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

and long, cleft chin—even as my own. So, as I stood looking down upon this face, my breath caught, and my flesh crept, for indeed, I might have been looking into a mirror—the face was the face of myself.

CHAPTER II

THE POSTILION

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Postilion, and fell back a step.

“Well?” said I, meeting his astonished look as carelessly as I might.

“Lord love me!” said the Postilion.

“What now?” I inquired.

“I never see such a thing as this ‘ere,” said he, alternately glancing from me down to the outstretched figure at my feet, “if it’s bewitchments, or only enchantments, I don’t like it—strike me pink if I do!”

“What do you mean?”

“Eyes,” continued the Postilion slowly and heavily, and with his glance wandering still—“eyes, same—nose, identical—mouth, when not bloody, same—hair, same—figure, same—no, I don’t like it —it’s onnat’ral! tha’ ‘s what it is.”

“Come, come,” I broke in, somewhat testily, “don’t stand there staring like a fool—you see this gentleman is hurt.”

“Onnat’ral ‘s the word!” went on the Postilion, more as though speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, “it’s a onnat’ral night to begin with—seed a many bad uns in my time, but nothing to ekal this ‘ere, that I lost my way aren’t to be wondered at; then him, and her a-jumping out o’ the chaise and a-running off into the thick o’ the storm—that’s onnat’ral in the second place! and then, his face, and your face—that’s the most onnat’rallest part of it all—likewise, I never see one man in two suits o’ clothes afore, nor yet a-standing up, and a-laying down both at the same i-dentical minute—onnat’ral’s the word —and—I’m a-going.”

“Stop!” said I, as he began to move away.

“Not on no account!”

“Then I must make you,” said I, and doubled my fists.

The Postilion eyed me over from head to foot, and paused, irresolute.

“What might you be wanting with a peaceable, civil-spoke cove like me?” he inquired.

“Where is your chaise?”

“Up in the lane, som’eres over yonder,” answered he, with a vague jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

“Then, if you will take this gentleman’s heels we can carry him well enough between us—it’s no great distance.”

“Easy!” said the Postilion, backing away again, “easy, now—what might be the matter with him, if I might make so bold—ain’t dead, is he?”

“Dead—no, fool!” I rejoined angrily.

“Voice like his, too!” muttered the Postilion, backing away still farther; “yes, onnat’ral’s the word—strike me dumb if it ain’t!”

“Come, will you do as I ask, or must I make you?”

“Why, I ain’t got no objection to taking the gent’s ‘eels, if that’s all you ask, though mind ye, if ever I see such damned onnat’ralness as this ‘ere in all my days, why—drownd me!”

So, after some delay, I found the overcoat and purse (which latter I thrust into the pocket ere wrapping the garment about him), and lifting my still unconscious antagonist between us, we started for the lane; which we eventually reached, with no little labor and difficulty. Here, more by good fortune than anything else, we presently stumbled upon a chaise and horses, drawn up in the gloom of sheltering trees, in which we deposited our limp burden as comfortably as might be, and where I made some shift to tie up the gash in his brow.

“It would be a fine thing,” said the Postilion moodily, as I, at length, closed the chaise door, “it would be a nice thing if ‘e was to go a-dying.”

“By the looks of him,” said I, “he will be swearing your head off in the next ten minutes or so.”

Without another word the Postilion set the lanthorn back in its socket, and swung himself into the saddle.

“Your best course would be to make for Tonbridge, bearing to the right when you strike the high road.”

The Postilion nodded, and, gathering up the reins, turned to stare at me once more, while I stood in the gleam of the lanthorn.

“Well?” I inquired.

“Eyes,” said he, rubbing his chin very hard, as one at a loss, “eyes, i-dentical—nose, same—mouth, when not bloody, same —‘air, same—everything, same—Lord love me!”

“Pembry would be nearer,” said I, “and the sooner he is between the sheets the better.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Postilion with a slow nod, and drawing out the word unduly, “and talking o’ sheets and beds—what about my second passenger? I started wi’ two, and ‘ere’s only one—what about Number Two what about—‘er?”

“Her!” I repeated.

“‘Er as was with ‘im—Number One—‘er what was a-quarrelling wi’ Number One all the way from London ‘er as run away from Number One into the wood, yonder, what about Number Two—‘er?”

“Why, to be sure—I had forgotten her!”

“Forgotten?” repeated the Postilion, “Oh, Lord, yes!” and leaning over, he winked one eye, very deliberately; “forgotten ‘er—ah! —to be sure—of course!” and he winked again.

“What do you mean?” I demanded, nettled by the fellow’s manner.

“Mean?” said he, “I means as of all the damned onnat’ralness as come on a honest, well-meaning, civil-spoke cove—why, I’m that there cove, so ‘elp me!” Saying which, he cracked his whip, the horses plunged forward, and, almost immediately, as it seemed, horses, chaise, and Postilion had lurched into the black murk of the night and vanished.

