86 
American Agriculturist, January 26, 1924 
The Broad High way-sy/efferj 
“ "XT'OU do not fear me any longer?” 
* ‘‘No, a woman knows instinc¬ 
tively whom she must fear and whom 
not to fear.” 
“Well?” 
“And you are one I do not fear, and, I 
think, never should.” 
“And yet, I am very like—him—you 
said so yourself!” 
“Him!” she exclaimed, starting. “I 
had forgotten. Where is he—what has 
become of him?” and she glanced appre¬ 
hensively towards the door. 
“Half way to Tonbridge—-or should be 
by now.” 
“Tonbridge!”* said she, in a tone of 
amazement, and turned to look at me 
again. “But he is not the man to—to 
run away.” 
“No, indeed!” said I, shaking my head, 
“he certainly did not run away, but cir¬ 
cumstances—and a stone, were too much 
even for him.” 
“A stone?” 
“Upon which he happened to fall, and 
strike his head—very fortunately for me.” 
“Was he much hurt?” 
“Stunned only,” I answered. 
She was still kneeling beside my chair, 
but now she sat back, and turned to 
stare into the fire. And, as she sat, I 
noticed how full and round and white her 
arms were, and that the hand, which yet 
held the sponge, was likewise very white, 
neither big nor little, but with long, 
slender fingers. Presently, with a sudden 
gesture, she raised her head and looked 
at me again—a long, searching look. 
“Who are you?” she asked suddenly. 
“My name,” said I, “is Peter.” 
“Yes,” she nodded, with her eyes still 
on mine. 
P ETER—Smith,” I went on, “and, 
by that same token, I am a black¬ 
smith—at your service.” 
“Peter—Smith!” she repeated, as 
though trying the sound of it, hesitating 
at the surname exactly as I had done. 
“Peter—Smith! and mine is Charmian, 
Charmian—Brown.” And here again 
was a pause between the two names. 
“Yours is a very beautiful name,” said 
I, “especially the Charmian!” 
“And yours,” she retorted, “is a beau- 
tifullv—ugly one!” 
“Yes?” 
“Especially the—Peter!” 
“Indeed, I quite agree with you,” said 
I, rising, “and now, if I may trouble you 
for the towel—thank you!” Forthwith 
I began to dry my face as well as I might 
on account of my injured thumb, while 
she watched me with a certain elusive 
merriment peeping from her eyes, and 
quivering at me round her lips, an ex¬ 
pression half mocking, half amused. 
Wherefore, I fell to towelling myself 
vigorously, so much so, that, forgetting 
the cut in my brow, I set it bleeding 
faster than ever. 
“Oh, you are very clumsy!” she cried, 
springing up and, snatching the towel 
from me, she began to stanch the blood 
with it. “If you will sit down, I will bind 
it up for you.” 
“Really, it is quite unnecessary,” I 
demurred. 
Q UITE! ” said she; “ is there anything 
will serve as a bandage?” 
“There is the towel!” I suggested. 
“Not to be thought of!” 
“Then you might tear a strip off the 
sheet,” said I, nodding towards the bed. 
“Ridiculous!” said she, and proceeded 
to draw a handkerchief from the bosom of 
her dress, and having folded it with great 
nicety and moistened it in the bowl, she 
tied it about my temples. 
Now, to do this, she had, perforce, to 
pass her arms about my neck, and this 
brought her so near that I could feel her 
breath upon my lips, and there stole to me 
a perfume very sweet, that was like the 
fragrance of violets at evening. But 
quicker than it takes to write, the bandage 
was tied, and she was standing before me, 
straight and tall. 
“There—that is more comfortable, 
isn’t it?” she inquired, and with the words 
she bestowed a final little pat to the ban¬ 
dage, a touch so light — so ineffably 
gentle—that it might almost have been 
the hand of that long-dead mother whom 
I had never known. 
“Thank you—yes, very comfortable!” 
said I. But, as the words left me, my 
glance, by accident, encountered the 
pistol, near by, and a sudden anger came 
upon me, for I remembered that, but for 
my intervention, this girl was a murder¬ 
ess; wherefore, I reached for it im¬ 
pulsively, but she was before me, and 
snatching up the weapon, hid it behind 
her. 
“Give it to me,” said I, frowning, “it 
is an accursed thing!” 
“Yet it has been my friend to-night,” 
she answered. 
“IVE it to me!” I repeated. She 
'J' regarded me with a disdainful air. 
“Come,” said I, and held out my hand. 
So, for a while, we looked into each other’s 
eyes; then, all at once, she dropped the 
weapon on the table before me and turned 
her back to me. 
“I think, ’’she began, speaking with her 
back still turned,“—that you have-” 
“Yes?” said I. 
