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

“Black Jarge!”

“No; what should make you think so?”

“Your face be all cut—you’ve been fightin’!”

“And supposing I have—that is none of George’s doing; he and I are very good friends—why should we quarrel?”

“Then—then it weren’t Jarge?”

“No—I have not seen him since Saturday.”

“Thank God!” she exclaimed, pressing her hand to her bosom as if to stay its heaving. “But you must go,” she went on breathlessly. “Oh, Mr. Peter! I’ve been so fearful for ‘ee, and—and—you might meet each other any time, so—so you must go away.”

“Prudence,” said I, “Prudence, what do you mean?”

For answer, she held out the crumpled paper, and, scrawled in great, straggling characters, I read these words:

“PRUDENCE,—I’m going away, I shall kill him else, but I shall come back. Tell him not to cross my path, or God help him, and you, and me. GEORGE.”

“What does it all mean, Prudence?” said I, like a fool.

Now, as I spoke; glancing at her I saw her cheeks, that had seemed hitherto more pale than usual, grow suddenly scarlet, and, meeting my eyes, she hid her face in her two hands. Then, seeing her distress, in that same instant I found the answer to my question, and so stood, turning poor George’s letter over and over, more like a fool than ever.

“You must go away—you must go away!” she repeated.

“Hum!” said I.

“You must go soon; he means it, I—I’ve seen death in his face,” she said, shuddering; “go to-day—the longer you stay here the worse for all of us—go now.”

“Prudence!” said I.

“Yes, Mr. Peter!” from behind her hands.

“You always loved Black George, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Peter.”

“And you love him still, don’t you?” A moment’s silence, then:

“Yes, Mr. Peter.”

“Excellent!” said I. Her head was raised a trifle, and one tearful eye looked at me over her fingers. “I had always hoped you did,” I continued, “for his sake, and for yours, and in my way, a very blundering way as it seems now, I have tried to bring you two together.” Prudence only sobbed. “But things are not hopeless yet. I think I can see a means of straightening out this tangle.”

“Oh, if we only could!” sobbed Prudence. “Ye see, I were very cruel to him, Mr. Peter!”

“Just a little, perhaps,” said I, and, while she dabbed at her pretty eyes with her snowy apron, I took pen and ink from the shelf where I kept them, which, together with George’s letter, I set upon the anvil. “Now,” said I, in answer to her questioning look, “write down just here, below where George signed his name, what you told me a moment ago.”

“You mean, that I—”

“That you love him, yes.”

“Oh, Mr. Peter!”

“Prudence,” said I, “it is the only way, so far as I can see, of saving George from himself; and no sweet, pure maid need be ashamed to tell her love, especially to such a man as this, who worships the very ground that little shoe of yours has once pressed.”

She glanced up at me, under her wet lashes, as I said this, and a soft light beamed in her eyes, and a smile hovered upon her red lips.

“Do he—really, Mr. Peter?”

“Indeed he does, Prudence, though I think you must know that without my telling you.” So she stooped above the anvil, blushing a little, and sighing a little, and crying a little, and, with fingers that trembled somewhat, to be sure, wrote these four words:

“What now, Mr. Peter?” she inquired, seeing me begin to unbuckle my leather apron.

“Now,” I answered, “I am going to look for Black George.”

“No!—no!” she cried, laying her hands upon my arm, “no! no! if ‘ee do meet him, he—he’ll kill ‘ee!”

“I don’t think he will,” said I, shaking my head.

“Oh, don’t go!—don’t go!” she pleaded, shaking my arm in her eagerness; “he be so strong and wild and quick—he’ll give ‘ee no chance to speak—‘twill be murder!”

“Prudence,” said I, “my mind is set on it. I am going—for your sake, for his sake, and my own;” saying which, I loosed her hands gently and took down my coat from its peg.

“Dear God!” she exclaimed, staring down at the floor with wide eyes, “if he were to kill ‘ee—!”

“Well,” said I, “my search would be ended and I should be a deal wiser in all things than I am to-day.”

“And he—would be hanged!” said Prudence, shuddering.

“Probably—poor fellow!” said I. At this she glanced quickly up, and once again the crimson dyed her cheeks.

“Oh, Mr. Peter, forgive me! I—I were only thinkin’ of Jarge, and—”

“And quite right too, Prudence,” I nodded; “he is indeed worth any good woman’s thoughts; let it be your duty to think of him, and for him, henceforth.”

“Wait!” said she, “wait!” And turning, she fled through the doorway and across the road, swift and graceful as any bird, and presently was back again, with something hidden in her apron.

“He be a strong man, and terrible in his wrath,” said she, “and I—love him, but—take this wi’ you, and if it—must be—use it, because I do love him.” Now, as she said this, she drew from her apron that same brass-bound pistol that had served me so well against the “ghost” and thrust it into my hand. “Take it, Mr. Peter—take it, but—oh!”—here a great sob choked her voice—” don’t—don’t use it—if—if you can help it, for my sake.”

