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    He
    He
    He
    Ebook92 pages1 hour

    He

    By Walter Herries Pollock and Andrew Lang

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateMay 1, 2008

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      Book preview

      He - Walter Herries Pollock

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of HE, by Andrew Lang

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: HE

      Author: Andrew Lang

      Release Date: May 24, 2008 [EBook #25589]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE ***

      Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was

      produced from scanned images of public domain material

      from the Google Print project.)

      HE

      BY THE AUTHOR OF

      'IT'   'KING SOLOMON'S WIVES'   'BESS'

      'MUCH DARKER DAYS'   'MR MORTON'S SUBTLER'

      AND OTHER ROMANCES

      LONDON

      LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

      1887

      All rights reserved

      PRINTED BY

      SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE

      LONDON

      'SHE.'

      TO H. RIDER HAGGARD.

      Not in the waste beyond the swamp and sand,

      The fever-haunted forest and lagoon,

      Mysterious Kôr, thy fanes forsaken stand,

      With lonely towers beneath the lonely Moon!

      Not there doth Ayesha linger,—rune by rune

      Spelling the scriptures of a people banned,—

      The world is disenchanted! oversoon

      Shall Europe send her spies through all the land!

      Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot,

      In fields, or towns, or by the insatiate sea,

      Hearts brood o'er buried Loves and unforgot,

      Or wreck themselves on some Divine decree,

      Or would o'er-leap the limits of our lot,

      There in the Tombs and deathless, dwelleth SHE!

      DEDICATION.

      Kôr,

      Jan. 30, 1887.

      Dear Allan Quatermain,

      You, who, with others, have aided so manfully in the Restoration of King Romance, know that His Majesty is a Merry Monarch.

      You will not think, therefore, that the respectful Liberty we have taken with your Wondrous Tale (as Pamela did with the 137th Psalm) indicates any lack of Loyalty to our Lady Ayesha.

      Her beauties are beyond the reach of danger from Burlesque, nor does her form flit across our humble pages.

      May you restore to us yet the prize of her perfections, for we, at least, can never believe that she wholly perished in the place of the Pillar of Fire!

      Yours ever,

      Two of the Ama Lo-Grolla.

      CONTENTS.

      HE.

      CHAPTER I.

      EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION.

      As I sat, one evening, idly musing on memories of roers and Boers, and contemplating the horns of a weendigo I had shot in Labrador and the head of a Moo Cow¹ from Canada, I was roused by a ring at the door bell.

      ¹

      A literary friend to whom I have shown your MS. says a weendigo is Ojibbeway for a cannibal. And why do you shoot poor Moo Cows?—

      Publisher.

      Mere slip of the pen. Meant a Cow Moose. Literary gent no sportsman.—

      Ed.

      All right.—

      Publisher.

      The hall-porter presently entered, bearing a huge parcel, which had just arrived by post. I opened it with all the excitement that an unexpected parcel can cause, and murmured, like Thackeray's sailor-man, 'Claret, perhaps, Mumm, I hope——'

      It was a Mummy Case, by Jingo!

      This was no common, or museum mummy case. The lid, with the gilded mask, was absent, and the under half or lower segment, painted all over with hieroglyphics of an unusual type, and green in colour—had obviously been used as a cradle for unconscious infancy. A baby had slept in the last sleeping-place of the dead! What an opportunity for the moralist! But I am not a collector of cradles.

      Who had sent it, and why?

      The question was settled by an envelope in a feminine hand, which, with a cylindrical packet, fell out of the Mummy Case, and contained a letter running as follows:—

      'Lady Betty's, Oxford.

      'My dear Sir,—You have not forgotten me and my friend Leonora O'Dolite?

      'The Mummy Case which encloses this document is the Cradle of her ancient Race.

      'We are, for reasons you will discover in the accompanying manuscript, about to start for Treasure Island, where, if anywhere in this earth, ready money is to be found on easy terms of personal insecurity.'

      'Oh, confound it,' I cried, 'here's another fiend of a woman sending me another manuscript! They are always at it! Wants to get it into a high-class magazine, as usual.' And my guess was correct.

      The letter went on:—

      'You, who are so well known, will have no difficulty in getting the editor of the Nineteenth Century, or the Quarterly Review, or Bow Bells, to accept my little contribution. I shall be glad to hear what remuneration I am to expect, and cheques may be forwarded to

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