American Agriculturist, May 24, 1924 
503 
The Broad Highway — By 
Jeffery Farnol 
(For synopsis of preceding installments, see page 505 ) 
W ITH my head in a whirl, I crossed 
to the door, and leaned there awhile, 
staring sightlessly out into the summer 
evening; for it seemed that in this little 
slip of paper lay that which meant life or 
death to me. Then I opened the little 
folded square of paper, and read: 
“Charmian Brown presents” (this 
scratched out). “While you busied your¬ 
self forging horseshoes your cousin, Sir 
Maurice, sought and found me. I do not 
love him, but— Charmian; 
“Farewell.” (This also scored out.) 
Again I stared before me with unseeing 
eyes, but my hands no longer trembled, 
nor did I fear any more; the prisoner had 
received his sentence, and suspense was 
at an end. 
And, all at once, I laughed, and tore the 
paper across, and laughed and laughed, 
till George and the Ancient stared at me. 
“Don't ’ee!” cried the old man; 
“don’t ’ee, Peter—you be like a corp’ 
laughin’; don’t ’ee!” But I tore and tore 
at the paper, and so let the pieces drop and 
flutter from my fingers. 
“There!” said I, “there goes a fool’s 
dream!” So saying, I set off along the 
road, looking neither to right nor left. 
But, when I had gone some distance, I 
found that George walked beside me. 
“George,” said I, stopping, “why do 
you follow me?” 
“I don’t follow ’ee, Peter,” he an¬ 
swered; “I be only wishful to walk wi’ you 
a ways.” 
“I’m in no mood for company, George.” 
“Peter,” he cried suddenly, laying his 
hand upon my shoulder, “don't go back 
to that theer ghashly ’Oiler to-night—” 
“It is the only place in the world for me 
—to-night, George.” And so we went on 
again, and spoke no more until we had 
come to the parting of the ways. 
Down in the Hollow the shadows lay 
black and heavy, and I saw George shiver 
as he looked. 
“No, no!” he cried, throwing his arm 
about me, “not down theer—it be so 
deadly an’ lonely down theer in the dark¬ 
ness. Come back wi’ me—just for to¬ 
night.” But I broke from his detaining 
hand, and plunged on down. 
Being come at last to the cottage, I 
paused, and from that place of shadow's 
lifted my gaze to the luminous heaven, 
where were a myriad eyes that seemed to 
watch me with a new meaning, to-night; 
wherefore I entered the cottage hastily, 
and, closing the door, barred it. 
Then I turned to peer up at that which 
showed above the door—the rusty staple 
upon which a man had choked his life out 
sixty and six years ago. And I began, 
very slowdy, to loosen the neckerchief 
about my throat. 
“Peter!” cried a voice—“Peter!” and a 
hand was beating upon the door. 
CHAPTER XL 
HOW, IN PLACE OF DEATH, I FOUND THE 
FULLNESS OF LIFE 
CHE came in swiftly, closing the door 
^ behind her, found and lighted a can- 
him be; the dross becomes pure gold, and 
she believes and believes until—” 
“Charmian! — what — what do you 
mean?” 
‘Oh, are you still so blind?” she cried, 
lifting her head proudly. “Why did I live 
beside you here in the wilderness? Why 
did I work for you—contrive for you— 
and seek to make this desolation a home 
for you? Often my heart cried out its 
secret to you—but you never heard; often 
it trembled- in my voice—but you never 
guessed— Oh, blind! blind! And you 
drove me from you with shameful words 
—but—I came back to you. And now— 
I know you for but common clay, and— 
even yet—” She stopped, and once more 
hid her face from me in her hands. 
“Charmian!” I cried, “—oh, Char¬ 
mian!” and seized her hands, and, despite 
her resistance, drew' her into my arms, 
and, clasping her close, forced her to look 
at me. “And even yet?—what more— 
tell me!” But, she held me off with both 
hands. 
“ TAON’T!” she cried; “don’t—you 
-L' shame me—let me go!” 
“God knows I am all unworthy, 
Charmian, but''—oh, woman whom I have 
loved from the first, and shall, to the end, 
have you stooped to lift me from these 
depths—is it a new life you offer me—was 
it for this you came to-night?” 
“Let me go—oh, Peter!—let me go.” 
“Why—why did you come?” 
