322 
The Broad Highway 
American Agriculturist, May 31, 1924 
By Jeffery Farnol 
(For synopsis of preceding 
“ TT IS—as though the shadow hung over 
-*■ us. I seem to hear Maurice’s threat 
—to come between us—living or—dead. 
I am afraid!” she whispered, clinging to 
me. But, all at once, she was full of self- 
reproaches, calling herself “weak,” and 
“foolish,” and “hysterical”—“though, 
indeed, I was never hysterical before!”— 
and telling me that I must go—that it was 
my duty to go to the “gentle, dying old 
man”—urging me to the door, till, being 
out of the cottage, she must needs fall 
a-trembling once more, and wind her 
arms about my neck. 
“But oh!—you will come back soon— 
very soon, Peter? And we know that 
nothing can ever come between us again 
—never again—my husband.” And, 
with that blessed word, she drew me down 
to her lips, and, turning, fled into the 
cottage. 
I went on slowly up the path to meet 
Simon, and, as I went, my heart was 
heavy, and my mind full of a strange fore¬ 
boding. 
“’Twere ’s snuff-box as done it!” said 
Simon, staring very hard at his horse’s 
ears, as we jogged along the road. “’E 
were a-goin’ upstairs for it, an’ slipped,, ’e 
did. ‘Simon,’ says he, as I lifted of ’im 
in my arms, ‘I be done for at last, lad— 
this poor old feyther o’ yourn'll never go 
a-elimbin’ up these stairs no more,’ says 
’e—‘ never—no—more.’ ” 
After this Simon fell silent, and I like¬ 
wise, until we reached the village. Before 
“The Bull” was a group who talked with 
hushed voices and grave faces. 
installments, see page 523) 
’ave no one to bring you noos no more— 
an’ Peter—” 
“Yes, Ancient?” > 
“Be you quite sure as you aren’t a 
dook?” 
“Quite sure.” 
“Nor a earl?” 
“No, Ancient.” 
“Not even a—barrynet?” 
“No, Ancient.” 
“Ah, well!—you be a man, Peter, an’ 
’tis summ’at to ha’ found a man.” 
And now he feebly beckoned us all 
nearer. 
“Children,” said he, “I be a old an’ 
ancient man—I be goin’ on—my blessin' 
on ye. It be a dark, dark road, but I’ve 
got t’ owd stapil, an’ there—be a light 
beyond—the river.” 
So, the Ancient sighed, and crossed the 
dark River into the Land of Light Eternal. 
CHAPTER XL1I 
HOW SIR MAURICE KEFT HIS WORD 
T HE old man lay in his great four-post 
bed, with Prue beside him, and Black 
George towering in the shade of the bed- 
curtains. 
“’Ere I be, Peter,” said the old man, 
beckoning me feebly with his hand, 
“’ere I be—at the partin’ o’ the ways. 
When a man gets so old as I be, ’is in¬ 
nards be like glass, Peter, like glass.”. 
“Are you in pain?” I asked, clasping 
his shrivelled hand. 
“Jest a twinge, now an’ then, Peter—■ 
but—Lord! that bean’t nothin’ to a man 
the likes o’ me—Peter—” 
“You always were so hale and hearty,” 
I nodded, giving him the usual opening 
he had waited for. 
“Ay, so strong as a bull, that I were! 
like a lion in my youth.” 
“Yes,” said I, and stooped lower over 
the feeble old hand. 
“But arter all, Peter, bulls pass away, 
an’ lions, an’ gets wore out, for ‘all flesh 
is grass’—but iron’s iron, bean’t it, Peter 
—rusts it do, but ’tis iron all the same, 
an’ lasts a man out—even such a ’earty 
chap as I were?” 
“Sometimes,” said I, without looking 
up. 
“So ’ere be I, a-standin’ in the Valley 
o’ the Shadow. ’Tis a darksome road, 
Peter, but I bean’t afeared, an’ there be a 
light beyond Jordan-water. No, I aren’t 
afeared to meet the God as made me. I 
be ready, Peter—only—” 
“Yes, Ancient?” 
“Oh, Peter!—it be that theer old stapil 
—as’ll go on rustin’ away an’ rustin’ away 
arter the old man is laid in the earth, an’ 
forgot about—” 
“No,” said I, slipping my hand into my 
pocket; “no. Ancient—” 
“Peter—Oh, Peter!—do ’ee mean—?” 
“I mean that the staple was tired and 
worn out—just as you are, and so I 
brought it to you,” and I slipped the 
rusty bit of iron into the old man’s 
trembling palm. 
