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

“Well, ‘e won’t never do it no more,” said Job, glowering; “what wi’ poachin’ ‘is game, an’ knockin’ ‘is keepers about, ‘t aren’t likely as Squire Beverley’ll let ‘im off very easy—”

“Who?” said I, looking up, and speaking for the first time.

“Squire Beverley o’ Burn’am ‘All.”

“Sir Peregrine Beverley?”

“Ay, for sure.”

“And how far is it to Burnham Hall?”

“‘Ow fur?” repeated Job, staring; “why, it lays ‘t other side o’ Horsmonden—”

“It be a matter o’ eight mile, Peter,” said the Ancient. “Nine, Peter!” cried old Amos—“nine mile, it be!”

“Though I won’t swear, Peter,” continued the Ancient, “I won’t swear as it aren’t—seven—call it six an’ three quarters!” said he, with his eagle eye on Old Amos.

“Then I had better start now,” said I, and rose.

“Why, Peter—wheer be goin’?”

“To Burnham Hall, Ancient.”

“What—you?” exclaimed Job; “d’ye think Squire’ll see you?”

“I think so; yes.”

“Well, ‘e won’t—they’ll never let the likes o’ you or me beyond the gates.”

“That remains to be seen,” said I.

“So you ‘m goin’, are ye?”

“I certainly am.”

“All right!” nodded Job, “if they sets the dogs on ye, or chucks you into the road—don’t go blamin’ it on to me, that’s all!”

“What—be ye really a-goin’, Peter?”

“I really am, Ancient.”

“Then—by the Lord!—I’ll go wi’ ye.”

“It’s a long walk!”

“Nay—Simon shall drive us in the cart.”

“That I will!” nodded the Innkeeper.

“Ay, lad,” cried the Ancient, laying his hand upon my arm, “we’ll up an’ see Squire, you an’ me—shall us, Peter? There be some fules,” said he, looking round upon the staring company, “some fules as talks o’ Bot’ny Bay, an’ irons, an’ whippin’posts-all I says is—let ‘em, Peter, let ‘em! You an’ me’ll up an’ see Squire, Peter, sha’n’t us? Black Jarge aren’t a convic’ yet, let fules say what they will; we’ll show ‘em, Peter, we’ll show ‘em!” So saying, the old man led me into the kitchen of “The Bull,” while Simon went to have the horses put to.

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH THE ANCIENT IS SURPRISED

A cheery place, at all times, is the kitchen of an English inn, a comfortable place to eat in, to talk in, or to doze in; a place with which your parlors and withdrawing-rooms, your salons (a la the three Louis) with their irritating rococo, their gilt and satin, and spindle-legged discomforts, are not (to my mind) worthy to compare.

And what inn kitchen, in all broad England, was ever brighter, neater, and more comfortable than this kitchen of “The Bull,” where sweet Prue held supreme sway, with such grave dignity, and with her two white-capped maids to do her bidding and behests? —surely none. And surely in no inn, tavern, or hostelry soever, great or small, was there ever seen a daintier, prettier, sweeter hostess than this same Prue of ours.

And her presence was reflected everywhere, and, if ever the kitchen of an inn possessed a heart to lose, then, beyond all doubt, this kitchen had lost its heart to Prue long since; even the battered cutlasses crossed upon the wall, the ponderous jack above the hearth, with its legend: ANNO DOMINI 1643, took on a brighter sheen to greet her when she came, and as for the pots and pans, they fairly twinkled.

But today Prue’s eyes were red, and her lips were all a-droop, the which, though her smile was brave and ready, the Ancient was quick to notice.

“Why, Prue, lass, you’ve been weepin’!”

“Yes, grandfer.”

“Your pretty eyes be all swole—red they be; what’s the trouble?”

“Oh! ‘tis nothing, dear, ‘tis just a maid’s fulishness—never mind me, dear.”

“Ah! but I love ‘ee, Prue—come, kiss me—theer now, tell me all about it—all about it, Prue.”

“Oh, grandfer!” said she, from the hollow of his shoulder, “‘tis just—Jarge!” The old man grew very still, his mouth opened slowly, and closed with a snap.

