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

creature of yours is ethereal, bloodless, sexless, unnatural, and quite impossible!”

Now, when she spoke thus, I laid down my pipe and stared, but, before I could get my breath, she began again, with curling lip and lashes that drooped disdainfully.

“I quite understand that there can be no woman worthy of Mr. Peter Vibart—she whom he would honor with marriage must be specially created for him! Ah! but some day a woman—a real, live woman—will come into his life, and the touch of her hand, the glance of her eyes, the warmth of her breath, will dispel this poor, flaccid, misty creature of his imagination, who will fade and fade, and vanish into nothingness. And when the real woman has shown him how utterly false and impossible this dream woman was—then, Mr. Peter Vibart, I hope she will laugh at you —as I do, and turn her back upon you—as I do, and leave you —for the very superior, very pedantic pedant that you are—and scorn you—as I do, most of all because you are merely a —creature!” With the word, she flung up her head and stamped her foot at me, and turning, swept out through the open door into the moonlight.

“Creature?” said I, and so sat staring at the table, and the walls, and the floor, and the rafters in a blank amazement.

But in a while, my amazement growing, I went and stood in the doorway, looking at Charmian, but saying nothing.

And, as I watched, she began to sing softly to herself, and, putting up her hand, drew the comb from her hair so that it fell down, rippling about her neck and shoulders. And, singing softly thus, she shook her hair about her, so that I saw it curled far below her waist; stooped her head, and, parting it upon her neck, drew it over either shoulder, whence it flowed far down over her bosom in two glorious waves, for the moon, peeping through the rift in the leaves above, sent down her beams to wake small fires in it, that came and went, and winked with her breathing.

“Charmian, you have glorious hair!” said I, speaking on the impulse—a thing I rarely do.

But Charmian only combed her tresses, and went on singing to herself.

“Charmian,” said I again, “what did you mean when you called me a—creature?”

Charmian went on singing.

“You called me a ‘pedant’ once before; to be told that I am superior, also, is most disquieting. I fear my manner must be very unfortunate to afford you such an opinion of me.”

Charmian went on singing.

“Naturally I am much perturbed, and doubly anxious to know what you wish me to understand by the epithet ‘creature’?”

Charmian went on singing. Wherefore, seeing she did not intend to answer me, I presently re-entered the cottage.

Now it is ever my custom, when at all troubled or put out in any way, to seek consolation in my books, hence, I now took up my Homer, and, trimming the candles, sat down at the table.

In a little while Charmian came in, still humming the air of her song, and not troubling even to glance in my direction.

Some days before, at her request, I had brought her linen and lace and ribands from Cranbrook, and these she now took out, together with needle and cotton, and, sitting down at the opposite side of the table, began to sew.

She was still humming, and this of itself distracted my mind from the lines before me; moreover, my eye was fascinated by the gleam of her flying needle, and I began to debate within myself what she was making. It (whatever it might be) was ruffled, and edged with lace, and caught here and there with little bows of blue riband, and, from these, and divers other evidences, I had concluded it to be a garment of some sort, and was casting about in my mind to account for these bows of riband, when, glancing up suddenly, she caught my eye; whereupon, for no reason in the world, I felt suddenly guilty, to hide which I began to search through my pockets for my pipe.

“On the mantelshelf!” said she.

“What is?”

“Your pipe!”

“Thank you!” said I, and reached it down.

“What are you reading?” she inquired; “is it of Helen or Aspasia or Phryne?”

“Neither—it is the parting of Hector and Andromache,” I answered.

“Is it very interesting?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do your eyes wander so often from the page?”

“I know many of the lines by heart,” said I. And having lighted my pipe, I took up the book, and once more began to read. Yet I was conscious, all the time, of Charmian’s flashing needle, also she had begun to hum again.

And, after I had endeavored to read, and Charmian had hummed for perhaps five minutes, I lowered my book, and, sighing, glanced at her.

“I am trying to read, Charmian.”

“So I see.”

“And your humming confuses me.”

“It is very quiet outside, Peter.”

“But I cannot read by moonlight, Charmian.”

“Then—don’t read, Peter.” Here she nibbled her thread with white teeth, and held up what she had been sewing to view the effect of a bow of riband, with her head very much on one side. And I inwardly wondered that she should spend so much care upon such frippery—all senseless bows and laces.

“To hum is a very disturbing habit!” said I.

“To smoke an evil-smelling pipe is worse—much worse, Peter!”

“I beg your pardon!” said I, and laid the offending object back upon the mantel.

“Are you angry, Peter?”

