The Broad Highway - Jeffery Farnol (urban books to read .txt) đ
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And thus there came into my heart that which had been all unknownâundreamed of hitherto, yet which, once there, could never pass away.
âO Spirits of the Wood, I charge yeâwho is he that counteth True-love sweeter than Lifeâgreater than Wisdomâstronger than Death? O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!â
And the hushed voices chorused softly.
âPeter VibartâPeter Vibart!â And, while I listened, one by one the voices ceased, till there but one remainedâcalling, calling, but ever soft and far away, and when I would have gone toward this voiceâlo! there stood a knife quivering in the ground before me, that grew and grew until its haft touched heaven, yet still the voice called upon my name very softly:
âPeter!âPeter!âoh, Peter, I want you!âoh, Peter wake!â I sat up in bed, and, as I listened, grew suddenly sick, and a fit of trembling shook me violently, for the whisper was still in my ears, and in the whisper was an agony of fear and dread indescribable.
âPeter!âoh, Peter, I am afraid wake!â
A cold sweat broke out upon me and I glared helplessly, towards the door.
âQuick, Peter!âcome to meâoh, God!â
I strove to move, but still I could not. And now, in the darkness, hands were shaking me wildly, and Charmianâs voice was speaking in my ear.
âThe door!â it whispered, âthe door!â
Then I arose, and was in the outer room, with Charmian close beside me in the dark, and my eyes were upon the door. And then I beheld a strange thing, for a thin line of white light traversed the floor from end to end. Now, as I watched this narrow line, I saw that it was gradually widening and widening; very slowly, and with infinite caution, the door was being opened from without. In this remote place, in this still, dead hour of the night, full of the ghostly hush that ever precedes the dawn âthere was something devilishâsomething very like murder in its stealthy motion. I heard Charmianâs breath catch, and, in the dark, her hand came and crept into mine and her fingers were cold as death.
And now a great anger came upon me, and I took a quick step forward, but Charmian restrained me.
âNo, Peter!â she breathed; ânot yetâwait!â and wound her arms round mine.
In a corner near by stood that same trusty staff that had been the companion of my wanderings, and now I reached, and took it up, balancing it in my hand. And all the time I watched that line of light upon the floor widening and widening, growing ever broader and more broad. The minutes dragged slowly by, while the line grew into a streak, and the streak into a lane, and upon the lane came a blot that slowly resolved itself into the shadow of a hand upon the latch. Slowly, slowly, to the hand came a wrist, and to the wrist an armâanother minute, and this maddening suspense would be over. Despite Charmianâs restraining clasp, I crept a long pace nearer the softly moving door.
The sharp angle of the elbow was growing obtuse as the shadowy arm straightened itself. Thirty seconds more! I began to count, and, gripping my staff, braced myself for what might be, when âwith a sudden cry, Charmian sprang forward, and, hurling herself against the door, shut it with a crash.
âQuick, Peter!â she panted. I was beside her almost as she spoke, and had my hand upon the latch.
âI must see who this was,â said I.
âYou are mad!â she cried.
âLet me open the door, Charmian.â
âNo, noâI say no!â
âWhoever it was must not escapeâopen the door!â
âNever! neverâI tell youâdeath is outsideâthereâs murder in the very air; I feel itâandâdear Godâthe door has no bolt.â
âThey are gone nowâwhoever they were,â said I reassuringly; âthe danger is overâif danger it could be called.â
âDanger!â cried Charmian. âI tell youâit was death.â
âYet, after all, it may have been only some homeless wanderer.â
âThen why that deadly, silent caution?â
âTrue!â said I, becoming thoughtful.
âBring the table, Peter, and set it across the door.â
âSurely the table is too light toââ
âBut it will give sufficient warningânot that I shall sleep again to-night. Oh, Peter! had I not been dreaming, and happened to wakeâhad I not chanced to look towards the door, it would have openedâwide, and thenâoh, horrible!â
âYou were dreaming?â
âA hateful, hateful dream, and awoke in terror, and, being afraid, glanced towards the door, and saw it openingâand now âbring the table, Peter.â
Now, groping about, my hand encountered one of the candles, and taking out my tinder-box, all unthinking, I lighted it. Charmian was leaning against the door, clad in a flowing white garmentâa garment that was wonderfully stitchedâall dainty frills and laces, with here and there a bow of blue riband, disposed, it would seem, by the hand of chance, and yet most wonderfully. And up from this foam of laces her shoulders rose, white, and soft, and dimpled, sweeping up in noble lines to the smooth round column of her throat. But as I stared at all this loveliness she gave a sudden gasp, and stooped her head, and crossed her hands upon her bosom, while up over the snow of shoulder, over neck and cheek and brow ebbed that warm, crimson tide; and I could only gaze and gazeâtill, with a movement swift and light, she crossed to that betraying candle and, stooping, blew out the light.
