one visit to Thrushcross Grange and one visit to Pemberley
Saturday January 10th, 2009
The thing is, I’ve been reading. Aunt Kitty says I may as well have dropped off the end of the earth (and I had to bite down mighty hard on my stubborn tongue to keep it from waggling that there is no such thing.) Pilot’s eyes have taken on a mopey expression and Wilbur, well, she’s grown a bit round in the belly from all this lazing by the fireplace on foggy days.
Ben did his Christmas shopping in the attic, just as he does every year. There wasn’t even a blush on his cheeks when Aunt Kitty mentioned that the shawl she lifted out of a newspaper-wrapped box on Christmas morning bore a remarkable likeness to the one draped across his mother’s shoulders in the photo on the piano.
As for myself, Ben uncovered a stack of dusty books. Wuthering Heights. Pilgrim’s Progress. Pride and Prejudice. Little Women. Misty of Chincoteague.
I thought, at the first, that I would start straight from the top, and opened Bronte’s novel that very evening. Was this a gift? Because it seemed a punishment to me! I read it aloud so Pilot and Wilbur could share in my misery. You may wonder why I didn’t just put this book down and move onto the next. I wonder too. Pilot whined when Catherine’s ghost first appeared and Wilbur wiggled under the bedcovers until only one hind hoof could be seen poking out. I wanted to hide under those covers myself, and I would have if only I could still see the words on the page.
Three nights of this we endured, and for what? Only to wake that third morning with Heathcliff’s agony in our hearts: “You said I killed you – haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”
I had done nothing to deserve this pain, and I’ll tell you it was a struggle to hide my bitterness from Ben. Collecting dust in the attic, indeed. Just as it should be! My next choice would not be made so casually. I reckon anyone would’ve been convinced as I was by the declaration on the dust jacket of Pilgrim’s Progress. “A Christian classic,” it said. Uplifting, I thought, and why shouldn’t I have? Pious, that’s what it would be– good and holy and uplifting.
And I’ll tell you I near to peed my pants no less than three times in the reading of that book, and by the end I was holding onto Pilot and weeping like to start a flood with the certainty that I could be bound for nowhere other than hell–and what a dreadful, terrifying place it would be!
Two days I stayed away from books altogether, but in a moment of pure weakness, on the third day I picked up Pride and Prejudice. Aunt Kitty assured me there was nothing to fear in this one and all would be well by the time the last page was turned. And it was! Darcy loved Elizabeth and Mr. Bingham loved Jane and that rotten old lady was put in her place. There was a smile on my face when I closed the book and Pilot barked a cheerful bark, like I had not heard from him in weeks. The sun had come out after days of fog and we were settled quite comfortably against a fallen log on the hillside. I giggled and leapt to my feet. So full of joy was I in that moment, I even found a grin and a wave for that rotten boy Ezekiel when we passed him on our race back home.
That night I dreamed of Pemberley, and in the morning I woke to the sound of my own voice whispering plaintively, “Mr. Ezekiel.” Disgusted, I tossed back the blankets and recovered Pilgrim’s Progress from under my bed. Better fear of eternal damnation than mooning over some stupid boy.
