The Broad Highway, Jeffery Farnol [best ebook reader under 100 txt] 📗

staring very hard at his horse’s ears, as we jogged along the road. “‘E were a-goin’ upstairs for it, an’ slipped, ‘e did. ‘Simon,’ says he, as I lifted of ‘im in my arms, ‘Simon,’ says ‘e, quiet like, ‘I be done for at last, lad—this poor old feyther o’ yourn’ll never go a-climbin’ up these stairs no more,’ says ‘e—‘never—no—more.’”

After this Simon fell silent, and I likewise, until we reached the village. Before “The Bull” was a group who talked with hushed voices and grave faces; even Old Amos grinned no more.

The old man lay in his great four-post bed, propped up with pillows, and with Prue beside him, to smooth his silver hair with tender fingers, and Black George towering in the shade of the bed-curtains, like a grieving giant.

“‘Ere I be, Peter,” said the old man, beckoning me feebly with his hand, “‘ere I be—at the partin’ o’ the ways, an’ wi’ summ’at gone wrong wi’ my innards! When a man gets so old as I be, ‘is innards be like glass, Peter, like glass—an’ apt to fly all to pieces if ‘e goes a-slippin’ an’ a-slidin’ downstairs, like me.”

“Are you in pain?” I asked, clasping his shrivelled hand.

“Jest a twinge, now an’ then, Peter—but—Lord! that bean’t nothin’ to a man the likes o’ me—Peter—”

“You always were so hale and hearty,” I nodded, giving him the usual opening he had waited for.

“Ay, so strong as a bull, that I were! like a lion in my youth —Black Jarge were nought to me—a cart ‘orse I were.”

“Yes,” said I, “yes,” and stooped my head lower over the feeble old hand.

“But arter all, Peter, bulls pass away, an’ lions, an’ cart ‘orses lose their teeth, an’ gets wore out, for ‘all flesh is grass’—but iron’s iron, bean’t it, Peter—rusts it do, but ‘tis iron all the same, an’ lasts a man out—even such a ‘earty chap as I were?”

“Sometimes,” said I, without looking up.

“An’ I be very old an’ tired, Peter; my ‘eart be all wore out wi’ beatin’ an’ beatin’ all these years—‘tis a wonder as it didn’t stop afore now—but a—a--stapil, Peter, don’t ‘ave no ‘eart to go a-beatin’ an’ a-wearin’ of itself away?”

“No, Ancient.”

“So ‘ere be I, a-standin’ in the Valley o’ the Shadow, an’ waitin’ for God’s Angel to take my ‘and for to show me the way. ‘Tis a darksome road, Peter, but I bean’t afeared, an’ there be a light beyond Jordan-water. No, I aren’t afeared to meet the God as made me, for ‘the Lord is merciful—and very kind,’ an’ I don’t s’pose as ‘E’ll be very ‘ard on a old, old man as did ‘is best, an’ wi’ a ‘eart all tired an’ wore away wi’ beatin’—I be ready, Peter only—”

“Yes, Ancient?”

“Oh, Peter!—it be that theer old stapil—as’ll go on rustin’ away an’ rustin’ away arter the old man as watched it so is laid in the earth, an’ forgot about—”

“No,” said I, without looking up, but slipping my hand into my pocket; “no, Ancient—”

“Peter—Oh, Peter!—do ‘ee mean—?”

“I mean that, although it had no heart, the staple was tired and worn out—just as you are, and so I brought it to you,” and I slipped the rusty bit of iron into the old man’s trembling palm.

“O Lord—!” he began in a fervent voice, “O dear Lord!—I got it, Lord—th’ owd stapil—I be ready to come to Thee, an’ j’yful —j’yful! an’ for this mercy, an’ benefit received—blessed be Thy name. Amen!”

He lay very quiet for a while, with the broken staple clasped to his breast, and his eyes closed.

“Peter,” said he suddenly, “you won’t ‘ave no one to bring you noos no more—why, Peter! be ‘ee cryin’—for me? ‘Tis true ‘t were me as found ye, but I didn’t think as you’d go to cry tears for me—I be goin’ to tak’ t’ owd stapil wi’ me, Peter, all along the road—an’, Peter—”

“Yes, Ancient?”

“Be you quite sure as you aren’t a dook?”

“Quite sure.”

“Nor a earl?”

“No, Ancient.”

“Not even a—barrynet?”

“No, Ancient.”

“Ah, well!—you be a man, Peter, an’ ‘tis summ’at to ha’ found a man—that it be.”

And now he feebly beckoned us all nearer.

“Children,” said he, “I be a old an’ ancient man I be goin’ on —across the river to wait for you—my blessin’ on ye. It be a dark, dark road, but I’ve got t’ owd stapil, an’ there—be a light beyond—the river.”

So, the Ancient sighed, and crossed the dark River into the Land of Light Eternal.

CHAPTER XLII

HOW SIR MAURICE KEPT HIS WORD

Night, with a rising moon, and over all things a great quietude, a deep, deep silence. Air, close and heavy, without a breath to wake the slumbering trees; an oppressive stillness, in which small sounds magnified themselves, and seemed disproportionately loud.

