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

with my blood soaking and soaking into the grass. And, as I watched, there came a blackbird that perched upon my breast, carolling gloriously. Yet, little by little, this bird changed, and lo! in its place was a new Peter Vibart standing upon the old; and the New trampled the Old down into the grass, and—it was gone. Then, with his eyes on the stars, the new Peter Vibart fell a-singing, and the words I sang were these:“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!”

And thus there came into my heart that which had been all unknown—undreamed of hitherto, yet which, once there, could never pass away.

“O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—who is he that counteth True-love sweeter than Life—greater than Wisdom—stronger than Death? O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!”

And the hushed voices chorused softly.

“Peter Vibart—Peter Vibart!” And, while I listened, one by one the voices ceased, till there but one remained—calling, calling, but ever soft and far away, and when I would have gone toward this voice—lo! there stood a knife quivering in the ground before me, that grew and grew until its haft touched heaven, yet still the voice called upon my name very softly:

“Peter!—Peter!—oh, Peter, I want you!—oh, Peter wake!” I sat up in bed, and, as I listened, grew suddenly sick, and a fit of trembling shook me violently, for the whisper was still in my ears, and in the whisper was an agony of fear and dread indescribable.

“Peter!—oh, Peter, I am afraid wake!”

A cold sweat broke out upon me and I glared helplessly, towards the door.

“Quick, Peter!—come to me—oh, God!”

I strove to move, but still I could not. And now, in the darkness, hands were shaking me wildly, and Charmian’s voice was speaking in my ear.

“The door!” it whispered, “the door!”

Then I arose, and was in the outer room, with Charmian close beside me in the dark, and my eyes were upon the door. And then I beheld a strange thing, for a thin line of white light traversed the floor from end to end. Now, as I watched this narrow line, I saw that it was gradually widening and widening; very slowly, and with infinite caution, the door was being opened from without. In this remote place, in this still, dead hour of the night, full of the ghostly hush that ever precedes the dawn —there was something devilish—something very like murder in its stealthy motion. I heard Charmian’s breath catch, and, in the dark, her hand came and crept into mine and her fingers were cold as death.

And now a great anger came upon me, and I took a quick step forward, but Charmian restrained me.

“No, Peter!” she breathed; “not yet—wait!” and wound her arms round mine.

In a corner near by stood that same trusty staff that had been the companion of my wanderings, and now I reached, and took it up, balancing it in my hand. And all the time I watched that line of light upon the floor widening and widening, growing ever broader and more broad. The minutes dragged slowly by, while the line grew into a streak, and the streak into a lane, and upon the lane came a blot that slowly resolved itself into the shadow of a hand upon the latch. Slowly, slowly, to the hand came a wrist, and to the wrist an arm—another minute, and this maddening suspense would be over. Despite Charmian’s restraining clasp, I crept a long pace nearer the softly moving door.

The sharp angle of the elbow was growing obtuse as the shadowy arm straightened itself. Thirty seconds more! I began to count, and, gripping my staff, braced myself for what might be, when —with a sudden cry, Charmian sprang forward, and, hurling herself against the door, shut it with a crash.

“Quick, Peter!” she panted. I was beside her almost as she spoke, and had my hand upon the latch.

“I must see who this was,” said I.

“You are mad!” she cried.

“Let me open the door, Charmian.”

“No, no—I say no!”

“Whoever it was must not escape—open the door!”

“Never! never—I tell you—death is outside—there’s murder in the very air; I feel it—and—dear God—the door has no bolt.”

“They are gone now—whoever they were,” said I reassuringly; “the danger is over—if danger it could be called.”

“Danger!” cried Charmian. “I tell you—it was death.”

“Yet, after all, it may have been only some homeless wanderer.”

“Then why that deadly, silent caution?”

“True!” said I, becoming thoughtful.

“Bring the table, Peter, and set it across the door.”

“Surely the table is too light to—”

“But it will give sufficient warning—not that I shall sleep again to-night. Oh, Peter! had I not been dreaming, and happened to wake—had I not chanced to look towards the door, it would have opened—wide, and then—oh, horrible!”

“You were dreaming?”

“A hateful, hateful dream, and awoke in terror, and, being afraid, glanced towards the door, and saw it opening—and now —bring the table, Peter.”

Now, groping about, my hand encountered one of the candles, and taking out my tinder-box, all unthinking, I lighted it. Charmian was leaning against the door, clad in a flowing white garment—a garment that was wonderfully stitched—all dainty frills and laces, with here and there a bow of blue riband, disposed, it would seem, by the hand of chance, and yet most wonderfully. And up from this foam of laces her shoulders rose, white, and soft, and dimpled, sweeping up in noble lines to the smooth round column of her throat. But as I stared at all this loveliness she gave a sudden gasp, and stooped her head, and crossed her hands upon her bosom, while up over the snow of shoulder, over neck and cheek and brow ebbed that warm, crimson tide; and I could only gaze and gaze—till, with a movement swift and light, she crossed to that betraying candle and, stooping, blew out the light.

