It was about four o’clock of the afternoon when Postman Chris set forth
on his second round. He swung along at a rapid pace, looking about him
with the pleased, alert air of one for whom his surroundings had not
yet lost the charm of novelty.
He had, indeed, that very morning entered on his duties as postman for
the first time, though he had served his country in another way before.
For Postman Chris Ryves had been Trooper Chris Ryves in a previous
state of existence. He had had his fill of warfare in South Africa, and
had indeed been wounded at Graspan; the left breast of his brand-new
blue uniform was decorated with a medal and quite a row of clasps.
Though Postman Chris walked at ease he held himself with the erectness
due to military training, and his straw hat was perched at the rakish
angle which in earlier days, when he had paraded at Knightsbridge
Barracks, had caused the heart of more than one artless city maiden to
flutter in her bosom.
But for all these past glories of his, Postman Chris was an eminently
pleasant and affable person; at any chance salutation of a passer-by
the white teeth would flash out in that brown, brown face of his with
the most good-humoured of smiles; he delivered up his letters with
an urbanity of demeanour that was only surpassed by his soldierly
promptitude, and he was willing to exchange the news of the day with
any pedestrian who cared to march a short distance in his company.
The bag which he carried was not unduly heavy, nor his way fatiguingly
long; it was a six-mile round in fact--starting from Chudbury-Marshall,
proceeding through Riverton and Little Branston to the market town of
Branston and so back again.
It chanced that as Chris approached Little Branston Schoolhouse on
this particular day, his attention was attracted by a hubbub of voices
and laughter proceeding from the adjoining field. Pausing a moment
in his rapid progress he looked through a gap in the hedge. A feast
was evidently in progress; some of the children still sat in rows on
the grass, armed with great cups of sickly-looking tea and munching
vigorously, buns or hunches of bread-and-jam; others, having finished
their meal, were already at play.
Here “Blind-man’s-buff” was going on, there “Drop Handkerchief”. In the
corner of the field directly under the postman’s observation a game of
Forfeits was proceeding. The schoolmistress, who sat facing him, was
holding up one object after the other over the blindfolded head of a
pupil-teacher, a bright little girl who had left school recently enough
to enter still with almost childish zest into such amusements.
“Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; what is the owner of this
Fine Thing to do?” cried the schoolmistress. She had a pleasant, clear
voice, and though she sat back upon her heels like many of her pupils,
there was something particularly graceful about figure and attitude.
“That’s a shapely maid,” remarked Postman Chris to himself; “yes, and a
vitty one too.”
It will be seen that Chris Ryves was a Dorset man, as indeed his name
betokened; he came in fact from the other side of the county.
The face which he looked on was as pretty as the figure, its fresh
bloom enhanced by the darkness of eyes and hair.
“What is the owner of this Fine Thing to do?” she repeated.
“She must bite an inch off a stick,” responded the pupil-teacher, with
a delighted giggle.
The owner of the forfeit, a peculiarly stolid-looking child, came
slowly up to redeem her pledge, and, after a mystified but determined
attempt to obey the mandate literally, was duly initiated into the
proper and innocuous manner of accomplishing it. Then the performance
was resumed.
“Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; and what must the owner of
this very Fine Thing do?” chanted the schoolmistress.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked the blindfolded oracle.
“Boy,” responded the schoolmistress.
“Then he must bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the
one he loves best.”
A little round-faced urchin came forward to claim his cap, and, after
much prompting and not a little pushing, was induced to carry out the
prescribed programme.
He duly pulled a forelock to the pupil-teacher, bent his knee to a
small person with a necklace and a profusion of corkscrew ringlets, and
bestowed a careless salute on the chubby cheek of a smaller and still
more round-faced female edition of himself--evidently a sister.
“Well, I’m dalled!” said the postman. “Them children ha’n’t got no eyes
in their heads.”
And with that he stepped back from the hedge, hitched up his bag a
little higher on his shoulder, and strode off towards Branston.
The next day at the same hour Ruby Damory, the schoolmistress, was
standing on the threshold of the schoolhouse with a copybook in her
hand. She sometimes lingered after school had broken up and the
pupil-teacher had made things tidy and betaken herself homewards, to
look over the children’s exercises before returning to her lodgings;
and as the interior of the house was close and stuffy she preferred
to accomplish this task in the porch. The school-yard was as dusty
and bleak as such places usually are; but by some strange chance the
rose-tree which was trained over the porch remained uninjured by the
constant passing of little feet and contact of little persons. It grew
luxuriantly, and its clustering blossoms formed a pretty setting to the
slim figure which stood propped against the wall beneath.
