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

closer to my side and slipped her hand beneath my arm and into my clasp, and the touch of her fingers was like ice.

“Your hand is very cold!” said I. But she only laughed, yet I felt her shiver as she pressed herself close against me.

And now it was she who talked and I who walked in silence, or answered at random, for I was conscious only of the clasp of her fingers and the soft pressure of hip and shoulder.

So we passed through this place of shadows, walking neither fast nor slow, and ever her cold fingers clasped my fingers, and her shoulder pressed my arm while she talked, and laughed, but of what, I know not, until we had left the dark place behind. Then she sighed deeply and turned, and drew her arm from mine, almost sharply, and stood looking back, with her two hands pressed upon her bosom.

“What is it?”

“Look!” she whispered, pointing, “there—where it is darkest —look!” Now, following the direction of her finger, I saw something that skulked amid the shadows something that slunk away, and vanished as I watched.

“A man!” I exclaimed, and would have started in pursuit, but Charmian’s hands were upon my arm, strong and compelling.

“Are you mad?” cried she angrily; “would you give him the opportunity I prevented? He was waiting there to—to shoot you, I think!”

And, after we had gone on some little way, I spoke.

“Was that why you—came to meet me?”

“Yes.”

“And—kept so close beside me.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure!” said I, and walked on in silence; and now I noticed that she kept as far from me as the path would allow.

“Are you thinking me very—unmaidenly again, sir?”

“No,” I answered; “no.”

“You see, I had no other way. Had I told you that there was a man hidden in the hedge you would have gone to look, and then —something dreadful would have happened.”

“How came you to know he was there?”

“Why, after I had prepared supper I climbed that steep path which leads to the road and sat down upon the fallen tree that lies there, to watch for you, and, as I sat there, I saw a man come hurrying down the road.”

“A very big man?”

“Yes, very tall he seemed, and, as I watched, he crept in behind the hedge. While I was wondering at this, I heard your step on the road, and you were whistling.”

“And yet I seldom whistle.”

“It was you—I knew your step.”

“Did you, Charmian?”

“I do wish you would not interrupt, sir.”

“I beg your pardon,” said I humbly.

“And then I saw you coming, and the man saw you too, for he crouched suddenly; I could only see him dimly in the shadow of the hedge, but he looked murderous, and it seemed to me that if you reached his hiding-place before I did—something terrible would happen, and so—”

“You came to meet me.”

“Yes.”

“And walked close beside me, so that you were between me and the shadow in the hedge?”

“Yes.”

“And I thought—” I began, and stopped.

“Well, Peter?” Here she turned, and gave me a swift glance beneath her lashes.

“—that it was because—you were—perhaps—rather glad to see me.” Charmian did not speak; indeed she was so very silent that I would have given much to have seen her face just then, but the light was very dim, as I have said, moreover she had turned her shoulder towards me. “But I am grateful to you,” I went on, “very grateful, and—it was very brave of you!”

“Thank you, sir,” she answered in a very small voice, and I more than suspected that she was laughing at me.

“Not,” I therefore continued, “that there was any real danger.”

“What do you mean?” she asked quickly.

“I mean that, in all probability, the man you saw was Black George, a very good friend of mine, who, though he may imagine he has a grudge against me, is too much of a man to lie in wait to do me hurt.”

“Then why should he hide in the hedge?”

“Because he committed the mistake of throwing the town Beadle over the churchyard wall, and is, consequently, in hiding, for the present.”

“He has an ill-sounding name.”

“And is the manliest, gentlest, truest, and worthiest fellow that ever wore the leather apron.”

Seeing how perseveringly she kept the whole breadth of the path between us, I presently fell back and walked behind her; now her head was bent, and thus I could not but remark the little curls and tendrils of hair upon her neck, whose sole object seemed to be to make the white skin more white by contrast.

“Peter,” said she suddenly, speaking over her shoulder, “of what are you thinking?”

“Of a certain steak pasty that was promised for my supper,” I answered immediately, mendacious.

“Oh!”

“And what,” I inquired, “what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, Peter, that the—shadow in the hedge may not have been Black George, after all.”

CHAPTER XII

WHO COMES?

“This table wobbles!” said Charmian.

“It does,” said I, “but then I notice that the block is misplaced again.”

“Then why use a block?”

“A book is so clumsy—” I began.

“Or a book? Why not cut down the long legs to match the short one?”

“That is really an excellent idea.”

“Then why didn’t you before?”

“Because, to be frank with you, it never occurred to me.”

“I suppose you are better as a blacksmith than a carpenter, aren’t you, Peter?” And, seeing I could find no answer worthy of retort, she laughed, and, sitting down, watched me while I took my saw, forthwith, and shortened the three long legs as she had suggested. Having done which, to our common satisfaction, seeing the moon was rising, we went and sat down on the bench beside the cottage door.