“O Lord—!” he began in a fervent 
voice, “O dear Lord—I got it—th’ owd 
stapil—I be ready to come to Thee, an 
j'yful—j'yful! an’ for this mercy, an’ 
benefit received—blessed be Thy name. 
Amen!” 
He lay very quiet for a while, with the 
broken staple clasped to his breast, and 
his eyes closed. 
“Peter,” said he suddenly, “you won’t 
N IGHT, with a rising moon, and over 
all things a great quietude, a deep, 
deep silence. Air, close and heavy, with¬ 
out a breath to wake the slumbering 
trees. 
And presently, as I went upon my way, 
I forgot the old man sleeping so peace¬ 
fully with the rusty staple clasped to his 
shrunken breast, and thought only of the 
proud woman who had given her life into 
my keeping, and who, henceforth, would 
walk with me, hand in hand, upon this 
Broad Highway. So I strode on, full of a 
deep and abiding joy, because I knew that 
she watched and waited for my coming. 
And presently, reaching the leafy path 
that led steeply down into the Hollow, 
I paused a moment to look about me; but 
the deep silence was all unbroken, save 
for the slumberous song of the brook, that 
stole up to me from the shadows. So I 
began to descend this leafy path, and 
went on to meet that which lay waiting 
for me in the shadows. 
It was dark here among the trees, for 
the moon was low as yet, but, every now 
and then, she sent a kindly ray through 
some opening amid the leaves. 
But all at once I stopped—staring at 
something—a white claw—a hand whose 
fingers, talon-like, had sunk deep and em¬ 
bedded themselves in the turf. And, be¬ 
yond this gleaming hand, was an arm, and 
beyond that again, something that 
bulked across my path. 
I stood looking down at that which lay 
at my feet—so very still; and stooped 
suddenly, and turned it over that I might 
see the face; and, seeing it, started back 
in shuddering horror. For, in those fea¬ 
tures—hideous with blood, stained and 
blackened with powder, I recognized my 
cousin—Sir Maurice Vibart. 
A rustling of leaves—a shuddering 
breath, and, though I did not raise my 
head, I knew that Charmian was there. 
“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, and that 
was all, but, moved by something in her 
tone, I glanced up. Her eyes were wide 
and staring—not at me, but at that which 
lay between us—her face was pallid; even 
her lips had lost their color, and she 
clasped one hand upon her bosom—the 
other was hidden in the folds of her gown 
—hidden as I had seen it once before. 
Wherefore I reached out and caught that 
hidden hand, and drew the weapon from 
her nerveless fingers. She started, shiv¬ 
ered violently, and covered her eyes, 
while I, looking down at the pistol in my 
hand, saw that it had lately been dis¬ 
charged. 
“He has kept his word!” she whis¬ 
pered. 
“Yes, Charmian—he has kept his 
word!” 
“Peter?” she cried w r ith a sudden 
break in her voice; but I went on wdping 
the soot from the pistol-barrel with the 
end of my neckerchief. Then, all at once, 
she w r as beside me, clasping my arm, and 
she w r as pleading w T ith me, her w r ords 
coming in a flood. 
“No, Peter, no—you do not think it— 
you can't—you mustn’t. I was alone— 
waiting for you—and you didn’t come— 
and I was frightened, and full of awful 
fancies. I thought I heard some one— 
creeping round the cottage. Once I 
thought some one peered in at the lattice, 
and once I thought some one tried the 
door. And so—because I was frightened, 
Peter, I took that—and held it in my 
hand. And while I sat there—it seemed 
more than ever—that somebody was 
breathing softly—outside the door. And 
so, Peter, I couldn’t bear it any more—and 
opened the lattice—and fired—in the air. 
And I stood there—sick with fear, be¬ 
cause I knew 7 he had come back to kill you, 
Peter, and I heard another shot—not 
close, but faint, like the snapping of a 
twig—and I ran out—and—oh, Peter! 
you believe, don’t you, Peter?” 
will be all over England; we should b 
caught, and you would have to stand be/ 
side me in a court of justice, and face thj 
shame of it—” 
“Dear love!—it would be my pride 
my pride, Peter, to face them all—to clasp 
this dear hand in mine—” 
“Never!” I cried, clenching my fists; 
“never! You must leave me; no one 
must know Charmian Browm ever existed 
—you must go!” 
“Hush!” she whispered, clasping me 
tighter, “listen—some one is coming! 
Away to the right a light flickered, and a 
voice hailed faintly: 
“Hallo!” 
