ALLAN'S WIFE
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS
It may be remembered that in the last pages of his diary,
written just before his death, Allan Quatermain makes allusion
to his long dead wife, stating that he has written of her fully
elsewhere.
When his death was known, his papers were handed to
myself as his literary executor. Among them I found two manuscripts,
of which the following is one. The other is simply a record
of events wherein Mr. Quatermain was not personally concerned
— a Zulu novel, the story of which was told to him by
the hero many years after the tragedy had occurred. But with
this we have nothing to do at present.
I have often thought (Mr. Quatermain's manuscript begins)
that I would set down on paper the events connected with
my marriage, and the loss of my most dear wife. Many years
have now passed since that event, and to some extent time has
softened the old grief, though Heaven knows it is still keen
enough. On two or three occasions I have even begun the record.
Once I gave it up because the writing of it depressed me
beyond bearing, once because I was suddenly called away upon
a journey, and the third time because a Kaffir boy found my
manuscript convenient for lighting the kitchen fire.
But now that I am at leisure here in England, I will make
a fourth attempt. If I succeed, the story may serve to interest
some one in after years when I am dead and gone; before that I
should not wish it to be published. It is a wild tale enough, and
suggests some curious reflections.
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H. RIDER HAGGARD
I am the son of a missionary. My father was originally
curate in charge of a small parish in Oxfordshire. He had already
been some years married to my dear mother when he
went there, and he had four children, of whom I was the youngest.
I remember faintly the place where we lived. It was an ancient
long grey house, facing the road. There was a very large
tree of some sort in the garden. It was hollow, and we children
used to play about inside of it, and knock knots of wood from
the rough bark. We all slept in a kind of attic, and my mother
always came and kissed us when we were in bed. I used to wake
up and see her bending over me, a candle in her hand. There
was a curious kind of pole projecting from the wall over my
bed. Once I was dreadfully
frightened because my eldest
brother made me hang to it by my hands. That is all I remember
about our old home. It has been pulled down long ago, or I
would journey there to see it.
A little further down the road was a large house with big
iron gates to it, and on the top of the gate pillars sat two stone
lions, which were so hideous that I was afraid of them. Perhaps
this sentiment was prophetic. One could see the house by
peeping through the bars of the gates. It was a gloomy-looking
place, with a tall yew hedge round it; but in the summer-time
some flowers grew about the sun-dial in the grass plat. This
house was called the Hall, and Squire Carson lived there. One
Christmas — it must have been the Christmas before my father
emigrated, or I should not remember it — we children went to a
Christmas-tree festivity at the Hall. There was a great party
there, and footmen wearing red waistcoats stood at the door. In
the dining-room, which was panelled with black oak, was the
Christmas-tree. Squire Carson stood in front of it. He was a tall,
dark man, very quiet in his manners, and he wore a bunch of
seals on his waistcoat. We used to think him old, but as a matter
of fact he was then not more than forty. He had been, as I afterwards
learned, a great traveller in his youth, and some six or
seven years before this date he married a lady who was half a
Spaniard — a papist, my father called her. I can remember her
well. She was small and very pretty, with a rounded figure,
large black eyes, and glittering teeth. She spoke English with a
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ALLAN'S WIFE
5
curious accent. I suppose that I must have been a funny child to
look at, and I know that my hair stood up on my head then as it
does now, for I still have a sketch of myself that my mother
made of me, in which this peculiarity is strongly marked. On
this occasion of the Christmas-tree I remember that Mrs. Carson
turned to a tall, foreign-looking gentleman who stood beside
her, and, tapping him affectionately on the shoulder with her
gold eye-glasses, said —
"Look, cousin — look at that droll little boy with the big
brown eyes; his hair is like a — what you call him? — scrubbing-brush.
Oh, what a droll little boy!"
The tall gentleman pulled at his moustache, and, taking
Mrs. Carson's hand in his, began to smooth my hair down with
it till I heard her whisper —
"Leave go my hand, cousin. Thomas is looking like —
like the thunderstorm."
Thomas was the name of Mr. Carson, her husband.
