Son of Hagar

Hall Caine

Description

By the time Manx author Hall Caine published his second novel, A Son of Hagar, he was well on his way to becoming one of the most popular writers of his time. Combining love triangles, illicit romance, and a deep and abiding appreciation for Manx and Cumberland culture, this book is a must-read for fans of Victorian-era romance.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776597970
• Langue: English

Extrait

A SON OF HAGAR
A ROMANCE OF OUR TIME
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HALL CAINE
 
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A Son of Hagar A Romance of Our Time First published in 1886 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-797-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-798-7 © 2014 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
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Cumbrian Words Preface BOOK I - RETRO ME, SATHANA! Prologue Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII BOOK II - THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI BOOK III - THE DECLIVITY OF CRIME Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII BOOK IV - THE WATERS OF MARAH ARE BITTER Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII
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TO
R.D. BLACKMORE.
It must be an exceeding great reward, beyond all the rewards of materialsuccess, to know that you have written a book that is deep, tranquil,strong and pure. Again and again you have nobly earned that knowledge.Across the more than thirty years that divide us, the elder from theyounger brother, the veteran from the raw comrade, let me offer my handto you as to a master of our craft.
To the author, then, of a romance that has no equal save in Scott, Ihumbly dedicate this romance of mine.
H.C.
Cumbrian Words
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barn = child.
dusta = dost thou.
hasta = hast thou.
laal = little.
leet = alight.
girt = great.
sista = seëst thou.
varra = very.
wadsta = wouldst thou.
wilta = wilt thou.
Shaf! = an expression of contempt .
Preface
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In my first novel, "The Shadow of a Crime," I tried to penetrate intothe soul of a brave, unselfish, long-suffering man, and to lay bare theprocesses by which he raised himself to a great height ofself-sacrifice. In this novel the aim has been to penetrate into thesoul of a bad man, and to lay bare the processes by which he is temptedto his fall. To find a character that shall be above all commontendencies to guilt and yet tainted with the plague-spot of evil hiddensomewhere; then to watch the first sharp struggle of what is good in theman with what is bad, until he is in the coil of his temptation; andfinally, to show in what tragic ruin a man of strong passions, greatwill and power of mind may resist the force that precipitates him andsave his soul alive—this is, I trust, a motive no less worthy, no lessprofitable to study, in the utmost result no less heroic and inspiring,than that of tracing the upward path of noble types of mind. For methere has been a pathetic, and I think purifying, interest in lookinginto the soul of this man and seeing it corrode beneath the touch of apowerful temptation until at the last, when it seems to lie spent, itrises again in strength and shows that the human heart has no depths inwhich it is lost. If this character had been equal to my intention, itmight have been a real contribution to fiction, and far as I know it tofall short of the first deep blow of feeling in which it was conceived,it is, I think, new to the novel, though it holds a notable place in thedrama—it would be presumptuous to say where—unnecessary, also, as Ihave made no disguise of my purpose.
One of the usual disadvantages of choosing a leading character that isoff the lines of heroic portraiture is that the author may seem to be insympathy with a base part in life and with base opinions. In this novelI run a different risk. I shall not be surprised if I provoke somehostility in making the bad man justify his course by the gaunt and grimmorality that masquerades as the morality of our own time, while thegood man is made to justify his one dubious act by the full and sincereand just morality that too often wears now the garb of vice—themorality of the books of Moses. This novel relies, I trust, on the sheerhumanities alone, but among its less aggressive purposes is that of aplea for the natural rights of the bastard. Those rights have beenrecognized in every country and by every race, except one, since the daywhen the outcast woman in the wilderness hearkened to the cry fromheaven which said, "God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is." InEngland alone have the rights of blood been as nothing compared withthe rights of property, and it is part of the business of this novel toexhibit these interests at a climax of strife. I have no fear that anytrue-hearted person will accuse me of a desire to cast reproach uponmarriage as an ordinance. Recognizing the beauty and the sanctity ofmarriage, I have tried to show that true marriage is a higher thing thana ceremony, and that people who use the gibbet and stake for offendersagainst its forms are too often those who see no offense in theviolation of its spirit.