CHAPTER III

WHICH BEARS AMPLE TESTIMONY TO THE STRENGTH OF THE GENTLEMAN’S FISTS

Considering all that had befallen during the last half-hour or so, it was not very surprising, I think, that I should have forgotten the very existence of this woman Charmian, even though she had been chiefly instrumental in bringing it all about, and to have her recalled to my recollection thus suddenly (and, moreover, the possibility that I must meet with and talk to her) perturbed me greatly, and I remained, for some time, quite oblivious to wind and rain, all engrossed by the thought of this woman.

“A dark, fierce, Amazonian creature!” I told myself, who had (abhorrent thought) already attempted one man’s life to-night; furthermore, a tall woman, and strong (therefore unmaidenly), with eyes that gleamed wild in the shadow of her hair. And yet my dismay arose not so much from any of these as from the fact that she was a woman, and, consequently, beyond my ken.

Hitherto I had regarded the sex very much from a distance, and a little askance, as creatures naturally illogical, and given to unreasoning impulse; delicate, ethereal beings whose lives were made up of petty trifles and vanities, who were sent into this gross world to be admired, petted, occasionally worshipped, and frequently married.

Indeed, my education, in this direction, had been shockingly neglected thus far, not so much from lack of inclination (for who can deny the fascination of the Sex?) as for lack of time and opportunity; for when, as a young gentleman of means and great expectations, I should have been writing sonnets to the eyebrow of some “ladye fayre,” or surreptitiously wooing some farmer’s daughter, in common with my kind, I was hearkening to the plaint of some Greek or Roman lover, or chuckling over old Brantome.

Thus, women were to me practically an unknown quantity, as yet, and hence it was with no little trepidation that I now started out for the cottage, and this truly Amazonian Charmian, unless she had disappeared as suddenly as she had come (which I found myself devoutly hoping).

As I went, I became conscious that I was bleeding copiously above the brow, that my throat was much swollen, and that the thumb of my right hand pained exceedingly at the least touch; added to which was a dizziness of the head, and a general soreness of body, that testified to the strength of my opponent’s fists.

On I stumbled, my head bent low against the stinging rain, and with uncertain, clumsy feet, for reaction had come, and with it a deadly faintness. Twigs swung out of the darkness to lash at and catch me as I passed, invisible trees creaked and groaned above and around me, and once, as I paused to make more certain of my direction, a dim, vague mass plunged down athwart my path with a rending crash.

On I went (wearily enough, and with the faintness growing upon me, a sickness that would not be fought down), guiding my course by touch rather than sight, until, finding myself at fault, I stopped again, staring about me beneath my hand. Yet, feeling the faintness increase with inaction, I started forward, groping before me as I went; I had gone but a few paces, however, when I tripped over some obstacle, and fell heavily. It wanted but this to complete my misery, and I lay where I was, overcome by a deadly nausea.

Now presently, as I lay thus, spent and sick, I became aware of a soft glow, a brightness that seemingly played all around me, wherefore, lifting my heavy head, I beheld a ray of light that pierced the gloom, a long, gleaming vista jewelled by falling raindrops, whose brilliance was blurred, now and then, by the flitting shapes of wind-tossed branches. At sight of this my strength revived, and rising, I staggered on towards this welcome light, and thus I saw that it streamed from the window of my cottage. Even then, it seemed, I journeyed miles before I felt the latch beneath my fingers, and fumbling, opened the door, stumbled in, and closed it after me.

For a space I stood dazed by the sudden light, and then, little by little, noticed that the table and chairs had been righted, that the fire had been mended, and that candles burned brightly upon the mantel. All this I saw but dimly, for there was a mist before my eyes; yet I was conscious that the girl had leapt up on my entrance, and now stood fronting me across the table.

“You!” said she, in a low, repressed voice—“you?”

Now, as she spoke, I saw the glitter of steel in her hand.

“Keep back!” she said, in the same subdued tone, “keep back—I warn you!” But I only leaned there against the door, even as she had done; indeed, I doubt if I could have moved just then, had I tried. And, as I stood thus, hanging my head, and not answering her, she stamped her foot suddenly, and laughed a short, fierce laugh.

“So—he has hurt you?” she cried; “you are all blood—it is running down your face—the Country Bumpkin has hurt you! Oh, I am glad! glad! glad!” and she laughed again. “I might have run away,” she went on mockingly, “but you see—I was prepared for you,” and she held up the knife, “prepared for you—and now—you are pale, and hurt, and faint—yes, you are faint—the Country Bumpkin has done his work well. I shall not need this, after all—see!” And she flung the knife upon the table.

“Yes—it is better—there,” said I, “and I think—madam—is —mistaken.”

“Mistaken?” she cried, with a sudden catch in her voice, “what —what do you mean?”

“That I—am—the Bumpkin!” said I.

Now, as I spoke, a black mist enveloped all things, my knees loosened suddenly, and stumbling forward, I sank into a chair. “I am—very—tired!” I sighed, and so, as it seemed, fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV

WHICH, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HAS TO DO WITH BRUISES AND BANDAGES

She was on her knees beside me, bathing my battered face, talking all the while in a soft voice that I thought wonderfully sweet to hear.

“Poor boy!” she was saying, over and over again, “poor boy!” And after she had said it, perhaps a dozen times, I opened my eyes