The Broad Highway

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Etext prepared by Polly Stratton and Andrew Sly

The Broad Highway

by Jeffery Farnol

To
Shirley Byron Jevons
The friend of my boyish ambitions
This book is dedicated
As a mark of my gratitude, affection and esteem

J. F.

ANTE SCRIPTUM

As I sat of an early summer morning in the shade of a tree,
eating fried bacon with a tinker, the thought came to me that I
might some day write a book of my own: a book that should treat
of the roads and by-roads, of trees, and wind in lonely places,
of rapid brooks and lazy streams, of the glory of dawn, the glow
of evening, and the purple solitude of night; a book of wayside
inns and sequestered taverns; a book of country things and ways
and people. And the thought pleased me much.

"But," objected the Tinker, for I had spoken my thought aloud,
"trees and suchlike don't sound very interestin'--leastways--not
in a book, for after all a tree's only a tree and an inn, an inn;
no, you must tell of other things as well."

"Yes," said I, a little damped, "to be sure there is a highwayman--"

"Come, that's better!" said the Tinker encouragingly.

"Then," I went on, ticking off each item on my fingers, "come Tom
Cragg, the pugilist--"

"Better and better!" nodded the Tinker.

"--a one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a
lonely tavern, a flight through woods at midnight pursued by
desperate villains, and--a most extraordinary tinker. So far so
good, I think, and it all sounds adventurous enough."

"What!" cried the Tinker. "Would you put me in your book then?"

"Assuredly."

"Why then," said the Tinker, "it's true I mends kettles, sharpens
scissors and such, but I likewise peddles books an' nov-els, an'
what's more I reads 'em--so, if you must put me in your book, you
might call me a literary cove."

"A literary cove?" said I.

"Ah!" said the Tinker, "it sounds better--a sight better--besides,
I never read a nov-el with a tinker in it as I remember; they're
generally dooks, or earls, or barronites--nobody wants to read
about a tinker."

"That all depends," said I; "a tinker may be much more
interesting than an earl or even a duke."

The Tinker examined the piece of bacon upon his knifepoint with a
cold and disparaging eye.

"I've read a good many nov-els in my time," said he, shaking his
head, "and I knows what I'm talking of;" here he bolted the
morsel of bacon with much apparent relish. "I've made love to
duchesses, run off with heiresses, and fought dooels--ah! by the
hundred--all between the covers of some book or other and enjoyed
it uncommonly well--especially the dooels. If you can get a
little blood into your book, so much the better; there's nothing
like a little blood in a book--not a great deal, but just enough
to give it a 'tang,' so to speak; if you could kill your
highwayman to start with it would be a very good beginning to
your story."

"I could do that, certainly," said I, "but it would not be
according to fact."

"So much the better," said the Tinker; "who wants facts in a
nov-el?"

"Hum!" said I.

"And then again--"

"What more?" I inquired.

"Love!" said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his
breeches.

"Love?" I repeated.

"And plenty of it," said the Tinker.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," said I, after a moment's
thought.

"How impossible?"

Because I know nothing about love."

"That's a pity," said the Tinker.

"Under the circumstances, it is," said I.

"Not a doubt of it," said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the
frying-pan with a handful of grass, "though to be sure you might
learn; you're young enough."

"Yes, I might learn," said I; "who knows?"

"Ah! who knows?" said the Tinker. And after he had cleansed the
pan to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger
upraised and brow of heavy portent. "Young fellow," said he, "no
man can write a good nov-el without he knows summat about love,
it aren't to be expected--so the sooner you do learn, the better."

"Hum!" said I.

"And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in
a book nowadays, and wot's more they will have it."

"They?" said I.

"The folk as will read your book--after it is written."

"Ah! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback; "I had forgotten
them."

"Forgotten them?" repeated the Tinker, staring.

"Forgotten that people might went to read it--after it is
written."

"But," said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books are written
for people to read, aren't they?"

"Not always," said I.

Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.

"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which
have lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe)
for the pure love of writing them."

"Oh!" said the Tinker.

"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea
of the eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and
marvel at them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts
untrammelled by passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow
creed or popular prejudice."

"Ah?" said the Tinker.

"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success,
for, so soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to
please and hold their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of
mundane things) straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and
leaves him in the mire."

"Poor cove!" said the Tinker. "Young man, you smile, I think?"

"No," said I.

"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us--how then?"

"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."

