256 
American Agriculturist, March 8 , 1924 
The Broad Highway 
By Jeffery Farnol 
(For synopsis of preceding installments, see page 257) 
* AND yet I don’t know,” I went on, thoughtfully, “for now I come to think of it, 
Fy my life has always been busy and care-free, and I have always loved the siin 
and the sound of wind in trees—yet, like Horace, have asked ‘ What is Happiness?' 
and looked for it in vain; and now, here—in thisout-of-the-world spot, working as a vil¬ 
lage smith, it has come to me all unbidden and unsought—which is very strange!” 
“Yes, Peter,” said Charmian, still busy with her pen. 
“Upon consideration I think my thanks are due to my uncle for dying and leaving 
me penniless.” 
“Do vou mean that he disinherited you?” 
“In a way, yes; he left me his whole fortune provided that I married a certain 
lady within the year.” 
“A certain lady?” 
“The Lady Sophia Sefton, of Cambourne,” said I. 
Chaxmian’s pen stopped in the very middle of a letter. 
“Oh!” said she very softly, “the Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?” 
“Yes,” said I. 
“And—your cousin. Sir Maurice, were the conditions the same in his case?” 
“Precisely!” 
“Oh!” said Charmian, “and this lady—she will not marry you?” 
“No,” I answered. 
“Are you quite—sure?” 
“Certain!—you see, I never intend to ask her.” 
Charmian suddenly raised her head 
and looked at me. 
“Why not, Peter?” 
“Because, should I ever marry—most 
improbable—I am sufficiently self-willed 
to prefer to exert my own choice in the 
matter; moreover, this lady is a cele¬ 
brated toast, and it would be most 
repugnant to me that my wife’s name 
should ever have been bandied from 
mouth to mouth, and hiccoughed out 
over slopping wineglasses—” 
The pen slipped from Charmian’s 
fingers to the floor, and before I could 
pick it up she had forestalled me, so that 
when she raised her head she was flushed 
with stooping. 
“Have you ever seen this lady, Peter?” 
“Never, but I have heard of her— 
who has not?” 
“What have you heard? ” 
“That she galloped her horse up and 
down the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, 
for one thing.” 
“What more?” 
“That she is proud, and passionate, 
and sudden of temper—in a word, a 
virago 
i” 
‘Virago!” said Charmian, flinging up 
her head. 
“Virago!” I nodded, “though.she is 
handsome, I understand—in a strapping 
way—and I have it on very excellent 
authority that she is a black-browed 
goddess. 
“‘Strapping’ is a hateful word, Peter!” 
“But very descriptive.” 
“I suppose—to such a philosopher as 
you—-a woman or a goddess, black- 
browed or not, can scarcely compare with, 
or hope to rival an old book, can she, sir?” 
“Why, that depends, Charmian.” 
“On what?” 
“On the book!” said I. 
C HARMIAN rested her round elbows 
upon the table, and, setting her chin in 
her hands, stared squarely at me. 
“Peter,” said she. 
‘ ‘ Yes. Charmian ? ” 
“If ever you did meet this lady—I 
think — ” 
“Well?” 
“That you would fall a very easy 
victim!” 
“Preposterous!” I exclaimed. 
“If she set herself to make you!” 
“That would be very immodest!” 
said I; “besides, ilo woman can make a 
man love her.” 
Charmian only laughed, and went 
back to her scribbling. 
“Then, if this lady married you,” said 
she suddenly, “you would be a gentleman 
of good position and standing?” 
“Yes, I suppose so—and probably 
miserable.” 
“Instead of being a village black¬ 
smith — ” 
“And absurdly happy and content,” 
I added, “which is far more desirable.” 
“Do you mean to say that you would 
rather exist here, and make horseshoes all 
your life, than live, respected, and 
rich —” 
“And married to—” 
“And married to the Lady Sophia?” 
“Infinitely!” said I.. 
“Then your cousin, so far as you are 
concerned, is free to woo and win her 
and your uncle’s fortune?” 
“And I wish him well of his bargain!” 
I nodded. 
“Is marriage so hateful to you? ” 
“In the abstract—no; for in my mind 
there exists a woman whom I think I 
could love—very greatly;. but, in the 
actual—yes, because there is no woman 
in all the world that is like this woman 
of my mind.” 
“Is she so flawlessly perfect—this 
imaginary woman?” 
“She is one whom I would respect 
for her intellect.” 
“Yes.” 
“Whom I would honor for her proud 
virtue.” 
“Yes, Peter.” 
“Whom I would worship for her broad 
charity, her gentleness, and spotless 
purity.” 
“Yes, Peter.” 
“And love with all my strength, for her 
warm, sweet womanhood—in a word, she 
is the epitome of all that is true and 
womanly!” 
“That is to say, all your knowledge of 
woman, and her virtues and failings, you 
have learned from your books, mis¬ 
represented by history, and distorted by 
romance. And, of course, this imaginary 
creature of yours is ethereal, bloodless, 
sexless, unnatural, and quite impossible!” 
Now, when she spoke thus, I laid down 
my pipe, but, before I could get my 
breath, she began again, with curling lip 
and lashes that drooped disdainfully. 
“I quite understand that there can be 
no woman worthy of Mr. Peter Vibart— 
she whom he would honor with marriage 
must be specially created for him! Ah! 
but some day a woman—a real, live 
woman—will come into his life, and the 
touch of her hand, the glance of her eyes, 
the warmth of her breath, will dispel this 
poor, misty creature of his imagination, 
who will fade, and vanish into nothing¬ 
ness. And when the real woman has 
shown him how utterly false and im¬ 
possible this dream woman was—then, 
Mr. Peter Vibart, I hope she will laugh 
at you—as I do, and turn her back upon 
you—as I do, and leave you—for the very 
superior, very pedantic pedant that you 
are—and scorn you—as I do, most of all 
because you are merely a—creature!” 
