Spikeman was up early the next morning. When they had breakfasted, he
desired Joey to go for the knife-grinder's wheel, and follow him. As
soon as they were clear of the village, Spikeman said, "It will not do
to remain at the village; there's a cottage half a mile down the road
where they once gave me a lodging; we must try if we can get it now."
When they arrived at the cottage, Spikeman made a very satisfactory
bargain for board and lodging for a few days, stating that they charged
so much at the village alehouse that he could not afford to stay there,
and that he expected to have a good job at Squire Mathews's, up at the
mansion-house. As soon as this arrangement was completed, they returned
back to the copse near to the mansion-house, Joey rolling the
knife-grinder's wheel.
"You see, Joey," said Spikeman, "the first thing necessary will be to
stimulate curiosity; we may have to wait a day or two before the
opportunity may occur; but, if necessary, I will wait a month. That
Miss Mathews will very often be found on the seat by the copse, either
alone or with her cousin, I take to be certain, as all ladies have their
favourite retreats. I do not intend that they should see me yet; I must
make an impression first. Now, leave the wheel on the outside, and come
with me: do not speak."
As soon as they were in the copse, Spikeman reconnoitred very carefully,
to ascertain if either of the young ladies were on the bench, and
finding no one there, he returned to Joey.
"They cannot come without our hearing their footsteps," said Spikeman;
"so now we must wait here patiently."
Spikeman threw himself down on the turf in front of the copse, and Joey
followed his example.
"Come, Joey, we may as well read a little to pass away the time; I have
brought two volumes of Byron with me."
For half an hour they were thus occupied, when they heard the voice of
Miss Mathews singing as before as she came down the walk. Spikeman rose
and peeped through the foliage. "She is alone," said he, "which is just
what I wished. Now, Joey, I am going to read to you aloud." Spikeman
then began to read in the masterly style which we have before referred
to:--
"`I loved, and was beloved again;
They tell me, Sir, you never knew
Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true
I shorten all my joys and pain,
To you 'twould seem absurd as vain;
But all now are not born to reign,
Or o'er their passions, or as you
There, o'er themselves and nations too,
I am, or rather was, a Prince,
A chief of thousands, and could lead
Them on when each would foremost bleed,
But would not o'er myself
The like control. But to resume:
I loved, and was beloved again;
In sooth it is a happy doom--
But yet where happiness ends in pain.'
"I am afraid that is but too true, my dear boy," said Spikeman, laying
down the book; "Shakespeare has most truly said, `The course of true
love never did run smooth.' Nay, he cannot be said to be original in
that idea, for Horace and most of the Greek and Latin poets have said
much the same thing before him; however, let us go on again--
"`We met in secret, and the hour
Which led me to my lady's bower
Was fiery expectation's dower;
The days and nights were nothing--all
Except the hour which doth recall,
In the long lapse from youth to age,
No other like itself.'
"Do you observe the extreme beauty of that passage?" said Spikeman.
"Yes," said Joey, "it is very beautiful."
"You would more feel the power of it, my dear boy, if you were in love,
but your time is not yet come; but I am afraid we must leave off now,
for I expect letters of consequence by the post, and it is useless, I
fear, waiting here. Come, put the book by, and let us take up the wheel
of my sad fortunes."
Spikeman and Joey rose on their feet. Joey went to the knife-grinder's
wheel, and Spikeman followed him without looking back; he heard a
rustling, nevertheless, among the bushes, which announced to him that
his manoeuvres had succeeded; and, as soon as he was about fifty yards
from the road, he took the wheel from Joey, desiring him to look back,
as if accidentally. Joey did so, and saw Miss Mathews following them
with her eyes.
"That will do," observed Spikeman; "her curiosity is excited, and that
is all I wish."
What Spikeman said was correct. Araminta joined Miss Mathews shortly
after Spikeman and Joey had gone away.
"My dear Araminta," said Melissa, "such an adventure I can hardly credit
my senses."
"Why, what is the matter, dear cousin?"
"Do you see that man and boy, with a knife-grinder's wheel, just in
sight now?"
"Yes, to be sure I do; but what of them? Have they been insolent?"
"Insolent! they never saw me; they had no idea that I was here. I heard
voices as I came down the walk, so I moved softly, and when I gained the
seat, there was somebody reading poetry so beautifully; I never heard
any one read with such correct emphasis and clear pronunciation. And
then he stopped, and talked to the boy about the Greek and Latin poets,
and quoted Shakespeare. There must be some mystery."
"Well, but if there is, what has that to do with the travelling
tinkers?"
"What! why it was the travelling tinker himself; dearest; but he cannot
be a tinker; for I heard him say that he expected letters of
consequence, and no travelling tinker could do that."
"Why, no; I doubt if most of them can read at all."
"Now, I would give my little finger to know who that person is."
"Did you see his face?"
"No; he never turned this way; the boy did when they were some distance
off. It's very strange."
"What was he reading?"
"I don't know; it was very beautiful. I wonder if he will ever come
this way again? If he does--"
"Well, Melissa, and if he does?"
"My scissors want grinding very badly; they won't cut a bit."
"Why, Melissa, you don't mean to fall in love with a tinker?" said
Araminta, laughing.
"He is no tinker, I'm sure; but why is he disguised? I should like to
know."
"Well, but I came out to tell you that your father wants you. Come
along."
The two young ladies then returned to the house, but the mystery of the
morning was broached more than once, and canvassed in every possible
way.
Spikeman, as soon as he had returned to the cottage, took out his
writing materials to concoct an epistle. After some time in correcting,
he made out a fair copy, which he read to Joey.
"`I tremble lest at the first moment you cast your eyes over the page,
you throw it away without deigning to peruse it; and yet there is
nothing in it which could raise a blush on the cheek of a modest
maiden. If it be a crime to have seen you by chance, to have watched
you by stealth, to consider hallowed every spot you visit--nay, more,
if it be a crime to worship at the shrine of beauty and of innocence,
or, to speak more boldly, to adore you--then am I guilty. You will
ask, why I resort to a clandestine step. Simply, because, when I
discovered your name and birth, I felt assured that an ancient feud
between the two families, to which nor you nor I were parties, would
bar an introduction to your father's house. You would ask me who I
am. A gentleman, I trust, by birth and education; a poor one, I
grant; and you have made me poorer, for you have robbed me of more
than wealth--my peace of mind and my happiness. I feel that I am
presumptuous and bold; but forgive me. Your eyes tell me you are too
kind, too good, to give unnecessary pain; and if you knew how much I
have already suffered, you would not oppress further a man who was
happy until he saw you. Pardon me, therefore, my boldness, and excuse
the means I have taken of placing this communication before you.'
"That will do, I think," said Spikeman; "and now, Joey, we will go out
and take a walk, and I will give you your directions."