The Broad Highway - Jeffery Farnol (urban books to read .txt) 📗

in the act of inhaling it, to stare at me very hard. “But,” said he, in a more hopeful tone, “but your face be all bruised an’ swole up, to be sure, Peter.”

“Is it, Ancient?”

“Ah! that it be—that it be,” he cried, his eyes brightening, “an’ your thumb all bandaged tu.”

“Why, so it is, Ancient.”

“An’—Peter—!” The pinch of snuff fell, and made a little brown cloud on the snow of his smock-frock as he rose, trembling, and leaned towards me, across the table.

“Well, Ancient?”

“Your throat—!”

“Yes—what of it?”

“It—be all marked—scratched it be—tore, as if—as if—claws ‘ad been at it, Peter, long—sharp claws!”

“Is it, Ancient?”

“Peter—oh, Peter!” said he, with a sudden quaver in his voice, “who was it—what was it, Peter?” and he laid a beseeching hand upon mine. “Peter!” His voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and the hand plucked tremulously at my sleeve, while in the wrinkled old face was, a, look of pitiful entreaty. “Oh, Peter! oh, lad! ‘twere Old Nick as done it—‘twere the devil as done it, weren’t it—? oh! say ‘twere the devil, Peter.” And, seeing that hoary head all a-twitch with eagerness as he waited my answer, how could I do other than nod?

“Yes, it was the devil, Ancient.” The old man subsided into his chair; embracing himself exultantly.

“I knowed it! I knowed it!” he quavered. “‘Twere the devil flyin’ off wi’ Peter,’ says I, an’ they fules laughed at me, Peter, ay, laughed at me they did, but they won’t laugh at the old man no more—not they; old I be, but they won’t laugh at me no more, not when they see your face an’ I tell ‘em.” Here he paused to fumble for his snuff-box, and, opening it, held it towards me.

“Tak’ a pinch wi’ me, Peter.”

“No, thank you, Ancient.”

“Come, ‘twould be a wonnerful thing to tell as I’d took snuff out o’ my very own box wi’ a man as ‘ad fou’t wi’ the devil —come—tak’ a pinch, Peter,” he pleaded. Whereupon, to please him, I did so, and immediately fell most violently a-sneezing.

“And,” pursued the old man when the paroxysm was over, “did ye see ‘is ‘orns, Peter, an’ ‘is—”

“Why, no, Ancient; you see, he happened to be wearing a bell-crowned hat and a long coat.”

“A ‘at an’ coat!” said the old man in a disappointed tone—“a ‘at, Peter?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“To be sure, the Scripters say as ‘e goeth up an’ down like a ravening lion seekin’ whom ‘e may devour.”

“Yes,” said I, “but more often, I think, like a fine gentleman!”

“I never heerd tell o’ the devil in a bell-crowned ‘at afore, but p’r’aps you ‘m right, Peter—tak’ another pinch o’ snuff.”

“No more,” said I, shaking my head.

“Why, it’s apt to ketch you a bit at first, but, Lord! Peter, for a man as ‘as fou’t wi’ the devil—”

“One pinch is more than enough, Ancient.”

“Oh, Peter, ‘tis a wonnerful thing as you should be alive this day!”

“And yet, Ancient, many a man has fought the devil before now and lived—nay, has been the better for it.”

“Maybe, Peter, maybe, but not on sech a tur’ble wild night as last night was.” Saying which, the old man nodded emphatically and, rising, hobbled to the door; yet there he turned and came back again. “I nigh forgot, Peter, I have noos for ye.”

“News?”

“Noos as ever was—noos as’ll surprise ye, Peter.”

“Well?” I inquired.

“Well, Peter, Black Jarge be ‘took’ again.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Oh! I knowed ‘twould come—I knowed ‘e couldn’t last much longer. I says to Simon, day afore yesterday it were, ‘Simon,’ I says, ‘mark my words, ‘e’ll never last the month out—no.’”

“How did it happen, Ancient?”

“Got tur’ble drunk, ‘e did, over to Cranbrook—throwed Mr. Scrope, the Beadle, over the churchyard wall—knocked down Jeremy Tullinger, the Watchman, an’ then—went to sleep. While ‘e were asleep they managed, cautious-like, to tie ‘is legs an’ arms, an’ locked ‘im up, mighty secure, in the vestry. ‘Ows’ever, when ‘e woke up ‘e broke the door open, an’ walked out, an’ nobody tried to stop ‘im—not a soul, Peter.”

“And when was all this?”

“Why, that’s the very p’int,” chuckled the Ancient, “that’s the wonnerful part of it, Peter. It all ‘appened on Sat’day night, day afore yesterday as ever was—the very same day as I says to Simon, ‘mark my words, ‘e won’t last the month out.’”

“And where is he now?”

“Nobody knows, but theer’s them as says they see ‘im makin’ for Sefton Woods.” Hereupon, breakfast done, I rose, and took my hat.

“Wheer away, Peter?”

“To the forge; there is much work to be done, Ancient.”

“But Jarge bean’t theer to ‘elp ye.”

“Yet the work remains, Ancient.”

“Why then, if you ‘m goin’, I’ll go wi’ ye, Peter.” So we presently set out together.

All about us, as we walked, were mute evidences of the fury of last night’s storm: trees had been uprooted, and great branches torn from others as if by the hands of angry giants; and the brook was a raging torrent. Down here, in the Hollow, the destruction had been less, but in the woods, above, the giants had worked their will, and many an empty gap showed where, erstwhile, had stood a tall and stately tree.

