The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

“Sir Richard,” said I, grasping his unwilling hand, “I—I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Pooh, Peter, dammit!” said he, snatching his hand away and thrusting it hurriedly into his pocket, out of farther reach.

“Thank you, sir,” I reiterated; “be sure that should I fall ill or any unforeseen calamity happen to me, I will most gladly, most gratefully accept your generous aid in the spirit in which it is offered, but—”

“But?” exclaimed Sir Richard.

“Until then—”

“Oh, the devil!” said Sir Richard, and ringing the bell ordered his horse to be brought to the door, and thereafter stood with his back to the empty fireplace, his fists thrust down into his pockets, frowning heavily and with a fixed intentness at the nearest armchair.

Sir Richard Anstruther is tall and broad, ruddy of face, with a prominent nose and great square chin whose grimness is offset by a mouth singularly sweet and tender, and the kindly light of blue eyes; he is in very truth a gentleman. Indeed, as he stood there in his plain blue coat with its high roll collar and shining silver buttons, his spotless moleskins and heavy, square-toed riding boots, he was as fair a type as might be of the English country gentleman. It is such men as he, who, fearless upon the littered quarterdecks of reeling battleships, undismayed amid the smoke and death of stricken fields, their duty well and nobly done; have turned their feet homewards to pass their latter days amid their turnips and cabbages, beating their swords into pruning-hooks, and glad enough to do it.

“Peter,” said he suddenly.

“Sir?” said I.

“You never saw your father to remember, did you?”

“No, Sir Richard.”

“Nor your mother?”

“Nor my mother.”

“Poor boy—poor boy!”

“You knew my mother?”

“Yes, Peter, I knew your mother,” said Sir Richard, staring very hard at the chair again, and I saw that his mouth had grown wonderfully tender. “Yours has been a very secluded life hitherto, Peter,” he went on after a moment.

“Entirely so,” said I, “with the exception of my never-to-be-forgotten visits to the Hall.”

“Ah, yes, I taught you to ride, remember.”

“You are associated with every boyish pleasure I ever knew,” said I, laying my hand upon his arm. Sir Richard coughed and grew suddenly red in the face.

“Why—ah—you see, Peter,” he began, picking up his riding whip and staring at it, “you see your uncle was never very fond of company at any time, whereas I—”

“Whereas you could always find time to remember the lonely boy left when all his companions were gone on their holidays—left to his books and the dreary desolation of the empty schoolhouse, and echoing cloisters—”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Sir Richard, redder than ever. “Bosh!”

“Do you think I can ever forget the glorious day when you drove over in your coach and four, and carried me off in triumph, and how we raced the white-hatted fellow in the tilbury—?”

“And beat him!” added Sir Richard.

“Took off his near wheel on the turn,” said I.

“The fool’s own fault,” said Sir Richard.

“And left him in the ditch, cursing us!” said I.

“Egad, yes, Peter! Oh, but those were fine horses and though I say it, no better team in the south country. You’ll remember the ‘off wheeler’ broke his leg shortly after and had to be shot, poor devil.”

“And later, at Oxford,” I began.

“What now, Peter?” said Sir Richard, frowning darkly.

“Do you remember the bronze vase that used to stand on the mantelpiece in my study?”

“Bronze vase?” repeated Sir Richard, intent upon his whip again.

“I used to find bank-notes in it after you had visited me, and when I hid the vase they turned up just the same in most unexpected places.”

“Young fellow—must have money—necessary—now and then,” muttered Sir Richard.

At this juncture, with a discreet knock, the butler appeared to announce that Sir Richard’s horse was waiting. Hereupon the baronet, somewhat hastily, caught up his hat and gloves, and I followed him out of the house and down the steps.

Sir Richard drew on his gloves, thrust his toe into the stirrup, and then turned to look at me over his arm.

“Peter,” said he.

“Sir Richard?” said I.

“Regarding your walking tour—”

“Yes?”

“I think it’s all damned tomfoolery!” said Sir Richard. After saying which he swung himself into the saddle with a lightness and ease that many younger might have envied.

“I’m sorry for that, sir, because my mind is set upon it.”

“With ten guineas in your pocket!”

“That, with due economy, should be ample until I can find some means to earn more.”

“A fiddlestick, sir—an accursed fiddlestick!” snorted Sir Richard. “How is a boy, an unsophisticated, hot-headed young fool of a boy to earn his own living?”

“Others have done it,” I began.

“Pish!” said the baronet.

“And been the better for it in the end.”

“Tush!” said the baronet.

“And I have a great desire to see the world from the viewpoint of the multitude.”

“Bah!” said the baronet, so forcibly that his mare started; “this comes of your damnable Revolutionary tendencies. Let me tell you, Want is a hard master, and the world a bad place for one who is moneyless and without friends.”

“You forget, sir, I shall never be without a friend.”