"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners
of his eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"

Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very
sufficient reason that I found nothing to say.

"Lord love you!" said he at last, seeing me thus "hipped"--"don't
be downhearted--don't be dashed afore you begin; we can't all be
gen'uses--it aren't to be expected, but some on us is a good deal
better than most and that's something arter all. As for your book,
wot you have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then with
plenty of love and you can't go far wrong!"

Now whether the Tinker's theory for the writing of a good novel
be right or wrong, I will not presume to say. But in this book
that lies before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of
country things and ways and people, yet, because that part of my
life herein recorded was a something hard, rough life, you shall
read also of blood; and, because I came, in the end, to love very
greatly, so shall you read of love.

Wherefore, then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have
turned the last page and closed this book, you shall do so with a
sigh.

P. V.

LONDON.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

"'And to my nephew, Maurice Vibart, I bequeath the sum of twenty
thousand pounds in the fervent hope that it may help him to the
devil within the year, or as soon after as may be.'"

Here Mr. Grainger paused in his reading to glance up over the rim
of his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay back in his chair and
laughed loudly. "Gad!" he exclaimed, still chuckling, "I'd give
a hundred pounds if he could have been present to hear that," and
the baronet went off into another roar of merriment.

Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dignified and solemn, coughed a
short, dry cough behind his hand.

"Help him to the devil within the year," repeated Sir Richard,
still chuckling.

"Pray proceed, sir," said I, motioning towards the will.... But
instead of complying, Mr. Grainger laid down the parchment, and
removing his spectacles, began to polish them with a large silk
handkerchief.

"You are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice
Vibart?" he inquired.

"I have never seen him," said I; "all my life has been passed
either at school or the university, but I have frequently heard
mention of him, nevertheless."

"Egad!" cried Sir Richard, "who hasn't heard of Buck Vibart--beat
Ted Jarraway of Swansea in five rounds--drove coach and four down
Whitehall--on sidewalk--ran away with a French marquise while but
a boy of twenty, and shot her husband into the bargain. Devilish
celebrated figure in 'sporting circles,' friend of the Prince
Regent--"

"So I understand," said I.

"Altogether as complete a young blackguard as ever swaggered down
St. James's." Having said which, Sir Richard crossed his legs
and inhaled a pinch of snuff.

"Twenty thousand pounds is a very handsome sum," remarked Mr.
Grainger ponderously and as though more with the intention of
saying something rather than remain silent just then.

"Indeed it is," said I, "and might help a man to the devil as
comfortably as need be, but--"

"Though," pursued Mr. Grainger, "much below his expectations and
sadly inadequate to his present needs, I fear."

"That is most unfortunate," said I, "but--"

"His debts," said Mr. Grainger, busy at his spectacles again,
"his debts are very heavy, I believe."

"Then doubtless some arrangement can be made to--but continue your
reading, I beg," said I.

Mr. Grainger repeated his short, dry cough and taking up the will,
slowly and almost as though unwillingly, cleared his throat and
began as follows:

"'Furthermore, to my nephew, Peter Vibart, cousin to the above, I
will and bequeath my blessing and the sum of ten guineas in cash,
wherewith to purchase a copy of Zeno or any other of the stoic
philosophers he may prefer.'"

Again Mr. Grainger laid down the will, and again he regarded me
over the rim of his spectacles.

"Good God!" cried Sir Richard, leaping to his feet, "the man must
have been mad. Ten guineas--why, it's an insult--damme!--it's an
insult--you'll never take it of course, Peter."

"On the contrary, sir," said I.

"But--ten guineas!" bellowed the baronet; "on my soul now, George
was a cold-blooded fish, but I didn't think even he was capable
of such a despicable trick--no--curse me if I did! Why, it would
have been kinder to have left you nothing at all--but it was like
George--bitter to the end--ten guineas!"

"Is ten guineas," said I, "and when one comes to think of it,
much may be done with ten guineas."

Sir Richard grew purple in the face, but before he could speak,
Mr. Grainger began to read again:

"'Moreover, the sum of five hundred thousand pounds, now vested
in the funds, shall be paid to either Maurice or Peter Vibart
aforesaid, if either shall, within one calendar year, become the
husband of the Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne.'"

"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"'Failing which,'" read Mr. Grainger, "'the said sum, namely,
five hundred thousand pounds, shall be bestowed upon such charity
or charities as the trustees shall select. Signed by me, this
tenth day of April, eighteen hundred and--, GEORGE VIBRART. Duly
witnessed by ADAM PENFLEET, MARTHA TRENT."'