“Why, Prue!” said I, touching her bowed head very tenderly, “how can you think I would go up against my friend with death in my hand—Heaven forbid!” So I laid aside the weapon and, clapping on my hat, strode out into the glory of the summer morning, but left her weeping in the shadows.

CHAPTER VII

WHICH NARRATES A SOMEWHAT REMARKABLE CONVERSATION

To find a man in Cambourne Woods, even so big a man as Black George, would seem as hard a matter as to find the needle in the proverbial “bottle of hay;” the sun crept westward, the day declined into evening, yet, hungry though I was, I persevered in my search, not so much in the hope of finding him (in the which I knew I must be guided altogether by chance), as from a disinclination to return, just yet, to the cottage. “It would be miserable there at this hour,” I told myself, “miserable and lonely.”

Yet why should I be lonely; I, who had gloried in my solitude hitherto? Whence then had come this change?

While I stood thus, seeking an answer to this self-imposed question and finding none, I heard some one approach, whistling, and, looking about, beheld a fellow with an axe upon his shoulder, who strode along at a good pace, keeping time to his whistle. He gave me a cheery greeting as he came up, but without stopping.

“You seem in a hurry,” said I.

“Ah!” grinned the man, over his shoulder, “‘cause why?—‘cause I be goin’ ‘ome.”

“Home!” said I.

“To supper,” he nodded, and, forthwith, began to whistle again, while I stood listening till the clear notes had died away.

“Home!” said I for the second time, and there came upon me a feeling of desolation such as I had never known even in my neglected boyhood’s days.

Home! truly a sweet word, a comfortable word, the memory of which has been as oil and wine to many a sick and weary traveler upon this Broad Highway of life; a little word, and yet one which may come betwixt a man and temptation, covering him like a shield. “Roof and walls, be they cottage or mansion, do not make home,” thought I, “rather is it the atmosphere of mutual love, the intimacies of thought, the joys and sorrows endured together, and the never-failing sympathy—that bond invisible yet stronger than death.”

And, because I had, hitherto, known nothing of this, I was possessed of a great envy for this axe-fellow as I walked on through the wood.

Now as I went, it was as if there were two voices arguing together within me, whereof ensued the following triangular conversation:

MYSELF. Yet I have my books—I will go to my lonely cottage and bury myself among my books.

FIRST VOICE. Assuredly! Is it for a philosopher to envy a whistling axe-fellow—go to!

SECOND VOICE. Far better a home and loving companionship than all the philosophy of all the schools; surely Happiness is greater than Learning, and more to be desired than Wisdom!

FIRST VOICE. Better rather that Destiny had never sent her to you.

MYSELF (rubbing my chin very hard, and staring at nothing in particular). Her?

SECOND VOICE. Her!—to be sure, she who has been in your thoughts all day long.

FIRST VOICE (with lofty disdain). Crass folly!—a woman utterly unknown, who came heralded by the roar of wind and the rush of rain—a creature born of the tempest, with flame in her eyes and hair, and fire in the scarlet of her mouth; a fierce, passionate being, given to hot impulse—even to the taking of a man’s life!

(“But,” said I, somewhat diffidently, “the fellow was a proved scoundrel!”)

FIRST VOICE (bellowing). Sophistry! sophistry! even supposing he was the greatest of villains, does that make her less a murderess in intent?

MYSELF. Hum!

FIRST VOICE (roaring). Of course not! Again, can this woman even faintly compare with your ideal of what a woman should be —this shrew!—this termagant! Can a woman whose hand has the strength to level a pistol, and whose mind the will to use it, be of a nature gentle, clinging, sweet—

SECOND VOICE (sotto). And sticky!

FIRST VOICE (howling). Of course not

(Hereupon, finding no answer, I strode on through the alleys of the wood; but, when I had gone some distance, I stopped again, for there rushed over me the recollection of the tender pity of her eyes and the gentle touch of her hand, as when she had bound up my hurts.

“Nevertheless,” said I doggedly, “her face can grow more beautiful with pity, and surely no woman’s hand could be lighter or more gentle.”)

FIRST VOICE (with withering contempt). Our Peter fellow is like to become a preposterous ass.

(But, unheeding, I thrust my hand into my breast, and drew out a small handful of cambric, whence came a faint perfume of violets. And, closing my eyes, it seemed that she was kneeling before me, her arms about my neck, as when she had bound this handkerchief about my bleeding temples.

“Truly,” said I, “for that one sweet act alone, a woman might be worth dying for!”)

SECOND VOICE. Or better still—living for!

FIRST VOICE (in high indignation). Balderdash, Sir!—sentimental balderdash!

SECOND VOICE. A truth incontrovertible!

(“Folly!” said I, and threw the handkerchief from me. But next moment, moved by a sudden impulse, I stooped and picked it up again.)

FIRST VOICE. Our Peter fellow is becoming the fool of fools!

MYSELF. No, of that there is not the slightest fear, because —she is—gone.

And thus I remained staring at the handkerchief for a great while.

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH I SEE A VISION IN THE