The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Uncle gave me the letter, but I dare say uncle will tell you all about it, and who the gentleman was.”

“Is your uncle come back?”

“He comes back to-night, madam.”

“You’re sure your uncle did not write the letter?”

“La, miss! uncle write such a letter as that—and to a lady like you—that would be odd.”

“Very odd, indeed!” replied Miss Melissa, who remained a minute or two in thought. “Well, my lad,” said she at last, “I must and will know who has had the boldness to write this letter to me; and as your uncle knows, you will bring him here to-morrow, that I may inquire about it; and let him take care that he tells the truth.”

“Yes, miss; I will tell him as soon as he comes home. I hope you are not angry with me, miss; I did not think there was any harm in putting into the book such a nice clean letter as that.”

“No, I am not angry with you; your uncle is more to blame; I shall expect him to-morrow about this time. You may go now.”

Chapter Thirty Two

In which the Tinker makes Love

Joey made his obeisance, and departed as if he was frightened, Miss Melissa watched him: at last she thought, “Tinker or no tinker? that is the question. No tinker, for a cool hundred, as my father would say; for, no tinker’s boy, no tinker; and that is no tinker’s boy. How clever of him to say that the letter was given him by a gentleman! Now I can send to him to interrogate him, and have an interview without any offence to my feelings; and if he is disguised, as I feel confident that he is, I shall soon discover it.”

Miss Melissa Mathews did not sleep that night; and at the time appointed she was sitting on the bench, with all the assumed dignity of a newly-made magistrate. Spikeman and Joey were not long before they made their appearance. Spikeman was particularly clean and neat, although he took care to wear the outward appearance of a tinker; his hands were, by continual washing in hot water, very white, and he had paid every attention to his person, except in wearing his rough and sullied clothes.

“My boy tells me, miss, that you wish to speak to me,” said Spikeman, assuming the air of a vulgar man.

“I did, friend,” said Melissa, after looking at Spikeman for a few minutes; “a letter has been brought here clandestinely, and your boy confesses that he received it from you; now, I wish to know how you came by it.”

“Boy, go away to a distance,” said Spikeman, very angrily; “if you can’t keep one secret, at all events you shall not hear any more.”

Joey retreated, as had been arranged between them.

“Well, madam, or miss (I suppose miss),” said Spikeman, “that letter was written by a gentleman that loves the very ground you tread upon.”

“And he requested it to be delivered to me?”

“He did, miss; and if you knew, as I do, how he loves you, you would not be surprised at his taking so bold a step.”

“I am surprised at your taking so bold a step, tinker, as to send it by your boy.”

“It was a long while before I would venture, miss; but when he had told me what he did, I really could not help doing so; for I pitied him, and so would you, if you knew all.”

“And pray what did he tell you?”

“He told me, miss,” said Spikeman, who had gradually assumed his own manner of speaking, “that he had ever rejected the thoughts of matrimony—that he rose up every morning thanking Heaven that he was free and independent—that he had scorned the idea of ever being captivated with the charms of a woman; but that one day he had by chance passed down this road, and had heard you singing as you were coming down to repose on this bench. Captivated by your voice, curiosity induced him to conceal himself in the copse behind us, and from thence he had a view of your person: nay, miss he told me more, that he had played the eaves-dropper, and heard all your conversation, free and unconstrained as it was from the supposition that you were alone; he heard you express your sentiments and opinions, and finding that there was on this earth what, in his scepticism, he thought never to exist—youth, beauty, talent, principle, and family, all united in one person—he had bowed at the shrine, and had become a silent and unseen worshipper.”

Spikeman stopped speaking.

“Then it appears that this gentleman, as you style him, has been guilty of the ungentlemanly practice of listening to private conversation—no very great recommendation.”

“Such was not his intention at first; he was seduced to it by you. Do not blame him for that—now that I have seen you, I cannot; but, miss, he told me more. He said that he felt that he was unworthy of you, and had not a competence to offer you, even if he could obtain your favour; that he discovered that there was a cause which prevented his gaining an introduction to your family; in fact, that he was hopeless and despairing. He had hovered near you for a long time, for he could not leave the air you breathed; and, at last, that he had resolved to set his life upon the die and stake the hazard. Could I refuse him, miss? He is of an old family, but not wealthy; he is a gentleman by birth and education, and therefore I did not think I was doing so very wrong in giving him the chance, trifling as it might be. I beg your pardon, madam, if I have offended; and any message you may have to deliver to him, harsh as it may be—nay, even if it should be his death—it shall be faithfully and truly delivered.”