And presently, as I went upon my way, I forgot the old man sleeping so peacefully with the rusty staple clasped to his shrunken breast, and thought only of the proud woman who had given her life into my keeping, and who, henceforth, would walk with me, hand in hand, upon this Broad Highway, over rough places, and smooth—even unto the end. So I strode on, full of a deep and abiding joy, and with heart that throbbed and hands that trembled because I knew that she watched and waited for my coming.

A sound broke upon the stillness—sudden and sharp—like the snapping of a stick. I stopped and glanced about me—but it had come and gone—lost in the all-pervading calm.

And presently, reaching the leafy path that led steeply down into the Hollow, I paused a moment to look about me and to listen again; but the deep silence was all unbroken, save for the slumberous song of the brook, that stole up to me from the shadows, and I wondered idly what that sudden sound might have been. So I began to descend this leafy path, and went on to meet that which lay waiting for me in the shadows.

It was dark here among the trees, for the moon was low as yet, but, every now and then, she sent a kindly ray through some opening amid the leaves, so that as I descended the path I seemed to be wading through small, limpid pools of radiance.

But all at once I stopped—staring at something which lay at the edge of one of these pools—a white claw—a hand whose fingers, talon-like, had sunk deep and embedded themselves in the turf. And, beyond this gleaming hand, was an arm, and beyond that again, something that bulked across my path, darker than the shadows.

Running forward, I stood looking down at that which lay at my feet—so very still; and stooped suddenly, and turned it over that I might see the face; and, seeing it, started back in shuddering horror. For, in those features—hideous with blood, stained and blackened with powder, I recognized my cousin—Sir Maurice Vibart. Then, remembering the stick that had snapped, I wondered no more, but a sudden deadly faintness came upon me so, that I leaned weakly against a tree near by.

A rustling of leaves—a shuddering breath, and, though I did not raise my head, I knew that Charmian was there.

“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “oh, Peter!” and that was all, but, moved by something in her tone, I glanced up. Her eyes were wide and staring—not at me, but at that which lay between us—her face was pallid; even her lips had lost their color, and she clasped one hand upon her bosom—the other was hidden in the folds of her gown hidden as I remembered to have seen it once before, but now it struck me with a horrible significance. Wherefore I reached out and caught that hidden hand, and drew the weapon from her nerveless fingers, holding it where the light could play upon it. She started, shivered violently, and covered her eyes, while I, looking down at the pistol in my hand, saw that it had lately been discharged.

“He has kept his word!” she whispered; “he has kept his word!”

“Yes, Charmian—he has kept his word!”

“Oh, Peter!” she moaned, and stretched out her hands towards me, yet she kept her face turned from that which lay across the path between us, and her hands were shaking pitifully. “Peter?” she cried with a sudden break in her voice; but I went on wiping the soot from the pistol-barrel with the end of my neckerchief. Then, all at once, she was beside me, clasping my arm, and she was pleading with me, her words coming in a flood.

“No, Peter, no—oh, God!—you do not think it—you can’t—you mustn’t. I was alone—waiting for you, and the hours passed—and you didn’t come—and I was nervous and frightened, and full of awful fancies. I thought I heard some one—creeping round the cottage. Once I thought some one peered in at the lattice, and once I thought some one tried the door. And so—because I was frightened, Peter, I took that—that, and held it in my hand, Peter. And while I sat there—it seemed more than ever—that somebody was breathing softly—outside the door. And so, Peter, I couldn’t bear it any more—and opened the lattice—and fired —in the air—I swear it was in the air. And I stood there—at the open casement—sick with fear, and trying to pray for you —because I knew he had come back—to kill you, Peter, and, while I prayed, I heard another shot—not close, but faint—like the snapping of a twig, Peter—and I ran out—and—oh, Peter!—that is all—but you believe—oh!—you believe, don’t you, Peter?”

While she spoke, I had slipped the pistol into my pocket, and now I held out my hands to her, and drew her near, and gazed into the troubled depths of her eyes.

“Charmian!” said I, “Charmian—I love you! and God forbid that I should ever doubt you any more.”

So, with a sigh, she sank in my embrace, her arms crept about my neck, and our lips met, and clung together. But even then—while I looked upon her beauty, while the contact of her lips thrilled through me—even then, in any mind, I saw the murderous pistol in her hand—as I had seen it months ago. Indeed, it almost seemed that she divined my thought, for she drew swiftly back, and looked up at me with haggard eyes.

“Peter?” she whispered, “what is it—what is it?”

“Oh, Charmian!” said I, over and over again, “I love you—I love you.” And I kissed her appealing eyes, and stayed her questioning lips with my kisses. “I love you more than my life—more than honor—more than my soul; and, because I so love you—to-night you must leave me—”

“Leave you?—ah no, Peter—no—no, I am your wife—I must stay with you—to suffer and share your troubles and dangers—it is my right—my privilege. Let us go away together, now—anywhere —anywhere, only let us be together—my—husband.”

“Don’t!” I cried, “don’t! Do you think it is so easy to remain here without you—to lose you so soon—so very soon? If I only loved you a little less! Ah! don’t you see—before the week is out, my description will be all over England; we should be caught, and you would have to stand beside me in a court of justice, and face the shame of it—”

“Dear love!—it would be my pride—my pride, Peter, to face them all—to clasp this dear hand in