51 
Significant New Book
The sisters of the chalet had completed the Scotsman’s sequel just before Christmas, but they had only now resumed their reading nights. According to one sister’s expressed wish from several months earlier, Robinson Crusoe was now chosen, though they did not gather in front of the fire until somewhat later in the evening than was their custom.
“Whose turn is it to read?” asked Sister Marjolaine as the unofficial moderator of reading nights on the rare occasions when any exercise of leadership was required.
“I have not read for ages and ages,” answered Sister Gretchen, “and to be perfectly honest, I am in the mood to do so.”
“Then you shall read to us of the adventures of young Crusoe,” Marjolaine said. “But first we must know the background of the book. Does anyone know about it?”
She glanced around, but her question met only silence.
“I shall tell you this much, then,” she went on, “—it was written by Daniel Defoe, an Englishman, in the year 1719. Robinson Crusoe was Defoe’s first novel, but he had been writing political pamphlets for twenty years before that, some of which got him into so much trouble that he was actually imprisoned for a time for his views. Do you know the style in which Robinson Crusoe was written?”
“In first person narrative, isn’t it?” replied Agatha.
“Yes, it is, like many works of fiction of that period. It is a technique employed by many novelists, the Scotsman among them, and Dickens and many others. But rarely are such stories actually autobiographical, and neither is Robinson Crusoe. To our knowledge, Mr. Defoe himself was never lost at sea.”
“Why are so many stories told that way?” Regina asked.
“You must remember that fiction in the early 1700s was still a relatively new genre, except of course for theater plays. Novelists were just beginning to learn their craft, and at first the public was somewhat skeptical of the new form.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Sister Hope.
“Casting stories in the first person,” added Marjolaine, “in the guise of true-life adventures, made them easier for the public to accept. Jane Austen, you may remember, employed this method in the early 1800s, and was—”
A sudden shriek from Kasmira brought the discussion to an instant end. Every head turned toward her and saw that she was staring at the window in terror.
“There is . . . someone is there,” she said trembling, “—looking in at us, from outside . . . I saw two huge eyes.”
The others looked around, some faces now displaying a little trepidation of their own. The night was cold and black outside, and they could not imagine who might be spying on them through the window.
“Is anyone feeling brave?” asked Agatha. “Speaking for myself, I plan to remain right where I am!”
“I’m sure it is nothing,” said Gretchen, setting down the book and marching toward the window. “I will settle this mystery once and for—”
She did not finish the sentence. All at once her voice broke into laughter.
“Sister Galiana,” she said, “I think it may be you who are wanted. It seems one of your children is having a fit of sleepwalking.”
Galiana jumped up and ran to the window, pressing her face against the pane. Hearing Gretchen’s laugh immediately alleviated their worry, and all the others were after her in a flash and now crowded about the window.
“Kasmira did indeed see two large eyes,” said Gretchen, “but of the bovine variety, not the human.”
“Toni, how did you get out!” Galiana exclaimed. “Don’t you know that cows freeze in the snow?”
Already she was bound for the door. “I just hope no one else is loose.”
Twenty minutes later, still laughing over the incident and with Toni safely back in the barn and all its doors secure, everyone gradually resumed their seats in front of the fire.
“Well, Sister Gretchen,” said Marjolaine when they were all seated again after the exciting misadventure of the curious calf, “it is already late, but what do you say—shall we at least get a beginning made?”
“Let us indeed!”
Sister Gretchen opened the old volume that had come from the Buchmann library and began to read aloud.
I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, named Kreutznaer, who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving off his trade, lived afterwards at York; from whence he had married my mother, whose relations were named Robinson, a very good family in that country, and after whom I was so called, that is to say, Robinson Kreutznaer; but, by the usual corruption of words in England, we are now called—nay, we call ourselves, and write our name—Crusoe; and so my companions always called me.
I had two elder brothers, one of whom was lieutenant-colonel, to an English regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the famous Colonel Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the Spaniards. What became of my second brother, I never knew, any more than my father and mother did know what was become of me.
Being the third son of the family, and not bred to any trade, my head began to be filled very early with rambling thoughts. . . .
The very words reminded Amanda of her own visions of London and activity and getting away from Heathersleigh.
“It is not much,” said Sister Gretchen, closing the book, “but we have at least made a beginning, and we can get much further next time.”
It was late, and the yawns all around the room indicated clearly enough that the evening was over. Gradually they all rose and made their way upstairs.
As Amanda closed the door to her room, an undefined grumpiness crept over her. She had been feeling it all evening. The instant Sister Gretchen had begun reading from that book she had grown unsettled.
Where had such feelings come from?
Things could not be more perfect here, she told herself. Yet for some reason she could not account for, she was feeling irritable and testy. Little things about some of the sisters were starting to annoy her.