The Broad Highway

"Is she so very pretty, Peter?"

I stared up at the moon without answering.

"I wonder if you bother her with your Epictetus and--and

dry-as-dust quotations?"

I bit my lips and stared up at the moon.

"Or perhaps she likes your musty books and philosophy?"

But presently, finding that I would not speak, Charmian began to

sing, very sweet and low, as if to herself, yet, when I chanced

to glance towards her, I found her mocking eyes still watching

me. Now the words of her song were these: "O, my luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June;

O, my luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune."

And so, at last, unable to bear it any longer, I rose and, taking

my candle, went into my room and closed the door. But I had been

there scarcely five minutes when Charmian knocked.

"Oh, Peter! I wish to speak to you--please." Obediently I opened

the door.

"What is it, Charmian?"

"You dropped this from your pocket when you took out your

tinder-box so clumsily!" said she, holding towards me a crumpled

paper. And looking down at it, I saw that it was Black George's

letter to Prudence.

Now, as I took it from her, I noticed that her hand trembled,

while in her eyes I read fear and trouble; and seeing this, I

was, for a moment, unwontedly glad, and then wondered at myself.

"You--did not read it--of course?" said I, well knowing that she

had.

"Yes, Peter--it lay open, and--"

"Then," said I, speaking my thought aloud, "you know that she

loves George."

"He means you harm," said she, speaking with her head averted,

"and, if he killed you--"

"I should be spared a deal of sorrow, and--and mortification,

and--other people would be no longer bothered by Epictetus and

dry-as-dust quotations." She turned suddenly, and, crossing to

the open doorway, stood leaning there. "But, indeed," I went on

hurriedly, "there is no chance of such a thing happening--not the

remotest. Black George's bark is a thousand times worse than his

bite; this letter means nothing, and--er--nothing at all," I

ended, somewhat lamely, for she had turned and was looking at me

over her shoulder.

"If he has to 'wait and wait, and follow you and follow you'?"

said she, in the same low tone.

"Those are merely the words of a half-mad pedler," said I.

"'And your blood will go soaking, and soaking into the grass'!"