All at once Ruby raised her eyes from her book; a rapid step was
advancing along the footpath from the direction of Riverton; over the
irregular line of hedge she could see a straw hat set at a knowing
angle on a head of bright red hair. It was the new postman from
Chudbury--she had seen him go past that morning before she had yet
left her room.
Now he was opposite the schoolhouse gate, but instead of passing it he
stood still, wheeled about with military precision, and took off his
hat with a flourish.
“I bow to the wittiest,” said Postman Chris.
Then, before she had time either to respond or to turn away, he was
marching on again, and soon disappeared behind the tall hedge on the
other side of the school precincts.
“Well, to be sure!” said Ruby, and she laughed to herself; “he must
have noticed our game yesterday. He was very complimentary, I must say,
though I don’t quite know how he could find out I was witty. I suppose
he thinks I must be because I’m the schoolmistress.”
And thereupon she returned to the exercise.
But in spite of herself her thoughts kept wandering to Postman Chris
and his odd proceedings, and she said to herself that, though his hair
was red it was not at all an ugly colour--in fact when he took off his
hat it flashed in the sun like burnished copper. The phrase took her
fancy for she liked a fine word or two when opportunity offered; and
she was pleased too with the aptness of the simile, for she possessed
a little copper tea-kettle which she only used on great occasions, and
which was, she fancied, precisely the colour of the new postman’s hair
in the sunshine. He had a nice smile, too, and such quick, bright,
brown eyes. And then that medal, and those clasps and orders--decidedly
Postman Chris appeared to the schoolmistress somewhat in the light of a
hero.
All the evening she thought of his brown face and his pleasant voice,
and of how his hair had flashed in the sun. On going home she got
down the copper tea-kettle and looked at it, turning it about in the
lamplight--yes, it really recalled the glow of the new postman’s hair.
When, on the next day, Ruby heard the regular and rapid steps
approaching, she stood for a moment in doubt; should she go indoors, or
should she give the man a civil good-day as he passed.
She chose the latter alternative, but as she opened her lips to speak
the words died on them, for Postman Chris, once more pausing in front
of the gate, dropped on his knees and bowed his head. Their eyes met
as he raised it again, and he said emphatically: “I kneel to the
prettiest.”
Then, springing to his feet, he was gone before Ruby had time to
recover from her astonishment. She went inside the larger schoolroom
and sat down on the nearest bench, trembling from head to foot.
What did the man mean? Was he laughing at her? No, the brown eyes had
looked into hers with as earnest and straightforward a gaze as was
to be found in the eyes of man. Was he courting her then? It looked
like it, but what a strange way to set about it. No preliminaries--no
permission asked--not even a question exchanged between them. Did he
intend to carry out the third part of the programme with the same speed
and decision with which he had set about fulfilling the first two?
Ruby blushed hotly to herself, and then tossed her head. She was not to
be won without due wooing, and after all was she, in any event, to be
won by this man? She knew nothing of him except that he was a reservist
with a small pension, and that he was a postman--a village postman.
Was it likely that a girl of her education and position would throw
herself away on a fellow like that--even if he had a kindly face, and a
nice way of looking at one, and hair the colour of a copper tea-kettle?
Besides, he should know better than to approach her with so light a
spirit.
The next day when Postman Chris came swinging along the Branston road
the schoolhouse porch was empty, the door bolted and barred. For a full
moment he stood gazing towards it, and Ruby, peering cautiously out at
him from behind the sheltering blackboard, saw his expression change
from the eager tenderness which had for the fraction of a second almost
made her wish that she were indeed standing in the porch, to one of
hurt and proud surprise.
He wheeled about without delay, and the sound of his steps fell like a
knell upon her heart.
Acting upon an unaccountable impulse she flung open the door and darted
to the gate, but Postman Chris never turned his head.
On the next day she again watched from behind the blackboard, and saw
the postman march past, without so much as a glance either to right or
to left. On the day after, strange to relate, Miss Ruby Damory, the
schoolmistress, happened to be correcting exercises in the porch when
the postman from Chudbury-Marshall walked by; but Postman Chris never
caught sight of the schoolmistress. He was whistling as he walked,
and held a little cane in his hand with which he switched at the
hedge. When he passed the school-gate he tapped it with his cane, and
subsequently drew it along the railings which bordered the yard; but he
never turned his head.
