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
The two hasten'd on: and presently I heard the one they call'd “Sam” dismounting in the yard. Now there was a window hole in the loft, facing, not on the yard, but toward the country behind; and running to it I saw that no more were following—the other three having, as I suppose, early given up the chase. Softly pulling out a loose stone or two, I widen'd this hole till I could thrust the ladder out of it. To my joy it just reach'd the ground. I bade Delia squeeze herself through and climb down.
But before she was halfway down I heard a wild screech in the kitchen below, and the voice of Sam shrieking—-
“Help—help! Lord ha' mercy 'pon me—'tis a black cat—'tis a witch! The gal's no gal, but a witch!”
Laughing softly, I was descending the ladder when the fellow came round the corner screaming—with Jan Tergagle clawing at his back and spitting murderously. Delia had just time to slip aside, before he ran into the ladder and brought me flying on top of him. And there he lay and bellow'd till I tied him, and gagg'd his noise with a big stone in his mouth and his own scarf tied round it.
“Come!” I whisper'd: for Joan and her pursuers were out of sight. Catching up her long skirt, Delia follow'd me, and up the tor we panted together, nor rested till we were safe in the Jews' Kitchen.
“What think you of this for a hiding place?” ask'd I, with a laugh.
But Delia did not laugh. Instead, she faced me with blazing eyes, check'd herself and answer'd, cold as ice—-
“Sir, you have done me a many favors. How I have trusted you in return it were best for you to remember, and for me to forget.”
The dark drew on; the western star grew distinct and hung flashing over against our hiding; and still we sat there, hour after hour, silent, angry, waiting for Joan's return, Delia at the entrance of the den, chin on hand, scanning the heavens and never once turning toward me; I further inside, with my arms cross'd, raging against myself and all the world, yet with a sick'ning dread that Joan would never come back.
As the time lagg'd by, this terror grew and grew. But, as I think, about ten o'clock, I heard steps coming over the turf. I ran out. 'Twas Joan herself and leading Molly by the bridle. She walk'd as if tir'd, and leaving the mare at the entrance, follow'd me into the cave. Glancing round, I noted that Delia had slipp'd away.
“Am glad she's gone,” said Joan shortly: “How many rebels pass'd this way, Jack?”
“Five, counting one that lies gagg'd and bound, down at the cottage.”
“That leaves four:”—she stretch'd herself on the ground with a sigh—“four that'll never trouble thee more, lad.”
“Why? how—”
“Listen, lad: sit down an' let me rest my head 'pon thy knee. Oh, Jack, I did it bravely! Eight good miles an' more I took the mare—by the Four—hol'd Cross, an' across the moor past Tober an' Catshole, an' over Brown Willy, an' round Roughtor to the nor'-west: an' there lies the bravest quag—oh, a black, bottomless hole!—an' into it I led them; an' there they lie, every horse, an' every mother's son, till Judgment Day.”
“Dead?”
“Aye—an' the last twain wi' a bullet apiece in their skulls. Oh, rare! Dear heart—hold my head—so, atween thy hands. 'Put on his cast off duds,' said Alsie, 'an' stand afore the glass, sayin' “Come, true man!” nine-an'-ninety time.' I was mortal 'feard o' losin' count; but afore I got to fifty, I heard thy step an'—hold me closer, Jack.”
“But Joan, are these men dead, say you?”
“Surely, yes. Why, lad, what be four rebels, up or down, to make this coil over? Hast never axed after me!”
“Joan—you are not hurt?”
In the darkness I sought her eyes, and, peering into them, drew back.
“Joan!”
“Hush, lad—bend down thy head, and let me whisper. I went too near—an' one, that was over his knees, let fly wi' his musket—an' Jack, I have but a minute or two. Hush lad, hush—there's no call! Wert never the man could ha' tam'd me—art the weaker, in a way: forgie the word, for I lov'd thee so, boy Jack!”
Her arms were drawing down my face to her: her eyes dull with pain.
“Feel, Jack—there—over my right breast. I plugg'd the wound wi' a peat turf. Pull it out, for 'tis bleeding inwards, and hurts cruelly—pull it out!”
As I hesitated, she thrust her own hand in and drew it forth, leaving the hot blood to gush.
“An' now, Jack, tighter—hold me tighter. Kiss me—oh, what brave times! Tighter, lad, an' call wi' me—'Church an' King!' Call, lad—'Church an'—'”
The warm arms loosen'd: the head sank back upon my lap.
I look'd up. There was a shadow across the entrance, blotting out the star of night. 'Twas Delia, leaning there and listening.
CHAPTER XIX. — THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE.
The day-spring came at last, and in the sick light of it I went down to the cottage for spade and pickaxe. In the tumult of my senses I hardly noted that our prisoner, the dragoon, had contrived to slip his bonds and steal off in the night.
And then Delia, seeing me return with the sad tools on my shoulder, spoke for the first time:
“First, if there be a well near, fetch me two buckets of water, and leave us for an hour.”
Her voice was weary and chill: so that I dared not thank her, but did the errand in silence. Then, but a dozen paces from the spot where Joan's father lay, I dug a grave and strew'd it with bracken, and heather, and gorse petals, that in the morning air smell'd rarely. And soon after my task was done, Delia call'd me.
In her man's dress Joan lay, her arms cross'd, her black tresses braided, and her face gentler than ever 'twas in life. Over her wounded breast was a bunch of some tiny pink flower, that grew about the tor.
So I lifted her softly as once in this same place she had lifted me, and bore her down the slope to the grave: and there I buried her, while Delia knelt and pray'd, and Molly browsed, lifting now and then her head to look.
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