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

wuss ‘e gets paid—‘ow much did you say you got a week?”

“I named no sum,” I replied.

“Well—‘ow much might you be gettin’ a week?”

“Ten shillings.”

“Gets ten shillin’ a week!” he nodded to the sledgehammer, “that ain’t much for a chap like ‘im—kick me, if it is!”

“Yet I make it do very well!”

The Postilion became again absorbed in contemplation of the bellows; indeed he studied them so intently, viewing them with his head now on one side, now on the other, that I fell to watching him, under my brows, and so, presently, caught him furtively watching me. Hereupon he drew his whip from his mouth and spoke.

“Supposing—” said he, and stopped.

“Well?” I inquired, and, leaning upon my hammer, I looked him square in the eye.

“Supposing—wot are you a-staring at, my feller?”

“You have said ‘supposing’ twice—well?”

“Well,” said he, fixing his eye upon the bellows again, “supposing you was to make a guinea over an’ above your wages this week?”

“I should be very much surprised,” said I.

“You would?”

“I certainly should.”

“Then—why not surprise yourself?”

“You must speak more plainly,” said I.

“Well then,” said the Postilion, still with his gaze abstracted, “supposin’ I was to place a guinea down on that there anvil o’ yours—would that ‘elp you to remember where Number Two—‘er —might be?”

“No!”

“It wouldn’t?”

“No!”

“A guinea’s a lot o’ money!”

“It is,” I nodded.

“An’ you say it wouldn’t?”

“It would not!” said I.

“Then say—oh! say two pun’ ten an’ ‘ave done with it.”

“No!” said I, shaking my head.

“What—not—d’ye say ‘no’ to two pun’ ten?”

“I do.”

“Well, let’s say three pound.”

I shook my head and, drawing the iron from the fire, began to hammer at it.

“Well then,” shouted the Postilion, for I was making as much din as possible, “say four—five—ten—fifteen—twenty-five—fifty!” Here I ceased hammering.

“Tell me when you’ve done!” said I.

“You’re a cool customer, you are—ah! an’ a rum un’ at that—I never see a rummer.”

“Other people have thought the same,” said I, examining the half-finished horseshoe ere I set it back in the fire.

“Sixty guineas!” said the Postilion gloomily.

“Come again!” said I.

“Seventy then!” said he, his gloom deepening.

“Once more!” said I.

“A ‘undred—one ‘undred guineas!” said he, removing his hat to mop at his brow.

“Any more?” I inquired.

“No!” returned the Postilion sulkily, putting on his hat, “I’m done!”

“Did he set the figure at a hundred guineas?” said I.

“‘Im—oh! ‘e’s mad for ‘er, ‘e is—‘e’d ruin ‘isself, body and soul, for ‘er, ‘e would, but I ain’t goin’ to ofer no more; no woman as ever breathed—no matter ‘ow ‘andsome an’ up-standin’ —is worth more ‘n a ‘undred guineas—it ain’t as if she was a blood-mare—an’ I’m done!”

“Then I wish you good-day!”

“But—just think—a ‘undred guineas is a fortun’!”

“It is!” said I.

“Come, think it over,” said the Postilion persuasively, “think it over, now!”

“Let me fully understand you then,” said I; “you propose to pay me one hundred guineas on behalf of your master, known heretofore as Number One, for such information as shall enable him to discover the whereabouts of a certain person known as Her, Number Two—is that how the matter stands?”

“Ah! that’s ‘ow it stands,” nodded the Postilion, “the money to be yours as soon as ever ‘e lays ‘ands on ‘er—is it a go?”

“No!”

“No?”

“No!”

“W’y, you must be stark, starin’ mad—that you must—unless you’re sweet on ‘er yourself—”

“You talk like a fool!” said I angrily.

“So you are sweet on ‘er then?”

“Ass!” said I. “Fool!” And, dropping my hammer, I made towards him, but he darted nimbly to the door, where, seeing I did not pursue, he paused.

“I may be a hass,” he nodded, “an’ I may be a fool—but I don’t go a-fallin’ in love wi’ ladies as is above me, an’ out o’ my reach, and don’t chuck away a ‘undred guineas for one as ain’t likely to look my way—not me! Which I begs leave to say—hass yourself, an’ likewise fool—bah!” With which expletive he set his thumb to his nose, spread out his fingers, wagged them and swaggered off.

Above me, and out of my reach! One not likely to look my way!

And, in due season, having finished the horseshoe, having set each tool in its appointed place in the racks, and raked out the clinkers from the fire, I took my hat and coat, and, closing the door behind me, set out for the Hollow.

CHAPTER XIX

HOW I MET BLACK GEORGE AGAIN, AND WHEREIN THE PATIENT READER SHALL FIND A “LITTLE BLOOD”

It was evening—that time before the moon is up and when the earth is dark, as yet, and full of shadows. Now as I went, by some chance there recurred to me the words of an old song I had read somewhere, years ago, words written in the glorious, brutal, knightly days of Edward the First, of warlike memory; and the words ran thus:

“For her love I carke, and care, For her love I droop, and dare, For her love my bliss is bare. And I wax wan!”

