140 
American Agriculturist, February 9 ,15 
The Broad Highway -Byje^ry Famot 
CHAPTER VIII 
IN WHICH I SEE A VISION IN THE GLORY OF THE MOON, AND EAT OF A POACHED RABBIT 
T HE moon was rising as, hungry and weary, I came to that steep descent which 
leads down into the Hollow. 
All about me was a soft stirring of leaves, and the rustle of things unseen. Borne 
to my nostrils came the scent of wood and herb and dewy earth, while up-stealing 
from the shadow of the trees below, the voice of the brook reached me. 
And, presently, I descended into the shadows, and, walking on beside the brook, 
sat me down upon a great boulder; and, straightway, my weariness and hunger for¬ 
gotten, I fell a-dreaming. 
Truly it was a night to dream in—a white night, full of the magic of the moon. 
Slowly she mounted upwards, peeping down at me through whispering leaves, 
checkering the shadows with silver, and turning the brook into a path of silver for 
the feet of fairies. 
And so I dreamed the deathless dreams of long-dead poets and romancers, wherein 
were the notes of dreamy lutes, the soft whisper of trailing garments, and sighing 
voices. I dreamed of fauns and dryads, and of the young Endymion who, on just 
such another night, in just such another leafy bower, waited the coming of his 
goddess. 
Now as I sat thus I heard a little sound 
behind me, the rustling of leaves, and, 
turning my head, beheld one who stood 
half in shadow, half in moonlight, looking 
down at me with eyes hidden by their 
lashes—a woman tall and fair, and strong 
as Dian’s self. 
Very still she stood, and half wistful, 
as if waiting for me to speak, and very 
silent I sat, staring up at her as she had 
been the embodiment of my dreams con¬ 
jured up by the magic of the night, while 
from the mysteries of the woods stole 
the soft, sweet song of a nightingale. 
“Charmian?” said I at last, speaking 
almost in a whisper. 
“Charmian!” said I again. With the 
word I rose. “You have come, then?” 
But now she sighed a little, and, 
turning her head away, laughed very 
sweet and low—and sighed again. 
“Were you expecting me?” 
“I—I think I was—that is—I—I don’t 
know!” I stammered. 
“Then you were not—very surprised 
to see me? ” 
“No.” 
“And you are not—verv sorry to see 
me?” 
“No.” 
“And—are you not very—glad to see 
me?” 
“Yes.” 
H ERE there fell a silence between us, 
yet a silence that was full of leafy 
stirrings, soft night noises, and the 
languorous murmur of the brook. Pres¬ 
ently Charmian reached out a hand, 
broke off a twig of willow and began to 
turn it round and round in her white 
fingers, while I sought vainly for some¬ 
thing to say. 
“When I went away this morning,” 
she began at last, looking' down at the , 
twig, “I did n’t think I should ever come 
back again.” 
“No, I—I supposed not,” said I 
awkwardly. 
“But, you see, I had no money.” 
“No money?” 
“Not a penny. It was not until I had 
walked a long, long way, and was very 
tired, and terribly hungry, that I found I 
had n’t enough to buy even a crust of 
bread.” 
“And there was three pounds, fifteen 
shillings, and six-pence in Donald’s old 
shoe,” said I. 
“Sevenpence!” she corrected. “I 
counted it.” 
“Oh!” said I. 
She nodded. “And in the other I found 
a small, very curiously shaped piece of 
wood.” 
“Ah—yes, I ’ve been looking for that 
all the week. You see, when I made my 
table, by some miscalculation, one leg 
persisted in coming out shorter than the 
others, which necessitated its being 
shored up by a book until I made that 
block.” 
“Mr. Peter Vibart’s Virgil book!” she 
said, nodding to the twig. 
“Y-e-s!” said I, somewhat discon¬ 
certed. 
“It was a pity to use a book,” she went 
on, still very intent upon the twig, ‘ even 
if that book does belong to a man with 
such a name as Peter Vibart.” 
Now presently, seeing I was silent, she 
stole a glance at me, and looking, laughed. 
“But,” she continued more seriously, 
“this has nothing to do with you, of 
course, nor me, for that matter, and I was 
trying to tell you how hungry—-how hate¬ 
fully hungry I was, and I could n’t beg, 
could I, and so—and so I—I—” 
“You came back,” said*I. 
“I came back.” 
