The Broad Highway

"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 foreboding. But I

never thought of the omen of the knife that had once fallen and

quivered in the floor between us.

"'Twere 'is 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, 'Simon,' says 'e, quiet like, 'I be

done for at last, lad--this poor old feyther o' yourn'll never go

a-climbin' up these stairs no more,' says 'e--'never--no--more.'"

After this Simon fell silent, and I likewise, until we reached

the village. Before "The Bull" was a group who talked with

hushed voices and grave faces; even Old Amos grinned no more.

The old man lay in his great four-post bed, propped up with

pillows, and with Prue beside him, to smooth his silver hair with

tender fingers, and Black George towering in the shade of the

bed-curtains, like a grieving giant.

"'Ere I be, Peter," said the old man, beckoning me feebly with

his hand, "'ere I be--at the partin' o' the ways, an' wi' summ'at

gone wrong wi' my innards! When a man gets so old as I be, 'is

innards be like glass, Peter, like glass--an' apt to fly all to

pieces if 'e goes a-slippin' an' a-slidin' downstairs, like me."

"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

--Black Jarge were nought to me--a cart 'orse I were."

"Yes," said I, "yes," and stooped my head lower over the feeble

old hand.

"But arter all, Peter, bulls pass away, an' lions, an' cart

'orses lose their teeth, 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?"