Here Mr. Grainger's voice stopped, and I remember, in the silence
that followed, the parchment crackled very loudly as he folded it
precisely and laid it on the table before him. I remember also
that Sir Richard was swearing vehemently under his breath as he
paced to and fro between me and the window.

"And that is all?" I inquired at last.

"That," said Mr. Grainger, not looking at me now, "is all."

"The Lady Sophia," murmured Sir Richard as if to "himself, "the
Lady Sophia!" And then, stopping suddenly before me in his walk,
"Oh, Peter!" said he, clapping his hand down upon my shoulder,
"oh, Peter, that settles it; you're done for, boy--a crueller
will was never made."

"Marriage!" said I to myself. "Hum!"

"A damnable iniquity," exclaimed Sir Richard, striding up and
down the room again.

"The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne!" said I, rubbing my chin.

"Why, that's just it," roared the baronet; "she's a reigning
toast--most famous beauty in the country, London's mad over
her--she can pick and choose from all the finest gentlemen in
England. Oh, it's 'good-by' to all your hopes of the inheritance,
Peter, and that's the devil of it."

"Sir, I fail to see your argument," said I.

"What?" cried Sir Richard, facing round on me, "d'you think
you'd have a chance with her then?"

"Why not?"

"Without friends, position, of money? Pish, boy! don't I tell
you that every buck and dandy--every mincing macaroni in the
three kingdoms would give his very legs to marry her--either for
her beauty or her fortune?" spluttered the baronet. "And let me
inform you further that she's devilish high and haughty with it
all--they do say she even rebuffed the Prince Regent himself."

"But then, sir, I consider myself a better man than the Prince
Regent," said I.

Sir Richard sank into the nearest chair and stared at me
openmouthed.

"Sir," I continued, "you doubtless set me down as an egoist of
egoists. I freely confess it; so are you, so is Mr. Grainger
yonder, so are we all of us egoists in thinking ourselves as good
as some few of our neighbors and better than a great many."

"Deuce take me!" said Sir Richard.

"Referring to the Lady Sophia, I have heard that she once
galloped her horse up the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral--"

"And down again, Peter," added Sir Richard.

"Also she is said to be possessed of a temper," I continued, "and
is above the average height, I believe, and I have a natural
antipathy to termagants, more especially tall ones."

"Termagant!" cried Sir Richard. "Why, she's the handsomest woman
in London, boy. She's none of your milk-and-watery, meek-mouthed
misses--curse me, no! She's all fire and blood and high mettle--a
woman, sir glorious--divine--damme, sir, a black-browed goddess--a
positive plum!"

"Sir Richard," said I, "should I ever contemplate marriage, which
is most improbable, my wife must be sweet and shy, gentle-eyed and
soft of voice, instead of your bold, strong-armed, horse-galloping
creature; above all, she must be sweet and clinging--"

"Sweet and sticky, oh, the devil! Hark to the boy, Grainger,"
cried Sir Richard, "hark to him--and one glance of the glorious
Sefton's bright eyes--one glance only, Grainger, and he'd be at
her feet--on his knees--on his confounded knees, sir!"

"The question is, how do you propose to maintain yourself in the
future?" said Mr. Grainger at this point; "life under your altered
fortunes must prove necessarily hard, Mr. Peter."

"And yet, sir," I answered, "a fortune with a wife tagged on to
it must prove a very mixed blessing after all; and then again,
there may be a certain amount of satisfaction in stepping into a
dead man's shoes, but I, very foolishly, perhaps, have a hankering
for shoes of my own. Surely there must be some position in life
that I am competent to fill, some position that would maintain me
honorably and well; I flatter myself that my years at Oxford were
not altogether barren of result--"

"By no means," put in Sir Richard; "you won the High Jump,
I believe?"

"Sir, I did," said I; "also 'Throwing the Hammer.'"

"And spent two thousand pounds per annum?" said Sir Richard.

"Sir, I did, but between whiles managed to do fairly well in the
Tripos, to finish a new and original translation of Quintilian,
another of Petronius Arbiter and also a literal rendering into
the English of the Memoirs of the Sieur de Brantome."

"For none of which you have hitherto found a publisher?" inquired
Mr. Grainger.

"Not as yet," said I, "but I have great hopes of my Brantome, as
you are probably aware this is the first time he has ever been
translated into the English."