With the word, she flung up her head and 
stamped her foot at me, and turning, 
swept out through the open door into the 
moonlight. 
“Creature?” said I, and so sat staring 
at the table, and the walls, and the floor, 
and the rafters in a blank amazement. 
But in a while, my amazement grow¬ 
ing, I went and stood in the doorway, 
looking at Charmian, but saying nothing. 
^Xd), as I watched, she began to sing 
softly to herself, and, putting up her 
hand, drew the comb from her hair so 
that it fell down, rippling about her neck 
and shoulders. And, singing softly thus, 
she shook her hair about her, so that 1 
saw it curled far below her waist; stooped 
her head, and, parting it upon her neck, 
drew it over either shoulder, whence it 
flowed far down over her bosom in two 
glorious waves. 
“Charmian, you have-glorious hair!” 
said I, speaking on the impulse — a thing 
I rarely do. 
But Charmian only combed her tresses 
and went on singing to herself. 
“Charmian,” said I again, “what did 
you mean when you called me a— 
creature?” 
Charmian went on singing. 
“Naturally I am much perturbed, and 
anxious to know what you wish me to 
understand by the epithet ‘creature?’” 
Charmian went on singing. Where¬ 
fore, seeing she did not intend to answer 
me. I presently re-entered the cottage. 
Now it is ever my custom to seek 
consolation in my books, hence I now 
took up my Homer, and sat down at the 
table. 
In a little while Charmian came in, 
still humming, and not troubling even to 
glance in my direction. 
Some days before, at her request, I 
had brought her linen and lace and 
ribands from Cranbrook, and these she 
now took out. together with needle and 
cotton, and, sitting down at the opposite 
side of the table, began to sew. 
‘^AKEYOUR PENCIL AND BLjOT-OUT ALL THE UNNECESSARY LINE>5 
The answer to this Blot-Out will appear next week. 
lace, and caught here and there with i 
little bows of blue riband, and I had con- « 
eluded it to be a garment of some sort 
and was casting about in my mind to 
account for these bows of riband, when 
glancing up suddenly, she caught mv 
eye; whereupon, for no reason in the 
world, I felt suddenly guilty, to hide 
which I began to search through my 
pockets for my pipe. 
“What are you reading?” she inquired; 
“is it of Helen or Aspasia or Phryne?” 
“Neither—it is the parting of Hector 
and Andromache,” I answered. 
“Is it very interesting?” 
“Yes.” 
"“Then why do your eyes wander so 
often from the page?” 
“I know many of the lines by heart,” 
said I. And having lighted my pipe, 
I took up the book, and once more began 
to read. Yet I was conscious of Char¬ 
mian’s flashing needle, also she had 
begun to hum again. 
And, after I had endeavored to read, 
and Charmian had hummed for perhaps 
five minutes, I lowered my book, and, 
sighing, glanced at her. 
“I am trying to read, Charmian.” 
“So I see.” 
“And your humming confuses me.” 
“It is very quiet outside, Peter.” 
“But I can not read by moonlight, 
Charmian.” 
“Then—don’t read, Peter.” Here she 
nibbled her thread with white teeth, and 
held up what she had been sewing to 
view' the effect of a bow of riband, with 
her head very much on one side. And I 
inwardly wondered, that she should spend 
so much care upon such frippery—all 
senseless bow's and laces. 
“To hum is a very disturbing habit!” 
said I. 
“To smoke an evil-smelling pipe is 
w'orse—much w r orse, Pet<»r! ’ ’ 
“I beg your pardon!” said I, and laid 
the offending object back upon the mantel. 
“Are you angry, Peter?” 
“Not in the least; I am only sorry that 
my smoking annoyed you—diad I known 
before—’’ 
“It did n’t annoy me in the least!” 
“But from what you said I under¬ 
stood—” 
“No, Peter, you did not understand; 
you never understand, and I don’t think 
you ever will understand anything but 
your Latin and Greek philosophies, and 
that is what makes you so very annoying, 
and so—so quaintly original! ” 
“Really,” said I, “really, I fail to 
see— 
She -was still humming, and this of 
itself distracted my mind from the lines 
before me; moreover, my eye was fas¬ 
cinated by the gleam of her flying needle, 
and I began to debate within myself 
what she was making. It (whatever it 
might be) was ruffled, and edged with 
course you do!” sighed Charmian. 
Whereupon there fell a silence 
between us, during which she sew r ed in¬ 
dustriously and I went forth with brave 
Hector to face the mighty Achilles. But 
my eye had traversed barely twenty lines 
when: 
“Peter?” 
“Yes?” 
“Do you remember my giving you a 
locket?” 
“Yes.” 
“Where is it?” 
“Oh! I have it still—somewhere." 
“Somewhere, sir?” she repeated, glanc¬ 
ing at me with raised brows. 
“Somew'here safe,” said I, fixing my 
eyes upon my book. 
“It had a riband attached, had n’t it? 
“Yes.” 
“A pink riband, if I remember — yes, 
pink.” 
“No—it was blue!” said I unguardedly. 
“Are you sure, Peter?” And here, J 
glancing up, I saw that she -was w r atching 
me beneath her lashes. 
“Yes,” I answered; “that is—I think 
i 9 i v 
SO. 
“Then you are not sure?” 
“Yes, i am,” said I; “it w T as a bhie 
riband,” and I turned over a page very 
ostentatiously. 
. “Oh!” said Charmian, and there was 
another pause. 
(Continued on page 257) 
I 