“God knows it, boy,” answered Sir Richard, and his hand fell and rested for a moment upon my shoulder. “Peter,” said he, very slowly and heavily, “I’m growing old—and I shall never marry—and sometimes, Peter, of an evening I get very lonely and—lonely, Peter.” He stopped for a while, gazing away towards the green slopes of distant Shooter’s Hill. “Oh, boy!” said he at last, “won’t you come to the Hall and help me to spend my money?”

Without answering I reached up and clasped his hand; it was the hand which held his whip, and I noticed how tightly he gripped the handle, and wondered.

“Sir Richard,” said I at last, “wherever I go I shall treasure the recollection of this moment, but—”

“But, Peter?”

“But, sir—”

“Oh, dammit!” he exclaimed, and set spurs to his mare. Yet once he turned in his saddle to flourish his whip to me ere he galloped out of sight.

CHAPTER II

I SET OUT

The clock of the square-towered Norman church, a mile away, was striking the hour of four as I let myself out into the morning. It was dark as yet, and chilly, but in the east was already a faint glimmer of dawn. Reaching the stables, I paused with my hand on the door-hasp, listening to the hiss, hissing that told me Adam, the groom, was already at work within. As I entered he looked up from the saddle he was polishing and touched his forehead with a grimy forefinger.

“You be early abroad, Mr. Peter.”

“Yes,” said I. “I wish to be on Shooter’s Hill at sunrise; but first I came to say ‘good-by’ to ‘Wings.’”

“To be sure, sir,” nodded Adam, picking up his lanthorn.

Upon the ensuing interview I will not dwell; it was affecting both to her and to myself, for we were mutually attached.

“Sir,” said Adam, when at last the stable door had closed behind us, “that there mare knows as you’re a-leaving her.”

“I think she does, Adam.”

“‘Osses be wonderful wise, sir!”

“Yes, Adam.”

“This is a bad day for Wings, sir—and all of us, for that matter.”

“I hope not, Adam.”

“You be a-going away, they tell me, sir?”

“Yes, going away,” I nodded.

“Wonder what’ll become o’ the mare, sir?”

“Ah, yes, I wonder,” said I.

“Everything to be sold under the will, I think, sir?”

“Everything, Adam.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said he, knuckling his forehead, “you won’t be wanting ever a groom, will you?”

“No, Adam,” I answered, shaking my head, “I sha’n’t be wanting a groom.”

“Nor yet a body servant, sir?”

“No, Adam, nor yet a body servant.”

Here there ensued a silence during which Adam knuckled his right temple again and I tightened the buckle of my knapsack.

“I think, Adam,” said I, “I think it is going to be a fine day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good-by, Adam!” said I, and held out my hand.

“Good-by, sir.” And, having shaken my hand, he turned and went back into the stable.

So I set off, walking beneath an avenue of trees looming up gigantic on either hand. At the end was the lodge and, ere I opened the gates—for John, the lodgekeeper, was not yet astir—ere I opened the gates, I say, I paused for one last look at the house that had been all the home I had ever known since I could remember. As I stood thus, with my eyes upon the indistinct mass, I presently distinguished a figure running towards me and, as he came up, recognized Adam.

“It ain’t much, sir, but it’s all I ‘ave,” said he, and thrust a short, thick, well-smoked clay pipe into my hand—a pipe that was fashioned to the shape of a negro’s head. “It’s a good pipe, sir,” he went on, “a mortal good pipe, and as sweet as a nut!” saying which, he turned about and ran off, leaving me standing there with his parting gift in my hand.

And having put the pipe into an inner pocket, I opened the gate and started off at a good pace along the broad highway.

It was a bleak, desolate world that lay about me, a world of shadows and a white, low-lying mist that filled every hollow and swathed hedge and tree; a lowering earth and a frowning heaven infinitely depressing. But the eastern sky was clear with an ever-growing brightness; hope lay there, so, as I walked, I kept my eyes towards the east.

Being come at last to that eminence which is called Shooter’s Hill, I sat down upon a bank beside the way and turned to look back upon the wonderful city. And as I watched, the pearly east changed little by little, to a varying pink, which in turn slowly gave place to reds and yellows, until up came the sun in all his majesty, gilding vane and weathercock upon a hundred spires and steeples, and making a glory of the river. Far away upon the white riband of road that led across Blackheath, a chaise was crawling, but save for that the world seemed deserted.

I sat thus a great while gazing upon the city and marvelling at the greatness of it.

“Truly,” said I to myself, “nowhere in the whole world is there such another city as London!” And presently I sighed and, rising, set my back to the city and went on down the hill.

Yes—the sun was up at last, and at his advent the mists rolled up and vanished, the birds awoke in brake and thicket and, lifting their voices, sang together, a song of universal praise. Bushes rustled, trees whispered, while from every leaf and twig, from every blade of grass, there hung a flashing jewel.

With the mists my doubts of the future vanished too, and I strode upon my way, a very god, king of my destiny, walking through a tribute world where feathered songsters carolled for me and blossoming flowers wafted sweet perfume upon my path. So I went on gayly down the hill, rejoicing that I was