My principal scenes are again among the mountains of Cumberland; but inthis second attempt I have tried to realize more completely theirsolitude and sweetness, their breezy healthfulness, and their scent asof new-cut turf, by putting them side by side with scenes full of thegarrulous clangor and the malodor of the dark side of London.
When I began, I thought to enlarge the popular knowledge of our robustnorth-country by the addition of some whimsical character and quaintfolk-lore. If much of this quiet local atmosphere has had to make waybefore one strong current of tragic feeling, I trust some of it remainsthat is fresh and bracing in the incidents of the booth, the smithy, thedalesman's wedding, the rush-bearing, the cock-fighting, and thesheep-shearing. Those readers of the earlier book who found human natureand an element of humor in the patois, will regret with me the necessityso to modify the dialect in this book as to remove from it nearly allthe race quality that comes of intonation.
I ought to add that one of my characters, Parson Christian, is aportrait of a dear, simple, honest soul long gone to his account, andthat the words here put into his mouth are oftener his own than mine.
I trust this book may help to correct a prevailing misconception as tothe morals and mind of the typical English peasantry. It is certain thatthe conventional peasant of literature, the broad-mouthed rustic in asmock-frock, dull-eyed, mulish, beetle-headed, doddering, too vacant tobe vicious, too doltish to do amiss, does not exist as a type inEngland. What does exist in every corner of the country is a peasantryspeaking a patois that is often of varying inflections, but is alwaysfull of racy poetry, illiterate and yet possessed of a vast oralliterature, sharing brains with other classes more equally thaneducation, humorous, nimble-witted; clear-sighted, astute, cynical, nottoo virtuous, and having a lofty, contempt for the wiseacres of thetown.
The manners and customs, the folk lore and folk-talk of Cumberland arefar from exhausted in my two Cumberland novels; but it is not probablethat I shall work in this vein again. In parting from it, may I ventureto hope that here and there a reader grown tired of the life of thegreat cities has sometimes found it a relief to escape with me intothese mountain solitudes and look upon a life as real and more true; alife that is humble and yet not low; a life in which men may be men, andthe rude people of the soil need study the face of no master save naturealone?
BOOK I - RETRO ME, SATHANA!
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Prologue
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IN THE YEAR 1845.
It was a chill December morning. The atmosphere was dense with fog inthe dusky chamber of a London police court; the lights were bleared andthe voices drowsed. A woman carrying a child in her arms had been halfdragged, half pushed into the dock. She was young; beneath herdisheveled hair her face showed almost girlish. Her features werepinched with pain; her eyes had at one moment a serene look, and at thenext moment a look of defiance. Her dress had been rich; it was now tornand damp, and clung in dank folds to her limbs. The child she carriedappeared to be four months old. She held it convulsively at her breast,and when it gave forth a feeble cry she rocked it mechanically.
"Your worship, I picked this person out of the river at ha'past oneo'clock this morning," said a constable. "She had throwed herself offthe steps of Blackfriars Bridge."
"Had she the child with her?" asked the bench.
"Yes, your worship; and when I brought her to land I couldn't get thelittle one out of her arms nohow—she clung that tight to it. Themother, she was insensible; but the child opened its eyes and cried."
"Have you not learned her name?"
"No, sir; she won't give us no answer when we ask her that."
"I am informed," said the clerk, "that against all inquiries touchingher name and circumstances she keeps a rigid silence. The doctor is ofopinion, your worship, that the woman is not entirely responsible."
"Her appearance in court might certainly justify that conclusion," saidthe magistrate.
The young woman had gazed vacantly about her with an air ofindifference. She seemed scarcely to realize that through the yellowvagueness the eyes of a hundred persons were centered on her haggardface.
"Anybody here who knows her?" asked the