A Veldt Official: A Novel of Circumstance
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Mitford Bertram. A Veldt Official: A Novel of Circumstance
Chapter One “Where’s doppersdorp?”
Chapter Two. The Post-Cart Travellers
Chapter Three. Peter Van Stolz, R.M
Chapter Four. Carte and Tierce!
Chapter Five. Concerning Small Things
Chapter Six. The Verdict of Doppersdorp
Chapter Seven. Lambert – Out of it
Chapter Eight. Concerning the Chase
Chapter Nine “Love that is First and Last…”
Chapter Ten “I Have Won You!”
Chapter Eleven “I Hold You!”
Chapter Twelve. Breathing of War
Chapter Thirteen. A Limed Twig
Chapter Fourteen. Hoist With His Own Petard
Chapter Fifteen. A Shake of the Dice
Chapter Sixteen “Within the Veins of Time.”
Chapter Seventeen “It is Sweeter to Love – It is Wiser to Dare.”
Chapter Eighteen. The Hostile Ground
Chapter Nineteen. A Dark Mystery of the Veldt
Chapter Twenty. Mona’s Dream
Chapter Twenty One. A Voice through the Night
Chapter Twenty Two. Between Blade and Flame
Chapter Twenty Three. A Change
Chapter Twenty Four “Who Knew Not Joseph.”
Chapter Twenty Five. Lambert makes a Discovery
Chapter Twenty Six. A Sword – Long Rusted
Chapter Twenty Seven “Thou shouldst have known me true.”
Chapter Twenty Eight “Dead Separate Souls…”
Chapter Twenty Nine “O Love, Thy Day sets Darkling.”
Chapter Thirty. The Portal of the Shadow
Chapter Thirty One “Dark Roll the Deepening Days…”
Chapter Thirty Two. Within the Shadow
Chapter Thirty Three. Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea
Chapter Thirty Four “Air, Light, and Wave Seemed Full of Burning Rest.”
Chapter Thirty Five. Conclusion
Отрывок из книги
Drip, drip, drip, in one unbroken downpour falls the rain. Scuds of floating wrack are wreathing the tree-tops and boulders higher up the bush-grown slopes, and the grey, opaque, lowering sky renders the desolate waste yet more gloomy and forbidding. Floundering, splashing, stumbling, even the team of four serviceable nags appears to experience some difficulty in drawing its load, a two-wheeled Cape cart to wit, crammed pretty nearly to the full measure of its carrying capacity; for the whole well of the cart is filled up. Even the seats cannot be turned to their original purpose, for they too are loaded up with sacks; and upon this irregular pile are three human beings, who are under the necessity of holding on as best they may, insecurely perched upon a sort of dome of rough and uneven surface. Some reims, or rawhide thongs, have been lashed across the top of this perch for them to hold on to, a concession to human weakness for which they are expected to feel jubilantly grateful; for they are only passengers, and – as those who have gone through the experience can certify, to their cost – the comfort, well-being, and safety of mere passengers are held by every self-respecting colonial post contractor in the profoundest contempt. For the vehicle is a post-cart, and the sacks upon which a limited number of Her Majesty’s lieges are graciously permitted to travel – if haply they can hold on – contain Her Majesty’s mails.
Some of the oft-detailed horrors of post-cart travelling seem to have fallen to the lot of the occupants of this one. Apart from the insecurity of their perch already mentioned, they are shelterless, and it has been raining hard and unintermittently for about seven hours. Swathed in theoretical waterproofs – for no waterproof displays a practical side when put to such a test – they grovel upon the lumpy and uneven surface of the sacks, jolted, shaken, bruised, the beat of the rain in their faces, varied from time to time by a copious splash of rich, red liquid mud – lately dust – thrown up from the road. All are wet, cramped and uncomfortable; sore and aching from the jolting and constrained position.
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“But the lady! She won’t be fit to travel as soon as that.”
“Can’t help that either, mister. If she can’t travel she must stay here. I can’t wait for nobody.”
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