Chapter 6

"Yes," nodded Dorothy; "when it's nice and warm and sleepy, like to-day, she takes a book, and a pillow, and a sunshade, and she goes and lies in the old boat under the Water-stairs. There, just look at this naughty Louise!" she broke off, as the kitten scrambled up to her shoulder and stood there, balancing itself very dextrously with curious angular movements of its tail; "that's because she thinks I've forgotten her milk, you know; she's dreadfully impatient, but I suppose I must humour her this once. Good-afternoon!" And, having given me her hand in her demure, old-fashioned way, Dorothy hurried off, the kitten still perched upon her shoulder, its tail jerking spasmodically with her every step.

In a little while I came in view of the Water-stairs, yet although I paused more than once to look about me, I saw no sign of the Imp. Thinking he was most probably 'in ambush' somewhere, I continued my way, whistling an air out of "The Geisha" to attract his notice. Ten minutes or more elapsed, however, without any sign of him, and I was already close to the stairs, when I stopped whistling all at once, and holding my breath, crept forward on tiptoe.

There before me was the old boat, and in it--her cheek upon a crimson cushion and the sun making a glory of her tumbled hair--was Lisbeth--asleep.

Being come as near as I dared for fear of waking her, I sat down, and lighting my pipe, fell to watching her--the up-curving shadow of her lashes, the gleam of teeth between the scarlet of her parted lips, and the soft undulation of her bosom. And from the heavy braids of her hair my glance wandered down to the little tan shoe peeping at me beneath her skirt, and I called to mind how Goethe has said:

'A pretty foot is not only a continual joy, but it is the one element of beauty that defies the assaults of Time.'

Sometimes a butterfly hovered past, a bee filled the air with his drone, or a bird settled for a moment upon the stairs near-by to preen a ruffled feather, while soft and drowsy with distance came the ceaseless roar of the weir.

I do not know how long I had sat thus, supremely content, when I was suddenly aroused by a rustling close at hand.

"Hist!"

I looked up sharply, and beheld a head, a head adorned with sundry feathers, and a face hideously streaked with red and green paint; but there was no mistaking those golden curls--it was the Imp!

"Hist!" he repeated, bringing out the word with a prolonged hiss, and then--before I could even guess at his intention--there was the swift gleam of a knife, a splash of the severed painter, and caught by the tide the old boat swung out, and was adrift.

The Imp stood gazing on his handiwork with wide eyes, and then as I leaped to my feet something in my look seemed to frighten him, for without a word he turned and fled. But all my attention was centred in the boat, which was drifting slowly into mid-stream with Lisbeth still fast asleep. And as I watched its sluggish progress, with a sudden chill I remembered the weir, which foamed and roared only a short half-mile away. If the boat once got drawn into that--!

Now, I am quite aware that under these circumstances the right and proper thing for me to have done, would have been to throw aside my coat, tear off my boots, etc., and "boldly breast the foamy flood." But I did neither, for the simple reason that once within the 'foamy flood' aforesaid, there would have been very little chance of my ever getting out again, for--let me confess the fact with the blush of shame--I am no swimmer.

Yet I was not idle, far otherwise. Having judged the distance between the drifting boat and the bank, I began running along, seeking the thing I wanted. And presently, sure enough, I found it--a great pollard oak, growing upon the edge of the water, that identical tree with the 'stickie-out' branches which has already figured in these narratives as the hiding-place of a certain pair of silk stockings.

Hastily swinging myself up, I got astride the lowest branch, which projected out over the water. I had distanced the boat by some hundred yards, and as I sat there I watched its drift, one minute full of hope, and the next as miserably uncertain. My obvious intention was to crawl out upon the branch until it bent with my weight, and so let myself into, or as near the boat as possible. It was close now, so close that I could see the gleam of Lisbeth's hair and the point of the little tan shoe. With my eyes on this, I writhed my way along the bough, which bent more and more as I neared the end. Here I hung, swaying up and down and to and fro in a highly unpleasant manner, while I waited the crucial moment.

Never upon this whole round earth did anything creep as that boat did. There was a majestic deliberation in its progress that positively maddened me. I remember to have once read an article somewhere upon the "Sensibility of Material Things," or something of the sort, which I had forgotten long since, but as I hung there suspended between heaven and earth, it came back to me with a rush, and I was perfectly certain that, recognising my precarious position, that time-worn, ancient boat checked its speed out of "pure cussedness."

But all things have an end, and so, little by little the blunt bow crept nearer until it was in the very shade of my tree. Grasping the branch, I let myself swing at arm's length; and then I found that I was at least a foot too near the bank. Edging my way, therefore, still further along the branch, I kicked out in a desperate endeavour to reach the boat, and, the bough swaying with me, caught my toe inside the gunwale, drew it under me, and loosing my grasp, was sprawling upon my hands and knees, but safe aboard.

To pick myself up was the work of a moment, yet scarcely had I done so, when Lisbeth opened her eyes, and sitting up, stared about her.

"Why--where am I?" she exclaimed.

"On the river," I answered cheerfully. "Glorious afternoon, Lisbeth, isn't it?"

"How-in-the-world did you get here?" she inquired.

"Well," I answered, "I might say I dropped in as it were." Lisbeth brushed the hair from her temples, and turned to me with an imperious gesture.

"Then please take me back at once," she said.

"I would with pleasure," I returned, "only that you forgot to bring the oars."

"Why, then, we are adrift!" she said, staring at me with frightened eyes, and clasping her hands nervously.

"We are," I nodded; "but, then, it's perfect weather for boating, Lisbeth!" And I began to look about for something that might serve as a paddle. But the stretchers had disappeared long since--the old tub was a sheer hulk, so to speak. An attempt to tear up a floor board resulted only in a broken nail and bleeding fingers; so I presently desisted, and rolling up my sleeves endeavoured to paddle with my hands. But finding this equally futile, I resumed my coat, and took out pipe and tobacco.

"Oh, Dick! is there nothing you can do?" she asked, with a brave attempt to steady the quiver in her voice.

"With your permission, I'll smoke, Lisbeth."

"But the weir!" she cried; "have you forgotten the weir?"

"No," I answered, shaking my head; "it has a way of obtruding itself on one's notice--"

"Oh, it sounds hateful--hateful!" she said with a shiver.

"Like a strong wind among trees!" I nodded, as I filled my pipe. We were approaching a part of the river where it makes a sharp bend to the right; and well I knew what lay beyond--the row of posts, painted white, with the foam and bubble of seething water below. We should round that bend in about ten minutes, I judged; long before then we might see a boat, to be sure; if not--well, if the worst happened, I could but do my best; in the meantime I would smoke a pipe; but I will admit my fingers trembled as I struck a match.

"It sounds horribly close!" said Lisbeth.

"Sound is very deceptive, you know," I answered.

"Only last month a boat went over, and the man was drowned!" shuddered Lisbeth.

"Poor chap!" I said. "Of course it's different at night--the river is awfully deserted then, you know, and--"

"But it happened in broad day light!" said Lisbeth, almost in a whisper. She was sitting half turned from me, her gaze fixed on the bend of the river, and by chance her restless hand had found and begun to fumble with the severed painter.

So we drifted on, watching the gliding banks, while every moment the roar of the weir grew louder and more threatening.

"Dick," she said suddenly, "we can never pass that awful place without oars!" and she began to tie knots in, the rope with fingers that shook pitifully.

"Oh, I don't know!" I returned, with an assumption of ease I was very far from feeling; "and then, of course, we are bound to meet a boat or something--"

"But suppose we don't?"

"Oh, well, we aren't there yet--and er--let's talk of fish."

"Ah, Dick," she cried, "how can you treat the matter so lightly when we may be tossing down there in that awful water so very soon! We can never pass that weir without oars, and you know it, and--and--oh, Dick, why did you do it--how could you have been so mad?"

"Do what?" I inquired, staring.

With a sudden gesture she rose to her knees and fronted me.

"This!" she cried, and held up the severed painter. "It has been cut! Oh, Dick! Dick! how could you be so mad."

"Lisbeth!" I exclaimed, "do you mean to say that you think--"

"I know!" she broke in, and turning away, hid her face in her hands. We were not so very far from the bend now, and seeing this, a sudden inspiration came upon me, by means of which I might prove her mind towards me once and for all; and as she kneeled before me with averted face, I leaned forward and took her hands in mine.

"Lisbeth," I said, "supposing I did cut the boat adrift like a--a fool--endangering your life for a mad, thoughtless whim--could you forgive me?"

For a long moment she remained without answering, then very slowly she raised her head:

"Oh, Dick!" was all she said, but in her eyes I read the wonder of wonders.

"But, Lisbeth," I stammered, "could you still love me--even--even if, through my folly, the worst should happen and we--we--"

"I don't think I shall be so very much afraid, Dick, if you will hold me close like this," she whispered.

The voice of the weir had swelled into a roar by now, yet I paid little heed; for me all fear was swallowed up in a great wondering happiness.

"Dick," she whispered, "you will hold me tight, you will not let me go when--when--"

"Never," I answered; "nothing could ever take you from me now." As I spoke I raised my eyes, and glancing about beheld something which altered the whole aspect of affairs--something which changed tragedy into comedy all in a moment--a boat was coming slowly round the bend.

"Lisbeth, look up!" With a sigh she obeyed, her clasp tightening on mine, and a dreadful expectation in her eyes. Then all at once it was gone, her pale cheeks grew suddenly scarlet, and she slipped from my arms; and thereafter I noticed how very carefully her eyes avoided mine.

The boat came slowly into view, impelled by one who rowed with exactly that amount of splashing which speaks the true-born Cockney. By dint of much exertion and more splashing, he presently ranged alongside in answer to my hail.

"Wo't--a haccident then?" he inquired.

"Something of the sort," I nodded. "Will you be so kind as to tow us to the bank yonder?"

"Hanythink to hoblige!" he grinned, and having made fast the painter, proceeded to splash us to terra-firma. Which done, he grinned again, waved his hat, and splashed upon his way. I made the boat secure and turned to Lisbeth. She was staring away towards the weir.

"Lisbeth," I began.

"I thought just now that--that it was the end!" she said, and shivered.

"And at such times," I added, "one sometimes says things one would not have said under ordinary circumstances. My dear, I quite understand-quite, and I'll try to forget--you needn't fear."

"Do you think you can?" she asked, turning to look at me.

"I can but try," I answered. Now as I spoke I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw the pale ghost of the dimple by her mouth.

We walked back side by side along the river-path, very silently, for the most part, yet more than once I caught her regarding me covertly and with a puzzled air.

"Well?" I said at last, tentatively.

"I was wondering why you did it, Dick? Oh, it was mean! cruel! wicked! How could you?"

"Oh, well"--and I shrugged my shoulders, anathematising the Imp mentally the while.

"If I hadn't noticed that the rope was freshly cut, I should have thought it an accident," she went on.

"Naturally!" I said.

"And then, again, how came you in the boat?"

"To be sure!" I nodded.

"Still, I can scarcely believe that you would willfully jeopardise both our lives--my life!"

"A man who would do such a thing," I exclaimed, carried away by the heat of the moment, "would be a--a--"

"Yes," said Lisbeth quickly, "he would."

"--And utterly beyond the pale of all forgiveness!"

"Yes," said Lisbeth, "of course."

"And," I was beginning again, but meeting her searching glance, stopped. "And you forgave me, Lisbeth," I ended.

"Did I?" she said, with raised brows.

"Didn't you?"

"Not that I remember."

"In the boat?"

"I never said so?"

"Not in words, perhaps, but you implied as much." Lisbeth had the grace to blush.

"Do I understand that I am not forgiven after all?"

"Not until I know why you did such a mad, thoughtless trick," she answered, with that determined set of her chin which I knew so well.

That I should thus shoulder the responsibility for the Imp's misdeeds was ridiculous, and wrong as it was unjust, for if ever boy deserved punishment that boy was the Imp. And yet, probably because he was the Imp, or because of that school-boy honour which forbids "sneaking," and which I carried with me still, I held my peace; seeing which, Lisbeth turned and left me.

I stood where I was, with head bent in an attitude suggestive of innocence, broken hopes, and gentle resignation, but in vain; she never once looked back. Still, martyr though I was, the knowledge that I had immolated myself upon the altar of friendship filled me with a sense of conscious virtue that I found not ill-pleasing. Howbeit, seeing I am but human after all, I sat down and re-filling my pipe, fell once more anathematising the Imp.

"Hist!"

A small shape flittered from behind an adjacent tree, and lo! the subject of my thoughts stood before me.

