Other
Read books online Ā» Other Ā» Short Fiction H. G. Wells (classic books for 7th graders TXT) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«Short Fiction H. G. Wells (classic books for 7th graders TXT) šŸ“–Ā». Author H. G. Wells



1 ... 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 ... 290
Go to page:
was the queerest thing in the whole affair, to hear that neat little grocer man after his story was done, with a glass of whisky beside him and a cigar between his fingers, witnessing, with sorrow still, though now, indeed, with a time-blunted anguish, of the inappeasable hunger of the heart that presently came upon him. ā€œI couldnā€™t eat,ā€ he said, ā€œI couldnā€™t sleep. I made mistakes in orders and got mixed with change. There she was day and night, drawing me and drawing me. Oh, I wanted her. Lord! how I wanted her! I was up there, most evenings I was up there on the Knoll, often even when it rained. I used to walk over the Knoll and round it and round it, calling for them to let me in. Shouting. Near blubbering I was at times. Daft I was and miserable. I kept on saying it was all a mistake. And every Sunday afternoon I went up there, wet and fine, though I knew as well as you do it wasnā€™t no good by day. And Iā€™ve tried to go to sleep there.ā€

He stopped sharply and decided to drink some whisky.

ā€œIā€™ve tried to go to sleep there,ā€ he said, and I could swear his lips trembled. ā€œIā€™ve tried to go to sleep there, often and often. And, you know, I couldnā€™t, sirā ā€”never. Iā€™ve thought if I could go to sleep there, there might be something. But Iā€™ve sat up there and laid up there, and I couldnā€™tā ā€”not for thinking and longing. Itā€™s the longingā ā€Šā ā€¦ Iā€™ve triedā ā€”ā€

He blew, drank up the rest of his whisky spasmodically, stood up suddenly and buttoned his jacket, staring closely and critically at the cheap oleographs beside the mantel meanwhile. The little black notebook in which he recorded the orders of his daily round projected stiffly from his breast pocket. When all the buttons were quite done, he patted his chest and turned on me suddenly. ā€œWell,ā€ he said, ā€œI must be going.ā€

There was something in his eyes and manner that was too difficult for him to express in words. ā€œOne gets talking,ā€ he said at last at the door, and smiled wanly, and so vanished from my eyes. And that is the tale of Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland just as he told it to me.

The Valley of Spiders

Towards midday the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in the torrent bed upon the sight of a very broad and spacious valley. The difficult and winding trench of pebbles along which they had tracked the fugitives for so long expanded to a broad slope, and with a common impulse the three men left the trail, and rode to a little eminence set with olive-dun trees, and there halted, the two others, as became them, a little behind the man with the silver-studded bridle.

For a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes. It spread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of sere thorn bushes here and there, and the dim suggestions of some now waterless ravine to break its desolation of yellow grass. Its purple distances melted at last into the bluish slopes of the further hillsā ā€”hills it might be of a greener kindā ā€”and above them, invisibly supported, and seeming indeed to hang in the blue, were the snow-clad summits of mountainsā ā€”that grew larger and bolder to the northwestward as the sides of the valley drew together. And westward the valley opened until a distant darkness under the sky told where the forests began. But the three men looked neither east nor west, but only steadfastly across the valley.

The gaunt man with the scarred lip was the first to speak. ā€œNowhere,ā€ he said, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice. ā€œBut, after all, they had a full dayā€™s start.ā€

ā€œThey donā€™t know we are after them,ā€ said the little man on the white horse.

ā€œShe would know,ā€ said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to himself.

ā€œEven then they canā€™t go fast. Theyā€™ve got no beast but the mule, and all today the girlā€™s foot has been bleedingā ā€”ā€

The man with the silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage on him. ā€œDo you think I havenā€™t seen that?ā€ he snarled.

ā€œIt helps, anyhow,ā€ whispered the little man to himself.

The gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. ā€œThey canā€™t be over the valley,ā€ he said. ā€œIf we ride hardā ā€”ā€

He glanced at the white horse and paused.

ā€œCurse all white horses!ā€ said the man with the silver bridle, and turned to scan the beast his curse included.

The little man looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed.

ā€œI did my best,ā€ he said.

The two others stared again across the valley for a space. The gaunt man passed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.

ā€œCome up!ā€ said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly. The little man started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs of the three made a multitudinous faint pattering upon the withered grass as they turned back towards the trailā ā€Šā ā€¦

They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came through a waste of prickly twisted bushes and strange dry shapes of thorny branches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below. And there the trail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the ground. Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horsesā€™ necks and pausing ever and again, even these white men could contrive to follow after their prey.

There were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the coarse grass, and ever and again the sufficient intimation of a footmark. And once the leader saw a brown smear of blood where the half-caste girl may have trod. And at that under his breath he cursed her for a fool.

The gaunt man checked his leaderā€™s tracking, and the little man on the white horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. They rode one after another,

1 ... 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 ... 290
Go to page:

Free ebook Ā«Short Fiction H. G. Wells (classic books for 7th graders TXT) šŸ“–Ā» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment