The Broad Highway | Page 6

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!"
"That, with due economy, should be ample until I can find some means to earn more."
"A fiddlestick, sir--an accursed fiddlestick!" snorted Sir Richard. "How is a boy, an unsophisticated, hot-headed young fool of a boy to earn his own living?"
"Others have done it," I began.
"Pish!" said the baronet.
"And been the better for it in the end."
"Tush!" said the baronet.
"And I have a great desire to see the world from the viewpoint of the multitude."
"Bah!" said the baronet, so forcibly that his mare started; "this comes of your damnable Revolutionary tendencies. Let me tell you, Want is a hard master, and the world a bad place for one who is moneyless and without friends."
"You forget, sir, I shall never be without a friend."
"God knows it, boy," answered Sir Richard, and his hand fell and rested for a moment upon my shoulder. "Peter," said he, very slowly and heavily, "I'm growing old--and I shall never marry--and sometimes, Peter, of an evening I get very lonely and--lonely, Peter." He stopped for a while, gazing away towards the green slopes of distant Shooter's Hill. "Oh, boy!" said he at last, "won't you come to the Hall and help me to spend my money?"
Without answering I reached up and clasped his hand; it was the hand which held his whip, and I noticed how tightly he gripped the handle, and wondered.
"Sir Richard," said I at last, "wherever I go I shall treasure the recollection of this moment, but--"
"But, Peter?"
"But, sir--"
"Oh, dammit!" he exclaimed, and set spurs to his mare. Yet once he turned in his saddle 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,