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

class="calibre1">“Very little beside her name.”

“Ah! she told you her name, then?”

“Yes, she told me her name.”

“Well, cousin?”

“Well, sir?” We had both risen, and now fronted each other across the anvil, Sir Maurice debonair and smiling, while I stood frowning and gloomy.

“Come,” said I at last, “let us understand each other once for all. You tell me that you have always looked upon me as your rival for our uncle’s good graces—I never was. You have deceived yourself into believing that because I was his ward that alone augmented my chances of becoming the heir; it never did. He saw me as seldom as possible, and, if he ever troubled his head about either of us, it would seem that he favored you. I tell you I never was your rival in the past, and never shall be in the future.”

“Meaning, cousin?”

“Meaning, sir, in regard to either the legacy or the Lady Sophia Sefton. I was never fond enough of money, to marry for it. I have never seen this lady, nor do I propose to, thus, so far as I am concerned, you are free to win her and the fortune as soon as you will; I, as you see, prefer horseshoes.”

“And what,” said Sir Maurice, flicking a speck of soot from his cuff, and immediately looking at me again, “what of Charmian?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “nor should I be likely to tell you, if I did; wherever she may be she is safe, I trust, and beyond your reach—”

“No,” he broke in, “she will never be beyond my reach until she is dead—or I am—perhaps not even then, and I shall find her again, sooner or later, depend upon it—yes, you may depend upon that!”

“Cousin Maurice,” said I, reaching out my hand to him, “wherever she may be, she is alone and unprotected—pursue her no farther. Go back to London, marry your Lady Sefton, inherit your fortune, but leave Charmian Brown in peace.”

“And pray,” said he, frowning suddenly, “whence this solicitude de on her behalf? What is she to you—this Charmian Brown?”

“Nothing,” I answered hurriedly, “nothing at all, God knows—nor ever can be—” Sir Maurice leaned suddenly forward, and, catching me by the shoulder, peered into my face.

“By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “the fellow—actually loves her!”

“Well?” said I, meeting his look, “why not? Yes, I love her.” A very fury of rage seemed suddenly to possess him, the languid, smiling gentleman became a devil with vicious eyes and evil, snarling mouth, whose fingers sank into my flesh as he swung me back and forth in a powerful grip.

“You love her?—you?—you?” he panted.

“Yes,” I answered, flinging him off so that he staggered; “yes —yes! I—who fought for her once, and am willing—most willing, to do so again, now or at any other time, for, though I hold no hope of winning her—ever—yet I can serve her still, and protect her from the pollution of your presence,” and I clenched my fists.

He stood poised as though about to spring at me, and I saw his knuckles gleam whiter than the laces above them, but, all at once, he laughed lightly, easily as ever.

“A very perfect, gentle knight!” he murmured, “sans peur et sans reproche—though somewhat grimy and in a leather apron. Chivalry kneeling amid hammers and horseshoes, worshiping Her with a reverence distant and lowly! How like you, worthy cousin, how very like yon, and how affecting! But”—and here his nostrils quivered again—” but I tell you—she is mine—mine, and always has been, and no man living shall come between us—no, by God!”

“That,” said I, “that remains to be seen!”

“Ha?”

“Though, indeed, I think she is safe from you while I live.”

“But then, Cousin Peter, life is a very uncertain thing at best,” he returned, glancing at me beneath his drooping lids.

“Yes,” I nodded, “it is sometimes a blessing to remember that.”

Sir Maurice strolled to the door, and, being there, paused, and looked back over his shoulder.

“I go to find Charmian,” said he, “and I shall find her—sooner or later, and, when I do, should you take it upon yourself to —come between us again, or presume to interfere again, I shall —kill you, worthy cousin, without the least compunction. If you think this sufficient warning—act upon it, if not—” He shrugged his shoulders significantly. “Farewell, good and worthy Cousin Peter, farewell!—or shall we say—‘au revoir’?”

CHAPTER XXXIX

HOW I WENT DOWN INTO THE SHADOWS

“Peter,” said George, one evening, turning to me with the troubled look I had seen so often on his face of late, “what be wrong wi’ you, my chap? You be growing paler everyday. Oh, Peter! you be like a man as is dyin’ by inches—if ‘tis any o’ my doin’—”

“Nonsense, George!” I broke in with sudden asperity, “I am well enough!”

“Yet I’ve seen your ‘ands fall a-trembling sometimes, Peter—all at once. An’ you missed your stroke yesterday—come square down on th’ anvil—you can’t ha’ forgot?”

“I remember,” I muttered; “I remember.”

“An’ twice again to-day. An’ you be silent, Peter, an’ don’t seem to ‘ear when spoke to, an’ short in your temper—oh, you bean’t the man you was. I’ve see it a-comin’ on you more an’ more. Oh, man, Peter!” he cried, turning his back upon me suddenly, “you as I’d let walk over me—you as I’d be cut in pieces for—if it be me as done it—”

“No, no, George—it wasn’t you—of course not. If I am a little strange it is probably due to lack of sleep, nothing more.”

“Ye see, Peter, I tried so ‘ard to kill ‘ee, an’ you said yourself as I come nigh doin’ it—”

“But then, you didn’t quite manage it,” I cried harshly—“would to God you had; as it is, I am alive, and there’s an end of it.”