Imp' I said "come here." He obeyed readily. "When you cut that rope and set your Auntie Lisbeth adrift, you didn't remember the man who was drowned in the weir last month, did you?"

"No!" he answered, staring.

"Of course not," I nodded; "but all the same it is not your fault that your Auntie Lisbeth is not drowned--just as he was."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Imp, and his beloved bow slipped from his nerveless fingers.

"Imp," I went on, "it was a wicked thing to cut that rope, a mean, cruel trick, Don't you think so?"

"I 'specks it was, Uncle Dick."

"Don't you think you ought to be punished?" He nodded. "Very well," I answered, "I'll punish you myself. Go and cut me a nice, straight switch," and I handed him my open penknife. Round-eyed, the Imp obeyed, and for a space there was a prodigious cracking and snapping of sticks. In a little while he returned with three, also the blade of my knife was broken, for which he was profusely apologetic.

"Now," I said as I selected the weapon fittest for the purpose, "I am going to strike you hard on either hand with this stick that is, if you think you deserve it."

"Was Aunt Lisbeth nearly drowned--really?" he inquired.

"Very nearly, and was only saved by a chance."

"All right, Uncle Dick, hit me," he said, and held out his hand. The stick whizzed and fell--once--twice. I saw his face grow scarlet and the tears leap to his eyes, but he uttered no sound.

"Did it hurt very much, my Imp?" I inquired, as I tossed the stick aside. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, while I turned to light my pipe, wasting three matches quite fruitlessly.

"Uncle Dick," he burst out at last, struggling manfully against his sobs, "I--I'm awfull'--sorry--"

"Oh, its all right now, Imp. Shake hands!" Joyfully the little, grimy fingers clasped mine, and from that moment I think there grew up between us a new understanding.

"Why, Imp, my darling, you're crying!" exclaimed a voice, and with a rustle of skirts Lisbeth was down before him on her knees.

"I know I am--'cause I'm awfull' sorry--an' Uncle Dick's whipped my hands--an' I'm glad!"

"Whipped your hands?" cried Lisbeth, clasping him closer, and glaring at me, "Whipped your hands--how dare he! What for?"

"'Cause I cut the rope an' let the boat go away with you, an' you might have been drowned dead in the weir, an' I'm awfull' glad Uncle Dick whipped me."

"O-h-h!" exclaimed Lisbeth, and it was a very long drawn "oh!" indeed.

"I don't know what made me do it," continued the imp. "I 'specks it was my new knife--it was so nice an sharp, you know."

"Well, it's all right now, my Imp," I said, fumbling for a match in a singularly clumsy manner. "If you ask me, I think we are all better friends than ever--or should be. I know I should be fonder of your Auntie Lisbeth even than before, and take greater care of her, if I were you. And--and now take her in to tea, my Imp, and--and see that she has plenty to eat," and lifting my hat I turned away. But Lisbeth was beside me, and her hand was on my arm before I had gone a yard.

"We are having tea in the same old place--under the trees. If you would care to--to--would you?"

"Yes, do--oh do, Uncle Dick!" cried the Imp. "I'll go and tell Jane to set a place for you," and he bounded off.

"I didn't hit him very hard," I said, breaking a somewhat awkward silence; "but you see there are some things a gentleman cannot do. I think he understands now."

"Oh, Dick!" she said very softly; "and to think I could imagine you had done such a thing--you; and to think that you should let me think you had done such a thing--and all to shield that Imp? Oh, Dick! no wonder he is so fond of you. He never talks of any one but you--I grow quite jealous sometimes. But, Dick, how did you get into that boat?"

"By means of a tree with 'stickie-out' branches."

"Do you mean to say--"

"That, as I told you before, I dropped in, as it were."

"But supposing you had slipped?"

"But I didn't."

"And you can't swim a stroke!"

"Not that I know of."

"Oh, Dick! can you ever forgive me?"

"On three conditions."

"Well?"

"First, that you let me remember everything you said to me while we were drifting down to the river."

"That depends, Dick. And the second?"

"The second lies in the fact that not far from the village of Down, in Kent, there stands an old house--a quaint old place that is badly in want of some one to live in it--an old house that is lonely for a woman's sweet presence and gentle, busy hands, Lisbeth!"

"And the third?" she asked very softly.

"Surely you can guess that?"

