Part 8

"Start all over again, sir; try to get some honest work an' live straight."

"Do you think you can?"

"I know I can, sir. Ye see, he died in my arms, called me 'is bye Jarge, said 'e were proud of me, 'e did! A man can begin again an' live straight an' square wi' a memory the like o' that to help him."

"Then why not begin to-night?"

He passed a tremulous hand through his silver hair, and stared at me with incredulous eyes.

"Begin--to-night," he half whispered.

"I have an old house among the Kentish hop gardens," I went on; "no one lives there at present except the caretaker, but it is within the bounds of probability that I may go to stay there--some day. Now the gardens need trimming, and I'm very fond of flowers. Do you suppose you could make the place look decent in--say, a month?"

"Sir," he said in a strange, broken voice, "you ain't jokin' with me, are you?"

"I could pay you a pound a week; what do you say?"

He tried to speak, but his lips quivered, and he turned his back upon us very suddenly. I tore a page from my pocket-book and scrawled a hasty note to my caretaker.

"Here is the address," I said, tapping him on the shoulder, "You will find no difficulty. I will write again to-night. You must of course have money to get there and may need to buy a few necessaries besides; here is your first week's wages in advance," and I thrust a sovereign into his hand. He stared down at it with blinking eyes, shuffling awkwardly with his feet, and at that moment his face seemed very worn, and lined, and his hair very grey, yet I had a feeling that I should not regret my quixotic action in the end.

"Sir," he faltered--"sir, do ye mean----?" and stopped.

"I mean that to-night 'the bye Jarge' has a chance to make a new beginning, a chance to become the man his father always thought he would be. Of course, I may be a fool to trust you. That only time will show; but, you see, I had a great respect for old Jasper. And, now that you have the address, you'd better go; stay, though, you must have a hat; folks might wonder--take this," and I handed him my cap.

"Sir, I can't thank ye now, I never can. It--it won't come; but----" With a nervous, awkward gesture he caught my hand, suddenly pressed it to his lips, and was gone down the lane.

Thus it was that old Jasper's "bye Jarge" went out to make a trial of life a second time, and as I watched him striding through the moonlight, his head erect, very different from the shambling creature he had been, it seemed to me that the felon was already ousted by the man.

"I 'specks he forgot all 'bout me!" said the Imp disconsolately.

"No," I answered, shaking my head; "I don't think he will ever forget you, my Imp."

"I s'pose he's awfull' fond of you, Uncle Dick?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then why did he kiss your hand?"

"Oh, well--er--perhaps it is a way he has!"

"He didn't kiss mine," said the Imp.

A door opened and closed very softly, and Lisbeth came towards us down the path, whereupon the Imp immediately "took cover" in the ditch.

"He is dead, Dick!" she said, as I opened the gate. "He died in his son's arms--the George he was always talking about. And oh, Dick, he died trying to sing 'The British Grenadiers.'"

"Poor old Jasper!" I said.

"His son was a convict once, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"It was strange that he should come back as he did--just in time; it almost seems like the hand of Providence, doesn't it, Dick?"

"Yes." Lisbeth was standing with her elbows upon the gate and her chin in her hands, staring up at the moon, and I saw that her eyes were wet with tears.

"Why, where is your cap?" she exclaimed, when at last she condescended to look at me.

"On the head of an escaped convict," I answered.

"Do you mean----"

"The 'bye Jarge,'" I nodded.

"Oh, Dick!"

"Yes, Lisbeth; it was a ridiculous piece of sentiment, I admit. Your law-abiding level-headed citizen would doubtless be highly shocked, not to say scandalised; likewise the Law might get up on its hind legs and kick--quite unpleasantly; but all the same, I did it."

"You were never what one might call--very 'level-headed,' were you, Dick?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"And, do you know, I think that is the very reason why I--good gracious!--what is that?" She pointed toward the shadow of the hedge.

"Merely the Imp," I answered; "but never mind that--tell me what you were going to say--'the very reason why you'--what?"

"Reginald!" said Lisbeth, unheeding my question, "come here, sir!" Very sheepishly the Imp crept forth from the ditch, and coming up beside me, stole his hand into mine, and I put it in my pocket.

"Reginald," she repeated, looking from one to the other of us with that expression which always renews within me the memory of my boyish misdeeds, "why are you not asleep in bed?"