“Did ‘ee—did’ee say—Jarge, Prue? Is it—breekin’ your ‘eart ye be for that theer poachin’ Black Jarge? To think—as my Prue should come down to a poacbin’—”

Prudence slipped from his encircling arm and stood up very straight and proud—there were tears thick upon her lashes, but she did not attempt to wipe them away.

“Grandfer,” she said very gently, “you mustn’t speak of Jarge to me like that—ye mustn’t—ye mustn’t because I—love him, and if —he ever—comes back I’ll marry him if—if he will only ax me; and if he—never comes back, then—I think—I shall—die!” The Ancient took out his snuff-box, knocked it, opened it, glanced inside, and—shut it up again.

“Did ‘ee tell me as you—love—Black Jarge, Prue?”

“Yes, grandfer, I always have and always shall!”

“Loves Black Jarge!” he repeated; “allus ‘as—allus will! Oh, Lord! what ‘ave I done?” Now, very slowly, a tear crept down his wrinkled cheek, at sight of which Prue gave a little cry, and, kneeling beside his chair, took him in her arms. “Oh, my lass! —my little Prue—‘tis all my doin’. I thought—Oh, Prue, ‘twere me as parted you! I thought—” The quivering voice broke off.

“‘Tis all right, grandfer, never think of it—see there, I be smilin’!” and she kissed him many times.

“A danged fule I be!” said the old man, shaking his head.

“No, no, grandfer!”

“That’s what I be, Prue—a danged fule! If I do go afore that theer old, rusty stapil, ‘twill serve me right—a danged fule I be! Allus loved ‘im—allus will, an’ wishful to wed wi’ ‘im! Why, then,” said the Ancient, swallowing two or three times, “so ‘ee shall, my sweet—so ‘ee shall, sure as sure, so come an’ kiss me, an’ forgive the old man as loves ‘ee so.”

“What do ‘ee mean, grandfer?” said Prue between two kisses.

“A fine, strappin’ chap be Jarge; arter all, Peter, you bean’t a patch on Jarge for looks, be you?”

“No, indeed, Ancient!”

“Wishful to wed ‘im, she is, an’ so she shall. Lordy Lord! Kiss me again, Prue, for I be goin’ to see Squire—ay, I be goin’ to up an’ speak wi’ Squire for Jarge an’ Peter be comin’ too.”

“Oh, Mr. Peter!” faltered Prudence, “be this true?” and in her eyes was the light of a sudden hope.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“D’you think Squire’ll see you—listen to you?” she cried breathlessly.

“I think he will, Prudence,” said I.

“God bless you, Mr. Peter!” she murmured. “God bless you!”

But now came the sound of wheels and the voice of Simon, calling, wherefore I took my hat and followed the Ancient to the door, but there Prudence stopped me.

“Last time you met wi’ Jarge he tried to kill you. Oh, I know, and now—you be goin’ to—”

“Nonsense, Prue!” said I. But, as I spoke, she stooped and would have kissed my hand, but I raised her and kissed her upon the cheek, instead. “For good luck, Prue,” said I, and so turned and left her.

In the porch sat Job, with Old Amos and the rest, still in solemn conclave over pipes and ale, who watched with gloomy brows as I swung myself up beside the Ancient in the cart.

“A fule’s journey!” remarked Old Amos sententiously, with a wave of his pipe; “a fule’s journey!”

The Ancient cast an observing eye up at the cloudless sky, and also nodded solemnly.

“Theer be some fules in this world, Peter, as mixes up rabbits wi’ pa’tridges, and honest men—like Jarge—wi’ thieves, an’ lazy waggabones—like Job—but we’ll show ‘em, Peter, we’ll show ‘em —dang ‘em! Drive on, Simon, my bye!”

So, with this Parthian shot, feathered with the one strong word the Ancient kept for such occasions, we drove away from the silenced group, who stared mutely after us until we were lost to view. But the last thing I saw was the light in Prue’s sweet eyes as she watched us from the open lattice.