“‘Twere a woundy blow I give ‘ee—that last one! I’ll never forget the look o’ your face as you went down. Oh, Peter! you’ve never been the same since—it be all my doin’—I know it, I know it,” and, sinking upon the Ancient’s stool in the corner, Black George covered his face.

“Never think of it, George,” I said, laying my arm across his heaving shoulders; “that is all over and done with, dear fellow, and I would not have it otherwise, since it gained me your friendship. I am all right, well and strong; it is only sleep that I need, George, only sleep.”

Upon the still evening air rose the sharp tap, tap of the Ancient’s stick, whereat up started the smith, and, coming to the forge, began raking out the fire with great dust and clatter, as the old man hobbled up, saluting us cheerily as he came.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, pausing in the doorway to lean upon his stick and glance from one to the other of us with his quick, bright eyes. “Lord! theer bean’t two other such fine, up-standin’, likely-lookin’ chaps in all the South Country as you two chaps be—no, nor such smiths! it du warm my old ‘eart to look at ‘ee. Puts me in mind o’ what I were myself—ages an’ ages ago. I weren’t quite so tall as Jarge, p’r’aps, by about—say ‘alf-a-inch, but then, I were wider—wider, ah! a sight wider in the shoulder, an’ so strong as—four bulls! an’ wi’ eyes big an’ sharp an’ piercin’—like Peter’s, only Peter’s bean’t quite so sharp, no, nor yet so piercin’—an’ that minds me as I’ve got noos for ‘ee, Peter.”

“What news?” said I, turning.

“S’prisin’ noos it be—ah! an’ ‘stonishin’ tu. But first of all, Peter, I wants to ax ‘ee a question.”

“What is it, Ancient?”

“Why, it be this, Peter,” said the old man, hobbling nearer, and peering up into my face, “ever since the time as I went an’ found ye, I’ve thought as theer was summ’at strange about ‘ee, what wi’ your soft voice an’ gentle ways; an’ it came on me all at once —about three o’ the clock’s arternoon, as you might be a dook —in disguise, Peter. Come now, be ye a dook or bean’t ye—yes or ne, Peter?” and he fixed me with his eye.

“No, Ancient,” I answered, smiling; “I’m no duke.”

“Ah well!—a earl, then?”

“Nor an earl.”

“A barrynet, p’r’aps?”

“Not even a baronet.”

“Ah!” said the old man, eyeing me doubtfully, “I’ve often thought as you might be one or t’ other of ‘em ‘specially since ‘bout three o’ the clock ‘s arternoon.”

“Why so?”

“Why, that’s the p’int—that’s the very noos as I’ve got to tell ‘ee,” chuckled the Ancient, as he seated himself in the corner. “You must know, then,” he began, with an impressive rap on the lid of his snuffbox, “‘bout three o’clock ‘s arternoon I were sittin’ on the stile by Simon’s five-acre field when along the road comes a lady, ‘an’some an’ proud-looking, an’ as fine as fine could be, a-ridin’ of a ‘orse, an’ wi’ a servant ridin’ another ‘orse be’ind ‘er. As she comes up she gives me a look out o’ ‘er eyes, soft they was, an’ dark, an’ up I gets to touch my ‘at. All at once she smiles at me, an’ ‘er smile were as sweet an’ gentle as ‘er eyes; an’ she pulls up ‘er ‘orse. ‘W’y, you must be the Ancient!’ says she. ‘W’y, so Peter calls me, my leddy,’ says I. ‘An’ ‘ow is Peter?’ she says, quick-like; ‘‘ow is Peter?’ says she. ‘Fine an’ ‘earty,’ says I; ‘eats well an’ sleeps sound,’ says I; ‘‘is arms is strong an’ ‘is legs is strong, an’ ‘e aren’t afeared o’ nobody—like a young lion be Peter,’ says I. Now, while I’m a-sayin’ this, she looks at me, soft an’ thoughtful-like, an’ takes out a little book an’ begins to write in it, a-wrinklin’ ‘er pretty black brows over it an’ a-shakin’ ‘er ‘ead to ‘erself. An’ presently she tears out what she’s been a-writin’ an’ gives it to me. ‘Will you give this to Peter for me?’ says she. ‘That I will, my leddy!’ says I. ‘Thank ‘ee!’ says she, smilin’ again, an’ ‘oldin’ out ‘er w’ite ‘an’ to me, which I kisses. ‘Indeed!’ says she,’ I understand now why Peter is so fond of you. I think I could be very fond of ‘ee tu!’ says she. An’ so she turns ‘er ‘orse, an’ the servant ‘e turns ‘is an’ off they go; an’ ‘ere, Peter—‘ere be the letter.” Saying which, the Ancient took a slip of paper from the cavernous interior of his hat and tendered it to me.

With my head in a whirl, I crossed to the door, and leaned there awhile, staring sightlessly out into the summer evening; for it seemed that in this little slip of paper lay that which meant life or death to me; so, for a long minute I leaned there, fearing to learn my fate. Then I opened the little folded square of paper, and, holding it before my eyes, read:

“Charmian Brown presents” (This scratched out.) “While you busied yourself forging horseshoes your cousin, Sir Maurice, sought and found me. I do not love him, but— CHARMIAN.

“Farewell” (This also scored out.)

Again I stared before me with unseeing eyes, but my hands no longer trembled, nor did I fear