The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📖

her temples, and small, defiant curls that seemed to strive to hide behind her ear, or, bold and wanton, to kiss her snowy neck—out of sheer bravado.

As to her dress, I, little by little, became aware of two facts, for whereas her gown was of a rough, coarse material such as domestic servants wear, the stockinged foot that peeped at me beneath its hem (her shoes were drying on the hearth) was clad in a silk so fine that I could catch, through it, the gleam of the white flesh beneath. From this apparent inconsistency I deduced that she was of educated tastes, but poor—probably a governess, or, more likely still, taking her hands into consideration, with their long, prehensile fingers, a teacher of music, and was going on to explain to myself her present situation as the outcome of Beauty, Poverty, and the Devil, when she sighed, glanced toward the door, shivered slightly, and reaching her shoes from the hearth prepared to slip them on.

“They are still very wet!” said I deprecatingly.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Listen to the wind!” said I.

“It is terribly high.”

“And it rains very hard!” said I.

“Yes,” and she shivered again.

“It will be bad travelling for any one to-night,” said I.

Charmian stared into the fire.

“Indeed, it would be madness for the strongest to stir abroad on such a night.”

Charmian stared into the fire.

“What with the wind and the rain the roads would be utterly impassable, not to mention the risks of falling trees or shattered boughs.”

Charmian shivered again.

“And the inns are all shut, long ago; to stir out, therefore, would be the purest folly.”

Charmian stared into the fire.

“On the other hand, here are a warm room, a good fire, and a very excellent bed.”

She neither spoke nor moved, only her eyes were raised suddenly and swiftly to mine.

“Also,” I continued, returning her look, “here, most convenient to your hand, is a fine sharp knife, in case you are afraid of the ghost or any other midnight visitant and so—good night, madam!” Saying which, I took up one of the candles and crossed to the door of that room—which had once been Donald’s, but here I paused to glance back at her. “Furthermore,” said I, snuffing my candle with great nicety, “madam need have no further qualms regarding the color of my hair and eyes—none whatever.”

Whereupon I bowed somewhat stiffly on account of my bruises, and, going into my chamber, closed the door behind me.

Having made the bed (for since Donald’s departure I had occupied my two beds alternately) I undressed slowly, for my thumb was very painful; also I paused frequently to catch the sound of the light, quick footstep beyond the door, and the whisper of her garments as she walked.

“Charmian!” said I to myself when at length all was still, “Charmian!” And I blew out my candle.

Outside, the souls of the unnumbered dead still rode the storm, and the world was filled with their woeful lamentation. But, as I lay in the dark, there came to me a faint perfume as of violets at evening-time, elusive and very sweet, breathing of Charmian herself; and putting up my hand, I touched the handkerchief that bound my brow.

“Charmian!” said I to myself again, and so, fell asleep.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH I HEAR ILL NEWS OF GEORGE

The sun was pouring in at my lattice when I awoke next morning to a general soreness of body that at first puzzled me to account for. But as I lay in that delicious state between sleeping and waking, I became aware of a faint, sweet perfume; and, turning my head, espied a handkerchief upon the pillow beside me. And immediately I came to my elbow, with my eyes directed to the door, for now indeed I remembered all, and beyond that door, sleeping or waking, lay a woman.

In the early morning things are apt to lose something of the glamour that was theirs over night; thus I remained propped upon my elbow, gazing apprehensively at the door, and with my ears on the stretch, hearkening for any movement from the room beyond that should tell me she was up. But I heard only the early chorus of the birds and the gurgle of the brook, swollen with last night’s rain. In a while I rose and began to dress somewhat awkwardly, on account of my thumb, yet with rather more than my usual care, stopping occasionally to hear if she was yet astir. Being at last fully dressed, I sat down to wait until I should hear her footstep. But I listened vainly, for minute after minute elapsed until, rising at length, I knocked softly. And having knocked thrice, each time louder than before, without effect, I lifted the latch and opened the door.

My first glance showed me that the bed had never even been slept in, and that save for myself the place was empty. And yet the breakfast-table had been neatly set, though with but one cup and saucer.

Now, beside this cup and saucer was one of my few books, and picking it up, I saw that it was my Virgil. Upon the fly-leaf, at which it was open, I had, years ago, scrawled my name thus:

PETER VIBART

But lo! close under this, written in a fine Italian hand, were the following words:

“To Peter Smith, Esq. [the “Smith” underlined] Blacksmith. Charmian Brown [“Brown” likewise underlined] desires to thank Mr. Smith, yet because thanks are so poor and small, and his service so great, needs must she remember him as a gentleman, yet oftener as a blacksmith, and most of all, as a man. Charmian Brown begs him to accept this little trinket in memory of her; it is all she has to offer him. He may also keep her handkerchief.”

Upon the table, on the very spot where the book had lain, was a gold heart-shaped locket, very quaint and old-fashioned, upon one side of which was engraved the following posy:

“Hee who myne heart would keepe for long Shall be a gentil man and strong.”

Attached to the locket was a narrow blue riband, wherefore, passing this riband over my head, I hung the locket about my neck. And having read through the message once more, I closed the Virgil, and, replacing it on the shelf, set about brewing a cup of tea, and so presently sat down to breakfast.