"No, I can't, and, besides, there's Dorothy coming--and--oh, Dick!"

"Why, Auntie," exclaimed Dorothy, as she came up, "how red you are! I knew you'd get sunburned, lying in that old boat without a parasol! But, then, she will do it, Uncle Dick--oh, she will do it!"

VI

THE OUTLAW

Everybody knew old Jasper Trent, the Crimean Veteran who had helped to beat the "Roosians and the Proosians," and who, so it was rumored, had more wounds upon his worn, bent body than there were months in the year.

The whole village was proud of old Jasper, proud of his age, proud of his wounds, and proud of the medals that shone resplendent upon his shrunken breast.

Any day he might have been seen hobbling along by the river, or pottering among the flowers in his little garden, but oftener still sitting on the bench in the sunshine beside the door of the "Three Jolly Anglers."

Indeed, they made a fitting pair, the worn old soldier and the ancient inn, alike both long behind the times, dreaming of the past, rather than the future; which seemed to me like an invisible bond between them. Thus, when old Jasper fell ill and taking to his bed had it moved opposite the window where he could lie with his eyes upon the battered gables of the inn--I for one could understand the reason.

The Three Jolly Anglers is indeed ancient, its early records long since lost beneath the dust of centuries; yet the years have but served to mellow it. Men have lived and died, nations have waxed and waned, still it stands, all unchanged beside the river, watching the Great Tragedy which we call "Life" with that same look of supreme wisdom, that half-waggish, half-kindly air, which I have already mentioned once before.

I think such inns as this must extend some subtle influence upon those who meet regularly within their walls--these Sons of the Soil, horny-handed, and for the most part grey of head and bent with over much following of the plough. Quiet of voice are they, and profoundly sedate of gesture, while upon their wrinkled brows there sits that spirit of calm content which it is given so few of us to know.

Chief among these, and held in much respect, was old Jasper Trent. Within their circle he had been wont to sit ensconced in his elbow-chair beside the hearth, his by long use and custom, and not to be usurped; and while the smoke rose slowly from their pipe-bowls, and the ale foamed in tankards at their elbows, he would recount some tale of battle and sudden death--now in the freezing trenches before Sebastopol, now upon the blood-stained heights of Inkermann. Yet, and I noticed it was always towards the end of his second tankard, the old man would lose the thread of his story, whatever it might be, and take up the topic of "The Bye Jarge."

I was at first naturally perplexed as to whom he could mean, until Mr. Amos Baggett, the landlord, informed me on the quiet that the "bye Jarge" was none other than old Jasper's only son--a man now some forty years of age--who, though promising well in his youth; had "gone wrong"--and was at that moment serving a long term of imprisonment for burglary; further, that upon the day of his son's conviction old Jasper had had a "stroke," and was never quite the same after, all recollection of the event being completely blotted from his mind, so that he persisted in thinking and speaking of his son as still a boy.

"That bye were a wonder!" he would say, looking round with a kindling eye; "went away to make 'is fortun' 'e did--oh! 'e were a gen'us were that bye Jarge! You, Amos Baggett, were 'e a gen'us or were 'e not."

"'E were!" Mr. Baggett would answer, with a slow nod.

"Look'ee, sir, do'ee see that theer clock?"--and he would point with a bony, tremulous finger--"stopped it were--got sum'mat wrong wi' its inn'ards--wouldn't stir a finger--dead it were! But that bye Jarge 'e see it 'e did--give it a look over 'e did, an' wi' nout but 'is two 'ands set it a-goin' good as ever: You, Silas Madden, you remember as 'e done it wi' 'is two 'ands?"

"'Is two 'ands!" Silas would repeat solemnly.

"An' it's gone ever since!" old Jasper would croak triumphantly. "Oh! 'e were a gen'us were my bye Jarge. 'Ell come a-marchin' back to 'is old feyther, some day, wi' 'is pockets stuffed full o' money an' bank-notes--I knaw--I knaw, old Jasper bean't a fule."

And herewith, lifting up his old, cracked voice, he would strike up "The British Grenadiers," in which the rest would presently join full lustily, waving their long-stemmed pipes in unison.

So the old fellow would sit, singing the praises of his scapegrace son, while his hearers would nod solemn heads, fostering old Jasper's innocent delusion for the sake of his white hairs and the medals upon his breast.