“Long, long ago, in a distant kingdom, a widowed Duke lived with his only daughter in a great, turreted castle, built on a towering cliff high above the sea. The young lady’s name wasEmily. She was eighteen years of age, and no wild rose blooming in solitude ever equalled in loveliness this gentle flower of the forest.”
A stillness descended on the room. Every one was listening with interest; every one, I noticed, except Amelia. I went on: “Emily was not only beautiful, but accomplished. She could play the harp; she could read and speak three languages; she was a skilled artist and wrote delightful poetry; and she was known to walk many miles through any kind of weather to help a family in need.”
“She sounds too perfect to live,” said Amelia scornfully.
“ Do be quiet,” cried Susan. To me she said: “Please go on.”
“Emily’s goodness, intelligence, and beauty caught the attention of a handsome young gentleman from a neighbouring county, the Marquis of Belvedere, whose name was William. They met; they fell in love; and their wedding date was set. The night before the wedding, Emily fell asleep in a state of blissful anticipation, dreaming of the event the next day, and of a lifetime with her beloved William. The rest of the castle and all the members of the wedding party were also fast asleep, tucked into their respective beds. It seemed that nothing could disturb Emily’s rest or safety, or the happy couple’s impending nuptials. But this was not the case. For the truth—the terrible truth—was that Emily was a somnambulist.”
“A what?” asked Leah.
“A somnambulist,” I repeated, to which Mary added, with a thrilled edge to her voice:
“A sleep-walker!”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Susan, enthralled.
I had thoroughly warmed, by now, to the telling of my tale, and found I was enjoying myself immensely. “Emily’s father, aware of this dangerous proclivity, had for many years posted a nurse outside Emily’s door, to ensure that she could never wander out at night. To-night, however, when Emily arose barefoot from her bed and issued sound asleep from her chamber door, her nurse—who had imbibed
“Did you?” asked Susan, as she wiped the tears from her face. “Are they good stories?”
“You must be the judge of that.”
“Well, go on then.” Susan moved back up against the head-board and smoothed the quilt, making room for me on her bed. “Tell me one.”
My stomach fluttered as I sat down. I glanced at the others. “Shall I really?”
“I do not mind, if it will get her to stop whining,” replied Leah, with a corroborating nod from her sister.
“This is stupid!” sneered Amelia. “We are too old for a bedtime story.”
“You may leave if you do not wish to listen,” said Ellen, curling up beside Maria Brooke.
Amelia hesitated, then sank down reluctantly on a nearby chair. All at once, our three other school-mates strode into the room. “What is going on?” asked Mary Taylor, who was wrapped in a quilt, her dark hair (as with most of us) tied up for the night in curls.
“Charlotte is going to tell us a story,” answered Hannah.
“Oh! How lovely!” Mary spread her quilt on the floor and sat down. She was joined by Cecilia Allison and Mary’s boisterous, twelve-year-old sister Martha, who cried, “I love stories!”
My heart began to hammer with distress. What ever had compelled me to speak so rashly? The tales that my siblings and I had invented while traipsing across the moors, or gathered around the fire of an evening, were private stories, concocted for our own amusement; we had never shared them with any one. The girls were looking at me expectantly, however; if I did not follow through with a tale of some interest, I knew I should never live it down. It would be best, I decided, to invent a brand-new story, tailored to the tastes of this audience. Taking a deep breath to still my nerves, I began, in a low, dramatic tone:
“Long, long ago, in a distant kingdom, a widowed Duke lived with his only daughter in a great, turreted castle, built on a towering cliff high above the sea. The young lady’s name wasEmily. She was eighteen years of age, and no wild rose blooming in solitude ever equalled in loveliness this gentle flower of the forest.”
A stillness descended on the room. Every one was listening with interest; every one, I noticed, except Amelia. I went on: “Emily was not only beautiful, but accomplished. She could play the harp; she could read and speak three languages; she was a skilled artist and wrote delightful poetry; and she was known to walk many miles through any kind of weather to help a family in need.”
“She sounds too perfect to live,” said Amelia scornfully.
“ Do be quiet,” cried Susan. To me she said: “Please go on.”
“Emily’s goodness, intelligence, and beauty caught the attention of a handsome young gentleman from a neighbouring county, the Marquis of Belvedere, whose name was William. They met; they fell in love; and their wedding date was set. The night before the wedding, Emily fell asleep in a state of blissful anticipation, dreaming of the event the next day, and of a lifetime with her beloved William. The rest of the castle and all the members of the wedding party were also fast asleep, tucked into their respective beds. It seemed that nothing could disturb Emily’s rest or safety, or the happy couple’s impending nuptials. But this was not the case. For the truth—the terrible truth—was that Emily was a somnambulist.”
“A what?” asked Leah.
“A somnambulist,” I repeated, to which Mary added, with a thrilled edge to her voice:
“A sleep-walker!”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Susan, enthralled.
I had thoroughly warmed, by now, to the telling of my tale, and found I was enjoying myself immensely. “Emily’s father, aware of this dangerous proclivity, had for many years posted a nurse outside Emily’s door, to ensure that she could never wander out at night. To-night, however, when Emily arose barefoot from her bed and issued sound asleep from her chamber door, her nurse—who had imbibed
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