“Not in the least; I am only sorry that my smoking annoyed you —had I known before—”

“It didn’t annoy me in the least!”

“But from what you said I understood—”

“No, Peter, you did not understand; you never understand, and I don’t think you ever will understand anything but your Helens and Phrynes—and your Latin and Greek philosophies, and that is what makes you so very annoying, and so—so quaintly original!”

“But you certainly found fault with my pipe.”

“Naturally!—didn’t you find fault with my humming?”

“Really,” said I, “really, I fail to see—”

“Of course you do!” sighed Charmian. Whereupon there fell a silence between us, during which she sewed industriously, and I went forth with brave Hector to face the mighty Achilles. But my eye had traversed barely twenty lines when:

“Peter?”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember my giving you a locket?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“Oh! I have it still—somewhere.”

“Somewhere, sir?” she repeated, glancing at me with raised brows.

“Somewhere safe,” said I, fixing my eyes upon my book.

“It had a riband attached, hadn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“A pink riband, if I remember—yes, pink.”

“No—it was blue!” said I unguardedly.

“Are you sure, Peter?” And here, glancing up, I save that she was watching me beneath her lashes.

“Yes,” I answered; “that is—I think so.”

“Then you are not sure?”

“Yes, I am,” said I; “it was a blue riband,” and I turned over a page very ostentatiously.

“Oh!” said Charmian, and there was another pause, during which I construed probably fifty lines or so.

“Peter?”

“Well?”

“Where did you say it was now—my locket?”

“I didn’t say it was anywhere.”

“No, you said it was ‘somewhere’—in a rather vague sort of way, Peter.”

“Well, perhaps I did,” said I, frowning at my book.

“It is not very valuable, but I prized it for association’s sake, Peter.”

“Ah!—yes, to be sure,” said I, feigning to be wholly absorbed.

“I was wondering if you ever—wear it, Peter?”

“Wear it!” I exclaimed, and glancing furtively down at myself, I was relieved to see that there were no signs of a betraying blue riband; “wear it!” said I again, “why should I wear it?”

“Why, indeed, Peter, unless it was because it was there to wear.” Suddenly she uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and, taking up a candle, began looking about the floor.

“What have you lost?”

“My needle! I think it must have fallen under the table. and needles are precious in this wilderness; won’t you please help me to find it?”

“With pleasure!” said I, getting down upon my hands and knees, and together we began to hunt for the lost needle.

Now, in our search, it chanced that we drew near together, and once her hand touched mine, and once her soft hair brushed my cheek, and there stole over me a perfume like the breath of violets, the fragrance that I always associated with her, faint and sweet and alluring—so much so, that I drew back from further chance of contact, and kept my eyes directed to the floor.

And, after I had sought vainly for some time, I raised my head and looked at Charmian, to find her regarding me with a very strange expression.

“What is it?” I inquired. “Have you found the needle?” Charmian sat back on her heels, and laughed softly.

“Oh, yes, I’ve found the needle, Peter, that is—I never lost it.”

“Why, then—what—what did you mean—?”

For answer, she raised her hand and pointed to my breast. Then, glancing hurriedly down, I saw that the locket had slipped forward through the bosom of my shirt, and hung in plain view. I made an instinctive movement to hide it, but, hearing her laugh, looked at her instead.

“So this was why you asked me to stoop to find your needle?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Then you—knew?”

“Of course I knew.”

“Hum!” said I. A distant clock chimed eleven, and Charmian began to fold away her work, seeing which, I rose, and took up my candle. “And—pray—”

“Well?”

“And, pray,” said I, staring hard at the flame of my candle, “how did you happen to—find out—?”

“Very simply—I saw the riband round your neck days ago. Good night, Peter!”

“Oh,” said I. “Good night!”

CHAPTER XVII

THE OMEN

“My lady sweet, arise! My lady sweet, arise With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise.”

It was morning, and Charmian was singing. The pure, rich notes floated in at my open lattice, and I heard the clatter of her pail as she went to fetch water from the brook. Wherefore I presently stepped out into the sunshine, my coat and neckcloth across my arm, to plunge my head and face into the brook, and carry back the heavy bucket for her, as was my custom.

Being come to the brook I found the brimming bucket, sure enough, but no Charmian. I was looking about wonderingly, when she began to sing again, and, guided by this, I espied her kneeling beside the stream.

The water ran deep and very still, just here, overhung by ash and alder and willow, whose slender, curving branches formed a leafy bower wherein she half knelt, half sat, bending over to regard herself in the placid water. For a long moment she remained thus, studying her reflection intently in this crystal mirror, and little by little her song died away. Then she put up her hands and began to rearrange her