Then I set the table across the door, having done which I stood looking towards where she yet stood.

“Charmian,” said I.

“Yes, Peter.”

“To-morrow—”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I will make a bar to hold the door.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Two bars would be better, perhaps?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“You would feel safe, then—safer than ever?”

“Safer than ever, Peter.”

CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH THE ANCIENT DISCOURSES ON LOVE

I am forging a bar for my cottage door: such a bar as might give check to an army, or resist a battering-ram; a bar that shall defy all the night-prowlers that ever prowled; a stout, solid bar, broad as my wrist, and thick as my two fingers; that, looking upon it as it lies in its sockets across the door, Charmian henceforth may sleep and have no fear.

The Ancient sat perched on his stool in the corner, but for once we spoke little, for I was very busy; also my mind was plunged in a profound reverie.

And of whom should I be thinking but of Charmian, and of the dimple in her shoulder?

“‘Tis bewitched you be, Peter!” said the old man suddenly, prodding me softly with his stick, “bewitched as ever was,” and he chuckled.

“Bewitched!” said I, starting.

“Ah!—theer you stand wi’ your ‘ammer in your ‘and—a-starin’ an’ a-starin’ at nobody, nor nothin’—leastways not as ‘uman eye can see, an’ a-sighin’, an’ a-sighin’—”

“Did I indeed sigh, Ancient?”

“Ah—that ye did—like a cow, Peter, or a ‘orse ‘eavy an’ tired like. An’ slow you be, an’ dreamy—you as was so bright an’ spry; theer’s some—fools, like Joel Amos, as might think as ‘twere the work o’ ghostes, or demons, a-castin’ their spells on ye, or that some vampire ‘ad bit ye in the night, an’ sucked your blood as ye lay asleep, but I know different—you ‘m just bewitched, Peter!” and he chuckled again.

“Who knows?—perhaps I am, but it will pass, whatever it is, it will pass—”

“Don’t ye be too sure o’ that—theer’s bewitchments an’ bewitchments, Peter.”

Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was “in calf,” that the hops seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning with a “touch o’ the rheumatics,” but, otherwise, he was unusually silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another time would have struck me as portentous.

“Ye be palish this marnin’, Peter!” said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his pipe-stem; “shouldn’t wonder if you was to tell me as your appetite was bad; come now—ye didn’t eat much of a breakfus’ this marnin’, did ye?”

“I don’t think I did, Ancient.”

“A course not!” said the—old man, with a nod of profound approval—” it aren’t to be expected. Let’s see, it be all o’ four months since I found ye, bean’t it?”

“Four months and a few odd days,” I nodded, and fell to work upon my glowing iron bar:

“Ye’ll make a tidy smith one o’ these days, Peter,” said the old man encouragingly, as I straightened my back and plunged the iron back into the fire.

“Thank you, Ancient.”

“Ay—you’ve larned to use a ‘ammer purty well, considerin’, though you be wastin’ your opportoonities shameful, Peter, shameful.”

“Am I, Ancient?”

“Ay, that ye be—moon can’t last much longer—she be on the wane a’ready!”

“Moon?” said I, staring.

“Ah, moon!” nodded the old man; “theer’s nowt like a moon, Peter, an’ if she be at the full so much the better.”

“But what have the moon and I to do with each other, Ancient?”

“Old I be, Peter, a old, old man, but I were young once, an’ I tell ‘ee the moon ‘as a lot more to do wi’ it than some folks think—why, Lord love ‘ee! theer wouldn’t be near so many children a-playin’ in the sun if it wasn’t for the moon!”

“Ancient,” said I, “what might you be driving at?”

“Love, Peter!”

“Love!” said I, letting go the handle of the bellows.

“An’ marriage, Peter.”

“What in the world—put—such thoughts into your head?”

“You did, Peter.”

“I?”

“Ah!—some men is born lovers, Peter, an’ you be one. I never see such eyes as yourn afore, so burnin’ ‘ot they be. Ah, Peter! some maid will see the lovelight aflame in ‘em some day, an’ droop ‘er ‘ead an’ blush an’ tremble—for she’ll know, Peter, she’ll know; maids was made to be loved, Peter—”

“But, Ancient, I am not the kind of man women would be attracted by. I love books and solitude, and am called a—pedant! and, besides, I am not of a loving sort—”

“Some men, Peter, falls in love as easy as they falls out; it comes to some soft an’ quiet—like the dawn of a summer’s day, Peter; but to others it comes like a gert an’ tur’ble storm—oh, that it do! Theer’s a fire ready to burn up inside o’ ye at the touch o’ some woman’s ‘and, or the peep o’