"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?"
"I speak of the gentleman to whom you sent the message."
"And what was his reply to you?"
"He acknowledged, Miss Mathews, the madness of his communication to you,
of the impossibility of your giving him an answer, and of your admitting
him to your presence. He admired the prudence of your conduct, but,
unfortunately, his admiration only increased his love. He requested me
to say that he will write no more."
"He has done wisely, and I am satisfied."
"I would I could say as much for him, Miss Mathews; for it is my
opinion, that his very existence is now so bound up with the possession
of you, that if he does not succeed he cannot exist."
"That's not my fault," replied Melissa, with her eyes cast down.
"No, it is not. Still, Miss Mathews, when it is considered that this
man had abjured, I may say, had almost despised women, it is no small
triumph to you, or homage from him, that you have made him feel the
power of your sex."
"It is his just punishment for having despised us."
"Perhaps so; yet if we were all punished for our misdeeds, as
Shakespeare says, who should escape whipping?"
"Pray, Master Tinker, where did you learn to quote Shakespeare?"
"Where I learnt much more. I was not always a travelling tinker."
"So I presumed before this. And pray how came you to be one?"
"Miss Mathews, if the truth must be told, it arose from an unfortunate
attachment."
"I have read in the olden poets that love would turn a god into a man;
but I never heard of its making him a tinker," replied Melissa, smiling.
"The immortal Jove did not hesitate to conceal his thunderbolts when he
deigned to love; and Cupid but too often has recourse to the aid of
Proteus to secure success. We have, therefore, no mean warranty."
"And who was the lady of thy love, good Master Tinker?"
"She was, Miss Mathews, like you in everything. She was as beautiful,
as intelligent, as honest, as proud, and, unfortunately, she was, like
you, as obdurate, which reminds me of the unfortunate gentleman whose
emissary I now am. In his madness he requested me--yes, Miss Mathews,
me a poor tinker--to woo you for him--to say to you all that he would
have said had he been admitted to your presence--to plead for him--to
kneel for him at your feet, and entreat you to have some compassion for
one whose only misfortune was to love--whose only fault was to be poor.
What could I say, Miss Mathews--what could I reply to a person in his
state of desperation? To reason with him, to argue with him, had been
useless; I could only soothe him by making such a promise, provided that
I was permitted to do it. Tell me, Miss Mathews, have I your permission
to make the attempt?"
"First, Mr Tinker, I should wish to know the name of this gentleman."
"I promised not to mention it, Miss Mathews; but I can evade the
promise. I have a book which belongs to him in my pocket, on the inside
of which are the arms of his family, with his father's name underneath
them."
Spikeman presented the book. Melissa read the name, and then laid it on
the bench, without saying a word.
"And now, Miss Mathews, as I have shown you that the gentleman has no
wish to conceal who he is, may I venture to hope that you will permit me
to plead occasionally, when I may see you, in his behalf."
"I know not what to say, Master Tinker. I consider it a measure fraught
with some danger, both to the gentleman and to myself. You have quoted
Shakespeare--allow me now to do the same:--
"`Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the affairs and offices of love,
Therefore all hearts use your own tongues.'
"You observe, Master Tinker, that there is the danger of your pleading
for yourself, and not for your client; and there is also the danger of
my being insensibly moved to listen to the addresses of a tinker. Now,
only reflect upon the awful consequences," continued Melissa, smiling.
"I pledge you my honour, Miss Mathews, that I will only plead for the
person whose name you have read in the book, and that you shall never be
humiliated by the importunities of a mender of pots and pans."
"You pledge the honour of a tinker; what may that be worth?"
"A tinker that has the honour of conversing with Miss Mathews, has an
honour that cannot be too highly appreciated."
"Well, that is very polite for a mender of old kettles; but the
schoolmaster is abroad, which, I presume, accounts for such strange
anomalies as our present conversation. I must now wish you good
morning."
"When may I have the honour of again presenting myself in behalf of the
poor gentleman?"
"I can really make no appointments with tinkers," replied Melissa; "if
you personate that young man, you must be content to wait for days or
months to catch a glimpse of the hem of my garment; to bay the moon and
bless the stars, and I do not know what else. It is, in short, catch me
when you can; and now farewell, good Master Tinker," replied Melissa,
leaving her own book, and taking the one Spikeman had put into her hand,
which she carried with her to the house. It was all up with Miss
Melissa Mathews, that was clear.
We shall pass over a fortnight, during which Spikeman, at first every
other day, and subsequently every day or evening, had a meeting with
Melissa, in every one of which he pleaded his cause in the third person.
Joey began to be very tired of this affair, as he remained idle during
the whole time, when one morning Spikeman told him that he must go down
to the meeting-place without the wheel, and tell Miss Mathews his uncle
the tinker was ill, and not able to come that evening.
Joey received his instructions, and went down immediately. Miss Mathews
was not to be seen, and Joey, to avoid observation, hid himself in the
copse, awaiting her arrival. At last she came, accompanied by Araminta,
her cousin. As soon as they had taken their seats on the bench,
Araminta commenced: "My dear Melissa, I could not speak to you in the
house, on account of your father; but Simpson has told me this morning
that she thought it her duty to state to me that you have been seen, not
only in the day time, but late in the evening, walking and talking with
a strange-looking man. I have thought it very odd that you should not
have mentioned this mysterious person to me lately; but I do think it
most strange that you should have been so imprudent. Now, tell me
everything that has happened, or I must really make it known to your
father."