“—very unpleasant—eyes!” 
“I am very sorry for that,” said I, 
dropping the weapon behind my row of 
books, having done which, I drew both 
chairs nearer the fire, and invited her to 
sit down. 
“Thank you, I prefer to stand,” said 
she loftily. 
“As you will,” I answered; but, even 
while I spoke, she sank into the nearest 
chair, and, chin in hand, stared into the 
fire. 
“And so,” said she, as I sat down oppo¬ 
site her, “and so your name is Peter 
Smith, and you are a blacksmith? ” 
“Yes, a blacksmith.” 
“And do you live here alone?” 
“Yes.” 
“And is this cottage yours?” 
“Yes—that is, it stands on the Sefton 
estates, I believe, but nobody hereabout 
would seem anxious to dispute my right 
of occupying the place, because it is 
generallv supposed to be haunted.” 
“Oh!” 
“ TT was built by some wanderer of the 
roads,” I explained; “a stranger to 
these parts, who lived alone here, and 
eventually died alone here.” 
“Died "here?” 
“Hanged himself on the staple above 
the door, yonder.” 
“Oh!” said she again, and cast a fearful 
glance towards the deep-driven, rusty 
staple. 
“The country folk believe his spirit still 
haunts the place,” I went on. 
“It must be verv lonely here.” 
“Delightfully so.” 
“And what did you do with the— 
pistol?” 
“I dropped it out of sight behind my 
books yonder.” 
“I wonder why I gave it to you.” 
“Because, if you remember, I asked 
you for it.” 
“But I usually dislike doing what I am 
asked, and your manner was—scarcely 
courteous.” 
“You also objected to my eyes, I 
think?” 
“Yes,” she nodded. 
“Hum!” said I. 
The dark night, outside, was filled with 
malignant demons now, who screamed 
furiously round the cottage; but here, in 
the warm firelight, I heeded them not at 
all, watching, rather, this woman, where 
she sat, gazing deep into the glow. And 
where the light touched her hair it woke 
strange fires, red and bronze. And it was 
very rebellious hair, with little tendrils 
that gleamed against her temples, and 
small, defiant curls that seemed to strive 
to hide behind her ear, or to kiss her 
snowy neck. 
AS to her dress, I, little by little, became 
aware of two facts, for whereas her 
gown was of a rough, coarse material, the 
stockinged foot that peeped at me beneath 
its hem (her shoes were drying on the 
hearth) was clad in a silk so fine that I 
could catch, through it, the gleam of the 
white flesh beneath. From this apparent 
inconsistency I deduced that she was of 
educated tastes, but poor—probably 
a governess, or, more likely still, taking 
her hands into consideration, a teacher of 
music, and was going on to explain to 
myself her present situation as the out¬ 
come of Beauty, Poverty, and the Devil, 
when she sighed, shivered slightly, and 
reaching her shoes from the hearth pre¬ 
pared to slip them on. 
“They are still very wet!” said I 
deprecatingly. 
“Yes,” she answered. 
“And it rains very hard!” said I. 
“Yes,” and she shivered again. 
“Indeed, it would be madness for the 
strongest to stir abroad on such a night.” 
Charmian stared into the fire. 
“What with the wind and the rain the 
roads would be utterly impassable, not to 
mention the risks of falling trees or shat¬ 
tered boughs.” 
Charmian shivered again. 
“And the inns are all shut, long ago; to 
stir out, therefore, would be the purest 
folly” 
Charmian stared into the fire. 
“On the other hand, here are a warm 
room, a good fire, and a very excellent 
bed.” 
She neither spoke nor moved, only her 
eyes were raised suddenly and swiftly to 
mine. 
“ ALSO,” I continued, returning her look, 
4* “here, most convenient to your 
hand, is a fine sharp knife, in case you are 
afraid of the ghost or any other midnight 
visitant—and so—good night, madam!” 
Saying which, I took up one of the can¬ 
dles and crossed to the door of that room 
which had once been Donald’s. I bowed 
somewhat stiffly on account of my 
bruises, and, going into my chamber, 
closed the door behind me. 
I undressed slowly, for my thumb 
was very painful; also I paused fre¬ 
quently to catch the sound of the light, 
quick footstep beyond the door, and the 
whisper of her garments as she walked. 
“Charmian!” said I to myself when at 
length all was still, “Charmian!” And 
I blew out my candle. 
Outside, the world was filled with 
woeful lamentation. But, as I lay in the 
dark, there came to me a faint perfume as 
of violets at evening-time, elusive and 
very sweet, breathing of Charmian her¬ 
self; and putting up my hand, I touched 
the handkerchief that bound my brow. 
“Charmian!” said I to myself again, 
and so fell asleep. 
