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. Rivers of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (best fiction novels to read TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Rivers of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (best fiction novels to read TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“P.S.—You ain’t comin’ back soon—are you?”
“Now, mother, what d’ee think o’ that?” said the Captain, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket.
“It’s a good, kind letter—just like William,” answered the old woman.
“Well, so I’m inclined to think,” rejoined the Captain, busying himself about breakfast while he spoke; “it provides for everybody in a sort o’ way, and encourages ’em to go on hopeful like—don’t it strike you so? Then, you see, that’s four to Miss Emma, and four to Dr Lawrence, which would be eight, equal to four hundred a year; and that, with the practice he’s gettin’ into, would make it six, or thereabouts—not bad to begin with, eh?”
The Captain followed his remark with a sigh.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs Roby.
“Why, you remember, mother, before goin’ abroad I set my heart on these two gettin’ spliced; but I fear it’s no go. Sometimes I think they looks fond o’ one another, at other times I don’t. It’s a puzzler. They’re both young an’ good-lookin’ an’ good. What more would they have?”
“Perhaps they want money,” suggested the old woman. “You say Dr Lawrence’s income just now is about two hundred; well, gentlefolks find it summat difficult to keep house on that, though it’s plenty for the likes of you an’ me.”
“That’s true. P’r’aps the Doctor is sheerin’ off for fear o’ draggin’ a young creeter into poverty. It never struck me in that light before.”
Beaming under the influence of this hopeful view of the case, the Captain proceeded to make another move in the complicated game which he had resolved to play out and win; but this move, which he had considered one of the easiest of all, proved to be the most unfortunate, or rather unmanageable.
“Now, mother,” said he, “I mean to make a proposal to ’ee, before going out for the day, so that you may have time to think over it. This cabin o’ yours ain’t just the thing, you know,—raither dirty, and too high in the clouds by a long way, so I’ve bin an’ seen a noo house on the river, not unlike this one, an’ I wants you to shift your berth. What say ’ee—eh?”
To the Captain’s surprise and dismay, the old woman shook her head decidedly, and no argument which he could bring to bear had the least effect on her. She had, in fact, got used to her humble old home, and attached to it, and could not bear the thought of leaving it. Having exhausted his powers of suasion in vain, he left her to think over it, and sallied forth crestfallen. However, he consoled himself with the hope that time and consideration would bring her to a right state of mind. Meanwhile he would go to the parties interested, and communicate the contents of Willum’s letter.
He went first to Doctor Lawrence, who was delighted as well as pleased at what it contained. The Captain at first read only the clauses which affected his friends the Stoutleys, and said nothing about that which referred to the Doctor himself.
“So you see, Doctor, I’m off to let the Stoutleys know about this little matter, and just looked in on you in passing.”
“It was very kind of you, Captain.”
“Not at all, by no means,” returned the Captain, pulling out a large clasp-knife, with which he proceeded carefully to pare his left thumb nail. “By the way, Doctor,” he said carelessly, “were you ever in love?”
Lawrence flushed, and cast a quick glance at his interrogator, who, however, was deeply engaged with the thumb nail.
“Well, I suppose men at my time of life,” he replied, with a laugh, “have had some—”
“Of course—of course,” interrupted the other, “but I mean that I wonder a strapping young fellow like you, with such a good practice, don’t get married.”
The Doctor, who had recovered himself, laughed, and said that his good practice was chiefly among the poor, and that even if he wished to marry—or rather, if any one would have him—he would never attempt to win a girl while he had nothing better than two hundred a year and prospects to offer her.
“Then I suppose you would marry if you had something better to offer,” said the Captain, finishing off the nail and shutting the clasp-knife with a snap.
Again the Doctor laughed, wondered why the Captain had touched on such a theme, and said that he couldn’t exactly say what he might or might not do if circumstances were altered.
The Captain was baffled. However, he said that circumstances were altered, and, after reading over the latter part of Willum’s letter, left Lawrence to digest it at his leisure.
We need not follow him on his mission. Suffice it to say that he carried no small amount of relief to the minds of Mrs Stoutley and her household; and, thereafter, met Gillie by appointment at Charing Cross, whence he went to Kensington to see a villa, with a view to purchasing it.
At night he again essayed to move Mrs Roby’s resolution, and many a time afterwards attacked her, but always with the same result. Although, as he said, he fought like a true-blue British seaman, and gave her broadside after broadside as fast as he could load and fire, he made no impression on her whatever. She had nailed her colours to the mast and would never give in.
It is probable that most people can recall occasions when “circumstances” have done for them that which they have utterly failed to effect for themselves.
