Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖
- Author: Arthur Quiller-Couch
Book online «The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖». Author Arthur Quiller-Couch
“Tush!” said the old gentleman in the chair, who (it seems) had heard all, and now sat up brisk as ever. “I, for my part shall mix another glass, and leave it all to Jacques. Come, sit by me, sir, and you shall see some pretty play. Why, Jacques is the neatest rogue with a small sword in all France!”
“Sir,” I put in, “they are a round dozen in all, and your life at present is not worth a penny's purchase.”
“That's a lie! 'Tis worth this bowl before me, that, with or without you, I mean to empty. What a fool thing is youth! Sir, you must be a dying man like myself to taste life properly.” And, as I am a truthful man, he struck up quavering merrily—
“Hey, nonni—nonni—no! Men are fools that wish to die! Is't not fine to laugh and sing When the bells of death do ring? Is't not fine to drown in wine, And turn upon the toe, And sing, hey—nonni—no? Hey, nonni—nonni—”“—Come and sit, sir, nor spoil sport. You are too raw, I'll wager, to be of any help; and boggling I detest.”
“Indeed, sir,” I broke in, now thoroughly anger'd, “I can use the small sword as well as another.”
“Tush! Try him, Jacques.”
Jacques, still wearing a stolid face, brought his weapon to the guard. Stung to the quick, I wheel'd round, and made a lunge or two, that he put aside as easily as though I were a babe. And then—I know not how it happened, but my sword slipp'd like ice out of my grasp, and went flying across the room. Jacques, sedately as on a matter of business, stepp'd to pick it up, while the old gentleman chuckled.
I was hot and asham'd, and a score of bitter words sprang to my tongue-tip, when the Frenchman, as he rose from stooping, caught my eye, and beckon'd me across to him.
He was white as death, and pointed to the hilt of my sword and the demi-bear engrav'd thereon.
“He is dead,” I whisper'd: “hush!—turn your face aside—killed by those same dogs that are now below.”
I heard a sob in the true fellow's throat. But on the instant it was drown'd by the sound of a door opening and the tramp of feet on the stairs.
CHAPTER VI. — THE FLIGHT IN THE PINE WOOD.
By the sound of their steps I guess'd one or two of these dozen rascals to be pretty far gone in drink, and afterward found this to be the case. I look'd round. Sir Deakin had pick'd up the lamp and was mixing his bowl of punch, humming to himself without the least concern——
“Vivre en tout cas C'est le grand soulas”—with a glance at his daughter's face, that was white to the lips, but firmly set.
“Hand me the nutmeg yonder,” he said, and then, “why, daughter, what's this?—a trembling hand?”
And all the while the footsteps were coming up.
There was a loud knock on the door.
“Come in!” call'd Sir Deakin.
At this, Jacques, who stood ready for battle by the entrance, wheeled round, shot a look at his master, and dropping his point, made a sign to me to do the same. The door was thrust rudely open, and Captain Settle, his hat cock'd over one eye, and sham drunkenness in his gait, lurched into the room, with the whole villainous crew behind him, huddled on the threshold. Jacques and I stepp'd quietly back, so as to cover the girl.
{Illustration: The door was thrust rudely open.—Page 88.}
“Would you mind waiting a moment?” inquir'd Sir Deakin, without looking up, but rubbing the nutmeg calmly up and down the grater: “a fraction too much, and the whole punch will be spoil'd.”
It took the Captain aback, and he came to a stand, eyeing us, who look'd back at him without saying a word. And this discomposed him still further.
There was a minute during which the two parties could hear each other's breathing. Sir Deakin set down the nutmeg, wiped his thin white fingers on a napkin, and address'd the Captain sweetly—
“Before asking your business, sir, I would beg you and your company to taste this liquor, which, in the court of France”—the old gentleman took a sip from the mixing ladle—“has had the extreme honor to be pronounced divine.” He smack'd his lips, and rising to his feet, let his right hand rest on the silver foot of the lamp as he bowed to the Captain.
Captain Settle's bravado was plainly oozing away before this polite audacity: and seeing Sir Deakin taste the punch, he pull'd off his cap in a shamefaced manner and sat down by the table with a word of thanks.
“Come in, sirs—come in!” call'd the old gentleman; “and follow your friend's example. 'Twill be a compliment to make me mix another bowl when this is finish'd.” He stepped around the table to welcome them, still resting his hand on the lamp, as if for steadiness. I saw his eye twinkle as they shuffled in and stood around the chair where the Captain was seated.
“Jacques, bring glasses from the cupboard yonder! And, Delia, fetch up some chairs for our guests—no, sirs, pray do not move!”
He had waved his hand lightly to the door as he turned to us: and in an instant the intention as well as the bright success of this comedy flash'd upon me. There was now no one between us and the stairs, and as for Sir Deakin himself, he had already taken the step of putting the table's width between him and his guests.
I touch'd the girl's arm, and we made as if to fetch a couple of chairs that stood against the wainscot by the door. As we did so, Sir Deakin push'd the punch bowl forward under the Captain's nose.
“Smell, sir,” he cried airily, “and report to your friends on the foretaste.”
Settle's nose hung over the steaming compound. With a swift pass of the hand, the old gentleman caught up the lamp and had shaken a drop of burning oil into the bowl. A great blaze leap'd to the ceiling. There was a howl—a scream of pain; and as I push'd Mistress Delia through the doorway and out to the head of the stairs, I caught a backward glimpse of Sir Deakin rushing after us, with one of the stoutest among the robbers at his heels.
“Downstairs, for your life!” I whisper'd to the girl, and turning, as her father tumbled past me, let his pursuer run on my sword, as on a spit. At the same instant, another blade pass'd through the fellow transversely, and Jacques stood beside me, with his back to the lintel.
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