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

oh, curse it! Goodby! dear lad.” So he turned, and walked up the steps into his great, lonely house.

“O Wings! with thy slender grace, and tireless strength, if ever thou didst gallop before, do thy best to-day! Spurn, spurn the dust ‘neath thy fleet hoofs, stretch thy graceful Arab neck, bear me gallantly to-day, O Wings, for never shalt thou and I see its like again.”

Swift we flew, with the wind before, and the dust behind, past wayside inns where besmocked figures paused in their grave discussions to turn and watch us by; past smiling field and darkling copse; past lonely cottage and village green; through Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, with never a stop; up Pembry hill, and down, galloping so lightly, so easily, over that hard, familiar road, which I had lately tramped with so much toil and pain; and so, as evening fell, to Sissinghurst.

A dreamy, sleepy place is Sissinghurst at all times, for its few cottages, like its inn, are very old, and great age begets dreams. But, when the sun is low, and the shadows creep out, when the old inn blinks drowsy eyes at the cottages, and they blink back drowsily at the inn, like the old friends they are; when distant cows low at gates and fences; when sheep-bells tinkle faintly; when the weary toiler, seated sideways on his weary horse, fares, homewards, nodding sleepily with every plodding hoof-fall, but rousing to give one a drowsy “good night,” then who can resist the somnolent charm of the place, save only the “Bull” himself, snorting down in lofty contempt—as rolling of eye, as curly of horn, as stiff as to tail as any indignant bull ever was, or shall be.

But as I rode, watching the evening deepen about me, soft and clear rose the merry chime of hammer and anvil, and, turning aside to the smithy, I paused there, and, stooping my head, looked in at the door.

“George!” said I. He started erect, and, dropping hammer and tongs, came out, running, then stopped suddenly, as one abashed.

“Oh, friend!” said I, “don’t you know me?”

“Why—Peter—” he stammered, and broke off.

“Have you no greeting for me, George?”

“Ay, ay—I heerd you was free, Peter, and I was glad—glad, because you was the man as I loved, an’ I waited—ay, I’ve been waitin’ for ‘ee to come back. But now you be so changed—so fine an’ grand—an’ I be all black wi’ soot from the fire—oh, man! ye bean’t my Peter no more—”

“Never say that, George—never say that,” I cried, and, leaping from the saddle, I would have caught his hand in mine, but he drew back.

“You be so fine an’ grand, Peter, an’ I be all sooty from the fire!” he repeated. “I’d like to just wash my ‘ands first.”

“Oh, Black George!” said I, “dear George.”

“Be you rich now, Peter?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“A gentleman wi’ ‘orses an’ ‘ouses an’ servants?”

“Well—what of it?”

“I’d—like to—wash my ‘ands first, if so be you don’t mind, Peter.”

“George,” said I, “don’t be a fool!” Now, as we stood thus, fronting each other in the doorway, I heard a light step upon the road behind me, and, turning, beheld Prudence.

“Oh, Prue, George is afraid of my clothes, and won’t shake hands with me!” For a moment she hesitated, looking from one to the other of us—then, all at once, laughing a little and blushing a little, she leaned forward and kissed me.

“Why, George!” said she, still blushing, “how fulish you be. Mr. Peter were as much a gentleman in his leather apron as ever he is in his fine coat—how fulish you be, George!” So proud George gave me his hand, all grimy as it was, rejoicing over me because of my good fortune and mourning over me because my smithing days were over.

“Ye see, Peter, when men ‘as worked together—and sorrowed together—an’ fou’t together—an’ knocked each other down—like you an’ me—it bean’t so easy to say ‘good-by’—so, if you must leave us—why—don’t let’s say it.”

“No, George, there shall be no ‘good-bys’ for either one of us, and I shall come back—soon. Until then, take my mare—have her made comfortable for me, and now—good night—good night!”

And so, clasping their loving hands, I turned away, somewhat hurriedly, and left them.

There was no moon, but the night was luminous with stars, and, as I strode along, my eyes were often lifted to the “wonder of the heavens,” and I wondered which particular star was Charmian’s and which mine.

Reaching the Hollow, I paused to glance about me, as I ever did, before descending that leafy path; and the shadows were very black and a chill wind stirred among the leaves, so that I shivered, and wondered, for the first time, if I had come right —if the cottage had been in Charmian’s mind when she wrote.

Then I descended the path, hurrying past a certain dark spot. And, coming at last within sight of the cottage, I paused again, and shivered again, for the windows were dark and the door shut. But the latch yielded readily beneath my hand, so I went in, and closed and barred the door behind me.

For upon the hearth a fire burned with a dim, red glow that filled the place with shadows, and the shadows were very deep.

“Charmian!” said I, “oh, Charmian, are you there have I guessed right?” I heard a rustle close beside me, and, in the gloom, came a hand to meet and clasp my own; wherefore I stooped and kissed those slender fingers, drawing her into the fireglow; and her eyes were hidden by their lashes, and the glow of the fire seemed reflected in her cheeks.

“The candles were so—bright, Peter,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“And so—when I heard you coming—”

“You heard me?”

“I was sitting on the bench outside, Peter.”

“And, when you heard me—you put the candles out?”

“They seemed so—very bright, Peter.”

“And shut the door?”

“I only—just—closed it, Peter.” She was still wrapped in her cloak, as she had been when I first saw her, wherefore I put back the hood from her face. And behold! as I did so, her hair fell down, rippling over my arm, and covering us both in its splendor, as it had done once before.

“Indeed—you have glorious hair!” said I. “It seems wonderful to think that you are my wife. I can scarcely believe it—even yet!”

“Why, I had meant you should marry me from the first, Peter.”

“Had you?”

“Do you think I should ever have come back to this dear solitude otherwise?”

Now, when I would have kissed her, she turned her head aside.

“Peter.”

“Yes, Charmian?”

“The Lady Sophia Sefton never did gallop her horse up the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

“Didn’t she, Charmian?”

“And she couldn’t help her name being bandied from mouth to mouth, or ‘hiccoughed out over slopping wineglasses,’ could she?”

“No,” said I, frowning; “what a young fool I was!”

“And, Peter—”

“Well, Charmian?”

“She never was—and never will be—buxom, or strapping—will she? ‘buxom’ is such a—hateful word, Peter! And you—love her? —wait, Peter—as much as ever you loved Charmian Brown?”

“Yes,” said I; “yes—”

“And—nearly as much as—your dream woman?”

“More—much more, because you are the embodiment of all my dreams—you always will be Charmian. Because I honor you for your intellect; and worship you for your gentleness, and spotless purity; and love you with all my strength for your warm, sweet womanhood; and because you are so strong, and beautiful, and proud—”

“And because, Peter, because I am—just—your loving—Humble Person.”

And thus it was I went forth a fool, and toiled and suffered and loved, and, in the end, got me some little wisdom.

And thus did I, all unworthy as I am, win the heart of a noble woman whose love I pray will endure, even as mine will, when we shall have journeyed to the end of this Broad Highway, which is Life, and into the mystery of the Beyond.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broad Highway, by Jeffery Farnol

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