The Broad Highway | Page 7

to flourish his whip to me ere he galloped out of
sight.
CHAPTER II
I SET OUT
The clock of the square-towered Norman church, a mile away, was
striking the hour of four as I let myself out into the morning. It was
dark as yet, and chilly, but in the east was already a faint glimmer of
dawn. Reaching the stables, I paused with my hand on the door-hasp,
listening to the hiss, hissing that told me Adam, the groom, was already
at work within. As I entered he looked up from the saddle he was
polishing and touched his forehead with a grimy forefinger.
"You be early abroad, Mr. Peter."
"Yes," said I. "I wish to be on Shooter's Hill at sunrise; but first I came
to say 'good-by' to 'Wings.'"
"To be sure, sir," nodded Adam, picking up his lanthorn.
Upon the ensuing interview I will not dwell; it was affecting both to her
and to myself, for we were mutually attached.
"Sir," said Adam, when at last the stable door had closed behind us,

"that there mare knows as you're a-leaving her."
"I think she does, Adam."
"'Osses be wonderful wise, sir!"
"Yes, Adam."
"This is a bad day for Wings, sir--and all of us, for that matter."
"I hope not, Adam."
"You be a-going away, they tell me, sir?"
"Yes, going away," I nodded.
"Wonder what'll become o' the mare, sir?"
"Ah, yes, I wonder," said I.
"Everything to be sold under the will, I think, sir?"
"Everything, Adam."
"Excuse me, sir," said he, knuckling his forehead, "you won't be
wanting ever a groom, will you?"
"No, Adam," I answered, shaking my head, "I sha'n't be wanting a
groom."
"Nor yet a body servant, sir?"
"No, Adam, nor yet a body servant."
Here there ensued a silence during which Adam knuckled his right
temple again and I tightened the buckle of my knapsack.
"I think, Adam," said I, "I think it is going to be a fine day."

"Yes, sir."
"Good-by, Adam!" said I, and held out my hand.
"Good-by, sir." And, having shaken my hand, he turned and went back
into the stable.
So I set off, walking beneath an avenue of trees looming up gigantic on
either hand. At the end was the lodge and, ere I opened the gates--for
John, the lodgekeeper, was not yet astir--ere I opened the gates, I say, I
paused for one last look at the house that had been all the home I had
ever known since I could remember. As I stood thus, with my eyes
upon the indistinct mass, I presently distinguished a figure running
towards me and, as he came up, recognized Adam.
"It ain't much, sir, but it's all I 'ave," said he, and thrust a short, thick,
well-smoked clay pipe into my hand--a pipe that was fashioned to the
shape of a negro's head. "It's a good pipe, sir," he went on, "a mortal
good pipe, and as sweet as a nut!" saying which, he turned about and
ran off, leaving me standing there with his parting gift in my hand.
And having put the pipe into an inner pocket, I opened the gate and
started off at a good pace along the broad highway.
It was a bleak, desolate world that lay about me, a world of shadows
and a white, low-lying mist that filled every hollow and swathed hedge
and tree; a lowering earth and a frowning heaven infinitely depressing.
But the eastern sky was clear with an ever-growing brightness; hope lay
there, so, as I walked, I kept my eyes towards the east.
Being come at last to that eminence which is called Shooter's Hill, I sat
down upon a bank beside the way and turned to look back upon the
wonderful city. And as I watched, the pearly east changed little by little,
to a varying pink, which in turn slowly gave place to reds and yellows,
until up came the sun in all his majesty, gilding vane and weathercock
upon a hundred spires and steeples, and making a glory of the river. Far
away upon the white riband of road that led across Blackheath, a chaise
was crawling, but save for that the world seemed deserted.

I sat thus a great while gazing upon the city and marvelling at the
greatness of it.
"Truly," said I to myself, "nowhere in the whole world is there such
another city as London!" And presently I sighed and, rising, set my
back to the city and went on down the hill.
Yes--the sun was up at last, and at his advent the mists rolled up and
vanished, the birds awoke in brake and thicket and, lifting their voices,
sang together, a song of universal praise. Bushes rustled, trees
whispered, while from every leaf