363 
American Agriculturist, November 24,1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
O NCE more I rose, and looking down into the lane, found it deserted. .1 also 
noticed that the casement next to mine had been opened wide, and it was 
from here that the weeping proceeded. 
After some little hesitation, I knocked softly upon the wall, at which the 
weeping was checked abruptly, save for an occasional sob, whereupon I pres¬ 
ently rapped again. At this, after a moment or so, I saw a very small, white 
hand appear at the neighboring window and next moment was looking into a 
lovely, flushed face framed in bright hair, with eyes woefully swelled by tears— 
but a glance showed me that she was young, and of a rare and gentle beauty. 
Before I could speak, she laid her finger upon her lip with a warning gesture. 
“Help me—oh, help me!” she whispered hurriedly; “they have locked me in 
here, and—and—oh, what shall I do?” 
“Locked you in?” I exclaimed. 
“Oh, what shall I do?” she sobbed. “I tell you I am afraid of him—his hate¬ 
ful, wicked eyes!” Here a tremor seemed to shake her. “To-night, when I 
found the key gone from the door, and remembered his look as he bade me 
‘Good night,’ I thought I should have died. I waited here, close beside the 
window—listening, listening. Once I thought I heard a step outside my door, 
and opened the casement to throw myself out; he shall not find me here when 
he comes.” 
“No,” said I, “he shall not find you 
here when he comes.” 
“But the door is locked.” 
“There remains the window.” 
“The window 1” she repeated, tremb¬ 
ling. 
“You would find it easy enough with 
my help.” 
“Quick, then!” she exclaimed. 
“Wait,” said I, and turned back into 
my room. Hereupon, having locked the 
door, I got into my boots, slipped on 
my coat and knapsack, and, last of all, 
threw my blackthorn staff out of the 
window (where I was sure of finding 
it) and climbed out after it. 
The porch I have mentioned, upon 
which I now stood, sloped steeply down 
upon two sides, so that I had no little 
difficulty in maintaining my foothold; 
on the other hand, it was no great dis¬ 
tance from the ground, and I thought 
that it would be easy enough of descent. 
At this moment the lady reappeared 
at the lattice. 
“What is it?” I whispered, struck by 
the terror in her face. 
“Quick!” she cried, forgetting all 
prudence in her fear, “quick—they are 
coming—I hear some one upon the 
stair. Oh, you are too late!” and, sink¬ 
ing upon her knees, she covered her 
face with her hands. Without more ado 
I swung myself up over the sill into 
the room. 
UICK! hide yourself!” I whispered, 
\C£ over my shoulder, and, stepping- 
back from the door to give myself room, 
I clenched my fists. There was a faint 
creak as the key turned, the door was 
opened cautiously, and a man’s dim 
figure loomed upon the threshold. 
He had advanced two or three paces 
on tiptoe before he discovered my pres¬ 
ence, for the room was in shadow, and 
I heard his breath catch, suddenly; 
then, without a word, he sprang at me. 
But as he came, I leapt aside, and my 
fist took him full and squarely beneath 
the ear. He pitched sideways, and, 
falling heavily, lay still. 
As I leaned above him, however, he 
uttered a groaning oath, whereupon I 
dragged him out into the passage, and, 
whipping the key from the lock, trans¬ 
ferred it to the inside and locked the 
door. Waiting for no more, I scrambled 
back through the casement, and reached 
up my hand to the lady. 
“Come,” said I, and (almost as quick¬ 
ly as it takes to set it down here) she 
was beside me upon the roof of the 
porch, clinging to my arm. 
Our farther descent to the ground 
proved much more difficult than I had 
supposed, but, though I could feel her 
trembling, my companion obeyed my 
whispered instructions, so that we 
were soon standing in the lane before 
the house, safe and sound. 
“What is it?” she whispered, seeing 
me searching about in the grass. 
“My staff,” said I, “a faithful friend; 
I would not lose it.” 
“But they will be here in a minute— 
we shall be seen.” 
“I cannot lose my staff,” said I. 
“Oh, hurry! hurry!” she cried, wring¬ 
ing her hands. And, having found my 
staff, we turned our backs upon the 
tavern and began to run up the lane. 
As we went, came the slam of a door 
-behind us—a sudden clamor of voices, 
followed, a moment later, by the sharp 
report of a pistol, and, in that same 
fraction of time, I stumbled over some 
unseen obstacle, and my hat was 
whisked from my head. 
“Are you hurt?” panted my com¬ 
panion. . 
“No,” said I, “but.it was a very ex¬ 
cellent shot nevertheless!” For, as I 
picked up my hat, I saw a small round 
hole that pierced it through and 
through. 
The lane wound away between high 
hedges, which rendered our going very 
dark; but we hurried forward notwith¬ 
standing, urged on by the noise of the 
chase. We had traversed some half 
mile thus,' when my ears warned me 
that our pursuers were gaining upon 
us, and I was inwardly congratulating 
myself that I had stopped to find my 
staff, when I found that my companion 
was no longer at my side. As I paused, 
irresolute, her voice reached me from 
the shadow of the hedge. 
