“Yes!”
“Must you go?”
“Yes.”
“Will you promise to come back some day - soon?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“On your honour?”
“On my honour!” I repeated, and in my turn I obediently kissed his extended sword-hilt.
“Are you going to-night, Uncle Dick?”
“I start very early in the morning, so you see we had better say ‘good-bye’ now, my Imp.”
“Oh!” he said, and stared away down the river. Now, in the button-hole of my coat there hung a fading rosebud which Lisbeth had given me two days ago, and acting on impulse, I took it out.
“Imp,” I said, “when you get back, I want you to give this to your Auntie Lisbeth and say - er - never mind, just give it to her, will you?”
“Yes, Uncle Dick,” he said, taking it from me, but keeping his face turned away.
“And now good-bye, Imp!”
“Good-bye!” he answered, still without looking at me.
“Won’t you shake hands?”
He thrust out a grimy little palm, and as I clasped it I saw a big tear roll down his cheek.
“You’ll come back soon - very soon - Uncle Dick?”
“Yes, I’ll come back, my Imp.”
“So - help you - Sam?”
“So help me Sam!”
And thus it was we parted, the Imp and I, beneath the “blasted oak,” and I know my heart was strangely heavy as I turned away and left him.
After I had gone some distance I paused to look back. He still stood where I had left him, but his face was hidden in his arms as he leaned sobbing against the twisted trunk of the great tree.
All the way to the ‘Three Jolly Anglers’ and during the rest of the evening the thought of the little desolate figure haunted me, so much so that, having sent away my dinner untasted, I took pen and ink and wrote him a letter, enclosing with it my penknife, which I had often seen him regard with “the eye of desire,” despite the blade he had broken upon a certain memorable occasion. This done, I became possessed of a determination to send some message to Lisbeth also - just a few brief words which should yet reveal to her something of the thoughts I bore her ere I passed ut of her life forever.
For over an hour I sat there, chewing the stem of my useless pipe and racking my bran, but the “few brief words” obstinately refused to come. Nine o’clock chimed mournfully from the Norman tower of the church hard by, yet still my pen was idle and the paper before me blank; also I became conscious of a tapping somewhere close at hand, now stopping, now beginning again, whose wearisome iteration so irritated my fractious nerves that I flung down my pen and rose.
The noise seemed to come from the vicinity of the window. Crossing to it, therefore, I flung the casement suddenly open, and found myself staring into a round face, in which were set two very round eyes and a button of a nose, the whole surmounted by a shock of red hair.
“‘Allo, Mr. Uncle Dick!”
It needed but this and a second glance at the round face to assure me that it pertained to Ben, the gardener’s boy.
“What, my noble Benjamin?” I exclaimed.
“No, it’s me!” answered the redoubtable Ben. “‘E said I was to give you this an’ tell you, ‘Life an’ death!’” As he spoke he held out a roll of paper tied about the middle with a boot lace; which done, the round head grinned, nodded, and disappeared from my ken. Unwinding the boot lace, I spread out the paper and read the following words, scrawled in pencil:
Hi the to the Blasted Oke and all will be forgiven. Come back to your luving frends and bigones shall be bigones. Look to the hole in the trunk there of. Sined, ROBIN, Outlaw and Knight.
P.S. I mean where i hid her stockings - you no.
I stood for some time with this truly mysterious document in my hand, in two minds what to do about it; if I went, the chances were that I should run against the Imp, and there would be a second leave-taking, which in my present mood I had small taste for. On the other hand, there was a possibility that something might have transpired which I should do well to know.
And yet what more could transpire? Lisbeth had made her choice, my dream was over, to-morrow I should return to London - and there was an end of it all; still -
In this pitiful state of vacillation I remained for some time, but in the end curiosity and a fugitive hope gained the day, and taking my cap, I sallied forth.
It was, as Stevenson would say, “a wonderful night of stars,” and the air was full of their soft, quivering light, for the moon was late and had not risen as yet. As I stepped from the inn door, somebody in the tap-room struck up “Tom Bowling” in a rough but not unmusical voice; and the plaintive melody seemed somehow to become part of the night.
Truly, my feet trod a path of “faerie,” carpeted with soft mosses, a path winding along beside a river of
