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

those same slender, dexterous hands! And later, pipe in mouth, what grave discussions upon men and things—peace and war—the dead and the living—the rise and fall of nations—and Simon’s new litter of pigs! At last, the “Good nights” being said—homeward through the twilit lanes, often pausing to look upon the shadowy woods, to watch some star, or hearken to the mournful note of a night jar, soft with distance.

What wonder if, at this time, my earlier dreams and ambitions faded from my ken; what wonder that Petronius Arbiter, and the jolly Sieur de Brantome lay neglected in my dusty knapsack.

Go to! Petronius, go to! How “stale, flat, and unprofitable” were all thy vaunted pleasures, compared with mine. Alas! for thy noble intellect draggled in the mire to pander to an Imperial Swine, and for all thy power and wise statecraft which yet could not save thee from untimely death.

And thou, Brantome! old gossip, with all thy scandalous stories of ladies, always and ever “tres belle, et fort honnete,” couldst not find time among them all to note the glories of the world wherein they lived, and moved, and had their “fort honnete” being?

But let it not be thought my leisure hours were passed in idle dreaming and luxurious ease; on the contrary, I had, with much ado, rethatched the broken roof of my cottage as well as I might, mended the chimney, fitted glass to the casements and a new door upon its hinges. This last was somewhat clumsily contrived, I grant you, and of a vasty strength quite unnecessary, yet a very, excellent door I considered it, nevertheless.

Having thus rendered my cottage weather-proof, I next turned my attention to furnishing it. To which end I, in turn, and with infinite labor, constructed a bedstead, two elbow-chairs, and a table; all to the profound disgust of Donald, who could by no means abide the rasp of my saw, so that, reaching for his pipes, he would fill the air with eldrich shrieks and groans, or drown me in a torrent of martial melody.

It was about this time—that is to say, my second bedstead was nearing completion, and I was seriously considering the building of a press with cupboards to hold my crockery, also a shelf for my books—when, chancing to return home somewhat earlier than usual, I was surprised to see Donald sitting upon the bench I had set up beside the door, polishing the buckles of that identical pair of square-toed shoes that had once so piqued my curiosity.

As I approached he rose, and came to meet me with the brogues in his hand.

“Man, Peter,” said he, “I maun juist be gangin’.”

‘“Going!” I repeated; “going where?”

“Back tae Glenure—the year is a’most up, ye ken, an’ I wadna’ hae ma brither Alan afore me wi’ the lassie, forbye he’s an unco braw an’ sonsy man, ye ken, an’ a lassie’s mind is aye a kittle thing.”

“True,” I answered, “what little I know of woman would lead me to suppose so; and yet—Heaven knows! I shall be sorry to lose you, Donald.”

“Ay—I ken that fine, an’ ye’ll be unco lonesome wi’out me an’ the pipes, I’m thinkin’.”

“Very!”

“Eh, Peter, man! if it wasna’ for the lassie, I’d no hae the heart tae leave ye. Ye’ll no be forgettin’ the ‘Wullie Wallace Lament’?”

“Never!” said I.

“Oh, man, Peter! it’s in my mind ye’ll no hear sic pipin’ again, forbye there’s nae man—Hielander nor Lowlander—has juist the trick o’ the ‘warblers’ like me, an’ it’s no vera like we shall e’er meet again i’ this warld, man, Peter. But I’ll aye think o’ ye—away there in Glenure, when I play the ‘Wullie Wallace’ bit tune—I’ll aye think o’ ye, Peter, man.”

After this we stood awhile, staring past each other into the deepening shadows.

“Peter,” said he at last, “it’s no a vera genteel present tae be makin’ ye, I doot,” and he held up the battered shoes. “They’re unco worn, an’ wi’ a clout here an’ there, ye’ll notice, but the buckles are guid siller, an’ I hae naething else to gi’e ye. Ay, man! but it’s many a weary mile I’ve marched in these at the head o’ the Ninety-Second, an’ it’s mony a stark fecht they’ve been through—Vittoria, Salamanca, Talavera, tae Quatre Bras an’ Waterloo; tak’ ‘em, Peter, tak’ ‘em—tae mind ye sometimes o’ Donal’ Stuart. An’ now—gi’e us a grup o’ ye hand. Gude keep ye, Peter, man!”

So saying, he thrust the brogues upon me, caught and squeezed my hand, and turning sharp about, strode away through the shadows, his kilt swaying, and tartans streaming gallantly.

And, presently, I went and sat me down upon the bench beside the door, with the war-worn shoes upon my knee. Suddenly, as I sat there, faint and fainter with distance, and unutterably sad, came the slow, sweet music of Donald’s pipes playing the “Wallace Lament.” Softly the melody rose and fell, until it died away in one long-drawn, wailing note.

Now, as it ended, I rose, and uncovered my head, for I knew this was Donald’s last farewell.