“This way,” she panted. 
“Where?” said I. 
“Here!” and, as she spoke, her hand 
slipped into mine, and so she led me 
through a small gate, into a broad, open 
meadow beyond. But to attempt cross¬ 
ing this would be little short of mad¬ 
ness, for (as I pointed out) we could 
not go a yard without being seen. 
“No, no,” she returned, her breath 
still laboring, “wait—wait till they are 
past.” And so, hand in hand, we stood 
there in the shadow, screened from the 
lane by the hedge, while the rush of our 
pursuers’ feet drew nearer and nearer; 
until we could hear a voice that panted 
out curses upon the dark lane, our¬ 
selves, and everything concerned. Thus 
we remained until voices and footsteps 
had grown faint with distance, but, 
even then, I could feel that she was 
trembling still.'' Suddenly she drew her 
fingers from mine, and covered her face 
with her hands. 
“Oh, that man!” she exclaimed, in 
a whisper, “I did n’t quite realize till 
now—what I have escaped. Oh, that 
beast!” 
“Sir Harry Mortimer?” said I. 
“You know him?” she cried. 
“Heaven forbid!” I answered, “but 
I have seen him once before at ‘The 
Chequers’ inn at Tonbridge, and I 
never forget names or faces—especially 
such as his.” 
“How I hate him!” she whispered. 
“An unpleasant animal, to be sure,” 
said I. “But come, it were wiser to 
get as far from here as possible, they 
will doubtless be returning soon.” 
So we started off again, running in 
the shadow of the hedge. We had 
thus doubled back upon our pursuers, 
and, leaving the tavern upon our left, 
soon gained the kindly shadow of those 
woods through which I had passed in 
the early evening. 
T HE path we followed was very nar¬ 
row, so that sometimes my com¬ 
panion’s knee touched mine, or her long, 
silken hair brushed my brow or cheek, 
as I stooped to lift some trailing branch 
that barred her way, or open a path 
for her through the leaves. 
At last, being come to a broad, grassy 
glade, the lady paused, and, standing 
in the full radiance of the dying moon, 
looked up at me with a smile on her 
red lips. 
“They can never find us now!” she 
said. 
“No, they can never find us now,” 
I repeated. 
“And—oh, sir! L ean never, never 
thank you,” she began. 
“Indeed,” said I, “indeed yoji over¬ 
estimate my service.” 
“You risked your life for me, sir,” 
said she, her eyes glistening, “surely 
my thanks are due to you for that? 
And I do thank you — from my heart!” 
And with a swift, impulsive gesture, 
she stretched out her hands to me. For 
a brief moment I hesitated, then seized 
them; but, even as I stooped to kiss 
them, my hat fell off. 
“Sir Maurice Vibart!” she panted, 
and I saw a hopeless terror in her face. 
“Madam,” said I, “I am not Sir 
Maurice Vibart. It seems my fate to 
be mistaken for him wherever I go. 
My name is Peter, plain and un¬ 
varnished, and I am very humbly your 
servant.” 
“Come,” said I, extending my hand 
to the trembling girl, “let us get out 
of these dismal woods.” For a space 
she hesitated, looking up at me beneath 
her lashes, then reached out, and laid 
her fingers in mine. 
CHAPTER XX 
“journeys end in lovers’ meetings” 
T HE moon was fast sinking below 
the treetops to our left, what time 
we reached a road, that wound away 
up a Mill. Faint and far a church clock 
slowly chimed the hour of three. 
“What chimes are those?” I inquired. 
“Cranbrook Church.” 
“Is it far to Cranbrook?” 
“One mile this way, but two by the 
road yonder.” 
“You seem very well acquainted with 
these parts,” said I. 
“I have lived here all my life; those 
are the Cambourne Woods over there—” 
“Cambourne Woods!” said I. 
“Part of the Sefton estates,” she con¬ 
tinued; “Cambourne village lies to the 
right, beyond.” 
“The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cam¬ 
bourne!” said I thoughtfully. 
“My dearest friend,”, nodded my com¬ 
panion. 
“They say she is very handsome,” 
said I. 
“Then they speak truth, sir.” 
“She has been described to me,” I 
went on, “as a Peach, a Goddess, and a 
Plum; which should you consider the 
most proper term?” My companion 
shot an arch giance at me, and I saw 
a dimple come and go. 
“Goddess, to be sure,” said she; 
“peaches have such rough skins, and 
plums are apt to be sticky.” 
“And goddesses,” I added, “itfere all 
very well upon Olympus, but, in this 
matter-of-fact age, must be sadly out 
of place. Speaking for myself—” 
“Have you ever seen this particular 
Goddess?” inquired my companion. 
“Never.” 
“Then wait until you have, sir.” 
