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231 pages

English

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While many of H. Rider Haggard's acclaimed action-adventure tales take place in exotic locations, Colonel Quaritch, V.C. unfolds in the author's own backyard. After leaving active service, a decorated officer moves back to his ancestral village. Instead of finding the peace and quiet he was seeking, however, life in this "quaint" community proves to be just as dramatic as his days on the battlefield. Fans of Victorian domestic dramas will delight in this rollicking tale.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juin 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775561989
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE
* * *
H. RIDER HAGGARD

*
Colonel Quaritch, V.C. A Tale of Country Life First published in 1888 ISBN 978-1-77556-198-9 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I - Harold Quaritch Meditates Chapter II - The Colonel Meets the Squire Chapter III - The Tale of Sir James de la Molle Chapter IV - The End of the Tale Chapter V - The Squire Explains the Position Chapter VI - Lawyer Quest Chapter VII - Edward Cossey, Esquire Chapter VIII - Mr. Quest's Wife Chapter IX - The Shadow of Ruin Chapter X - The Tennis Party Chapter XI - Ida's Bargain Chapter XII - George Prophesies Chapter XIII - About Art Chapter XIV - The Tiger Shows Her Claws Chapter XV - The Happy Days Chapter XVI - The House with the Red Pillars Chapter XVII - The Tigress in Her Den Chapter XVIII - "What Some Have Found so Sweet" Chapter XIX - In Pawn Chapter XX - "Good-Bye to You, Edward" Chapter XXI - The Colonel Goes Out Shooting Chapter XXII - The End of the Match Chapter XXIII - The Blow Falls Chapter XXIV - "Good-Bye, My Dear, Good-Bye!" Chapter XXV - The Squire Gives His Consent Chapter XXVI - Belle Pays a Visit Chapter XXVII - Mr. Quest Has His Innings Chapter XXVIII - How George Treated Johnnie Chapter XXIX - Edward Cossey Meets with an Accident Chapter XXX - Harold Takes the News Chapter XXXI - Ida Recants Chapter XXXII - George Prophesies Again Chapter XXXIII - The Squire Speaks His Mind Chapter XXXIV - George's Diplomatic Errand Chapter XXXV - The Sword of Damocles Chapter XXXVI - How the Game Ended Chapter XXXVII - Sister Agnes Chapter XXXVIII - Colonel Quaritch Expresses His Views Chapter XXXIX - The Colonel Goes to Sleep Chapter XL - But Not to Bed Chapter XLI - How the Night Went Chapter XLII - Ida Goes to Meet Her Fate Chapter XLIII - George is Seen to Laugh Chapter XLIV - Christmas Chimes Conclusion - Good-Bye Endnotes
*
I Dedicate
This Tale of Country Life
To
My Friend and Fellow-Sportsman,
CHARLES J. LONGMAN
Chapter I - Harold Quaritch Meditates
*
There are things and there are faces which, when felt or seen for thefirst time, stamp themselves upon the mind like a sun image on asensitized plate and there remain unalterably fixed. To take theinstance of a face—we may never see it again, or it may become thecompanion of our life, but there the picture is just as we first knew it, the same smile or frown, the same look, unvarying andunvariable, reminding us in the midst of change of the indestructiblenature of every experience, act, and aspect of our days. For thatwhich has been, is, since the past knows no corruption, but liveseternally in its frozen and completed self.
These are somewhat large thoughts to be born of a small matter, butthey rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly-looking man who,on the particular evening when this history opens, was leaning over agate in an Eastern county lane, staring vacantly at a field of ripecorn.
He was a peculiar and rather battered looking individual, apparentlyover forty years of age, and yet bearing upon him that unmistakablestamp of dignity and self-respect which, if it does not exclusivelybelong to, is still one of the distinguishing attributes of theEnglish gentleman. In face he was ugly, no other word can express it.Here were not the long mustachios, the almond eyes, the aristocraticair of the Colonel of fiction—for our dreamer was a Colonel. Thesewere—alas! that the truth should be so plain—represented by somewhatscrubby sandy-coloured whiskers, small but kindly blue eyes, a lowbroad forehead, with a deep line running across it from side to side,something like that to be seen upon the busts of Julius Caesar, and along thin nose. One good feature, however, he did possess, a mouth ofsuch sweetness and beauty that set, as it was, above a very square andmanly-looking chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place."Umph," said his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who had just died and left himwhat she possessed), on the occasion of her first introduction to himfive-and-thirty years before, "Umph! Nature meant to make a prettygirl of you, and changed her mind after she had finished the mouth.Well, never mind, better be a plain man than a pretty woman. There, goalong, boy! I like your ugly face."