“Three pounds, fifteen shillings, and— 
sevenpence is not a great sum,” said I, 
“but perhaps it will enable you to reach 
your family.” 
“I ’m afraid not; you see I have no 
family.” 
“Your friends, then.” 
“I have no friends; I am alone in the 
world.” 
“Oh!” said I, and turned to stare 
down into the brook, for I could think 
only that she was alone and solitary, even 
as I, which seemed like an invisible bond 
between us, whereat I felt ridiculously 
pleased that this should be so. 
“No,” said Charmian, still intent upon 
the twig, “I have neither friends nor 
family nor money, and so—being hungry 
—I came back here, and ate up all the 
bacon.” 
“Why, I had n’t left much, if I remem¬ 
ber.” 
“Six slices!” 
Now, as she stood, half in shadow, half 
in moonlight, I could not help but be 
conscious of her loveliness. She was no 
pretty woman; beneath the high beauty 
of her face lay a dormant power that is 
ever at odds with prett.iness, and before 
which I felt vaguely at a loss. And yet, 
because of her warm beauty, because of 
the elusive witchery of her eyes, the soft, 
sweet column of the neck and the sway 
of the figure in the moonlight—because 
she was no goddess, and I no shepherd in 
Arcadia, I clasped my hands behind 
me, and turned to look down into the 
stream. 
“Indeed,” said I, speaking my thought 
aloud, “this is no place for a woman, 
after all.” 
“No,” said she very softly. 
“No—-although, to be sure, there are 
worse places.” 
“Yes,” said she, “I suppose so.” 
“Then again, it is very far removed 
from the world, so that a woman must 
needs be cut off from all those little deli¬ 
cacies and refinements that are essential 
to her existence.” 
“Yes,” she sighed. 
“Though what,” I continued, “what 
on earth would be the use of a—harp, let 
us say, or a pair of curling-irons in this 
wilderness, I don’t know.” 
“One could play upon the one and 
curl one’s hair with the other, and there 
is a deal of pleasure to be had from both,” 
said she. 
“Then also,” I pursued, “this place, as 
I told you, is said to be haunted—not,” 
I went on, “that you believe in such 
things, of course? But the cottage is 
very rough, and ill and clumsily fur¬ 
nished—though, to be sure, jt might be 
made comfortable enough, and—•” 
“Well?” she inquired, as I paused. 
“Then,” said I, “God forbid that I 
should refuse you the shelter of even such 
a place as this—so—if you are homeless— 
stay here—if you will—so long as it 
pleases you.” 
I kept my eyes directed to the running 
water at my feet as I waited her answer, 
and it seemed a very long time before 
she spoke. 
“Are you fond of stewed rabbit?” 
“Rabbit!” said I, staring. 
“With onions!” 
“Onions?” 
“Oh, I can cook a little, and supper is 
waiting.” 
“Supper?” 
“So if you are hungry—” 
“I am ravenous!” 
“Then why not come home and eat it? ” 
“Home?” 
“Instead of echoing my words and 
staring the poor moon out of countenance? 
Come,” and, with the word, she turned 
and led the way to the cottage. And 
behold, the candles were lighted, the 
table was spread with a snowy cloth, and 
a pot simmered upon the hob; a pot that 
gave forth an odor delectable, and over 
which Charmian bent forthwith, and into 
which she gazed with an anxious brow 
and thrust an inquiring fork. 
“I think it’s all right!” 
“I’m sure of it,” said I, inhaling the 
appetizing aroma—“but, pray, where 
did you get it?” 
“A man sold it to me—he had a lot of 
them.” 
“Hum!” said I, “probably poached.” 
“I bought this for sixpence—out of the 
old shoe.” 
“Sixpence?—then they certainly were 
poached. These are the Cambourne 
Woods, and everything upon them—fish, 
flesh, or fowl, living or dead—belongs to 
the Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne.” 
“Then—perhaps we had better not 
eat it,” said she, glancing at me over her 
shoulder—but, meeting my eye, she 
laughed. And so we presently sat down 
to supper and, poached though it may 
have been, that rabbit made a truly noble 
end, notwithstanding. 
CHAPTER IX 
WHICH RELATES SOMEWHAT OF CHARMIAN 
BROWN 
W E were sitting in the moonlight. 
“Now,” said Charmian, staring 
up at the luminous heaven, “let us talk.” 
“As you please.” 
“Very well, you begin.” 