I had scarcely done so, however, when there came a timid knock at the door, whereat I rose expectantly, and immediately sat down again.

“Come in!” said I. The latch was slowly raised, the door swung open, and the Ancient appeared. If I was surprised to see him at such an hour, he was even more so, for, at sight of me, his mouth opened, and he stood staring speechlessly, leaning upon his stick.

“Why, Ancient,” said I, “you are early abroad this morning!”

“Lord!” he exclaimed, scarcely above a whisper.

“Come in and sit down,” said I.

“Lord! Lord!” he murmured, “an’ a-satin’ ‘is breakfus’ tu. Lordy, Lord!”

“Yes,” I nodded, “and, such as it is, you are heartily welcome to share it—sit down,” and I drew up my other chair.

“A-eatin’ ‘is breakfus’ as ever was!” repeated the old man, without moving.

“And why not, Ancient?”

“Why not?” he repeated disdainfully. “‘Cause breakfus’ can’t be ate by a corp’, can it?”

“A corpse, Ancient; what do you mean?”

“I means as a corp’ aren’t got no right to eat a breakfus’—no!”

“Why, I—no, certainly not.”

“Consequently, you aren’t a corp’, you’ll be tellin me.”

“I?—no, not yet, God be thanked!”

“Peter,” said the Ancient, shaking his head, and mopping his brow with a corner of his neckerchief, “you du be forever a-givin’ of me turns, that ye du.”

“Do I, Ancient?”

“Ay—that ye du, an’ me such a aged man tu—such a very aged man. I wonders at ye, Peter, an’ me wi’ my white ‘airs—oh, I wonders at ye!” said he, sinking into the chair I had placed for him and regarding me with a stern, reproving eye.

“If you will tell me what I have been guilty of—” I began.

“I come down ‘ere, Peter—so early as it be, to—I come down ‘ere to look for your corp’, arter the storm an’ what ‘appened last night. I comes down ‘ere, and what does I find?—I finds ye a-eatin’ your breakfus’—just as if theer never ‘adn’t been no storm at all—no, nor nothin’ else.”

“I’m sure,” said I, pouring out a second cup of tea, “I’m sure I would sooner you should find my corpse than any one else, and am sorry to have disappointed you again, but really, Ancient—”

“Oh, it aren’t the disapp’intment, Peter—I found one corp’, an’ that’s enough, I suppose, for an aged man like me—no, it aren’t that—it’s findin’ ye eatin’ your breakfus’—just as if theer ‘ad ‘adn’t been no storm—no, nor yet no devil, wi’ ‘orns an’ a tail, a-runnin’ up an’ down in the ‘Oller ‘ere, an’ a-roarin’ an’ a-bellerin’, as John Pringle said, last night.”

“Ah! and what else did John Pringle say?” I inquired, setting down my cup.

“Why, ‘e come into ‘The Bull’ all wet an’ wild-like, an’ wi’ ‘is two eyes a-stickin’ out like gooseberries! ‘E comes a-bustin’ into the ‘tap’—an’ never says a word till ‘e’s emptied Old Amos’s tankard—that bein’ nighest. Then—‘By Goles!’ says ‘e, lookin’ round on us all, ‘by Goles! I jest seen the ghost!’ ‘Ghost!’ says all on us, sittin’ up, ye may be sure, Peter. ‘Ay,’ says John, lookin’ over ‘is shoulder, scared-like, ‘seed un wi’ my two eyes, I did, an’ what’s more, I heerd un tu!’ ‘Wheer?’ says all on us, beginnin’ to look over our shoulders likewise. ‘Wheer?’ says John, ‘wheer should I see un but in that theer ghashly ‘Oller. I see a light, fust of all, a-leapin’ an’ a-dancin’ about ‘mong the trees—ah! an’ I ‘eerd shouts as was enough to curdle a man’s good blood.’ ‘Pooh! what’s lights?’ says Joel Amos, cockin’ ‘is eye into ‘is empty tankard; ‘that bean’t much to frighten a man, no, nor shouts neither.’ ‘Aren’t it?’ says John Pringle, fierce-like; ‘what if I tell ye the place be full o’ flamin’ fire—what if I tell ye I see the devil ‘isself, all smoke, an’ sparks, an’ brimston’ a-floatin’ an’ a-flyin’, an’ draggin’ a body through the tops o’ the trees?’ ‘Lord!’ says everybody, an’ well they might, Peter, an’ nobody says nothin’ for a while. ‘I wonder,’ says Joel Amos at last, ‘I wonder who ‘e was a-draggin’ through the tops o’ the trees—an’ why?’ ‘That’ll be poor Peter bein’ took away,’ says I, ‘I’ll go an’ find the poor lad’s corp’ in the mornin’—an’ ‘ere I be.”

“And you find me not dead, after all your trouble,” said I.

“If,” said the Ancient, sighing, “if your arms was broke, or your legs was broke, now—or if your ‘air was singed, or your face all burned an’ blackened wi’ sulphur, I could ha’ took it kinder; but to find ye a-sittin’ eatin’ an’ drinkin’—it aren’t what I expected of ye, Peter, no.” Shaking his head moodily, he took from his hat his neverfailing snuff-box, but, having extracted a pinch, paused suddenly