“When shall you see him, Master Tinker?” said Melissa, very gravely.

“In a week he will be here, he said, not before.”

“Considering he is so much in love, he takes his time,” replied Melissa. “Well, Master Tinker, you may tell him from me, that I’ve no answer to give him. It is quite ridiculous, as well as highly improper, that I should receive a letter or answer one from a person whom I never saw. I admit his letter to be respectful, or I should have sent a much harsher message.”

“Your commands shall be obeyed, miss; that is, if you cannot be persuaded to see him for one minute.”

“Most certainly not; I see no gentleman who is not received at my father’s house, and properly presented to me. It may be the custom among people in your station of life, Master Tinker, but not in mine; and as for yourself, I recommend you not to attempt to bring another letter.”

“I must request your pardon for my fault, miss; may I ask, after I have seen the poor young gentleman, am I to report to you what takes place?”

“Yes, if it is to assure me that I shall be no more troubled with his addresses.”

“You shall be obeyed, miss,” continued Spikeman; then, changing his tone and air, he said, “I beg your pardon, have you any knives or scissors to grind?”

“No,” replied Melissa, jumping up from her seat, and walking towards the house to conceal her mirth. Shortly afterwards she turned round to look if Spikeman was gone; he had remained near the seat, with his eyes following her footsteps. “I could love that man,” thought Melissa, as she walked on. “What an eye he has, and what eloquence; I shall run away with a tinker I do believe; but it is my destiny. Why does he say a week—a whole week? But how easy to see through his disguise! He had the stamp of a gentleman upon him. Dear me, I wonder how this is to end! I must not tell Araminta yet; she would be fidgeted out of her wits! How foolish of me! I quite forgot to ask the name of this gentleman. I’ll not forget it next time.”

Chapter Thirty Three

Well done Tinker

“It is beyond my hopes, Joey,” said Spikeman, as they went back to the cottage; “she knows well enough that I was pleading for myself, and not for another, and she has said quite as much as my most sanguine wishes could desire; in fact, she has given me permission to come again, and report the result of her message to the non-existent gentleman, which is equal to an assignation. I have no doubt now I shall ultimately succeed, and I must make my preparations; I told her that I should not be able to deliver her message for a week, and she did not like the delay, that was clear; it will all work in my favour; a week’s expectation will ripen the fruit more than daily meetings. I must leave this to-night; but you may as well stay here, for you can be of no use to me.”

“Where are you going, then?”

“First to Dudstone, to take my money out of the bank; I have a good sum, sufficient to carry me on for many months after her marriage, if I do marry her. I shall change my dress at Dudstone, of course, and then start for London, by mail, and fit myself out with a most fashionable wardrobe and etceteras, come down again to Cobhurst, the town we were in the other day, with my portmanteau, and from thence return here in my tinker’s clothes to resume operations. You must not go near her during my absence.”

“Certainly not; shall I go out at all?”

“No, not with the wheel; you might meet her on the road, and she would be putting questions to you.”

That evening Spikeman set off; and was absent for five days, when he again made his appearance early in the morning. Joey had remained almost altogether indoors, and had taken that opportunity of writing to Mary. He wrote on the day after Spikeman’s departure, as it would give ample time for an answer before his return; but Joey received no reply to his letter.

“I am all prepared now, my boy,” said Spikeman, whose appearance was considerably improved by the various little personal arrangements which he had gone through during the time he was in London. “I have my money in my pockets, my portmanteau at Cobhurst, and now it depends upon the rapidity of my success when the day is to come that I make the knife-grinder’s wheel over to you. I will go down now, but without you this time.”

Spikeman set off with his wheel, and soon arrived at the usual place of meeting; Miss Mathews, from the window, had perceived him coming down the road; she waited a quarter of an hour before she made her appearance; had not she had her eyes on the hands of the time-piece, and knew that it was only a quarter of an hour, she could have sworn that it had been two hours at least. Poor girl! she had, during this week, run over every circumstance connected with the meeting at least a thousand times; every word that had been exchanged had been engraven on her memory, and, without her knowledge almost, her heart had imperceptibly received the impression. She walked down, reading her book very attentively, until she arrived at the bench.

“Any knives or scissors to grind, ma’am?” asked Spikeman, respectfully coming forward.

“You here again, Master Tinker! Why, I had quite forgot all about you.”

(Heaven preserve us! how innocent girls will sometimes tell fibs out of modesty.)

“It were well for others, Miss Mathews, if their memory were equally treacherous,” rejoined Spikeman.

“And why so, pray?”