When the World Shook. H. Rider Haggard

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       H. Rider Haggard

      When the World Shook

      Being an Account of the Great Adventure of Bastin, Bickley and Arbuthnot

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664629876

Table of Contents

       Chapter I. Arbuthnot Describes Himself

       Chapter II. Bastin and Bickley

       Chapter III. Natalie

       Chapter IV. Death and Departure

       Chapter V. The Cyclone

       Chapter VI. Land

       Chapter VII. The Orofenans

       Chapter VIII. Bastin Attempts the Martyr’s Crown

       Chapter IX. The Island in the Lake

       Chapter X. The Dwellers in the Tomb

       Chapter XI. Resurrection

       Chapter XII. Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Years!

       Chapter XIII. Oro Speaks and Bastin Argues

       Chapter XIV. The Under-world

       Chapter XV. Oro in His House

       Chapter XVI. Visions of the Past

       Chapter XVII. Yva Explains

       Chapter XVIII. The Accident

       Chapter XIX. The Proposals of Bastin and Bickley

       Chapter XX. Oro and Arbuthnot Travel by Night

       Chapter XXI. Love’s Eternal Altar

       Chapter XXII. The Command

       Chapter XXIII. In the Temple of Fate

       Chapter XXIV. The Chariot of the Pit

       Chapter XXV. Sacrifice

       Chapter XXVI. Tommy

       Chapter XXVII. Bastin Discovers a Resemblance

       NOTE By J. R. Bickley, M.R.C.S.

Chapter I. Arbuthnot Describes Himself

       Table of Contents

      I suppose that I, Humphrey Arbuthnot, should begin this history in which Destiny has caused me to play so prominent a part, with some short account of myself and of my circumstances.

      I was born forty years ago in this very Devonshire village in which I write, but not in the same house. Now I live in the Priory, an ancient place and a fine one in its way, with its panelled rooms, its beautiful gardens where, in this mild climate, in addition to our own, flourish so many plants which one would only expect to find in countries that lie nearer to the sun, and its green, undulating park studded with great timber trees. The view, too, is perfect; behind and around the rich Devonshire landscape with its hills and valleys and its scarped faces of red sandstone, and at a distance in front, the sea. There are little towns quite near too, that live for the most part on visitors, but these are so hidden away by the contours of the ground that from the Priory one cannot see them. Such is Fulcombe where I live, though for obvious reasons I do not give it its real name.

      Many years ago my father, the Rev. Humphrey Arbuthnot, whose only child I am, after whom also I am named Humphrey, was the vicar of this place with which our family is said to have some rather vague hereditary connection. If so, it was severed in the Carolian times because my ancestors fought on the side of Parliament.

      My father was a recluse, and a widower, for my mother, a Scotswoman, died at or shortly after my birth. Being very High Church for those days he was not popular with the family that owned the Priory before me. Indeed its head, a somewhat vulgar person of the name of Enfield who had made money in trade, almost persecuted him, as he was in a position to do, being the local magnate and the owner of the rectorial tithes.

      I mention this fact because owing to it as a boy I made up my mind that one day I would buy that place and sit in his seat, a wild enough idea at the time. Yet it became engrained in me, as do such aspirations of our youth, and when the opportunity arose in after years I carried it out. Poor old Enfield! He fell on evil fortunes, for in trying to bolster up a favourite son who was a gambler, a spendthrift, and an ungrateful scamp, in the end he was practically ruined and when the bad times came, was forced to sell the Fulcombe estate. I think of him kindly now, for after all he was good to me and gave me many a day’s shooting and leave to fish for trout in the river.

      By the poor people, however, of all the district round, for the parish itself is very small, my father was much beloved, although he did practise confession, wear vestments and set lighted candles on the altar, and was even said to have openly expressed the wish, to which however he never attained, that he could see a censer swinging in the chancel. Indeed the church which, as monks built it, is very large and fine, was always full on Sundays, though many of the worshippers came from far away, some of them doubtless out of curiosity because of its papistical repute, also because, in a learned fashion, my father’s preaching was very good indeed.

      For my part I feel that I owe much to these High-Church