482 
The Broad Highway-Br/e^ry 
American Agriculturist, May 17 , 19 ^ 
Farnol 
(For synopsis of preceding installments, see page 483) 
N OW presently, as I sat, I became con- blooming, or even flourishing like the 
scions of a verv delicate Derfume in young bay tree.” 
“Sir,” said I, “may I remind you that 
I have work to do?” 
“A deuced interesting place though, 
this,” he smiled, staring round imper¬ 
turbably; “so—er—so grimy and smutty 
and gritty—quite a number of horse¬ 
shoes, too. D’ye know, cousin, I never 
before remarked what a number of holes 
there are in a horseshoe—but live and 
learn!” Here he paused to inhale a pinch 
of snuff, very daintily, from a jeweled 
“It is a strange thing,” he pursued, 
[ OW presently, as I sat, I became con¬ 
scious of a very delicate perfume in 
the air. My breath caught in my throat, 
but I did not look up, fearing to dispel 
the hope within me. So I remained until 
something touched me, and I saw that it 
was the gold-mounted handle of a whip, 
wherefore I glanced up. 
Then I beheld a radiant vision in pol¬ 
ished riding-boots and speckless mole¬ 
skins, in handsome flowered waistcoat 
and perfect-fitting coat, with snowy frills 
at throat and wrists; a tall, gallant fig¬ 
ure, of a graceful, easy bearing, who 
cousin,” said he, shaking his head, “but I 
was not—quite strong enough, last time 
we met, though, to be sure, as you say, 
it was very dark. Had I known it was 
worthy Cousin Peter’s throat I grasped, 
I think I might have squeezed it just— 
a little—tighter.” 
“Sir,” said I, shaking my head, “I 
really don’t think you could have.” 
“Yes,” he sighed, tossing his broken 
whip into a corner. “Yes, I think so— 
you see, I mistook you for merely an in¬ 
terfering country bumpkin—” 
“Yes,” I nodded, “while I, on the oth¬ 
er hand, took you for a fine gentleman 
’“"'“Well,” said I, meeting his look, “why 
not? Yes, I love her.” A very fury of 
as°he i*hb £££ on the ruin of an unfortunate, 
insolence. Upping his boot lightly with chief, “a vety strange thing that._being ^povertywould seem 
Here he glanced at me with a sudden 
his whip. But, as his eye met mine, his cousins, we have never met till now 
languid expression vanished, he came a especially as I have heard so very much 
quick step nearer and bent his face nearer about you.’ 
my own—a dark face, handsome in its “Pray,” said I, “pray how_should you 
way, pale and aquiline, with a powerful hear about one so very insignificant?” 
jaw, and dominating eyes and mouth; “Oh, I have heard of good Cousin 
a face (nay, a mask rather) that smiled 
and smiled, but never showed the man 
beneath. 
Now, glancing up at his brow, I saw 
there a small, newly healed scar. 
“Is it possible?” said he, speaking in 
keenness. 
“Why, surely,” said he, “surely you 
must know—” He paused to flick a 
speck of soot from his knee, and then 
continued: “Did she tell you nothing of 
—herself?” 
“Very little beside her name.” 
“Ah! she told you her name, then?” 
“Yes, she told me her name.” 
“Well, cousin?” 
‘Well, sir?” We both had risen, and 
Peter since I -was an imp of a boy!” he 
smiled. “Oh, I have heard so much of 
you, cousin, from dear, kind, well-mean¬ 
ing relatives and friends. They rang 
your praises in my ears, morning, noon, 
and night. And why?—simply that I 
that softly modulated voice I remembered might come to surpass you in virtue, 'ven, sirr we oom nau risen anu 
to have heard once before. “Can it be learning, wit. and appearance, and so win ead » other across the anvl1 ' 
possible that I address my worthy cousin? our Uncle George’s regard, and inciden- 
That shirt! that utterly impossible coat! tally his legacy. But I was a young de- “^OME,” said I at last, “let us under- 
And yet—the likeness is remarkable! mon, romping with the grooms in the stand each other once for all. You 
Have 1 the honor to address Mr. Peter stable, while you were a young angel tell me that you have always looked upon 
Vibart, late of Oxford?” passing studious hours with your books, me as your rival for our uncle’s good 
“The same, sir,” I answered, rising. Naturally enough, perhaps, I grew sick graces—I never was. I tell you I never 
“Then, most worthy cousin, I salute of the name of Peter.” _ was your rival in the past, and never shall 
“You have my deepest sympathies 
and apologies! ” said I. 