CHAPTER V 
IN WHICH I HEAR ILL NEWS OF GEORGE 
T HE sun was pouring in at my lattice 
when I awoke next morning to a gen¬ 
eral soreness of body that at first puzzled 
me. But as I lay in that delicious state 
between sleeping and waking, I became 
aware of a faint, sweet perfume; and, 
turning my head, espied a handkerchief 
upon the pillow beside me. And immedi¬ 
ately I came to my elbow, with my eyes 
directed to the door, for now indeed I 
remembered all, and beyond that door, 
sleeping or waking, lay a woman. 
In the early morning things are apt to 
lose something of the glamour that was 
theirs over night; thus I remained 
propped upon my elbow, with my ears on 
the stretch, hearkening for any move¬ 
ment from the room beyond that should 
tell me she was up. But I heard only the 
early chorus of the birds and the gurgle of 
the brook, swollen with last night’s rain. 
In a while I rose and began to dress some¬ 
what awkwardly, on account of my 
thumb, yet with rather more than my 
usual care, stopping occasionally to hear 
if she were yet astir. Being at last fully 
dressed, I sat down to wait until I should 
hear her footstep. But I listened vainly, 
for minute after minute elapsed until, 
rising at length, I knocked softly. And 
having knocked thrice, each time louder 
than before, without effect, I lifted the 
latch and opened the door. 
My first glance showed me that the bed 
had never even been slept in, and that 
save for myself the place was emptyc And 
yet the breakfast-table had been neatly 
set, though with but one cup and saucer. 
Now, beside this cup and saucer was 
one of my few books, and picking it up, 
I saw that it was my Virgil. Upon the 
fly-leaf, at which it was open, I had, 
years ago, scrawled my name thus: 
PETER VIBART, 
But lo! close under this, written in 
a fine Italian hand, were the following 
words: 
“To Peter Smith, Esq. (the “Smith” underlined) 
Blacksmith. Charmian Brown (“Brown” likewise under¬ 
lined) desires to thank Mr. Smith, yet because thanks are 
so poor and small, and his service so great, needs must she 
remember him as a gentleman, yet oftener as a black¬ 
THE STORY SO FAR 
P ETER VIBART, disinherited un¬ 
less he marry Lady Sophia Sefton, 
whom he has never seen, travels the 
broad highway till he finds a village 
where he can earn an honest living. 
He lives in an old cottage, works for 
George, the blacksmith, and numbers 
among his new friends, the “An¬ 
cient,” a quaint old man. 
One stormy night, a woman takes 
refuge in his cottage, fleeing from a 
man whom Peter fights and knocks 
unconscious. Because the man re¬ 
sembles him so closely, Peter decides 
he is his dissolute cousin, Sir Maurice, 
who may inherit the family fortune 
on the same condition. 
smith, and most _o( all, as a man. Charmian Brown begs 
him to accept this little trinket in memory of her; it is all 
she has to offer him. He may also keep her handkerchief.” 
Upon the table was a gold heart-shaped 
locket, very quaint and old-fashioned, 
upon one side of which was engraved the 
following posy: 
“Hee who myne heart would keepe for long 
Shall be a gentil man and strong.” 
ATTACHED to the locket was a nar- 
4*. row blue riband, wherefore, passing 
this riband over my head, I hung the 
locket about my neck. And having read 
through the message once more, I closed 
the Virgil, and, replacing it on the shelf, 
set about brewing a cup of tea, and so 
presently sat down to breakfast. 
I had scarcely done so, however, when 
there came a timid knock at the door, 
whereat I rose expectantly, and immedi¬ 
ately sat down again. 
“Come in!” said I. The latch was 
slowly raised, the door swung open, and 
the Ancient appeared. If I was surprised 
to see him at such an hour, he was even 
more so, for, at sight of me, his mouth 
opened, and he stood staring speechlessly, 
leaning upon his stick. 
“Why, Ancient,” said I, “you are early 
abroad this morning!” 
“Lord!” he exclaimed, scarcely above 
a whisper. 
“Come in and sit down,” said I. 
“Lord! Lord!” he murmured, “an’ 
a-eatin’ ’is breakfus’ tu. Lordy, Lord!” 
“And why not. Ancient?” 
“Why not?” he repeated disdainfully.' 
“ ’Cause breakfus’ can’t be ate by a corp’, 
can it?” 
“Why, no, certainly not.” 
“Consequently, you aren’t a corp’, * 
you’ll be tellin’ me.” 
“I?—no, not yet, God be thanked!” 
“Peter,” said the Ancient, shaking his 
head, “you du be forever a-givin’ of me 
turns, that ye du.” 
“Do I, Ancient?” 
“Ay—that ye du, an’ me such a aged 
{Continued on page 88) 