CHAPTER XXXII

HOW WE SET OUT FOR BURNHAM HALL

“Peter,” said the Ancient, after we had gone a little way, “Peter, I do ‘opes as you aren’t been an’ gone an’ rose my Prue’s ‘opes only to dash ‘em down again.”

“I can but do my best, Ancient.”

“Old Un,” said Simon, “‘tweren’t Peter as rose ‘er ‘opes, ‘twere you; Peter never said nowt about bringin’ Jarge ‘ome—”

“Simon,” commanded the Ancient, “hold thy tongue, lad; I says again, if Peter’s been an’ rose Prue’s ‘opes only to dash ‘em ‘t will be a bad day for Prue, you mark my words; Prue’s a lass as don’t love easy, an’ don’t forget easy.”

“Why, true, Gaffer, true, God bless ‘er!”

“She be one as ‘ud pine—slow an’ quiet, like a flower in the woods, or a leaf in autumn—ah! fade, she would, fade an’ fade!”

“Well, she bean’t a-goin’ to do no fadin’, please the Lord!”

“Not if me an’ Peter an’ you can ‘elp it, Simon, my bye—but we ‘m but poor worms, arter all, as the Bible says; an’ if Peter ‘as been an’ rose ‘er ‘opes o’ freein’ Jarge, an’ don’t free Jarge —if Jarge should ‘ave to go a convic’ to Austrayley, or—or t’ other place, why then—she’ll fade, fade as ever was, an’ be laid in the churchyard afore ‘er poor old grandfeyther!”

“Lord, Old Un!” exclaimed Simon, “who’s a-talkin’ o’ fadin’s an’ churchyards? I don’t like it—let’s talk o’ summ’at else.”

“Simon,” said the Ancient, shaking his head reprovingly, “ye be a good bye—ah! a steady, dootiful lad ye be, I don’t deny it; but the Lord aren’t give you no imagination, which, arter all, you should be main thankful for; a imagination’s a troublesome thing —aren’t it, Peter?”

“It is,” said I, “a damnable thing!”

“Ay—many’s the man as ‘as been ruinated by ‘is imagination —theer was one, Nicodemus Blyte were ‘is name—”

“And a very miserable cove ‘e sounds, too!” added Simon.

“But a very decent, civil-spoke, quiet young chap ‘e were!” continued the Ancient, “only for ‘is imagination; Lord! ‘e were that full o’ imagination ‘e couldn’t drink ‘is ale like an ordinary chap—sip, ‘e’d go, an’ sip, sip, till ‘twere all gone, an’ then ‘e’d forget as ever ‘e’d ‘ad any, an’ go away wi’out paying for it—if some ‘un didn’t remind ‘im—”

“‘E were no fule, Old Un!” nodded Simon.

“An’ that weren’t all, neither, not by no manner o’ means,” the Ancient continued. “I’ve knowed that theer chap sit an’ listen to a pretty lass by the hour together an’ never say a word—not one!”

“Didn’t git a chance to, p’r’aps?” said Simon.

“It weren’t that, no, it were jest ‘is imagination a-workin’ an’ workin’ inside of ‘im, an’ fillin’ ‘im up. ‘Ows’ever, at last, one day, ‘e up an’ axed ‘er to marry ‘im, an’ she, bein’ all took by surprise, said ‘yes,’ an’ went an’ married some’un else.”

“Lord!” said Simon, “what did she go and marry another chap for?”

“Simon,” returned the Ancient, “don’t go askin’ fulish questions. ‘Ows’ever, she did, an’ poor Nicodemus growed more imaginative than ever; arter that, ‘e took to turnips.”

“Turnips?” exclaimed Simon, staring.

“Turnips as ever was!” nodded the Ancient, “used to stand, for hours at a time, a-lookin’ at ‘is turnips an’ shakin’ ‘is ‘ead over ‘em.”

“But—what for?—a man must be a danged fule to go shakin’ of ‘is ‘ead over a lot o’ turnips!”

“Well, I don’t know,” rejoined the Ancient; “‘is turnips was very good