“Still, I have sometimes been curious 
to meet worthy Cousin Peter, and it is 
rather surprising that I have never 
done so.” 
“And yet, we have met before,” said I. 
“We met in a tempest, sir.” 
“Ha!” he exclaimed, dwelling on the 
word, and speaking very slowly, “a tem¬ 
pest, cousin?” 
“There was much wind and rain, and 
it was very dark.” 
“Dark* cousin?” 
__ _ _ “But I saw your face very plainly as wherever she may be she is safe, I trust, 
dered him the stool, but he shook his head, you lay on your back, sir, by the aid of and beyond vour reach- 
and, crossing to the anvil, flicked it a postilion’s lanthorn, and was greatly “No,” he broke in, “ 
daintily with his handkerchief and sat struck by our mutual resemblance.” Sir 
down, dangling his leg. Maurice raised his glass and looked at 
me, and, as he looked, smiled, but he 
you, and he removed his hat, bowing 
with an ironic grace. “Believe me, I have 
frequently desired to see that paragon of 
all the virtues. Poof!” he exclaimed, 
pressing his perfumed handkerchief to 
his nostrils, “faugh! how sulphur-and- 
brimstony you do keep yourself, cousin!” 
“You would certainly find it much 
clearer outside,” said I, beginning to blow 
up a fire. 
“But, then, Cousin Peter, outside one 
must become a target for the yokel eye. 
On the whole, I prefer the smoke, though 
it chokes one most infernally. Where 
may one venture to sit here?” I ten- 
be in the future.” 
“Meaning, cousin?” 
“Meaning, sir, in regard to either the 
legacy or the Lady Sophia Sefton. I was 
never fond enough of money to marry for 
it. I have never seen this lady, nor do I 
propose to; thus you are free to win her 
and the fortune.” 
“And what,” said Sir Maurice, flicking 
a speck of soot from his cuff, and imme¬ 
diately looking at me again, “what of 
Charmian?” 
“I don’t know,” I answered, “nor 
should I be likely to tell you if I did; 
P ON my soul,” said he, eyeing me could not hide the sudden, passionate she may be, she is alone and unpro- 
languidly through his glass again, quiver of his thin nostrils. He rose tected—pursue her no further. Go back 
; ’pon my soul! you are cursedly like slowly and paced to the door; when he to London, marry your Lady, inherit 
me, you know, in features. 
k “Cursedly!” I nodded. 
He glanced at me sharply, and laughed. 
“My man, a creature of the name of 
Parks,” said he, swinging his spurred boot 
to and fro, “led me to suppose that I 
came back again, he was laughing softly, 
but still he could not hide the quiver of 
his nostrils, or the gleam of the eyes be¬ 
neath their languid lids. 
“ So—it was—you? ” he murmured, with 
a pause between words. “To think that 
in peace. 
“And pray,” 
: whence 
should meet a person here—a blacksmith I should hunt her into your very arms! 
fellow—’ 
I nodded, “What can I do for you?” 
“But no!” exclaimed Sir Maurice, 
shaking his head. “You are, as I gather, 
somewhat eccentric, but even you would 
never take such a desperate step as to— 
to-—” 
“—become a blacksmith fellow?” 
“Precisely!” 
“Alas, Sir Maurice, I blush to say that 
rather than become an unprincipled ad¬ 
venturer living on my wits, I became a 
blacksmith fellow some four or five 
months ago.” 
W“ Really, it is most distressing to ob¬ 
serve to what depths Virtue may drag a 
And he laughed again, but, as he did so, 
the stout riding-whip snapped in his 
hands like a straw. He glanced down at 
the broken pieces, and from them to 
me. “You see, I am rather strong. 
» 
man!” exclaimed Sir Maurice; “indeed. 
1 1 am astonished! Really, it is quite dis¬ 
concerting to find one’s self first cousin 
to a blacksmith—” 
1 “—fellow!” I added. 
“Fellow!” nodded Sir Maurice. “To 
think of my worthy cousin reduced to 
laboring with hammer and saw— ” 
“Not a saw,” I put in. 
“We will say, chisel, then—a Vibart 
with hammer and chisel! Most distress¬ 
ing! and, you will pardon my saying so, 
you do not seem to thrive on hammers 
and chisels; no one could say you looked 
wd uou 
sfoes /yafe a 
31 
ih ’Vjq 
t)\V 
28 07 18 
T HE final Blot-out, printed last week, concealed the following animals; 
Turtle, rabbit, mouse, rooster, goose, pig, fish, elephant, frog, bee and cat. 