After that I hid myself as well as I could behind a chair,
for I was shy, and watched little Stella Carson, who was the
squire's only child, giving the children presents off the tree. She
was dressed as Father Christmas, with some soft white stuff
round her lovely little face, and she had large dark eyes, which I
thought more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. At last it
came to my turn to receive a present — oddly enough, considered
in the light of future events, it was a large monkey. Stella
reached it down from one of the lower boughs of the tree and
handed it to me, saying —
"Dat is my Christmas present to you, little Allan Quatermain."
As
she did so her sleeve, which was covered with cotton
wool, spangled over with something that shone, touched one of
the tapers and caught fire — how I do not know — and the
flame ran up her arm towards her throat. She stood quite still. I
suppose that she was paralysed with fear; and the ladies who
were near screamed very loud, but did nothing. Then some impulse
seized me — perhaps instinct would be a better word to
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H. RIDER HAGGARD
use, considering my age. I threw myself upon the child, and,
beating at the fire with my hands, mercifully succeeded in extinguishing
it before it really got hold. My wrists were so badly
scorched that they had to be wrapped up in wool for a long time
afterwards, but with the exception of a single burn upon her
throat, little Stella Carson was not much hurt.
This is all that I remember about the Christmas-tree at the
Hall. What happened afterwards is lost to me, but to this day in
my sleep I sometimes see little Stella's sweet face and the stare
of terror in her dark eyes as the fire ran up her arm. This, however,
is not wonderful, for I had, humanly speaking, saved the
life of her who was destined to be my wife.
The next event which I can recall dearly is that my
mother and three brothers all fell ill of fever, owing, as I afterwards
learned, to the poisoning of our well by some evilminded
person, who threw a dead sheep into it.
It must have been while they were ill that Squire Carson
came one day to the vicarage. The weather was still cold, for
there was a fire in the study, and I sat before the fire writing
letters on a piece of paper with a pencil, while my father walked
up and down the room talking to himself. Afterwards I knew
that he was praying for the lives of his wife and children. Presently
a servant came to the door and said that some one wanted
to see him.
"It is the squire, sir," said the maid, "and he says he particularly
wishes to see you."
"Very well," answered my father, wearily, and presently
Squire Carson came in. His face was white and haggard, and his
eyes shone so fiercely that I was afraid of him.
"Forgive me for intruding on you at such a time, Quatermain,"
he said, in a hoarse voice, "but to-morrow I leave this
place for ever, and I wish to speak to you before I go — indeed,
I must speak to you."
"Shall I send Allan away?" said my father, pointing to
me.
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ALLAN'S WIFE
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"No; let him bide. He will not understand." Nor, indeed,
did I at the time, but I remembered every word, and in after
years their meaning grew on me.
"First tell me," he went on, "how are they?" and he
pointed upwards with his thumb.
"My wife and two of the boys are beyond hope," my father
answered, with a groan. "I do not know how it will go with
the third. The Lord's will be done!"
"The Lord's will be done," the squire echoed, solemnly.
"And now, Quatermain, listen — my wife's gone."
"Gone!" my father answered. "Who with?"
"With that foreign cousin of hers. It seems from a letter
she left that she always cared for him, not for me. She married
me because she thought me a rich English milord. Now she has
run through my property, or most of it, and gone. I don't know
where. Luckily, she did not care to encumber her new career
with the child; Stella is left to me."
"That is what comes of marrying a papist, Carson," said
my father. That was his fault; he was as good and charitable a
man as ever lived, but he was bigoted. "What are you going to
do — follow her?"
He laughed bitterly in answer.
"Follow her!" he said; "why should I follow her? If I met
her I might kill her or him, or both of them, because of the disgrace
they have brought upon my child's name. No, I never
want to look upon her face again. I trusted her, I tell you, and
she has betrayed me. Let her go and find her fate. But I am going
too. I am weary of my life."
"Surely, Carson, surely," said my father, "you do not
mean —"
"No, no; not that. Death comes soon enough. But I will
leave this civilized world which is a lie. We will go right away
into the wilds, I and my child, and hide our shame. Where? I
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