"Hum!" said Sir Richard, "ha!--and in the meantime what do you
intend to do?"

"On that head I have as yet come to no definite conclusion, sir,"
I answered.

"I have been wondering," began Mr. Grainger, somewhat diffidently,
"if you would care to accept a position in my office. To be sure
the remuneration would be small at first and quite insignificant
in comparison to the income you have been in the receipt of."

"But it would have been money earned," said I, "which is
infinitely preferable to that for which we never turn a hand--at
least, I think so."

"Then you accept?"

"No, sir," said I, "though I am grateful to you, and thank you
most sincerely for your offer, yet I have never felt the least
inclination to the practice of law; where there is no interest
one's work must necessarily suffer, and I have no desire that
your business should be injured by any carelessness of mine."

"What do you think of a private tutorship?"

"It would suit me above all things were it not for the fact that
the genus 'Boy' is the most aggravating of all animals, and that
I am conscious of a certain shortness of temper at times, which
might result in pain to my pupil, loss of dignity to myself, and
general unpleasantness to all concerned--otherwise a private
tutorship would suit most admirably."

Here Sir Richard took another pinch of snuff and sat frowning up
at the ceiling, while Mr. Grainger began tying up that document
which had so altered my prospects. As for me, I crossed to the
window and stood staring out at the evening. Everywhere were trees
tinted by the rosy glow of sunset, trees that stirred sleepily in
the gentle wind, and far away I could see that famous highway,
built and paved for the march of Roman Legions, winding away to
where it vanished over distant Shooter's Hill.

"And pray," said Sir Richard, still frowning at the ceiling,
"what do you propose to do with yourself?"

Now, as I looked out upon this fair evening, I became, of a
sudden, possessed of an overmastering desire, a great longing for
field and meadow and hedgerow, for wood and coppice and shady
stream, for sequestered inns and wide, wind-swept heaths, and
ever the broad highway in front. Thus I answered Sir Richard's
question unhesitatingly, and without turning from the window:

"I shall go, sir, on a walking tour through Kent and Surrey into
Devonshire, and thence probably to Cornwall."

"And with a miserable ten guineas in your pocket? Preposterous
--absurd!" retorted Sir Richard.

"On the contrary, sir," said I, "the more I ponder the project,
the more enamored of it I become."

"And when your money is all gone--how then?"

"I shall turn my hand to some useful employment," said I;
"digging, for instance."

"Digging!" ejaculated Sir Richard, "and you a scholar--and what
is more, a gentleman!"

"My dear Sir Richard," said I, "that all depends upon how you
would define a gentleman. To me he would appear, of late years,
to have degenerated into a creature whose chief end in life is to
spend money he has never earned, to reproduce his species with a
deplorable frequency and promiscuity, habitually to drink more
than is good for him, and, between whiles, to fill in his time
hunting, cock-fighting, or watching entranced while two men pound
each other unrecognizable in the prize ring. Occasionally he has
the good taste to break his neck in the hunting field, or get
himself gloriously shot in a duel, but the generality live on to
a good old age, turn their attention to matters political and,
following the dictates of their class, damn reform with a
whole-hearted fervor equalled only by their rancor."

"Deuce take me!" ejaculated Sir Richard feebly, while Mr. Grainger
buried his face in his pocket-handkerchief.

"To my mind," I ended, "the man who sweats over a spade or follows
the tail of a plough is far nobler and higher in the Scheme of
Things than any of your young 'bloods' driving his coach and four
to Brighton to the danger of all and sundry."

Sir Richard slowly got up out of his chair, staring at me
open-mouthed. "Good God!" he exclaimed at last, "the boy's a
Revolutionary."

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, but, before I could speak,
Mr. Grainger interposed, sedate and solemn as usual:

"Referring to your proposed tour, Mr. Peter, when do you expect
to start?"

"Early to-morrow morning, sir."

"I will not attempt to dissuade you, well knowing the difficulty,"
said he, with a faint smile, "but a letter addressed to me at
Lincoln's Inn will always find me and receive my most earnest
attention." So saying, he rose, bowed, and having shaken my hand,
left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Peter," exclaimed the baronet, striding up and down, "Peter, you
are a fool, sir, a hot-headed, self-sufficient, pragmatical young
fool, sir, curse me!"

"I am sorry you should think so," I answered.