"'Cause I had to go an' feed my outlaw, Auntie Lisbeth."

"And," I put in to create a diversion, "incidentally I've discovered the secret of his 'enormous appetite.' It is explained in three words, to wit, 'the bye Jarge.'"

"Do you mean to say----" began Lisbeth.

"Fed him regularly twice a day," I went on, "and nearly famished himself in the doing of it--you remember the dry-bread incident?"

"Imp!" cried Lisbeth; "Imp!" And she had him next moment in her arms.

"But Uncle Dick gave him a whole sovereign, you know," he began; "an'----"

"I sent him to a certain house, Lisbeth," I said, as her eyes met mine; "an old house that stands not far from the village of Down, in Kent, to prune the roses and things. I should like it to be looking its best when we get there; and----"

"An' my outlaw kissed Uncle Dick's hand," pursued the Imp. "Don't you think he must love him an awful lot?"

"I gave him a month to do it in," I went on; "but a month seems much too long when one comes to consider--what do you think, Lisbeth?"

"I think that I hear the wheels of the dog-cart!" she cried. Sure enough, a moment later Peter hove in view, and great was his astonishment at the sight of "Master Reginald."

"Peter," I said, "Miss Elizabeth has changed her mind, and will walk back with us; and--er--by the way, I understand that Master Reginald purchased a coat, a shirt, and a pair of trousers of you, for which he has already paid a deposit of sixpence. Now, if you will let me know their value----"

"That's hall right, Mr. Brent, sir. Betwixt you and me, sir, they wasn't up to much, nohow, the coat being tightish, sir--tightish--and the trousis uncommon short in the leg for a man o' my hinches, sir."

"Nevertheless," said I, "a coat's a coat, and a pair of trousers are indubitably a pair of trousers, and nothing can alter the fact; so if you will send me a bill some time, I shall be glad."

"Very good, Mr. Brent, sir." Saying which, Peter touched his hat, and turning, drove away.

"Now," I said, as I rejoined Lisbeth and the Imp, "I shall be glad if you will tell me how long it should take for my garden to look fair enough to welcome you?"

"Oh, well, it depends upon the gardener, and the weather, and--and heaps of things," she answered, flashing her dimple at me.

"On the contrary," I retorted, shaking my head, "it depends altogether upon the whim of the most beautiful, tempting----"

"Supposing," sighed Lisbeth, "supposing we talk of fish!"

"You haven't been fishing lately, Uncle Dick," put in the Imp.

"I've had no cause to," I answered; "you see, I am guilty of such things only when life assumes a grey monotony of hue and everything is a flat, dreary desolation. Do you understand, Imp?"

"Not 'zackly--but it sounds fine! Auntie Lisbeth," he said suddenly, as we paused at the Shrubbery gate, "don't you think my outlaw must be very, very fond of Uncle Dick to kiss his hand?"

"Why, of course he must," nodded Lisbeth.

"If," he went on thoughtfully, "if you loved somebody--very much--would you kiss their hand, Auntie Lisbeth?"

"I don't know--of course not!"

"But why not--s'posing their hand was nice an' clean?"

"Oh, well--really, I don't know. Imp, run along to bed, do."

"You'll come and tuck me up, an' kiss me good-night, won't you?"

"To be sure I will," nodded Lisbeth.

"Why, then, I'll go," said the Imp; and with a wave of the hand to me he went.

"Dick," said Lisbeth, staring up at the moon, "it was very unwise of you, to say the least of it, to set a desperate criminal at large."

"I'm afraid it was, Lisbeth; but then I saw there was good in the fellow, you know, and--er----"

"Dick," she said again, and then laughed suddenly, with the dimple in full evidence, "you foolish old Dick--you know you would have done it anyway for the sake of that old man."

"Poor old Jasper!" I said; "I'm really afraid I should." Then a wonderful thing happened; for as I reached out my hand to her, she caught it suddenly in hers, and before I knew, had pressed her lips upon it--and so was gone.

*CHAPTER VII*

*THE BLASTED OAK*

I had quarrelled with Lisbeth; had quarrelled beyond all hope of redemption and forgiveness, desperately, irrevocably, and it had all come about through a handkerchief--Mr. Selwyn's handkerchief.

