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

was beginning to rise, and thus, lifting up my eyes, I beheld one standing before “The Bull,” a very tall man, much bigger and greater than most; a wild figure in the dawn, with matted hair and beard, and clad in tattered clothes; yet hair and beard gleamed a red gold where the light touched them, and there was but one man I knew so tall and so mighty as this. Wherefore I hurried towards him, all unnoticed, for his eyes were raised to a certain latticed casement of the inn.

And, being come up, I reached out and touched this man upon the arm.

“George!” said I, and held out my hand. He turned swiftly, but, seeing me, started back a pace, staring.

“George!” said I again. “Oh, George!” But George only backed still farther, passing his hand once or twice across his eyes.

“Peter?” said he at last, speaking hardly above a whisper; “but you ‘m dead, Peter, dead—I killed—‘ee.”

“No,” I answered, “you didn’t kill me, George indeed, I wish you had—you came pretty near it, but you didn’t quite manage it. And, George—I’m very desolate—won’t you shake hands with a very desolate man?—if you can, believing that I have always been your friend, and a true and loyal one, then, give me your hand; if not—if you think me still the despicable traitor you once did, then, let us go into the field yonder, and if you can manage to knock me on the head for good and all this time—why, so much the better. Come, what do you say?”

Without a word Black George turned and led the way to a narrow lane a little distance beyond “The Bull,” and from the lane into a meadow. Being come thither, I took off my coat and neckerchief, but this time I cast no look upon the world about me, though indeed it was fair enough. But Black George stood half turned from me, with his fists clenched and his broad shoulders heaving oddly.

“Peter,” said he, in his slow, heavy way, “never clench ye fists to me—don’t—I can’t abide it. But oh, man, Peter! ‘ow may I clasp ‘ands wi’ a chap as I’ve tried to kill—I can’t do it, Peter—but don’t—don’t clench ye fists again me no more. I were jealous of ‘ee from the first—ye see, you beat me at th’ ‘ammer-throwin’—an’ she took your part again me; an’ then, you be so takin’ in your ways, an’ I be so big an’ clumsy—so very slow an’ ‘eavy. Theer bean’t no choice betwixt us for a maid like Prue she allus was different from the likes o’ me, an’ any lass wi’ half an eye could see as you be a gentleman, ah! an’ a good un. An’ so Peter, an’ so—I be goin’ away—a sojer— p’r’aps I shan’t love the dear lass quite so much arter a bit —p’r’aps it won’t be quite so sharp-like, arter a bit, but what’s to be—is to be. I’ve larned wisdom, an’ you an’ she was made for each other an’ meant for each other from the first; so—don’t go to clench ye fists again me no more, Peter.”

“Never again, George!” said I.

“Unless,” he continued, as though struck by a bright idea, “unless you ‘m minded to ‘ave a whack at me; if so be—why, tak’ it, Peter, an’ welcome. Ye see, I tried so ‘ard to kill ‘ee—so cruel ‘ard, Peter, an’ I thought I ‘ad. I thought ‘twere for that as they took me, an’ so I broke my way out o’ the lock-up, to come an’ say ‘good-by’ to Prue’s winder, an’ then I were goin’ back to give myself up an’ let ‘em hang me if they wanted to.”

“Were you, George?”

“Yes.” Here George turned to look at me, and, looking, dropped his eyes and fumbled with his hands, while up under his tanned skin there crept a painful, burning crimson. “Peter!” said he.

“Yes, George?”

“I got summ’at more to tell ‘ee—summ’at as I never meant to tell to a soul; when you was down—lyin’ at my feet—”

“Yes, George?”

“I—I kicked ‘ee—once!”

“Did you, George?”

“Ay—I—I were mad—mad wi’ rage an’ blood lust, an’—oh, man, Peter!—I kicked ‘ee. Theer,” said he, straightening his shoulders, “leastways I can look ‘ee in the eye now that be off my mind. An’ now, if so be you ‘m wishful to tak’ ye whack at me—why, let it be a good un, Peter.”

“No, I shall never raise my hand to you again, George.”

“‘Tis likely you be thinkin’ me a poor sort o’ man, arter what —what I just told ‘ee—a coward?”

“I think you more of a man than ever,” said I.

“Why, then, Peter—if ye do think that, here’s my hand—if ye’ll tak’ it, an’ I—bid ye—good-by!”

“I’ll take your hand—and gladly, George, but not to wish you goodby—it shall be, rather, to bid you welcome home again.”

“No,” he cried. “No—I couldn’t—I couldn’t abide to see you an’—Prue—married, Peter—no, I couldn’t abide it.”

“And you never will, George. Prue loves a stronger, a better man than I. And she has wept over him, George, and prayed over him, such tears and prayers as surely might win the blackest soul to heaven, and has said that she would marry that man—ah! even if he came back with fetter-marks upon him—even then she would marry him—if he would only ask her.”

“Oh, Peter!” cried George, seizing my shoulders in a mighty grip and looking into my eyes with tears in his own, “oh, man, Peter —you as knocked me down an’ as I love for it—be this true?”

“It is God’s truth!” said I, “and look!—there is a sign to prove I am no liar—look!” and I pointed towards “The Bull.”

George turned, and I felt his fingers tighten suddenly, for there, at the open doorway of the inn, with the early glory of the morning all about her, stood Prue. As we watched, she began to cross the road towards the smithy, with laggard step and drooping head.