“Trees be very like men,” said the Ancient, nodding to one that lay prone beside the path, “‘ere to-day an’ gone to-morrer, Peter—gone to-morrer. The man in the Bible, ‘im as was cured of ‘is blindness by our blessed Lord, ‘e said as men was like trees walkin’, but, to my mind, Peter, trees is much more like men a-standin’ still. Ye see, Peter, trees be such companionable things; it’s very seldom as you see a tree growin’ all by itself, an’ when you do, if you look at it you can’t ‘elp but notice ‘ow lonely it do look. Ay, its very leaves seem to ‘ave a down-‘earted sort o’ drop. I knowed three on ‘em once—elm-trees they was growin’ all close together, so close that their branches used to touch each other when the wind blew, jest as if they was a-shakin’ ‘ands wi’ one another, Peter. You could see as they was uncommon fond of each other, wi’ half an eye. Well; one day, along comes a storm and blows one on ‘em down—kills it dead, Peter; an’ a little while later, they cuts down another—Lord knows why—an’ theer was the last one, all alone an’ solitary. Now, I used to watch that theer tree—an’ here’s the cur’us thing, Peter—day by day I see that tree a-droopin’ an’ droopin’, a-witherin’ an’ a-pinin’ for them other two—brothers you might say—till one day I come by, an’ theer it were, Peter, a-standin’ up so big an’ tall as ever—but dead! Ay, Peter, dead it were, an’ never put forth another leaf, an’ never will, Peter—never. An’, if you was to ax me, I should say as it died because its ‘eart were broke, Peter. Yes, trees is very like men, an’ the older you grow the more you’ll see it.”

I listened, It was thus we talked, or rather, the Ancient talked and I listened, until we reached Sissinghurst. At the door of the smithy we stopped.

“Peter,” said the old man, staring very hard at a button on my coat.

“Well, Ancient?”

“What about that theer—poor, old, rusty—stapil?”

“Why, it is still above the door, Ancient; you must have seen it this morning.”

“Oh, ah! I seed it, Peter, I seed it,” answered the old man, shifting his gaze to a rolling white cloud above. “I give it a glimp’ over, Peter, but what do ‘ee think of it?”

“Well,” said I, aware of the fixity of his gaze and the wistful note in his voice, “it is certainly older and rustier than it was.”

“Rustier, Peter?”

“Much rustier!” Very slowly a smile dawned on the wrinkled old face, and very slowly the eyes were lowered till they met mine.

“Eh, lad! but I be glad o’ that—we be all growin’ older, Peter, an’—though I be a wonnerful man for my age, an’ so strong as a cart-‘orse, Peter, still, I du sometimes feel like I be growin’ rustier wi’ length o’ days, an’ ‘tis a comfort to know as that theer stapil’s a-growin’ rustier along wi’ me. Old I be, but t’ stapil’s old too, Peter, an’ I be waitin’ for the day when it shall rust itself away altogether; an’ when that day comes, Peter, then I’ll say, like the patriach in the Bible: ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!’ Amen, Peter!”

“Amen!” said I. And so, having watched the old man totter across to “The Bull,” I turned into the smithy and, set about lighting the fire.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH I LEARN OF AN IMPENDING DANGER

I am at the forge, watching the deepening glow of the coals as I ply the bellows; and, listening to their hoarse, not unmusical drone, it seems like a familiar voice (or the voice of a familiar), albeit a somewhat wheezy one, speaking to me in stertorous gasps, something in this wise:

“Charmian Brown—desires to thank—Mr. Smith but because thanks —are so poor and small—and his service so great—needs must she remember him—”

“Remember me!” said I aloud, and, letting go the shaft of the bellows the better to think this over, it naturally followed that the bellows grew suddenly dumb, whereupon I seized the handle and recommenced blowing with a will.

“—remember him as a gentleman,” wheezed the familiar.

“Psha!” I exclaimed.

“—yet oftener as a smith—”

“Hum!” said I.

“—and most of all—as a man.”

“As a man!” said I, and, turning my back upon the bellows, I sat down upon the anvil and, taking my chin in my hand, stared away to where the red roof of old Amos’s oast-house peeped through the swaying green of leaves.

“As a man?” said I to myself again, and so fell a-dreaming of this Charmian. And, in my mind, I saw her, not as she had first appeared, tall and fierce and wild, but as she had been when she stooped to bind up the hurt in my brow—with her deep eyes brimful of tenderness, and her mouth sweet and compassionate. Beautiful eyes she had, though whether they were blue or brown or black, I could not for the life of me remember; only I knew I could never forget the look they had held when she gave that final pat to the bandage. And here I found that I was turning a little locket round and round in my fingers, a little, old-fashioned, heart-shaped locket with its quaint inscription:

“Hee who myne heart would keepe for long Shall be a gentil man and strong.”

I was sitting thus, plunged in a reverie, when a shadow fell across the floor, and looking up I beheld Prudence, and straightway, slipping the locket back into the bosom of my shirt, I rose to my feet, somewhat shamefaced to be caught thus idle.

Her face was troubled, and her eyes red, as from recent tears, while in her hand she held a crumpled paper.

“Mr. Peter—” she began, and then stopped, staring at me.

“Well, Prudence?”

“You—you’ve seen him!”