The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Is he your father?”

“No, madam, he is my uncle; he is not married.”

“Your uncle. Well, I have a pair of scissors to grind, and I will go for them: you may bring your wheel in here, as I wish to see how you grind.”

“Certainly, miss, with the greatest pleasure.”

Joey brought in his wheel, and observing that Miss Mathews had left her book on the seat, he opened it at the marked page and slipped the letter in; and scarcely had done so, when he perceived Miss Mathews and her cousin coming towards him.

“Here are the scissors; mind you make them cut well.”

“I will do my best, miss,” replied Joey, who immediately set to work.

“Have you been long at this trade?” said Miss Mathews.

“No, miss, not very long.”

“And your uncle, has he been long at it?”

Joey hesitated on purpose. “Why, I really don’t know exactly how long.”

“Why is your uncle not with you?”

“He was obliged to go to town, miss—that is, to a town at some distance from here on business.”

“Why, what business can a tinker have?” inquired Araminta.

“I suppose he wanted some soft solder, miss; he requires a great deal.”

“Can you read and write, boy?” inquired Melissa.

“Me, miss! how should I know how to write and read?” replied Joey, looking up.

“Have you been much about here?”

“Yes, miss, a good deal; uncle seems to like this part; we never were so long before. The scissors are done now, miss, and they will cut very well. Uncle was in hopes of getting some work at the mansion-house when he came back.”

“Can your uncle write and read?”

“I believe he can a little, miss.”

“What do I owe you for the scissors?”

“Nothing, miss, if you please; I had rather not take anything from you.”

“And why not from me?”

“Because I never worked for so pretty a lady before. Wish you good morning, ladies,” said Joey, taking up his wheel and rolling it away.

“Well, Araminta, what do you think now? That’s no knife-grinder’s boy; he is as well-bred and polite as any lad I ever saw.”

“I suspect that he is a little story-teller, saying that he could not write and read,” Araminta replied. “And so do I; what made him in such a hurry to go away?”

“I suppose he did not like our questions. I wonder whether the uncle will come. Well, Melissa, I must not quit your father just now, so I must leave you with your book,” and, so saying, Araminta took her way to the house.

Miss Mathews was in a reverie for some minutes; Joey’s behaviour had puzzled her almost as much as what she had overheard the day before. At last she opened the book, and, to her great astonishment, beheld the letter. She started—looked at it—it was addressed to her. She demurred at first whether she should open it. It must have been put there by the tinker’s boy—it was evidently no tinker’s letter; it must be a love-letter, and she ought not to read it. There was something, however, so very charming in the whole romance of the affair, if it should turn out, as she suspected, that the tinker should prove a gentleman who had fallen in love with her, and had assumed the disguise. Melissa wanted an excuse to herself for opening the letter. At last she said to herself, “Who knows but what it may be a petition from some poor person or other who is in distress? I ought to read it, at all events.”

Had it proved to be a petition, Miss Melissa would have been terribly disappointed. “It certainly is very respectful,” thought Melissa, after she had read it, “but I cannot reply to it; that would never do. There certainly is nothing I can take offence at. It must be the tinker himself, I am sure of that: but still he does not say so. Well, I don’t know, but I feel very anxious as to what this will come to. O, it can come to nothing, for I cannot love a man I have never seen, and I would not admit a stranger to an interview; that’s quite decided. I must show the letter to Araminta. Shall I? I don’t know, she’s so particular, so steady, and would be talking of propriety and prudence; it would vex her so, and put her quite in a fever, she would be so unhappy; no, it would be cruel to say anything to her, she would fret so about it; I won’t tell her, until I think it absolutely necessary. It is a very gentleman-like hand, and elegant language too; but still I’m not going to carry on a secret correspondence with a tinker. It must be the tinker. What an odd thing altogether! What can his name be? An old family quarrel, too. Why, it’s a Romeo and Juliet affair, only Romeo’s a tinker. Well, one mask is as good as another. He acknowledges himself poor, I like that of him, there’s something so honest in it. Well, after all, it will be a little amusement to a poor girl like me, shut up from year’s end to year’s end, with opodeldocs always in my nose; so I will see what the end of it may be,” thought Melissa, rising from her seat to go into the house, and putting the letter into her pocket.

Joey went back to Spikeman and reported progress.

“That’s all I wish, Joey,” said Spikeman; “now you must not go there to-morrow; we must let it work a little; if she is at all interested in the letter, she will be impatient to know more.”

Spikeman was right. Melissa looked up and down the road very often during the next day, and was rather silent during the evening. The second day after, Joey, having received his instructions, set off, with his knife-grinder’s wheel, for the mansion-house. When he went round the copse where the bench was, he found Miss Mathews there.

“I beg your pardon, miss, but do you think there is any work at the house?”

“Come here, sir,” said Melissa, assuming a very dignified air.

“Yes, miss,” said Joey, walking slowly to her.

“Now, tell me the truth, and I will reward you with half-a-crown.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Did you not put this letter in my book the day before yesterday?”

“Letter, miss! what letter?”

“Don’t you deny it, for you know you did; and if you don’t tell me the truth, my father is a magistrate, and I’ll have you punished.”

“I was told not to tell,” replied Joey, pretending to be frightened. “But you must tell; yes, and tell me immediately.”

“I hope you are not angry, miss.”

“No, not if you tell the truth.”

“I don’t exactly know, miss, but a gentleman—”

“What gentleman?”

“A gentleman that came to uncle, miss.”

“A gentleman that came to your uncle; well, go on.”

“I suppose he wrote the letter, but I’m not sure; and uncle gave me the letter to put it where you might see it.”

“Oh, then, a gentleman, you say, gave your uncle this letter, and your uncle gave it to you to bring to me. Is that it?”