280 
American Agriculturist, March 15 , 1924 
The Broad Highway-sy 
Jeffery Farnol 
B EING come to the brook I found the bringing bucket, sure enough, but no 
Charmian. I was looking about wonderinglv, when I espied her kneeling beside 
the stream. 
The water ran deep and very still, just here, overhung by ash and alder and willow, 
whose slender, curving branches formed a leafy bower wherein she knelt to regard 
herself in the placid water. For a long moment she remained thus, studying her 
reflection intently in this crystal mirror. Then she put up her hands and began to 
rearrange her hair with swift, dexterous fingers, apostrophizing her water image the 
while, in this wise: 
“My dear, you are growing positively apple-cheeked—I vow you are! your 
enemies might almost call you—strapping—alack! And then your complexion, my 
dear, your adorable complexion!” she went on, with a rueful shake of her head, “you 
are as brown as a gipsy—not that you need go breaking your heart over it—for, 
between you and me, my dear, I think it rather improves you; the pity of it is that 
you have no one to appreciate you properly. Your hermit, bless you! can see, or 
think, of nothing that exists out of a book. Indeed, I could shed tears for you if it 
would not make your eyelids swell and your classic nose turn red.” 
Here she sighed again, and, taking a 
tendril of hair between her fingers, trans¬ 
formed it, very cleverly, into a small 
curl. 
“Yes, your tan certainly becomes you, 
my dear,” she went on, nodding to her 
reflection; “not that he will ever notice— 
dear heart, no! were you suddenly to turn 
as black as a Hottentot—before his very 
eyes-—he would go on serenely smoking 
his pipe, and talk to you of Epictetus— 
heigho!” Sighing thus, she broke off a 
spray of leaves and proceeded to twine 
them in among the lustrous coils of her 
hair, bending over her reflection mean¬ 
while, and turning her head this way and 
that, to note the effect. 
“Yes,” said she at last, nodding at her 
image with a satisfied air, “that touch of 
green sets off your gipsy complexion 
admirably, my dear. But our philosopher 
will just glance at you with his slow, 
grave smile, and tell you, in his solemn, 
affable way—that it is a very fine 
morning.” 
H ERE (somewhat late in the day, per¬ 
haps) perceiving that I was playing 
eavesdropper, I moved cautiously away, 
and taking up the pail, returned to the 
cottage. I now filled the kettle and set 
it upon the fire, and proceeded to spread 
the cloth (a luxurious institution of Char- 
mian’s) and to lay out the breakfast 
things. In the midst of which, however, 
chancing to fall into a reverie, I became 
oblivious of all things till roused by a 
step behind me, and, turning, beheld 
Charmian standing with the glory of the 
sun about her—like the Spirit of Summer 
herself, broad of hip and shoulder, yet 
slender, and long of limb, all warmth and 
life—perfect with vigorous youth from 
the leaves that crowned her beauty to the 
foot that showed beneath her gown. 
And, as I gazed upon her, silent and 
wondering, lo! though her mouth was 
solemn yet there was laughter in her eyes 
as she spoke. 
“Well, sir—have you no greeting for 
*) 55 
me: 
“It—is a—very fine morning!” said I. 
And now the merriment overflowed her 
eyes, and she laughed, yet blushed a 
little, too, and lowered her eyes from 
mine, and said, still laughing: 
“Oh, Peter—the teapot—do mind the 
teapot!” 
“Teapot?” I repeated, and then I saw 
that I still held it in my hand. 
“I was going to make the tea, I re¬ 
member,” said I. 
“Is that why you were standing there 
staring at the kettle while it boiled 
0 55 
over? 
“I—forgot all about the kettle,” said I. 
So Charmian took the teapot from me, 
and set about brewing the tea, singing 
merrily the while. Anon she began to 
fry the bacon, giving each individual 
slice, its due amount of care and atten¬ 
tion; but, her eyes chancing to meet, 
mine, the song died upon her lip, her 
lashes flickered and fell, while up from 
throat to brow there crept a slow, hot 
wave of crimson. And in that moment I 
turned away and strode down to the 
brook. 
Now it happened that I came to that 
same spot where she had leaned and, 
flinging myself down, I fell to studying 
my reflection in the water, even as she 
had done. 
Mirrored in the clear waters I beheld a 
face lean and brown, and with lank, 
black hair; eyes, dark and of a strange 
brilliance, looked at me from beneath a 
steep prominence of brow; I saw a some¬ 
what high-bridged nose with thin, ner¬ 
vous nostrils, a long, cleft chin, and a 
disdainful mouth. 
nPRULY, a saturnine face, cold and dark 
* and unlovely, and thus — even as I gazed 
— the mouth grew still more disdainful, 
and the heavy brow blacker and more 
forbidding. And yet, in that same 
moment, I found myself sighing, while I 
strove to lend some order to the wildness 
of my hair. 
