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
“I can fence a bit,” answer'd I. — “Now, say no more, Jack: I love thee.”
He look'd in my face, still holding my hand and smiling. Indeed, there was something of the foreigner in his brisk graceful ways—yet not unpleasing. I was going to say I had never seen the like—ah, me! that both have seen and know the twin image so well.
“I think,” said I, “you had better be considering what to do.”
He laugh'd outright this time; and resting with his legs cross'd, against the trunk of an elm, twirl'd an end of his long lovelocks, and looked at me comically. Said he: “Tell me, Jack, is there aught in me that offends thee?”
“Why, no,” I answered. “I think you're a very proper young man—such as I should loathe to see spoil'd by Master Settle's knife.”
“Art not quick at friendship, Jack, but better at advising; only in this case fortune has prevented thy good offices. Hark ye,” he lean'd forward and glanc'd to right and left, “if these twain intend my hurt—as indeed 'twould seem—they lose their labor: for this very night I ride from Oxford.”
“And why is that?”
“I'll tell thee, Jack, tho' I deserve to be shot. I am bound with a letter from His Majesty to the Army of the West, where I have friends, for my father's sake—Sir Deakin Killigrew of Gleys, in Cornwall. 'Tis a sweet country, they say, tho' I have never seen it.”
“Not seen thy father's country?”
“Why no—for he married a Frenchwoman, Jack, God rest her dear soul!”—he lifted his hat—“and settled in that country, near Morlaix, in Brittany, among my mother's kin; my grandfather refusing to see or speak with him, for wedding a poor woman without his consent. And in France was I born and bred, and came to England two years agone; and this last July the old curmudgeon died. So that my father, who was an only son, is even now in England returning to his estates: and with him my only sister Delia. I shall meet them on the way. To think of it!” (and I declare the tears sprang to his eyes): “Delia will be a woman grown, and ah! to see dear Cornwall together!”
Now I myself was only a child, and had been made an orphan when but nine years old, by the smallpox that visited our home in Wastdale Village, and carried off my father, the Vicar, and my dear mother. Yet his simple words spoke to my heart and woke so tender a yearning for the small stone cottage, and the bridge, and the grey fells of Yewbarrow above it, that a mist rose in my eyes too, and I turn'd away to hide it.
“'Tis a ticklish business,” said I after a minute, “to carry the King's letter. Not one in four of his messengers comes through, they say. But since it keeps you from the dice——”
“That's true. To-night I make an end.”
“To-night!”
“Why, yes. To-night I go for my revenge, and ride straight from the inn door.”
“Then I go with you to the 'Crown,'” I cried, very positive.
He dropp'd playing with his curl, and look'd me in the face, his mouth twitching with a queer smile.
“And so thou shalt Jack: but why?”
“I'll give no reason,” said I, and knew I was blushing.
“Then be at the corner of All Hallows' Church in Turl Street at seven to-night. I lodge over Master Simon's, the glover, and must be about my affairs. Jack,”—he came near and took my hand—“am sure thou lovest me.”
He nodded, with another cordial smile, and went his way up the grove, his amber cloak flaunting like a belated butterfly under the leaf less trees; and so pass'd out of my sight.
CHAPTER III. — I FIND MYSELF IN A TAVERN BRAWL: AND BARELY ESCAPE.
It wanted, maybe, a quarter to seven, that evening, when, passing out at the College Gate on my way to All Hallows' Church, I saw under the lantern there a man loitering and talking with the porter. 'Twas Master Anthony's lackey; and as I came up, he held out a note for me.
Deare Jack
Wee goe to the “Crowne” at VI. o'clock, I having mett with Captain Settle, who is on dewty with the horse tonite, and must to Abendonn by IX. I looke for you—
Your unfayned loving
A. K.The bearer has left my servise, and his helth conserus me nott. Soe kik him if he tarrie.
This last advice I had no time to carry out with any thoroughness: but being put in a great dread by this change of hour, pelted off toward the Corn Market as fast as legs could take me, which was the undoing of a little round citizen into whom I ran full tilt at the corner of Balliol College: who, before I could see his face in the darkness, was tipp'd on his back in the gutter and using the most dismal expressions. So I left him, considering that my excuses would be unsatisfying to his present demands, and to his cooler judgment a superfluity.
The windows of the “Crown” were cheerfully lit behind their red blinds. A few straddling grooms and troopers talked and spat in the brightness of the entrance, and outside in the street was a servant leading up and down a beautiful sorrel mare, ready saddled, that was mark'd on the near hind leg with a high white stocking. In the passage, I met the host of the “Crown,” Master John Davenant, and sure (I thought) in what odd corners will the Muse pick up her favorites! For this slow, loose-cheek'd vintner was no less than father to Will Davenant, our Laureate, and had belike read no other verse in his life but those at the bottom of his own pint-pots.
“Top of the stairs,” says he, indicating my way, “and open the door ahead of you, if y'are the young gentleman Master Killigrew spoke of.”
I had my foot on the bottom step, when from the room above comes the crash of a table upsetting, with a noise of broken glass, chairs thrust back, and a racket of outcries. Next moment, the door was burst open, letting out a flood of light and curses; and down flies a drawer, three steps at a time, with a red stain of wine trickling down his white face.
“Murder!” he gasped out; and sitting down on a stair, fell to mopping his face, all sick and trembling.
I was dashing past him, with the landlord at my heels, when three men came tumbling out at the door, and downstairs. I squeezed myself against the wall to let them pass:
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