Then I set the table across the door, having done which I stood looking towards where she yet stood.
âCharmian,â said I.
âYes, Peter.â
âTo-morrowââ
âYes, Peter?â
âI will make a bar to hold the door.â
âYes, Peter.â
âTwo bars would be better, perhaps?â
âYes, Peter.â
âYou would feel safe, thenâsafer than ever?â
âSafer than ever, Peter.â
CHAPTER XXII
IN WHICH THE ANCIENT DISCOURSES ON LOVE
I am forging a bar for my cottage door: such a bar as might give check to an army, or resist a battering-ram; a bar that shall defy all the night-prowlers that ever prowled; a stout, solid bar, broad as my wrist, and thick as my two fingers; that, looking upon it as it lies in its sockets across the door, Charmian henceforth may sleep and have no fear.
The Ancient sat perched on his stool in the corner, but for once we spoke little, for I was very busy; also my mind was plunged in a profound reverie.
And of whom should I be thinking but of Charmian, and of the dimple in her shoulder?
ââTis bewitched you be, Peter!â said the old man suddenly, prodding me softly with his stick, âbewitched as ever was,â and he chuckled.
âBewitched!â said I, starting.
âAh!âtheer you stand wiâ your âammer in your âandâa-starinâ anâ a-starinâ at nobody, nor nothinââleastways not as âuman eye can see, anâ a-sighinâ, anâ a-sighinâââ
âDid I indeed sigh, Ancient?â
âAhâthat ye didâlike a cow, Peter, or a âorse âeavy anâ tired like. Anâ slow you be, anâ dreamyâyou as was so bright anâ spry; theerâs someâfools, like Joel Amos, as might think as âtwere the work oâ ghostes, or demons, a-castinâ their spells on ye, or that some vampire âad bit ye in the night, anâ sucked your blood as ye lay asleep, but I know differentâyou âm just bewitched, Peter!â and he chuckled again.
âWho knows?âperhaps I am, but it will pass, whatever it is, it will passââ
âDonât ye be too sure oâ thatâtheerâs bewitchments anâ bewitchments, Peter.â
Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was âin calf,â that the hops seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning with a âtouch oâ the rheumatics,â but, otherwise, he was unusually silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another time would have struck me as portentous.
âYe be palish this marninâ, Peter!â said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his pipe-stem; âshouldnât wonder if you was to tell me as your appetite was bad; come nowâye didnât eat much of a breakfusâ this marninâ, did ye?â
âI donât think I did, Ancient.â
âA course not!â said theâold man, with a nod of profound approvalââ it arenât to be expected. Letâs see, it be all oâ four months since I found ye, beanât it?â
âFour months and a few odd days,â I nodded, and fell to work upon my glowing iron bar:
âYeâll make a tidy smith one oâ these days, Peter,â said the old man encouragingly, as I straightened my back and plunged the iron back into the fire.
âThank you, Ancient.â
âAyâyouâve larned to use a âammer purty well, considerinâ, though you be wastinâ your opportoonities shameful, Peter, shameful.â
âAm I, Ancient?â
âAy, that ye beâmoon canât last much longerâshe be on the wane aâready!â
âMoon?â said I, staring.
âAh, moon!â nodded the old man; âtheerâs nowt like a moon, Peter, anâ if she be at the full so much the better.â
âBut what have the moon and I to do with each other, Ancient?â
âOld I be, Peter, a old, old man, but I were young once, anâ I tell âee the moon âas a lot more to do wiâ it than some folks thinkâwhy, Lord love âee! theer wouldnât be near so many children a-playinâ in the sun if it wasnât for the moon!â
âAncient,â said I, âwhat might you be driving at?â
âLove, Peter!â
âLove!â said I, letting go the handle of the bellows.
âAnâ marriage, Peter.â
âWhat in the worldâputâsuch thoughts into your head?â
âYou did, Peter.â
âI?â
âAh!âsome men is born lovers, Peter, anâ you be one. I never see such eyes as yourn afore, so burninâ âot they be. Ah, Peter! some maid will see the lovelight aflame in âem some day, anâ droop âer âead anâ blush anâ trembleâfor sheâll know, Peter, sheâll know; maids was made to be loved, Peterââ
âBut, Ancient, I am not the kind of man women would be attracted by. I love books and solitude, and am called aâpedant! and, besides, I am not of a loving sortââ
âSome men, Peter, falls in love as easy as they falls out; it comes to some soft anâ quietâlike the dawn of a summerâs day, Peter; but to others it comes like a gert anâ turâble stormâoh, that it do! Theerâs a fire ready to burn up inside oâ ye at the touch oâ some womanâs âand, or the peep oâ
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