Much more I might have told of this strange yet lovable man who was by turns the scarred soldier, full of stirring tales of camp and battlefield; the mischievous child delighting in tricks and rogueries of all sorts; and the stately Hieland gentleman. Many wild legends he told me of his native glens, with strange tales of the “second sight”—but here, perforce, must be no place for such. So here then I leave Donald and hurry on with my narrative.

CHAPTER XXXII

IN WHICH THIS FIRST BOOK BEGINS TO DRAW TO A CLOSE

“Strike! ding! ding! Strike! ding! ding! The iron glows, And loveth good blows As fire doth bellows. Strike! ding! ding!”

Out beyond the smithy door a solitary star twinkles low down in the night sky, like some great jewel; but we have no time for star-gazing, Black George and I, for to-night we are at work on the old church screen, which must be finished to-morrow.

And so the bellows roar hoarsely, the hammers clang, and the sparks fly, while the sooty face of Black George, now in shadow, now illumed by the fire, seems like the face of some Fire-god or Salamander. In the corner, perched securely out of reach of stray sparks, sits the Ancient, snuff-box in hand as usual.

To my mind, a forge is at its best by night, for, in the red, fiery glow, the blackened walls, the shining anvil, and the smith himself, bare-armed and bare of chest, are all magically transfigured, while, in the hush of night, the drone of the bellows sounds more impressive, the stroke of the hammers more sonorous and musical, and the flying sparks mark plainly their individual courses, ere they vanish.

I stand, feet well apart, and swing the great “sledge” to whose diapason George’s hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming in after each stroke with a ring and clash exact and true, as is, and has been, the way of masters of the smithing craft all the world over from time immemorial.

“George,” said I, during a momentary lull, leaning my hands upon the long hammer-shaft, “you don’t sing.”

“No, No, Peter.”

“And why not?”

“I think, Peter.”

“But surely you can both think and sing, George?”

“Not always, Peter.”

“What’s your trouble, George?”

“No trouble, Peter,” said he, above the roar of the bellows.

“Then sing, George.”

“Ay, Jarge, sing,” nodded the Ancient; “‘tis a poor ‘eart as never rejices, an’ that’s in the Scripters—so, sing, Jarge.”

George did not answer, but, with a turn of his mighty wrist, drew the glowing iron from the fire. And once more the sparks fly, the air is full of the clink of hammers, and the deep-throated Song of the Anvil, in which even the Ancient joins, in a voice somewhat quavery, and generally a note or two behind, but with great gusto and goodwill notwithstanding:

“Strike! ding! ding! Strike! ding! ding!”

in the middle of which I was aware of one entering to us, and presently, turning round, espied Prudence with a great basket on her arm. Hereupon hammers were thrown aside, and we straightened our backs, for in that basket was our supper.

Very fair and sweet Prudence looked, lithe and vigorous, and straight as a young poplar, with her shining black hair curling into little tight rings about her ears, and with great, shy eyes, and red, red mouth. Surely a man might seek very far ere he found such another maid as this brown-cheeked, black-eyed village beauty.

“Good evening, Mr. Peter!” said she, dropping me a curtesy with a grace that could not have been surpassed by any duchess in the land; but, as for poor George, she did not even notice him, neither did he raise his curly head nor glance toward her.

“You come just when you are most needed, Prudence,” said I, relieving her of the heavy basket, “for here be two hungry men.”

“Three!” broke in the Ancient; “so ‘ungry as a lion, I be!”

“Three hungry men, Prudence, who have been hearkening for your step this half-hour and more.”

Quoth Prudence shyly: “For the sake of my basket?”

“Ay, for sure!” croaked the Ancient; “so ravenous as a tiger I be!”

“No,” said I, shaking my head, “basket or no basket, you are equally welcome, Prudence—how say you, George?” But George only mumbled in his beard. The Ancient and I now set to work putting up an extemporized table, but as for George, he stood staring down moodily into the yet glowing embers of the forge.

Having put up the table, I crossed to where Prudence was busy unpacking her basket.

“Prudence,” said I, “are you still at odds with George?” Prudence nodded.

“But,” said I, “he is such a splendid fellow! His outburst the other day was quite natural, under the circumstances; surely you can forgive him, Prudence.”

“There be more nor that betwixt us, Mr. Peter,” sighed Prue, “‘Tis his drinkin’; six months ago he promised me never to touch another drop—an’ he broke his word wi’ me.”

“But surely good ale, in moderation, will harm no man—nay, on the contrary—”

“But Jarge bean’t like other men, Mr. Peter!”

“No; he is much bigger, and stronger!” said I, “and I never saw a handsomer fellow.”

“Yes,” nodded the girl, “so strong as a giant, an’ so weak as a little child!”

“Indeed, Prudence,” said I, leaning nearer to her in my earnestness, “I think you are a little unjust to him. So far as I know him, George is anything but weak-minded, or liable to be led into anything—”

Hearing the Ancient chuckle gleefully, I glanced up to find him nodding and winking to Black George, who stood with folded arms and bent head, watching us from beneath his brows, and, as his eyes met mine, I thought