“Well—I am a blacksmith.” 
“Yes, you told me so before.” 
“And I make horseshoes—” 
“He is a blacksmith, and makes horse¬ 
shoes!” said Charmian, nodding at the 
moon. 
“And.I live here, in this solitude, very 
contentedly; so that it is only reasonable 
to suppose that I shall continue to live 
here, and make horseshoes—though, 
really,” I broke off, “there is little I could 
tell you about so commonplace a person 
as myself that is likely to interest you.” 
“No,” said Charmian, “evidently 
not!” Here I fancied I detected the 
ghost of a smile upon her lips. 
“Then,” said I, “by all means let us 
talk of something else.” 
“Yes,” she agreed; “let us talk of Cha 
mian Brown.” A tress of hair had con 
loose, and hung low above her brow, % 
in its shadow her eyes seemed moreelusb 
more mocking than ever, and, while 0 
glances met, she put up a hand and begj 
to wind this glossy tress round and rom 
her finger. 
“Well,” said I, “supposing you begin 
“But is she likely to interest you?” 
“I thought you would take that [ ( 
granted.” 
“A woman should take nothing [, 
granted, sir.” 
“Then,” said I, “supposing you begin 
“I ’ve half a mind not to,” she 1 
torted, curling the tress of hair agai 
and then, suddenly: “What do you thi 
of Charmian Brown?” 
“I think of her as little as I can.” 
“And why, pray?” 
“Because,” said I, knocking the asln 
from my pipe, “ because the more I thii 
about her the more incomprehensible s! 
becomes.” 
“ Have you known many women? ” 
“Verv few,” I confessed, “but —■” 
“But?” 
“I am not altogether unfamiliar wi 
the sex — for I have known a great numb 
—in books.” 
“Our blacksmith,” said Chamiai 
addressing the moon again, “has knoi 
many, women — in books!” and s! 
laughed. 
“ May I ask why you laugh at me?” 
“Oh!” said she, “don’t you know thi 
women in books and women out of bool 
are no more the same than day and nigl 
or summer and winter?” 
“Of that,” said I, shaking my hea 
“I am not so sure.” 
“Then—personally—you know vs 
little concerning women?” she inquired 
“I have always been too busy,” said 
“Too busy?” she repeated, as thouj 
she had not heard aright. 
“Much too busy!” Now, when Isa 
this, she laughed, and then she frownf 
and then she laughed again. 
“You would much rather make a 
horseshoe than talk with a woma 
perhaps? ” 
“Yes, I would.” 
“Oh!” said Charmian, frowning agai 
“You see,” I explained, “when I ma 
a horseshoe I take a piece of iron an 
having heated it, I bend and shape 
and with every hammer-stroke I see 
growing into what I would have it — la 
sure of it, from start to finish; now, with 
woman.it is—different.” 
“*You mean that you cannot bend, ai 
shape her, like your horseshoe?” 
“I mean that—that I fear I shot 
never be quite sure of a woman, as I a 
of my horseshoe.” 
“Why, you see,” said Charmia 
beginning to braid the tress of hair, 
woman cannot be said to resemble 
horseshoe — very much, can she?” 
And, in a little while, seeing I » 
silent, sjie condescended to glance 1 
wards me: 
‘VThen I suppose, under the circu 
stances, you have never been—in love: 
“In love?” I repeated, and droppi 
my pipe. “ The Lord forbid! ” 
“Why, pray?” 
“ Because Love is a disease — a madne 
coming between a man and his $ 
work.” 
Charmian rose, and stood loob 
down at me very strangely. 
( Continued on page HI) 
HOW THE STORY HAS PROGRESSED SO FAR 
H ERETOFORE content with his simple life as helper to George, the blacksmith, 
Peter Vibart, who has left gay London to earn his living thus, finds his thoughts 
strangely upset by the mysterious Charmian. He has fought the man who pursued 
her, one stormy night, to the cottage in the Hollow, where Peter lives, but Charmian, 
after binding up his wounds disappears, leaving a locket and a note. 
For the first time, the cottage seems lonely and as Peter goes to it he meditates 
on his uncle’s strange will, which disinherited him unless he marry the Lady Sophia 
Sefton, whom he has never seen; on the villainous gallant whose face so resembled 
Peter’s; and especially on the beautiful woman who fled from him to Peter’s protec¬ 
tion, and who called herself “Charmian Brown.” 
