Confessions of an English Lit fan…

Confessions of an English Lit fan…
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of large fortune must be in want of a wife. Or so Jane Austen said. But is he really? Or what if, like the brooding Mr. Rochester, he is secretly married already? Maybe I’ve just read to many novels. I close my eyes deep in thought…
Tonight it is late, and the wind is howling around the bedroom window as my fingers tap across the key board. Slowly I glide back in time as I imagine the Microsoft Word program and lap top have turned into a piece of paper and feather quill. On a night like this anything is liable to happen. The wind continues to howl forcefully. It makes the Wuthering sound, for which Wuthering Heights was named. A hard driving rain is pounding on my window. Thick clouds have blackened out the twinkling stars. As I push back the lace curtain and peer into the night, I half expect to see Mr. Rochester ride past, with the ever faithful Pilot on his heels. However, I know that this can not happen. But what was that gliding through the rain, under the large old oak tree? The room becomes damp and filled with a chilly air. It smells vaugly of a damp old house. The lights flicker off and only one faint candle is left burning on my ancient wooden desk. I dip my feather quill into the ink again, and continue with my writing. The wind has not let up blowing around the house. I pull my wool shawl closer around me. Voices drift through the open door and towards me. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you…” That voice can only belong to one person. Then of course as I knew it must happen, I hear Miss Elizabeth Bennett decline Mr. Darcy’s declaration. The other room is full of voices and footsteps. As I look next to my paper, I notice a copy of Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens. I lay my writing aside and thumb through the musty old book. Alas, like the Bronte Sisters I feel the urge to continue on with my writing. The rain has not let up, indeed my dear reader, it has only gotten worse. I once again dip my feather into the ink well. It makes a faint scratching sound as it glides over the paper. I can not fathom bringing characters like Heathcliff and Jane Eyre to life using only this simple feather. How strange it seems after a modern pen. Deep in thought I, gaze out into the rain. Maybe at any moment, a carriage shall glide past with Miss Fanny Price inside. I draw a deep breath of damp air, and hear footsteps echo in the stone hall. As if a page has fallen out of Vanity Fair, I see Becky Sharp and Amelia hurry past. No doubt, up to whatever mischief has come into Miss Becky’s head now. I turn my attention back to window and the rain streaming down it, just like Jane Eyre’s wedding gown streamed out behind her as she ran from the chapel, back to Thornfield Hall. My pen stops writing, lost in my own muse, I simply sit here.
The phone rings. I look up and the house no longer has stone walls but instead painted sheet rock. As I reach for my cell phone, I notice the laptop is still here and my feather is gone. I push back the lace curtain. Indeed it is still raining; but there is no hero riding gallantly past. Instead, only leaves and brush blow across the dark yard. As I answer the phone, the spell is broken and once again I sit staring into my document in word. None of this really happened, you know. On rainy nights, when the mist sweeps across the garden and the wind begins to howl I always imagine such strange things. However, as I see the pages of Wives and Daughters blow about in wind, I can’t help but wonder. Maybe it could have happened, or maybe my over active imagination shall indeed send the men in white coats after me. Who knows?