Some time after the failure of Captain Wopper’s little plots and plans in regard to Mrs Roby, “circumstances” favoured him—the wind shifted round, so to speak, and blew right astern. To continue our metaphor, it blew a tremendous gale, and the Captain’s ends were gained at last only by the sinking of the ship!
This is how it happened. One afternoon the Captain was walking rather disconsolately down the Strand in company with his satellite—we might almost say, his confidant. The street was very crowded, insomuch that at one or two crossings they were obliged to stand a few minutes before venturing over,—not that the difficulty was great, many active men being seen to dodge among the carts, drays, vans, and busses with marvellous ease and safety, but the Captain was cautious. He was wont to say that he warn’t used to sail in such crowded waters—there warn’t enough o’ sea room for him—he’d rather lay-to, or stand—off-an’-on for half a day than risk being run down by them shore-goin’ crafts.
“Everything in life seems to go wrong at times,” muttered the Captain, as he and the satellite lay-to at one of these crossings.
“Yes, it’s coorious, ain’t it, sir,” said Gillie, “an’ at other times everything seems to go right—don’t it, sir?”
“True, my lad, that’s a better view to take of it,” returned the Captain, cheerfully, “come, we’ll heave ahead.”
As they were “heaving” along in silence, the rattle and noise around them being unsuited to conversation, they suddenly became aware that the ordinary din of the Strand swelled into a furious roar. Gillie was half way up a lamp-post in an instant! from which elevated position he looked down on the Captain, and said—
“A ingine!”
“What sort of a ingine, my lad?”
“A fire! hooray!” shouted Gillie, with glittering eyes and flushed countenance, “look out, Cappen, keep close ’longside o’ me, under the lee o’ the lamp-post. It’s not a bad buffer, though never quite a sure one, bein’ carried clean away sometimes by the wheels w’en there’s a bad driver.”
As he spoke, the most intense excitement was manifested in the crowded thoroughfare. Whips were flourished, cabmen shouted, horses reared, vehicles of all kinds scattered right and left even although there had seemed almost a “block” two seconds before. Timid foot passengers rushed into shops, bold ones mounted steps and kerb-stones, or stood on tip-toe, and the Captain, towering over the crowd, saw the gleam of brass helmets as the charioteer clove his way through the swaying mass.
There is something powerfully exciting to most minds in the sight of men rushing into violent action, especially when the action may possibly involve life and death. The natural excitement aroused in the Captain’s breast was increased by the deep bass nautical roar that met his ear. Every man in the London fire-brigade is, or used to be, a picked man-of-war’s-man, and the shouting necessary in such a thoroughfare to make people get out of the way was not only tremendous but unceasing. It was as though a dozen mad “bo’s’ns,” capped with brazen war-helmets, had been let loose on London society, through which they tore at full gallop behind three powerful horses on a hissing and smoking monster of brass and iron. A bomb shell from a twenty-five-ton gun could scarce have cut a lane more effectually. The Captain took off his hat and cheered in sympathy. The satellite almost dropped from the lamp-post with excess of feeling. The crash and roar increased, culminated, rushed past and gone in a moment.
Gillie dropped to the ground as if he had been shot, seized the Captain’s hand, and attempted to drag him along. He might as well have tried to drag Vesuvius from its base, but the Captain was willing. A hansom-cab chanced to be in front of them as they dashed into the road, the driver smoking and cool as a cucumber, being used to such incidents. He held up a finger.
“Quick, in with you, Cappen!”
Gillie got behind his patron, and in attempting to expedite his movements with a push, almost sent him out at the other side.
“After the ingine—slap!” yelled Gillie to the face which looked down through the conversation-hole in the roof, “double extra fare if you look sharp.”
The cabman was evidently a sympathetic soul. He followed in the wake of the fire-engine as well as he could; but it was a difficult process, for, while the world at large made way for it, nobody cared a straw for him!
“Ain’t it fun?” said Gillie, as he settled his panting little body on the cushion beside his friend and master.
“Not bad,” responded the Captain, who half laughed at the thought of being so led away by excitement and a small boy.
“I’d give up all my bright prospects of advancement in life,” continued Gillie, “to be a fireman. There’s no fun goin’ equal to a fire.”
“P’r’aps it don’t seem quite so funny to them as is bein’ burnt out,” suggested the Captain.
“Of course it don’t, but that can’t be helped, you know—can it, sir? What can’t be cured must be endoored, as the proverb says. Get along, old fellow, don’t spare his ribs—double fare, you know; we’ll lose ’em if you don’t.”
The latter part of the remark was shouted through the hole to the cabman, who however, pulled up instead of complying.
“It’s of no use, sir,” he said, looking down at the Captain, “I’ve lost sight of ’em.”
Gillie was on the pavement in a moment.
“Never mind, Cappen, give him five bob, an’ decline the change; come along. I see ’em go past
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