“Fool! Let be,” said I to myself, 
turning away. “I am as I am, and 
content so to be — absolutely content.” 
At sight of me Charmian burst out 
laughing, the which, though I had 
Expected it, angered me nevertheless. 
“Why, Peter!” she exclaimed, “you 
look like -” 
“A very low fellow!” said I, “say a 
village blacksmith who has been at his 
ablutions.” 
“If you only had rings in your Yars, 
and a scarf round your head, you would 
be the image of a Spanish brigand.” 
“Is it any wonder that I am shunned 
by my kind — avoided by the ignorant 
and regarded askance by the rest?” said I. 
“Why, Peter!” said Charmian, “what 
do you mean?” 
“I mean that the country folk here¬ 
abouts go out of their way to avoid 
crossing my path, because of my looks.” 
“Your looks?” 
“They think me possessed of the ‘Evil 
Eye.’ May I cut you a piece of bread?” 
“Oh, Peter!” 
“Already, by divers honest-hearted 
rustics, I am credited with having cast a 
deadly spell upon certain unfortunate pigs. 
May I trouble you to pass the butter?” 
“Oh, Peter, how foolish of them!” 
“And how excusable! considering their 
ignorance and superstition,” said I. 
“Mine, I am well aware* is not a face to 
win me the heart of man, woman, or 
child; they (especially women and chil¬ 
dren) share, in common with dogs and 
horses, that divine attribute which, for 
want of a better name, we call ‘instinct,’ 
whereby they love or hate for the mere 
tone of a voice, the glance of an eye.” 
“Indeed,” said Charmian, “I believe 
in first impressions.” 
“Being a woman,” said I. 
“Being a woman!” she nodded; “and 
the instinct of dog and child and woman 
has often proved true in the end.” 
“Surely instinct is always true?” said 
I—“I 'd thank you for another cup of 
tea—yet, strangely enough, dogs gen¬ 
erally make friends with me very readily, 
and the few children to whom I ’ve 
spoken have neither screamed nor run 
away from me. Still, as I said before, 
I am aware that my looks are scarcely 
calculated to gain the love of man, woman, 
or child.” 
“There is one woman, Peter, to whom 
you have talked by the hour together - ” 
“And who is doubtless weary enough 
of it all—more especially of Epictetus and 
Trojan Helen.” 
“Two lumps of sugar, Peter?” 
“You probably find your situation 
horribly lonely here?” I went on after a 
pause. 
“Yes; it’s nice and lonely, Peter.” 
“And, undoubtedly, this cottage is very 
poor and mean, and—ei—humble?” 
(^harmian smiled and shook her head. 
“But then, Charmian Brown is a very 
humble person, sir.” 
“And you have n’t even the luxury of a 
mirror to dress your hair by!” 
“Is it so very clumsily dressed, sir?” 
“No, .no,” said I hastily, “indeed I 
was thinking—” „ 
“Well, Peter?” 
“That it was very—beautiful!” 
“Why, you told me that last night— 
come, what do you think of it this 
morning?” 
“With those leaves in it—it is—even 
more so!” 
Charmian laughed, and, rising, swept 
me a stately curtesy. 
And in a while, having finished my 
breakfast, I rose, and, taking my hat, 
bade Charmian “Good-morning,” and 
so came to the door. But on the threshold 
I turned and looked back at her. She 
had risen, and stood leaning with one 
hand on the table; now in the other she 
held the bread-knife, and her eyes were 
upon mine. 
And lo! wonder of wonders! once again, 
sudden and swift, up from the round, full 
column of her throat, over cheek and 
brow there rushed that vivid tide of 
color; her eyes grew suddenly deep and 
soft, and then were hidden ’neath her 
lashes—and, in that moment, the knife 
slipped from her grasp, and falling point 
downwards, stood quivering in the floor 
between us—an ugly thing that gleamed 
evilly. 
Was this an omen—a sign vouchsafed of 
that which, dark and terrible, was, even 
then, marching to meet us upon this 
Broad Highway? 
I stooped, and, plucking it from the 
floor, gave it into her hand. Now, as I 
did so, her fingers touched mine, and, 
moved by a sudden mad impulse, I 
stooped and pressed my lips upon them 
—kissed them quick and fierce, and so 
turned, and hurried upon my way. 
Yet, as I went, I found that the knife 
had cut my chin, and that I was bleeding. 