“And—are you a very good blacksmith?” she pursued, turning to regard me, chin in hand.

“I can swing a hammer or shoe a horse with any smith in Kent —except Black George, and he is the best in all the South Country.”

“And is that a very great achievement, Peter?”

“It is not a despicable one.”

“Are you quite satisfied to be able to shoe horses well, sir?”

“It is far better to be a good blacksmith than a bad poet or an incompetent prime minister.”

“Meaning that you would rather succeed in the little thing than fail in the great?”

“With your permission, I will smoke,” said I.

“Surely,” she went on, nodding her permission, “surely it is nobler to be a great failure rather than a mean success?”

“Success is very sweet, Charmian, even in the smallest thing; for instance,” said I, pointing to the cottage door that stood open beside her, “when I built that door, and saw it swing on its hinges, I was as proud of it as though it had been—”

“A really good door,” interpolated Charmian, “instead of a bad one!”

“A bad one, Charmian?”

“It is a very clumsy door, and has neither bolt nor lock.”

“There are no thieves hereabouts, and, even if there were, they would not dare to set foot in the Hollow after dark.”

“And then, unless one close it with great care, it sticks—very tight!”

“That, obviating the necessity of a latch, is rather to be commended,” said I.

“Besides, it is a very ill-fitting door, Peter.”

“I have seen worse.”

“And will be very draughty in cold weather.”

“A blanket hung across will remedy that.”

“Still, it can hardly be called a very good door, can it, Peter?” Here I lighted my pipe without answering. “I suppose you make horseshoes much better than you make doors?” I puffed at my pipe in silence. “You are not angry because I found fault with your door, are you, Peter?”

“Angry?” said I; “not in the least.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“Why sorry?”

“Are you never angry, Peter?”

“Seldom, I hope.”

“I should like to see you so—just once. Finding nothing to say in answer to this, I smoked my negro-head pipe and stared at the moon, which was looking down at us through a maze of tree-trunks and branches.

“Referring to horseshoes,” said Charmian at last, “are you content to be a blacksmith all your days?”

“Yes, I think I am.”

“Were you never ambitious, then?”

“Ambition is like rain, breaking itself upon what it falls on—at least, so Bacon says, and—”

“Oh, bother Bacon! Were you never ambitious, Peter?”

“I was a great dreamer.”

“A dreamer!” she exclaimed with fine scorn; “are dreamers ever ambitious?”

“Indeed, they are the most truly ambitious,” I retorted; “their dreams are so vast, so infinite, so far beyond all puny human strength and capacity that they, perforce, must remain dreamers always. Epictetus himself—”

“I wish,” sighed Charmian, “I do wish—”

“What do you wish?”

“That you were not—”

“That I was not?”

“Such a—pedant!”

“Pedant!” said I, somewhat disconcerted.

“And you have a way of echoing my words that is very irritating.”

“I beg your pardon,” said I, feeling much like a chidden schoolboy; “and I am sorry you should think me a pedant.”

“And you are so dreadfully precise and serious,” she continued.

“Am I, Charmian?”

“And so very solemn and austere, and so ponderous, and egotistical, and calm—yes, you are hatefully calm and placid, aren’t you, Peter?”

And, after I had smoked thoughtfully awhile, I sighed.

“Yes, I fear I may seem so.”

“Oh, I forgive you!”

“Thank you.”

“Though you needn’t be so annoyingly humble about it,” said she, and frowned, and, even while she frowned, laughed and shook her head.

“And pray, why do you laugh?”

“Because—oh, Peter, you are such a—boy!”

“So you told me once before,” said I, biting my pipe-stem viciously.

“Did I, Peter?”

“You also called me a—lamb, I remember—at least, you suggested it.”

“Did I, Peter?” and she began to laugh again, but stopped all at once and rose to her feet.

“Peter!” said she, with a startled note in her voice, “don’t you hear something?”

“Yes,” said I.

“Some one is coming!”

“Yes.”

“And—they are coming this way!”

“Yes.”

“Oh—how can you sit there so quietly? Do you think—“she began, and stopped, staring into the shadows with wide eyes.

“I think,” said I, knocking the ashes from my pipe, and laying it on the bench beside me, “that, all things considered, you were wiser to go into the cottage for a while.”

“No—oh, I couldn’t do that!”

“You would be safer, perhaps.”

“I am not a coward. I shall remain here, of course.”

“But I had rather you went inside.”

“And I much prefer staying where I am.”

“Then I must ask you to go inside, Charmian.”

“No, indeed, my mind is made up.”

“Then I insist, Charmian.”

“Mr. Vibart!” she exclaimed, throwing up her head, “you forget yourself, I think. I permit no one to order my going and coming, and I obey no man’s command.”

“Then—I beg of you.”

“And I refuse, sir—my mind is made up.”

“And mine also!” said I, rising.

“Why, what—what are you