“I wonder what poor, love-sick, long-dead-and-forgotten fool wrote that?” said I aloud.

“For her love, in sleep I slake, For her love, all night I wake, For her love, I mourning make More than any man!”

Some doughty squire-at-arms, or perhaps some wandering knight (probably of a dark, unlovely look), who rode the forest ways with his thoughts full of Her, and dreaming of Her loveliness. “Howbeit, he was, beyond all doubt, a fool and a great one!” said I, “for it is to be inferred, from these few words he has left us, that his love was hopeless. She was, perhaps, proud and of a high estate, one who was above him, and far beyond his reach—who was not likely even to look his way. Doubtless she was beautiful, and therefore haughty and disdainful, for disdainful pride is an attribute of beauty, and ever was and ever will be —and hence it came that our misfortunate squire, or knight-errant, was scorned for his pains, poor fool! Which yet was his own fault, after all, and, indeed, his just reward, for what has any squire-at-arms or lusty knight, with the world before him, and glory yet unachieved—to do with love? Love is a bauble—a toy, a pretty pastime for idle folk who have no thought above such —away with it!—Bah!” And, in my mind—that is to say, mentally —I set my thumb to my nose, and spread my fingers, and wagged them—even as the Postilion had done. And yet, despite this, the words of the old song recurred again and again, pathetically insistent, voicing themselves in my footsteps so that, to banish them, I presently stood still.

And in that very moment a gigantic figure came bursting through the hedge, clearing the ditch in a single bound—and Black George confronted me.

Haggard of face, with hair and beard matted and unkempt, his clothes all dusty and torn, he presented a very wild and terrible appearance; and beneath one arm he carried two bludgeons. The Pedler had spoken truly, then, and, as I met the giant’s smouldering eye, I felt my mouth become suddenly parched and dry, and the palms of my hands grew moist and clammy.

For a moment neither of us spoke, only we looked at each other steadily in the eye; and I saw the hair of his beard bristle, and he raised one great hand to the collar of his shirt, and tore it open as if it were strangling him.

“George!” said I at last, and held out my hand

George never stirred.

“Won’t you shake hands, George?”

His lips opened, but no words came.

“Had I known where to look for you, I should have sought you out days ago,” I went on; “as it is I have been wishing to meet you, hoping to set matters right.”

Once again his lips opened, but still no word came.

“You see, Prudence is breaking her heart over you.”

A laugh burst from him, sudden, and harsh.

“You ‘m a liar!” said he, and his voice quavered strangely.

“I speak gospel truth!” said I.

“I be nowt to Prue since the day you beat me at th’ ‘ammer-throwin’ —an’ ye know it.”

“Prudence loves you, and always has,” said I. “Go back to her, George, go back to her, and to your work be the man I know you are; go back to her—she loves you. If you still doubt my word—here, read that!” and I held out his own letter, the letter on which Prudence had written those four words: “George, I love you.”

He took it from me—crumpled it slowly in his hand and tossed it into the ditch.

“You ‘m a liar!” said he again, “an’ a—coward!”

“And you,” said I, “you are a fool, a blind, gross, selfish fool, who, in degrading yourself—in skulking about the woods and lanes—is bringing black shame and sorrow to as sweet a maid as ever—”

“It don’t need you to tell me what she be an’ what she bean’t,” said Black George, in a low, repressed voice. “I knowed ‘er long afore you ever set eyes on ‘er—grew up wi’ ‘er, I did, an’ I bean’t deaf nor blind. Ye see, I loved ‘er—all my life—that’s why one o’ us two’s a-goin’ to lie out ‘ere all night—ah! an’ all to-morrow, likewise, if summun don’t chance to find us,” saying which, he forced a cudgel into my hand.

“What do you mean, George?”

“I means as if you don’t do for me, then I be a-goin’ to do for ‘ee.”

“But why?” I cried; “in God’s name—why?”

“I be slow, p’r’aps, an’ thick p’raps, but I bean’t a fule—come, man—if she be worth winnin’ she be worth fightin’ for.”

“But I tell you she loves Black George, and no other she never had any thought of me, or I of her—this is madness—and worse!” and I tossed the cudgel aside.

“An’ I tell ‘ee,” broke in the smith, his repression giving way before a fury as fierce as it was sudden, “I tell ‘ee—you be a liar, an’ a coward—I know, I know—I’ve heerd an’ I’ve seen —your lyin’, coward’s tongue sha’n’t save ‘ee—oh, ecod! wi’ your white face an’ tremblin’ ‘ands—you be a shame to the woman as loves ye, an’ the woman as bore ye!—stand up, I say, or by God! I’ll do for ‘ee!” and he raised his weapon.

Without another word I picked up the cudgel, and, pointing to a gate a little farther along the road, I led the way into the meadow beyond. On the other side of this meadow ran the lane I have mentioned before, and beyond the lane was the Hollow, and glancing thitherward, I bethought me that supper would be ready, and Charmian waiting for me, just about now, and I sighed, I remember, as I drew off my coat, and laid it, together with my hat, under the hedge.

The moon was beginning to rise, casting the magic of her pale