This week we start the Daffydilly Dots, which will amuse the entire family. 
Start at Dot No. 1, draw slowly! through all of them in sequence and you will 
have the answer to the incomplete question. 
rage seemed suddenly to possess him," the 
languid, smiling gentleman became a 
devil with vicious eyes and evil, snarling 
mouth, whose fingers sank into my flesh. 
“You love her?—you?” he panted. 
“Yes,” I answered, flinging him off so 
that he staggered; “yes! I -who fought 
for her once, and am willing —most will¬ 
ing, to do so again, now or at any other 
time, for, though I hold no hope of win¬ 
ning her—yet I can serve her still, and 
protect her from the pollution of your 
presence,” and I clenched my fists. 
she will never be 
beyond my reach until she is dead—or 
I am—perhaps not even then.” 
“Cousin Maurice,” said I, “wherever 
your fortune, but leave Charmian Brown 
said he, frowning sud- 
H E stood poised as though about 
to spring at me, but, all at once, he 
laughed lightly, easily as ever. 
“A very perfect, gentle knight!” he 
murmured, “though somewhat grimy 
and in a leather apron. Chivalry kneeling 
amid hammers and horseshoes, worship¬ 
ing her with a reverence distant and 
lowly ! How like you, worthy cousin, how 
very like you. and how affecting! But” 
—and here his nostrils quivered again— 
“but I tell you—she is mine and no man 
living shall come between us.” 
“That,” said I, “that remains to be 
seen: 
‘Ha?” 
‘Though, indeed, I think she is safe 
from you while I live.” 
Sir Maurice strolled to the. door, and, 
being there, paused, and looked back over 
his shoulder. ■, 
“I go to find Charmian,” said he, “and 
I shall find her—sooner or later, and, 
when I do, should you take it upon your¬ 
self to—come between us again, I shall— 
kill you, worthy cousin, without the least 
compunction. If you think this sufficient 
warning—act upon it, if not— ” He 
shrugged his shoulders significantly. 
“Farewell, good and worthy Cousin 
Peter, farewell!—or shall we say — ‘au 
revoir ? 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
HOW I WENT DOWN INTO THE SHADOWS 
denly, “whence this solicitude on her 
behalf? What is she to you—this Char¬ 
mian Brown?” 
“Nothing,” I answered hurriedly, 
“nothing at all—nor ever can be—” Sir 
Maurice leaned suddenly forward, and 
peered into my face. 
“By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “the 
fellow actually loves her!” 
P ETER,” said George, one evening, 
turning to me with a troubled look, 
“what be -wrong wi’ you, my chap? You 
be growing paler every day. Oh, Peter! 
if’t is any o’ my doin’—” 
“Nonsense, George!” I broke in with 
sudden asperity, “I am well enough!” 
“An’ you be silent an’ don’t seem to 
’ear when spoke to, an’ short in your 
temper. Oh, man, Peter!” he cried, 
turning his back upon me suddenly, “you 
as I’d let walk over me—if it be me as 
done it— ” 
“No, no, George—it wasn’t you— of 
course not. If I am a little strange, it is 
probably only due to lack of sleep.' 
“ Y’e, see, Peter, I tried so ’ard to kill 
’ee, an’ you said yourself as I come nigh 
doin’ it— ” 
“But then you didn’t quite manage 
it,” I cried harshly. “I am alive, and 
there’s an end of it.” 
“’Twere a woundy blow I give ee 
that last one! I’ll never forget the look 
o’ your face as you went down. Oh, 
Peter! you’ve never been the same since 
—it be all my doin’—I know it.” 
“Never think of it, George,” I said, 
laying my arm across his shoulders. 1 
am all right, well and strong; it is only 
sleep that I need, George, only sleep. 
Upon the still evening air rose the 
sharp tap, tap of the Ancient’s stick, 
whereat up started the smith, and began 
raking out the fire as the old man hobbled 
up, saluting us cheerily as he came. 
“Lord!” he exclaimed, pausing in the 
doorway to lean upon his stick an 
glance from one to the other of us v it 1 
his quick, bright eyes. “Lord! there 
bean’t two other such fine, up-standm 
chaps in all the South Country as jou 
two chaps—no, nor such smiths! it n 
warm my old ’eart to look at ee. ‘ u 1 
me in mind o’ -what I were myself ages 
(Continued on page 483) 