"And have me locked up for months,--that's very kind of you, Araminta,"
replied Melissa.
"But consider what you have been doing, Melissa. Who is this man?"
"A travelling tinker, who brought me a letter from a gentleman, who has
been so silly as to fall in love with me."
"And what steps have you taken, cousin?"
"Positively refused to receive a letter, or to see the gentleman."
"Then why does the man come again?"
"To know if we have any knives or scissors to grind."
"Come, come, Melissa, this is ridiculous. All the servants are talking
about it; and you know how servants talk. Why do you continue to see
this fellow?"
"Because he amuses me, and it is so stupid of him."
"If that is your only reason, you can have no objection to see him no
more, now that scandal is abroad. Will you promise me that you will
not? Recollect, dear Melissa, how imprudent and how unmaidenly it is."
"Why, you don't think that I am going to elope with a tinker, do you,
cousin?"
"I should think not; nevertheless, a tinker is no companion for Miss
Mathews, dear cousin. Melissa, you have been most imprudent. How far
you have told me the truth I know not; but this I must tell you, if you
do not promise me to give up this disgraceful acquaintance, I will
immediately acquaint my uncle."
"I will not be forced into any promise, Araminta," replied Melissa,
indignantly.
"Well, then, I will not hurry you into it. I will give you forty-eight
hours to reply, and if by that time your own good sense does not point
out your indiscretion, I certainly will make it known to your father;
that is decided." So saying. Araminta rose from the bench and walked
towards the house.
"Eight-and-forty hours," said Melissa, thoughtfully; "it must be decided
by that time."
Joey, who had wit enough to perceive how matters stood, made up his mind
not to deliver his message. He knew that Spikeman was well, and
presumed that his staying away was to make Miss Mathews more impatient
to see him. Melissa remained on the bench in deep thought; at last Joey
went up to her.
"You here, my boy! what have you come for?" said Melissa.
"I was strolling this way, madam."
"Come here; I want you to tell me the truth; indeed, it is useless to
attempt to deceive me. Is that person your uncle?"
"No, miss, he is not."
"I knew that. Is he not the person who wrote the letter, and a
gentleman in disguise? Answer me that question, and then I have a
message to him which will make him happy."
"He is a gentleman, miss."
"And his name is Spikeman, is it not?"
"Yes, miss, it is."
"Will he be here this evening? This is no time for trifling."
"If you want him, miss, I am sure he will."
"Tell him to be sure and come, and not in disguise," said Melissa,
bursting into tears. "That's no use, my die is cast," continued she,
talking to herself. Joey remained by her side until she removed her
hands from her face. "Why do you wait?"
"At what hour, miss, shall he come?" said Joey.
"As soon as it is dusk. Leave me, boy, and do not forget."
Joey hastened to Spikeman, and narrated what he had seen and heard, with
the message of Melissa.
"My dear boy, you have helped me to happiness," said Spikeman. "She
shed tears, did she? Poor thing! I trust they will be the last she
shall shed. I must be off to Cobhurst at once. Meet me at dark at the
copse, for I shall want to speak to you."
Spikeman set off for the town as fast as he could, with his bundle on
his head. When half way he went into a field and changed his clothes,
discarding his tinker's dress for ever, throwing it into a ditch for the
benefit of the finder. He then went into the town to his rooms, dressed
himself in a fashionable suit, arranged his portmanteau, and ordered a
chaise to be ready at the door at a certain time, so as to arrive at the
village before dusk. After he had passed through the village, he
ordered the postboy to stop about fifty yards on the other side of the
copse, and getting out desired him to remain till he returned. Joey was
already there, and soon afterwards Miss M made her appearance, coming
down the walk in a hurried manner, in her shawl and bonnet. As soon as
she gained the bench, Spikeman was at her feet; he told her he knew what
had passed between her and her cousin; that he could not, would not part
with her--he now came without disguise to repeat what he had so often
said to her, that he loved and adored her, and that his life should be
devoted to make her happy.
Melissa wept, entreated, refused, and half consented; Spikeman led her
away from the bench towards the road, she still refusing, yet still
advancing, until they came to the door of the chaise. Joey let down the
steps; Melissa, half fainting and half resisting, was put in; Spikeman
followed, and the door was closed by Joey.
"Stop a moment, boy," said Spikeman. "Here, Joey, take this."
As Spikeman put a packet into our hero's hand, Melissa clasped her hands
and cried, "Yes--yes! stop, do stop, and let me out; I cannot go, indeed
I cannot."
"There's lights coming down the gravel walk," said Joey; "they are
running fast."
"Drive on, boy, as fast as you can," said Spikeman.
"Oh, yes! drive on," cried Melissa, sinking into her lover's arms.
Off went the chaise, leaving Joey on the road with the packet in his
hand; our hero turned round and perceived the lights close to him, and,
not exactly wishing to be interrogated, he set off as fast as he could,
and never checked his speed until he arrived at the cottage where he and
Spikeman had taken up their quarters.