“Do you know where she is going, George? I can tell you—she is going to your smithy—to pray for you—do you hear, to pray for you? Come!” and I seized his arm.

“No, Peter, no—I durstn’t—I couldn’t.” But he suffered me to lead him forward, nevertheless. Once he stopped and glanced round, but the village was asleep about us. And so we presently came to the open doorway of the forge.

And behold! Prue was kneeling before the anvil with her face hidden in her arms, and her slender body swaying slightly. But all at once, as if she felt him near her, she raised her head and saw him, and sprang to her feet with a glad cry. And, as she stood, George went to her, and knelt at her feet, and raising the hem of her gown, stooped and kissed it.

“Oh, my sweet maid!” said he. “Oh, my sweet Prue!—I bean’t worthy—I bean’t—” But she caught the great shaggy head to her bosom and stifled it there.

And in her face was a radiance—a happiness beyond words, and the man’s strong arms clung close about her.

So I turned, and left them in paradise together.

CHAPTER XXXVI

WHICH SYMPATHIZES WITH A BRASS JACK, A BRACE OF CUTLASSES, AND DIVERS POTS AND PANS

I found the Ancient sunning himself in the porch before the inn, as he waited for his breakfast.

“Peter,” said he, “I be tur’ble cold sometimes. It comes a-creepin’ on me all at once, even if I be sittin’ before a roarin’ fire or a-baskin’ in this good, warm sun—a cold as reaches down into my poor old ‘eart—grave-chills, I calls ‘em, Peter—ah! grave-chills. Ketches me by the ‘eart they do; ye see I be that old, Peter, that old an’ wore out.”

“But you’re a wonderful man for your age!” said I, clasping the shrivelled hand in mine, “and very lusty and strong—”

“So strong as a bull I be, Peter!” he nodded readily, “but then, even a bull gets old an’ wore out, an’ these grave-chills ketches me oftener an’ oftener. ‘Tis like as if the Angel o’ Death reached out an’ touched me—just touched me wi’ ‘is finger, soft-like, as much as to say: ‘‘Ere be a poor, old, wore-out creeter as I shall be wantin’ soon.’ Well, I be ready; ‘tis only the young or the fule as fears to die. Threescore years an’ ten, says the Bible, an’ I be years an’ years older than that. Oh! I shan’t be afeared to answer when I’m called, Peter. ‘‘Ere I be, Lord!’ I’ll say. ‘‘Ere I be, thy poor old servant’ —but oh, Peter! if I could be sure o’ that theer old rusty stapil bein’ took first, why then I’d go j’yful—j’yful, but— why theer be that old fule Amos—Lord! what a dodderin’ old fule ‘e be, an’ theer be Job, an’ Dutton—they be comin’ to plague me, Peter, I can feel it in my bones. Jest reach me my snuff-box out o’ my ‘ind pocket, an’ you shall see me smite they Amalekites ‘ip an’ thigh.”

“Gaffer,” began Old Amos, saluting us with his usual grin, as he came up, “we be wishful to ax ‘ee a question—we be wishful to know wheer be Black Jarge, which you ‘avin’ gone to fetch ‘im, an’ bring ‘im ‘ome again—them was your words.”

“Ah!” nodded Job, “them was your very words, ‘bring ‘im ‘ome again,’ says you—”

“But you didn’t bring ‘im ‘ome,” continued Old Amos, “leastways, not in the cart wi’ you. Dutton ‘ere—James Dutton see you come drivin’ ‘ome, but ‘e didn’t see no Jarge along wi’ you—no, not so much as you could shake a stick at, as you might say. Speak up, James Dutton you was a-leanin’ over your front gate as Gaffer come drivin’ ‘ome, wasn’t you, an’ you see Gaffer plain as plain, didn’t you?”

“W’ich, me wishin’ no offense, an’ no one objectin’—I did,” began the Apology, perspiring profusely as usual, “but I takes the liberty to say as it were a spade, an’ not a gate—leastways—”

“But you didn’t see no signs o’ Jarge, did ye?” demanded Old Amos, “as ye might say, neither ‘ide nor ‘air of ‘im—speak up, James Dutton.”

“W’ich, since you axes me, I makes so bold as to answer—an’ very glad I’m sure—no; though as to ‘ide an’ ‘air, I aren’t wishin’ to swear to, me not bein’ near enough—w’ich could only be expected, an’ very much obliged, I’m sure.”

“Ye see, Gaffer,” pursued Amos, “if you didn’t bring Jarge back wi’ you—w’ich you said you would—the question we axes is—wheer be Jarge?”

“Ah!—wheer?” nodded Job gloomily. Here the Ancient was evidently at a loss, to cover which, he took a vast pinch of snuff.

“‘Ow be we to know as ‘e bean’t pinin’ away in a dungeon cell wi’ irons on ‘is legs, an’ strapped in a straitjacket an—”

Old Amos stopped, open-mouthed and staring, for out from the gloom of the smithy issued Black George himself, with Prue upon his arm. The Ancient stared also, but, dissembling his vast surprise, he dealt the lid of his snuffbox two loud, triumphant knocks.

“Peter,” said he, rising stiffly, “Peter, lad, I were beginnin’ to think as Jarge were never comin’ in to breakfus’ at all. I’ve waited and waited till I be so ravenous as a lion an’ tiger—but ‘ere ‘e be at last,