“Come,” said Charmian, “let us go anc 
meet him.” 
“No, Charmian, no—I must see this 
-alone. You must leave here, to. 
man- 
night—now. Go to Blackheath, to Sir 
Richard Anstruther—he is my friend— 
tell him everything—” 
She w T as down at my feet, and hac 
caught my hand to her bosom. 
“I can’t!” she cried, “I can’t go—anc 
leave you here alone. I have loved you so 
—from the very first. Oh, Peter!—don’t 
send me aw 7 ay from you—it will kill me, 
I think—” 
“Better that than the shame of 
prison!” I exclaimed, and I lifted her 
m 
W HILE she spoke, I had slipped the 
pistol into my pocket, and now I 
held out my hands to her, and drew her 
near, and gazed into the troubled depths 
of her eyes. *. 
“Charmian!” said I, “Charmian—I 
love you! and God forbid that I should 
ever doubt you any more.” 
So, with a sigh, she sank in my embrace, 
her arms crept about my neck, and our 
lips met. But even then in my mind, I 
saw the murderous pistol in her hand—as 
I had seen it months ago. Indeed, it 
seemed that she divined my thought, for 
she drew swiftly back, and looked up at 
me with haggard eyes. 
“Peter?” she whispered, “w 7 hat is it?” 
“Oh, Charmian!” said I, over and over 
again, “I love you—I love you.” And I 
kissed her appealing eyes, and stayed her 
questioning lips wfith my kisses. “I love 
you more than my life—more than honor 
—more than my soul; and, because I 
so love you—to-night you must leave 
me— 
“ Leave you ?—ah no, Peter. I am your 
wife—I must stay w 7 ith you—it is my 
right—my privilege. Let us go away to¬ 
gether, now—anywhere, only let us be 
together—my—husband. ’ ’ 
“Don’t!” I cried. “Do you think it is 
so easy to remain here without you—to 
lose you so very soon? Ah! don’t you see 
—before the week is out, my description 
my arms. “Oh!—I am proud to have 
won such a love as yours—let me try to be 
worthy of it. Good-by, my beloved! ” anc 
so I kissed her, and would have turnec 
away, but her arms clung about me. 
“Oh, Peter!” she sobbed, “if you must 
go, call'me—your wife—just once, Peter. 
The hovering light was much nearer 
now, as I stooped above her cold hands, 
and kissed their trembling fingers. 
“Some day,” said I, “some day, i 
there is a just God in heaven, we shall 
meet again; perhaps soon, perhaps late. 
But now—farewell, oh, beloved wife! 
With a broken cry, she drew my heac 
down upon her breast, and clasped 
there, while her tears mingled with her 
kisses, and so—crying my name, she 
turned, and was lost among the leaves 
CHAPTER XLIII 
HOW I SET OUT TO FACE MY DESTINY 
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Start at Dot No. 1, draw slowly through all of them in sequence and you will 
have the answer to the incomplete question. 
T HE pallid moon shone down pitilessly 
upon the dead, white face that starec 
up at me with the same half-tolerant, half- 
amused contempt that it had worn in life 
the drawn lips seemed to mock me still; so 
that I shivered, and turned to watch the 
oncoming light dance like a will-o’-the- 
wisp among the shadows. Presently it 
stopped, and a voice hailed once more 
“Hallo!” 
“Hallo!” I called back; “this way- 
this way!” In a little while I saw the 
figure of a man whom I at once recognizee 
as the one-time Postilion. 
“So ho!” exclaimed the Postilion as he 
came up, raising his lantern that he 
might view me the better; “it’s you again 
is it?” 
“Yes,” I nodded. 
“Well, I don’t like it,” he grumbled 
“a-meeting in this ’ere ghashly place— no : 
I don’t like it. If I was to ax you where 
my master was, like as not you’d tell me 
’e was—” 
“Here!” said I, and, moving aside, 
pointed to the shadow 7 . 
The Postilion stepped nearer, then stag¬ 
gered blindly backward. 
“Lord!” he whimpered, “Lord love 
me!” and stood, staring. 
“Where is your chaise?” 
“Up yonder—in the lane,” he mum* 
bled. 
“Then help me to carry him there. 
“No, no—I dursn’t touch it—I can t 
“I think you will,” said I, and took the 
pistol from my pocket. 
“Ain’t one enough for to-night? he 
muttered; “put it away—I ll do it put 
it aw 7 ay.” So the Postilion, shivering 
violently, stooped with me above the 
(Continued on page 523) 
’ 4 - ” 