“To meet—Sir Maurice Vibart.” 
“To meet Sir Maurice?” I repeated 
dully. And in that moment she broke 
from me, and stood with her head thrown 
back, and her eyes very bright. 
“He was to meet here—at nine 
o’clock.” 
“Oh, Charmian,” I whispered, “are 
all women so cruel as you, I wonder?” 
And, turning my back upon her, I leaned 
above the mantel, staring down at the 
long-dead ashes on the hearth. 
But, standing there, I heard a footstep 
outside, and sv'ung round with clenched 
fists, yet Charmian was quicker, and, as 
the door opened and Sir Maurice entered, 
she was between us. 
He stood upon the threshold, smiling, 
graceful, debonair as ever. Indeed, his 
very presence seemed to make the mean 
room the meaner by contrast. 
“I lost my way, Charmian,” he began, 
“but, though late, I am none the less 
welcome, I trust? Ah?—you frown. 
Cousin Peter? Quite a ghoulish spot this, 
at night—you probably find it most con¬ 
genial.” And he laughed so that I, finding 
my pipe upon the mantelshelf, began to 
turn it aimlessly round and round in my 
twitching fingers. 
“You have already met, then?” in¬ 
quired Charmian. 
“We had that mutual pleasure nearly a 
week ago,” nodded Sir Maurice, “when 
we agreed to—disagree as we always have 
done.” 
“I had hoped that you might be 
friends.” 
“My dear Charmian—I w'onder at 
you!” he sighed, “so unreasonable. But 
I am not here on Cousin Peter’s account,” 
he went on, drawing a step nearer to her. 
“ I heartily wish him among his hammers 
and chisels. I have come for you, Char¬ 
mian. I have sought you patiently until 
I found you—and I will never forego you. 
But you know all this.” 
“Yes, I know all this.” 
“I have been very patient, Charmian, 
submitting to your whims and fancies— 
but, through it all. I knew, and you knew, 
that you must vield at last; well—let it be 
to-night—” 
“When I ran away from you, in the 
storm. Sir Maurice, I told you, once and 
for all, that I hated you. ” 
“Oh, Charmian! I have known such 
hate transfigured into ldve, before now! 
Come, my chaise is waiting; in a few hours 
we can be in London, or Dover—” 
“I shall remain—here.” 
“Here? In the wilderness?’’ 
“With my—husband.” 
* ‘ Y our—husband ? ’ ’ 
“I am going to marry your cousin— 
Peter Vibart.” 
T HE pipe slipped from my fingers and 
shivered to pieces on the floor, and Sir 
Maurice staggered backwards to the wall. 
He -stood for a moment, with his head 
stooped upon his hands. When he looked 
up his face was dead white, but his voice 
came smooth and unruffled as ever. 
“The Mind Feminine “is given to 
change,” said he softly, “and—I shall 
return. I shall come between you yet— 
I tell you. I’ll come between you—living 
or dead!” 
And he -was gone into the shadows. 
But as for me, I sat down, and, leaning 
my chin in my hand, stared down at the 
broken fragments of my pipe. 
“Peter?” 
“You are safe now,” said I, without 
looking up. “he is gone—but, oh, Char¬ 
mian! was there no other Way — ?” 
She was down beside me on her knees, 
had taken my hand, rough and grimy as 
it was, and pressed it to her lips, and so 
had drawn it about her neck, holding it 
there, and with her face hidden in my 
breast. 
“Oh—strong man that is so weak!” 
she whispered. “Oh—grave philosopher 
that is so foolish! Oh—lonely boy that 
is so helpless! Oh, Peter—my Peter!” 
“Charmian,” said I, trembling, “what 
does it mean?” 
“It means, Peter—” 
“Yes?” 
“That—the Humble Person—” 
“Yes?” 
“Will—marry you—whenever you will 
—if—” 
“Yes?” 
“If you will—only—ask her.” 
CHAPTER XLI 
LIGHT AND SHADOW 
"VTOW, as the little Preacher closed his 
^ book, the sun rose up, filling the 
world about us with his glory. 
And looking into the eyes of my wife, 
it seemed that a veil was lifted, for a mo¬ 
dle, and, setting it upon the table be¬ 
tween us, looked at me while I stood 
mute before her. 