"And," he continued, regarding me with a defiant eye, "I shall
expect you to draw upon me for any sum that--that you may require
for the present--friendship's sake--boyhood and--and all that
sort of thing, and--er--oh, damme, you understand, Peter?"

"Sir Richard," said I, grasping his unwilling hand, "I--I thank
you from the bottom of my heart."

"Pooh, Peter, dammit!" said he, snatching his hand away and
thrusting it hurriedly into his pocket, out of farther reach.

"Thank you, sir," I reiterated; "be sure that should I fall ill or
any unforeseen calamity happen to me, I will most gladly, most
gratefully accept your generous aid in the spirit in which it is
offered, but--"

"But?" exclaimed Sir Richard.

"Until then--"

"Oh, the devil!" said Sir Richard, and ringing the bell ordered
his horse to be brought to the door, and thereafter stood with
his back to the empty fireplace, his fists thrust down into his
pockets, frowning heavily and with a fixed intentness at the
nearest armchair.

Sir Richard Anstruther is tall and broad, ruddy of face, with a
prominent nose and great square chin whose grimness is offset by
a mouth singularly sweet and tender, and the kindly light of blue
eyes; he is in very truth a gentleman. Indeed, as he stood there
in his plain blue coat with its high roll collar and shining
silver buttons, his spotless moleskins and heavy, square-toed
riding boots, he was as fair a type as might be of the English
country gentleman. It is such men as he, who, fearless upon the
littered quarterdecks of reeling battleships, undismayed amid the
smoke and death of stricken fields, their duty well and nobly
done; have turned their feet homewards to pass their latter days
amid their turnips and cabbages, beating their swords into
pruning-hooks, and glad enough to do it.

"Peter," said he suddenly.

"Sir?" said I.

"You never saw your father to remember, did you?"

"No, Sir Richard."

"Nor your mother?"

"Nor my mother."

"Poor boy--poor boy!"

"You knew my mother?"

"Yes, Peter, I knew your mother," said Sir Richard, staring very
hard at the chair again, and I saw that his mouth had grown
wonderfully tender. "Yours has been a very secluded life hitherto,
Peter," he went on after a moment.

"Entirely so," said I, "with the exception of my
never-to-be-forgotten visits to the Hall."

"Ah, yes, I taught you to ride, remember."

"You are associated with every boyish pleasure I ever knew," said
I, laying my hand upon his arm. Sir Richard coughed and grew
suddenly red in the face.

"Why--ah--you see, Peter," he began, picking up his riding whip
and staring at it, "you see your uncle was never very fond of
company at any time, whereas I--"

"Whereas you could always find time to remember the lonely boy
left when all his companions were gone on their holidays--left to
his books and the dreary desolation of the empty schoolhouse, and
echoing cloisters--"

"Pooh!" exclaimed Sir Richard, redder than ever. "Bosh!"

"Do you think I can ever forget the glorious day when you drove
over in your coach and four, and carried me off in triumph, and
how we raced the white-hatted fellow in the tilbury--?"

"And beat him!" added Sir Richard.

"Took off his near wheel on the turn," said I.

"The fool's own fault," said Sir Richard.

"And left him in the ditch, cursing us!" said I.

"Egad, yes, Peter! Oh, but those were fine horses and though I
say it, no better team in the south country. You'll remember the
'off wheeler' broke his leg shortly after and had to be shot,
poor devil."

"And later, at Oxford," I began.

"What now, Peter?" said Sir Richard, frowning darkly.

"Do you remember the bronze vase that used to stand on the
mantelpiece in my study?"

"Bronze vase?" repeated Sir Richard, intent upon his whip again.

"I used to find bank-notes in it after you had visited me,
and when I hid the vase they turned up just the same in most
unexpected places."

"Young fellow--must have money--necessary--now and then,"
muttered Sir Richard.

At this juncture, with a discreet knock, the butler appeared to
announce that Sir Richard's horse was waiting. Hereupon the
baronet, somewhat hastily, caught up his hat and gloves, and I
followed him out of the house and down the steps.

Sir Richard drew on his gloves, thrust his toe into the stirrup,
and then turned to look at me over his arm.

"Peter," said he.

"Sir Richard?" said I.

"Regarding your walking tour--"

"Yes?"

"I think it's all damned tomfoolery!" said Sir Richard. After
saying which he swung himself into the saddle with a lightness
and ease that many younger might have envied.

"I'm sorry for that, sir, because my mind is set upon it."

"With ten guineas in your pocket!"

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