At a casual glance this may appear all very absurd, not to say petty; but then I have frequently noticed that insignificant things very often serve for the foundation of great; and incidentally quite a surprising number of lives have been ruined by a handkerchief.

The circumstances were briefly these: In the first place, I had received the following letter from the Duchess, which had perturbed me not a little:

"MY DEAR DICK,--I hear that that Agatha Warburton creature has written threatening to cut off our dear Lisbeth with the proverbial shilling unless she complies with her wish and marries Mr. Selwyn within the year. Did you ever know of anything so disgusting?

"If I were Lisbeth, and possessed such a 'creature' for an aunt, I'd see her in Timbuctoo first--I would! But then, I forget the poor child has nothing in the world, and you little more, and 'love in a cottage' is all very well, Dick, up to a certain time. Of course, it is all right in novels, but you are neither of you in a novel, and that is the worst of it. If Providence had seen fit to make me Lisbeth's aunt, now, things might have been very different; but alas! it was not to be. Under the circumstances, the best thing you can do, for her sake and your own, is to turn your back upon Arcadia and try to forget it all as soon as possible in the swirl of London and everyday life.--Yours, CHARLOTTE C.

"P.S.--Of course Romance is dead ages and ages ago; still, it really would be nice if you could manage to run off with her some fine night!"

Thus the fiat had gone forth, the time of waiting was accomplished; to-day Lisbeth must choose between Selwyn and myself.

This thought was in my mind as I strode along the river path, filling me with that strange exhilaration which comes, I suppose, to most of us when we face some climax in our lives.

But now the great question, How would she decide? leaped up and began to haunt me. Because a woman smiles upon a man, he is surely a most prodigious fool to flatter himself that she loves him, therefore. How would she decide? Nay, indeed; what choice had she between affluence and penury? Selwyn was wealthy and favoured by her aunt, Lady Warburton, while as for me, my case was altogether the reverse. And now I called to mind how Lisbeth had always avoided coming to any understanding with me, putting me off on one pretence or another, but always with infinite tact. So Fear came to me, and Doubt began to rear its head; my step grew slower and slower, till, reaching the Shrubbery gate, I leaned there in doubt whether to proceed or not. Summoning up my resolution, however, I went on, turning in the direction of the orchard, where I knew she often sat of a morning to read or make a pretence of sewing.

I had gone but a little way when I caught sight of two distant figures walking slowly across the lawn, and recognised Lisbeth and Mr. Selwyn.

The sight of him here at such a time was decidedly unpleasant, and I hurried on, wondering what could have brought him so early.

Beneath Lisbeth's favourite tree, an ancient apple-tree so gnarled and rugged that it seemed to have spent all its days tying itself into all manner of impossible knots--in the shade of this tree, I say, there was a rustic seat and table, upon which was a work-basket, a book, and a handkerchief. It was a large, decidedly masculine handkerchief, and as my eyes encountered it, by some unfortunate chance I noticed a monogram embroidered in one corner--an extremely neat, precise monogram, with the letters "F.S." I recognised it at once as the property of Mr. Selwyn.

Ordinarily I should have thought nothing of it, but to-day it was different; for there are times in one's life when the most foolish things become pregnant of infinite possibilities; when the veriest trifles assume overwhelming proportions, filling and blotting out the universe.

So it was now, and as I stared down at the handkerchief, the Doubt within me grew suddenly into Certainty.

I was pacing restlessly up and down when I saw Lisbeth approaching; her cheeks seemed more flushed than usual, and her hand trembled as she gave it to me.

"Why, whatever is the matter with you?" she said; "you look so--so strange, Dick."

"I received a letter from the Duchess this morning."

"Did you?"

"Yes; in which she tells me your Aunt has threatened to----"

"Cut me off with a shilling," nodded Lisbeth, crossing over to the table.

"Yes," I said again.

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Dick, stop tramping up and down like a--a caged bear, and sit down--do!"

I obeyed; yet as I did so I saw her with the tail of my eye whip up the handkerchief and tuck it beneath the laces at her bosom.

"Lisbeth," said I, without turning my head, "why hide it--there?"

Her face flushed painfully, her lips quivered, and for a moment she could find no answer; then she tried to laugh it off.

"Because I--I wanted to, I suppose."