O Blind, and more than blind! Surely 
this was a warning, an omen to heed—to 
shiver over, despite the warm sun! 
But I laughed, and strode villagewards, 
blithe of heart and light of foot. 
O Blind, and more than blind! 
CHAPTER XVIII 
IN WHICH I HEAR NEWS OF SIR MAURICE 
VIBART 
HICH I says—Lord love me!” 
I plunged the iron back into the 
fire, and, turning my head, espied a 
figure standing in the doorway; and, 
though the leather hat and short, round 
jacket had been superseded by a smart 
groom’s livery, I recognized the Postilion. 
“So ’elp me. Bob, if this ain’t a piece 
o’ luck!” he exclaimed. 
“And, pray, how is the gentleman who 
—happened to fall and hurt himself, if 
you remember — in the storm?” 
“’Appened to fall an’ ’urt ’isself?” 
repeated the Postilion, winking know¬ 
ingly., 
“ What might you be pleased to mean? ” 
“I means as a gent ’appenin’ to fall i n 
the dark may p’r’aps cut ’is ’ead open_ 
but ’e don’t give ’isself two black eyes 
a bloody nose, a split lip, an’ three broken 
ribs, all at once. Lord!” continued the 
Postilion, seeing I did not speak, “Lord! 
it must ’a’ been a pretty warm go while it 
lasted—you put ’im to sleep sound 
enough; it took me over a hour to Ton- 
bridge, an’ ’e never moved till ’e’d been 
put to bed at ‘The Chequers’ an’ a 
doctor sent for.” 
“Very interesting,” said I. “And so 
you are a groom now? ” 
“Ah!—an’ you are a blacksmith, eh?” 
U v 55 
xes. 
“Well, if it don’t beat everything as 
ever I heard—I'm a stiff ’un, that’s all!” 
“What do you mean?” 
“I means my droppin' in on you, like 
this ’ere, just as if you was n’t the one 
man in all England as I was ’opeful to 
drop in on.” 
“Were you sent to find me?” 
“Easy a bit—you ’re a blacksmith, 
a 'nt you?” 
“I told you so before.” 
“Wot’s more, you looks a blacksmith 
in that there leather apron, an’ wi’ your 
face all smutty. To be sure you’re 
powerful like ’im——” 
“Did he send you to find me?” 
“That brings us round to ’er. Wot 
about ’er?” 
“Her?” 
“Ah—’er! ’Er as run away from 
Number One—wot about—’er?” Here 
he fell to combing his hair with his whip- 
handle, while his quick bright eyes 
dodged from my face to the glowing forge 
and back again. 
“ OEEING she did manage to run away 
from him she is probably very well,” 
I answered. 
“Ah—to be sure!” said the Postilion, 
“an’—where might she be, now?” 
“That I am unable to tell you,” said I, 
and began to blow up the fire while the 
Postilion watched me, sucking the handle 
of his whip reflectively. 
“You work oncommon ’ard—drownd 
me if you don’t!” 
“Pretty hard!” I nodded. 
“Well—’ow much might you be gettin’ 
a week?” 
“Ten shillings.” 
“Gets ten shillin’ a week!” he nodded 
to the sledge-hammer, “that ain’t much 
for a chap like ’im.” 
“Yet I make it do very well!” 
The Postilion became again absorbed 
in contemplation of the bellows; indeed 
he studied them so intently, that I fell to 
watching him, under my brows, and so, 
presently, caught him furtively watching 
me. Hereupon he drew his whip from 
his mouth and spoke. 
“Supposing—” said he, and stopped. 
“Well?” I inquired, and, leaning upon 
my hammer, I looked him square in the 
eye. 
“Well,” said he, “supposing you was 
to make a guinea over an’ above your 
wages this week?” 
“I should be very much surprised,” 
said I. 
“Well then,” said the Postilion, still 
abstracted, “supposin’ I was to place a 
guinea down on that there anvil o ’ yours 
—would that ’elp you to remember where 
Number Two—’er—might be?” 
“No!” 
“It would n’t?” 
('Continued on page 281) 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THE STORY SO FAR 
C HARMIAN, whom Peter has befriended, continues to stay in the cottage 
which he fitted up for his own use. Peter works at the forge alone, for Black 
George, the smith, has quarreled with him over Prue, George’s sweetheart, and 
disappeared. Peter has had many adventures, since leaving London after being 
disinherited by his uncle’s will unless he marry a great lady he has never seen, and 
among them is a mysterious attempt upon his life. Charmian has recently pro¬ 
tected him from a similar attack. 
Peter wonders often as to the identity of the villainous gallant from whom he 
protected Charmian and who so strangely resembles Peter himself. 