Nor was the old lady peculiar in this respect, for plain as thecountenance of Colonel Harold Quaritch undoubtedly was, people foundsomething very taking about it, when once they became accustomed toits rugged air and stern regulated expression. What that something wasit would be hard to define, but perhaps the nearest approach to thetruth would be to describe it as a light of purity which,notwithstanding the popular idea to the contrary, is quite as often tobe found upon the faces of men as upon those of women. Any person ofdiscernment looking on Colonel Quaritch must have felt that he was inthe presence of a good man—not a prig or a milksop, but a man who hadattained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their marksupon him, a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, one to berespected by all, and feared of evildoers. Men felt this, and he waspopular among those who knew him in his service, though not in anyhail-fellow-well-met kind of way. But among women he was not popular.As a rule they both feared and disliked him. His presence jarred uponthe frivolity of the lighter members of their sex, who dimly realisedthat his nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could notunderstand him. Perhaps this was the reason why Colonel Quaritch hadnever married, had never even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty.
And yet it was of a woman that he was thinking as he leant over thegate, and looked at the field of yellowing corn, undulating like agolden sea beneath the pressure of the wind.
Colonel Quaritch had twice before been at Honham, once ten, and oncefour years ago. Now he was come to abide there for good. His old aunt,Mrs. Massey, had owned a place in the village—a very small place—called Honham Cottage, or Molehill, and on those two occasions hevisited her. Mrs. Massey was dead and buried. She had left him theproperty, and with some reluctance, he had given up his profession, inwhich he saw no further prospects, and come to live upon it. This washis first evening in the place, for he had arrived by the last trainon the previous night. All day he had been busy trying to get thehouse a little straight, and now, thoroughly tired, he was refreshinghimself by leaning over a gate. It is, though a great many people willnot believe it, one of the most delightful and certainly one of thecheapest refreshments in the world.
And then it was, as he leant over the gate, that the image of awoman's face rose before his mind as it had continually risen duringthe last five years. Five years had gone since he saw it, and thosefive years he spent in India and Egypt, that is with the exception ofsix months which he passed in hospital—the upshot of an Arab spearthrust in the thigh.
It had risen before him in all sorts of places and at all sorts oftimes; in his sleep, in his waking moments, at mess, out shooting, andeven once in the hot rush of battle. He remembered it well—it was atEl Teb. It happened that stern necessity forced him to shoot a manwith his pistol. The bullet cut through his enemy, and with a fewconvulsions he died. He watched him die, he could not help doing so,there was some fascination in following the act of his own hand to itsdreadful conclusion, and indeed conclusion and commencement were verynear together. The terror of the sight, the terror of what in defenceof his own life he was forced to do, revolted him even in the heat ofthe fight, and even then, over that ghastly and distorted face,another face spread itself like a mask, blotting it out from view—that woman's face. And now again it re-arose, inspiring him with therather recondite reflections as to the immutability of things andimpressions with which this domestic record opens.
Five years is a good stretch in a man's journey through the world.Many things happen to us in that time. If a thoughtful person were toset to work to record all the impressions which impinge upon his mindduring that period, he would fill a library with volumes, the meretale of its events would furnish a shelf. And yet how small they areto look back upon. It seemed but the other day that he was leaningover this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed inblack, who, with a spray of honeysuckle thrust in her girdle, andcarrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisurely down the lane.
There was something about the girl's air that had struck him while shewas yet a long way off—a dignity, a grace, and a set of theshoulders. Then as she came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and thewaving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively withthe pale and striking features. It was not a beautiful face, for themouth was too large, and the nose was not as straight as it might havebeen, but there was a power about the broad brow, and a force andsolid nobility stamped upon the features which had impressed himstrangely. Just as she came opposite to where he was standing, a gustof wind, for there was a stiff breeze, blew the lady's hat off, takingit over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, scrambled into the fieldand fetched it for her, and she had thanked him with a quick smile anda lighting