The Broad Highway

"Our Pedler has a vivid imagination!" said I lightly. But she

shook her head, and turned to look out upon the beauty of the

night once more, while I watched her, chin in hand.

"I was angry with you to-night, Peter," said she at length,

"because you ordered me to do something against my will--and I

--did it; and so, I tried to torment you--you will forgive me

for that, won't you?"

"There is nothing to forgive, nothing, and--good night, Charmian."

Here she turned, and, coming to me, gave me her hand.

"Charmian Brown will always think of you as a--"

"Blacksmith!" said I.

"As a blacksmith!" she repeated, looking at me with a gleam in

her eyes, "but oftener as a--"

"Pedant!" said I.

"As a pedant!" she repeated obediently, "but most of all as a--"

"Well?" said I.

"As a--man," she ended, speaking with bent head. And here again

I was possessed of a sudden gladness that was out of all reason,

as I immediately told myself.

"Your hand is very small," said I, finding nothing better to say,

"smaller even than I thought."

"Is it?" and she smiled and glanced up at me beneath her lashes,

for her head was still bent.

"And wonderfully smooth and soft!"

"Is it?" said she again, but this time she did not look up at me.

Now another man might have stooped and kissed those slender,

shapely fingers--but, as for me, I loosed them, rather suddenly,

and, once more bidding her good night, re-entered my own chamber,

and closed the door.

But to-night, lying upon my bed, I could not sleep, and fell to

watching the luminous patch of sky framed in my open casement. I

thought of Charmian, of her beauty, of her strange whims and

fancies, her swift-changing moods and her contrariness, comparing

her, in turn, to all those fair women I had ever read of or

dreamed over in my books. Little by little, however, my thoughts

drifted to Gabbing Dick and Black George, and, with my mind's

eye, I could see him as he was (perhaps at this very moment),

fierce-eyed and grim of mouth, sitting beneath some hedgerow,

while, knife in hand, he trimmed and trimmed his two bludgeons,

one of which was to batter the life out of me. From such

disquieting reflections I would turn my mind to sweet-eyed

Prudence, to the Ancient, the forge, and the thousand and one

duties of the morrow. I bethought me, once more, of the storm,

of the coming of Charmian, of the fierce struggle in the dark, of

the Postilion, and of Charmian again. And yet, in despite of me,

my thoughts would revert to George, and I would see myself even

as the Pedler pictured me, out in some secluded corner of the

woods, lying stiffly upon my back with glassy eyes staring up

sightlessly through the whispering leaves above, while my blood

soaked and soaked into the green, and with a blackbird singing

gloriously upon my motionless breast.