T HE moon was down now, and in the 
East I almost fancied I could detect 
the first faint gleam of day. And after 
we had traversed some distance in 
silence, my companion suddenly spoke. 
“You have never once asked who I 
am,” she said, almost l-eproachfully, 
“nor how I came to be in such a place 
—with such a man.” 
“Why, as to that,” I answered, “I 
make it a general rule to avoid awkward 
subjects when I can, and never to ask 
questions that it will be difficult to 
answer.” 
“I should find not the least difficulty 
in answering either,” said she. 
“Besides,” I continued, “it is no affair 
of mine, after all.” 
“Oh!” said she, turning away from 
me; and then, very slowly: “No, I 
suppose not.” 
“And yet,” I went on, after a lapse 
of silence, “I think I could have an¬ 
swered both questions the moment I 
saw you at your casement.” 
“Oh!” said she — this time in a tone 
of surprise. 
“You are, to the best of my belief, 
the Lady Helen Dunstan.” My com¬ 
panion stood still, and regarded me for 
a mo.ment in wide-eyed astonishment. 
“And how, sir, pray, did you learn 
all this?” she demanded. 
“By the very simple method of add¬ 
ing two and'two together,” I answered; 
“moreover, no longer ago than yester¬ 
day I broke bread with a certain Mr. 
Beverley—” 
I HEARD her breath come in a sudden 
gasp, and next moment she was peer¬ 
ing up into my face while her hands 
beat upon my breast with soft, quick 
little taps. 
“Beverley!” she whispered. “Bever¬ 
ley!—no, no—why, they told me—Sir 
Harry told me that Peregrine lay dying 
—at Tonbridge.” 
“Then Sir Harry Mortimer lied to 
you,” said I, “for yesterday afternoon 
I sat in a ditch eating bread and cheese 
with a Mr. Peregrine Beverley.” 
“Oh!—are you sure—are you sure?” 
“Quite sure. And, as we ate, he told 
me many things, and among them of a 
life of wasted opportunities—of foolish 
riot, and prodigal Extravagance, and of 
its logical consequence—want.” 
“My poor Perry!” she murmured. 
“He spoke also of his love for a very 
beautiful and good woman.” 
“My dear, dear Perry!” said she 
again. “And he is well?” 
“He is,” said I. 
“Thank God!” she whispered. “Tell 
me,” she went on, “is he so very, very 
poor—is he much altered? I have not 
seen him for a whole, long year.” 
“Why, a year is apt to change a 
man,” I answered. “Adversity is a 
hard school, but, sometimes, a very 
good one.” 
“Were he changed, no matter how— 
were he a beggar upon the roads, I 
should love him—always!” said she, 
speaking in that soft, caressing voice 
which only the best of women possess. 
“Yes, I had guessed as much,” said 
I, and found myself sighing. 
u A YEAR is a long, long time, and we 
XjL were to have bepn married this 
month, but my father quarrelled with 
him and forbade him the house, so poor 
Perry went back to London. Then we 
heard he was ruined, and I almost died 
with grief—you see, his very poverty 
only made me love him the more. Yester¬ 
day—that man—” 
“Sir Harry Mortimer?” said I. 
“Yes (he was a friend of whom I 
had often heard Perry speak) ; and he 
told me that my Perry lay at Ton- 
bridge, dying, and begging to see me 
before the end. He offered to escort me 
to him, assuring me that I could reach 
home again long before dusk. My 
father, who would never permit me to 
go, was absent, and so—I ran away. 
Sir Harry had a carriage waiting, but, 
almost as soon as the door was closed 
and we had started, I began to be 
afraid of him and—and—” 
“Sir Harry, as I said before, is an 
■ unpleasant animal,” I nodded. 
“Thank Heaven,” she pursued, “we 
had not gone very far before the chaise 
broke down! And—the rest you know.” 
The footpath we had been following 
now led over a stile into a narrow lane 
or byway. Very soon we came to a 
high stone wall wherein was set a small 
wicket. Through this she led me, and 
we entered a broad park where was an 
avenue of fine old trees, beyond which 
I saw the gables of a house, for the 
stars had long since paled to the dawn, 
and there was a glory in the East. 
As we approached the house, I saw 
that one of the windows still shone 
with a bright light, and it was to¬ 
wards this window that my companion 
led me. Having climbed the terrace 
(Continued on page 366) 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED ON “THE BROAD HIGHWAY” 
A CHANCE acquaintance with whom he shares a frugal meal tells 
Peter Vibart why so many people have seemed to recognize him—he 
startlingly resembles his wicked cousin, Sir Maurice. When Peter tells 
of. a duel he has seen, the friend realizes that he is now Sir Peregrine 
• Beverley and hurries off to his lady love from whom poverty has separated 
him. Peter, after escaping a mysterious attack on his life, gets lodging 
at an Inn and from a restless sleep, wakes to hear a furtive step outside 
and the desolate sound of a woman’s sobbing. 