“Coward!” she said, and, with the 
word, snatched the neckerchief from my 
grasp, and, casting it upon the floor, set 
her foot upon it. 
“Yes,” I muttered; “yes, I was lost— 
in a great darkness, and full of horror of 
coming nights and days, and so—I would 
have run away from it all.” 
“Fool!” she whispered. “Oh, fool that 
I dreamed so wise! Oh, coward that 
seemed so brave and strong! Oh, man 
that was so gloriously young and un¬ 
spoiled! That it should come to this.” 
And, though she kept her face hidden, I 
knew that she was weeping. “A woman’s 
love transforms the man till she sees him, 
not as he is, but as her heart would have Start at Dot 1 and draw through them all to get the end of the sentence. 
id you ede.r see j4. ^. * 
2j° ec0 0 
ment, there, and I read that which her 
lips might never tell. 
“See,” said the little Preacher, smiling 
upon us, “it is day and a very glorious 
one. Go forth together, Man and Wife, 
upon this great wide road that we call 
Life; go forth together, made strong in 
Faith, and brave with Hope. Go forth, 
and may His blessing abide with you, and 
the ‘peace that passeth understanding.’” 
Silently we went together, homewards, 
through the dewy morning, with a soft, 
green carpet underfoot, and leafy arches 
overhead, where trees bent to whisper 
benedictions, and shook down jewels from 
their leaves upon us as we passed; by 
merry brooks that laughed and chattered, 
while over all rose the swelling chorus of 
the birds. 
And being come, at length, to the Hol¬ 
low, Charmian must needs pause beside 
the pool among the wdllows. And in this 
mirror our eyes met, and lo! her lashes 
drooped, and she turned her head aside. 
“Don’t, Peter!” she whispered; “don’t 
look at me so.” 
“How may I help it when you are so 
beautiful?” 
And she would have fled from me, but I 
caught her in my arms, and there, amid 
the leaves, for the second time in my life, 
her lips met mine. And I told her how, in 
this shady bower, I had once watched her 
weaving leaves into her hair, and heard 
her talk to her reflection—and so had 
stolen away, for fear of her beauty. 
“Fear, Peter?” 
“ We w'ere so far out of the world, and— 
I longed to kiss you.” 
“And didn’t, Peter?” 
“And didn’t, Charmian, because we 
were so very far from the world, and be¬ 
cause you were so very much alone, 
and—” 
“And because, Peter, because you are a 
gentle man and strong, as the old locket 
says. And do you remember,” she went 
on hurriedly, laying her cool, restraining 
fingers on my eager lips, “how I found 
you wearing that locket, and how you 
blundered and stammered over it, and 
pretended to read your Homer?” 
“And how you called me a ‘creature’?” 
“And how you deserved it, sir—and 
grew more helpless and ill at ease than 
ever, and how—just to flatter my vanity 
—you told me I had ‘glorious hair’?” 
“And so you have,” said I, kissing a 
curl at her temple; “when you unbind it, 
my Charmian, it will cover you—like a 
mantle.” 
She glanced up at me, sudden and shy, 
and Dlushed and slipped from my arms, 
and fled up the path. 
So we presently entered the cottage, 
flushed and panting, and laughing for 
sheer happiness. And now she rolled up 
her sleeves, and set about preparing 
breakfast, laughing my assistance to 
scorn, but growing mightily indignant 
when I would kiss her, yet blushing and 
yielding, nevertheless. And while she 
bustled to and fro she began to sing: 
“‘In Scarlet town, where I was born. 
There was a fair maid dwellin’, 
Made every youth cry Well-a-wayl 
Her name was Barbara Allen.’” 
“Oh, Charmian! how wonderful you 
are!” 
‘“All in the merry month of May, 
When green buds they were swellin’—’” 
“Surely no woman ever had such beau¬ 
tiful arms! so round and soft and white, 
Charmian.” She turned upon me with a 
fork held up admonishinglv, but her eyes 
wavered, and up from throat to brow 
rushed a wave of burning crimson. 
“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, and hid 
her face against my shoulder. 
“Are you content to have married such 
a very poor man—to be the wife of a vil¬ 
lage blacksmith?” 
“Why, Peter—in all the world there 
never was such another blacksmith as 
mine, and—there!—the kettle is boiling 
over—” 
(Continued on page 505 ) 