"Obviously!" I retorted, and, rising, bowed and turned to go.

"Stay a moment, Dick. I have something to tell you."

"Thank you, but I think I can guess."

"Can you?"

"Oh yes."

"Aren't you just a little bit theatrical, Dick?" Now, as she spoke she drew out Selwyn's handkerchief and began to tie and untie knots in it.

"Dick," she went on--and now she was tracing out Selwyn's monogram with her finger--"you tell me you know that Aunt Agatha has threatened to disinherit me; can you realise what that would mean to me, I wonder?"

"Only in some small part," I answered bitterly; "but it would be awful for you, of course--good-bye to society and all the rest of it--no more ball-gowns or hats and things from Paris, and----"

"And bearing all this in mind," she put in, "and knowing me as you do, perhaps you can make another guess and tell me what I am likely to do under these circumstances?"

Now, had I been anything but a preposterous ass, my answer would have been different; but then I was not myself, and I could not help noticing how tenderly her finger traced out those two letters "F.S.," so I laughed rather brutally and answered--

"Follow the instinct of your sex and stick to the Paris hats and things."

I heard her breath catch, and turning away, she began to flutter the pages of the book upon the table.

"And you were always so clever at guessing, weren't you?" she said after a moment, keeping her face averted.

"At least it has saved your explaining the situation, and you should be thankful for that."

The book slipped suddenly to the ground and lay, all unheeded, and she began to laugh in a strange high key. Wondering, I took a step toward her; but as I did so she fled from me, running toward the house, never stopping or slackening speed, until I had lost sight of her altogether.

Thus the whole miserable business had befallen, dazing me by its very suddenness like a "bolt from the blue." I had returned to the Three Jolly Anglers, determined to follow the advice of the Duchess and return to London by the next train. Yet, after passing a sleepless night, here I was sitting in my old place beneath the alders pretending to fish.

The river was laughing among the reed, just as merrily as ever, bees hummed and butterflies wheeled and hovered--life and the world were very fair. Yet for once I was blind to it all; moreover, my pipe refused to "draw"--pieces of grass, twigs, and my pen-knife were alike unavailing.

So I sat there, brooding upon the fickleness of womankind, as many another has done before me, and many will doubtless do after, alack!

And the sum of my thoughts was this: Lisbeth had deceived me; the hour of trial had found her weak; my idol was only common clay, after all. And yet she had but preferred wealth to comparative poverty, which surely according to all the rules of common sense, had shown her possessed of a wisdom beyond her years. And who was I to sit and grieve over it? Under the same circumstances ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have chosen precisely the same course; but then to me Lisbeth had always seemed the one exempt--the hundredth woman; moreover, there be times when love, unreasoning and illogical, is infinitely more beautiful than this much-vaunted common sense.

This and much more was in my mind as I sat fumbling with my useless pipe and staring with unseeing eyes at the flow of the river. My thoughts, however, were presently interrupted by something soft rubbing against me, and looking down, I beheld Dorothy's fluffy kitten, Louise. Upon my attempting to pick her up, she bounded from me in that remarkable sideways fashion peculiar to her kind, and stood regarding me from a distance, her tail straight up in the air and her mouth opening and shutting without a sound. At length, having given vent to a very feeble attempt at a mew, she zig-zagged to me, and, climbing upon my knee, immediately fell into a purring slumber.

"Hallo, Uncle Dick!--I mean, what ho, Little-John!" cried a voice, and looking over my shoulder carefully, so as not to disturb the balance of "Louise," I beheld the Imp. It needed but a glance at the bow in his hand, the three arrows in his belt, and the feather in his cap, to tell me who he was for the time being.

"How now, Robin?" I inquired.

"I'm a bitter, disappointed man, Uncle Dick!" he answered, putting up a hand to feel if his feather was in place.

"Are you?"

"Yes; the book says that Robin Hood was 'bitter an' disappointed,' an' so am I!"

"Why, how's that?"

The Imp folded his arms and regarded me with a terrific frown.

"It's all the fault of my Auntie Lisbeth!" he said in a tragic voice.

"Sit down, my Imp, and tell me all about it."

"Well," he began, laying aside his "trusty sword," and seating himself at my elbow, "she got awfull' angry with me yesterday, awfull' angry, indeed, and she wouldn't play with me or anything; an' when I tried to be friends with her an' asked her to pretend she was a hippopotamus, 'cause I was a mighty hunter, you know, she just said, 'Reginald, go away an' don't bother me!'"

"You surprise me, Imp!"

"But that's not the worst of it," he continued, shaking his head gloomily; "she didn't come to 'tuck me up' an' kiss me good-night like she always does. I lay awake hours an' hours waiting for her, you know; but she never came, an' so I've left her!"

"Left her!" I repeated.

"For ever an' ever!" he said, nodding a stern brow. "I 'specks she'll be awfull' sorry some day."

"But where shall you go to?"

"I'm thinking of Persia!" he said darkly.

"Oh!"

"It's nice an' far, you know, an' I might meet Aladdin with the wonderful lamp."

"Alas, Imp, I fear not," I answered, shaking my head; "and besides, it will take a long, long time to get there, and where shall you sleep at night?"

The Imp frowned harder than ever, staring straight before him as one who wrestles with some mighty problem; then his brow cleared and he spoke in this wise:

"Henceforth, Uncle Dick, my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an'--an'--wait a minute!" he broke off, and, lugging something from his pocket, disclosed a tattered, paper-covered volume (the Imp's books are always tattered), and hastily turning the pages, paused at a certain paragraph and read as follows:

"'Henceforth my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an' all tyrants shall learn to tremble at my name!' Doesn't that sound fine, Uncle Dick? I tried to get Ben--you know, the gardener's boy--to come an' live in the 'greenwood' with me a bit and help to make 'tyrants' tremble, but he said he was 'fraid his mother might find him some day, an' he wouldn't, so I'm going to make them tremble all by myself, unless you will come an' be Little-John, like you were once before--oh, do!"

Before I could answer, hearing footsteps, I looked round, and my heart leaped, for there was Lisbeth coming down the path.

Her head was drooping, and she walked with a listless air. Now, as I watched I forgot everything but that she looked sad, and troubled, and more beautiful than ever, and that I loved her. Instinctively I rose, lifting my cap. She started, and for the fraction of a second her eyes looked into mine, then she passed serenely on her way. I might have been a stick or stone for all the further notice she bestowed.

Side by side, the Imp and I watched her go, until the last gleam of her white skirt had vanished amid the green. Then he folded his arms and turned to me.

"So be it!" he said, with an air of stern finality; "an' now, what is a 'blasted oak,' please?"

"A blasted oak?" I repeated.

"If you please, Uncle Dick."

"Well, it's an oak-tree that has been struck by lightning."

"Like the one with the 'stickie-out' branches, where I once hid Auntie Lis--Her stockings?"

I nodded, and, sitting down, began to pack up my fishing-rod and things.

"I'm glad of that," pursued the Imp thoughtfully. "Robin Hood was always saying to somebody, 'Hie thee to the blasted oak at midnight!' an' it's nice to have one handy, you know."

I only said "Yes," and sighed.

"'Whence that doleful visage,' Uncle Dick--I mean, Little-John? Is Auntie angry with you, too?"

"Yes," I answered, and sighed again.

"Oh!" said the Imp, staring, "an' do you feel like--like--wait a minute"--and once more he drew out and consulted the tattered volume--"'do you feel like hanging yourself in your sword-belt to the arm of yonder tree?'" he asked eagerly, with his finger upon a certain paragraph.

"Very like it, my Imp."

"Or--or 'hurling yourself from the topmost pinnacle of yon lofty crag?'"

"Yes, Imp; the 'loftier' the better."

"Then you must be in love, like Alan-a-Dale; he was going to hang himself, an' 'hurl himself off the topmost pinnacle,' you know, only Robin Hood said, 'Whence that doleful visage?' an' stopped him--you remember?'

"To be sure," I nodded.

"An' so you are really in love with my Auntie Lis--Her, are you?"

"Yes."

"Is that why she's angry with you?"

"Probably."

The Imp was silent, apparently plunged once more in a profound meditation.

"'Fraid there's something wrong with her," he said at last, shaking his head; "she's always getting angry with everybody 'bout something--you an' me an' Mr. Selwyn----"

"Mr. Selwyn!" I exclaimed. "Imp, what do you mean?"