There was no afternoon post on Sunday, but Postman Chris was at Evening
Church, and there Ruby saw him with the light of the stained-glass
window falling on his uncovered head and making a very nimbus of his
hair.
When Monday afternoon came she was standing, not in the school-porch
but at the gate, and when Postman Chris drew near she accosted him in a
small voice which did not sound like hers. Indeed, she felt at the time
as though it were not she herself who was thus laying aside maidenly
dignity, but some wicked little spirit within her, who acted for her
against her will.
“Good-day, postman,” said Ruby, or the demon within her.
Postman Chris brought his heels together and saluted--not having yet
learnt to lay aside this habit--but his face wore an expression of
surprise.
“Have you got a letter for me, to-day?” went on the voice.
“Name?” said Chris succinctly.
“Miss Ruby Damory,” came the hurried answer.
The postman shook his head.
“I’m expecting a letter,” went on Ruby confusedly. “Perhaps you may
have left one at my lodgings in Little Branston? I live at Mrs.
Maidment’s at the corner of Green Lane.”
The postman looked at her with an expression which would seem
to indicate that Ruby’s place of abode was a matter of supreme
indifference to him.
“If any letter comes as is directed there, of course it will be left
there,” he said, with a coldly business-like air.
“You didn’t leave one for me, to-day, I suppose?” faltered Ruby.
“Not as I know on,” returned Chris stolidly.
Tears rushed to the girl’s eyes; she felt wounded, insulted by this
sudden change from warm admiration--admiration which possibly might
have ripened to something else--to complete indifference. She hastily
turned away her head to conceal them, but not before she had caught
sight of a kind of gleam in the postman’s brown eyes.
“Are ye so terrible disappointed?” he inquired roughly, not to say
harshly.
“I--oh, yes, of course I am.”
She spoke truly enough, poor girl, though her disappointment arose from
another cause than the ostensible one.
Chris eyed her sharply.
“Well, it’ll come in time, I suppose!” he remarked, still in the same
surly tone, “and when it _do_ come, you shall have it.”
And thereupon he saluted, hitched up his bag, and walked away.
Ruby went back to the school-porch, with a scarlet face and a mist
before her eyes:--
“He’s a rude fellow,” she said; “I’ll think of him no more.”
But she was in a manner forced to think of him.
It was an unkind Fate, indeed, which decreed that Postman Chris Ryves’
beat should bring him under Ruby Damory’s notice twice in the day.
Early in the morning, while still in her little lodging at the corner
of Green Lane, she heard his brisk step ring out beneath her window,
and looking down, as indeed she sometimes did from beneath the corner
of her blind, she caught a glimpse of a blue uniform and a red head;
but Postman Chris never looked up, and no letter was ever left for Miss
Ruby Damory, care of Mrs. Maidment.
Then as the church clock struck half-past four a tall figure was always
to be seen swinging along behind the green hedge, which drew near the
school-gate, and passed by the school-yard without a single glance at
the mistress correcting exercises in the porch.
It was out of pure contradictoriness of course that Ruby Damory learned
to listen for that step and to watch for that figure. She grew thin and
pale, slept brokenly, and dreamt frequently about Postman Chris; and
Mrs. Maidment averred almost with tears that Miss Damory seemed to have
no relish for her victuals, and could indeed be scarce persuaded to eat
a radish with her tea.
One day the girl took herself seriously to task. “I am a fool and
worse,” she said. “I must make an end of it. The man does not care a
snap of his fingers for me--I’ll try to forget he’s in the world.”
Therefore she refrained from peeping out from behind her blind on the
following morning, and, in the afternoon, she locked up the schoolhouse
directly the children had left, and proceeded homewards with the
exercise-books under her arm. But whether because Postman Chris was
more punctual than usual that day, or because Ruby Damory walked
slowly, this manœuvre did not have the desired effect, for, strange to
say, the postman overtook her on the road.
Ruby had heard him coming, and had made valiant resolution not to
look round, but when he came up with her she could not resist turning
towards him, and their eyes met.
“Did you speak?” said Postman Chris.
“No--I--I--” She stopped short; her heart was thumping so violently,
indeed, that she could scarcely breathe.
“I thought you might have a letter for me,” she murmured at last, in
the frantic endeavour to cover her confusion.
“Not I,” said the postman.
He made as if he would pass on, but wheeled round again. “What have you
been doing to yourself?” he asked sharply.
“I? Oh, nothing.”
“Ye bain’t half the maid ye was,” insisted Chris, eyeing her with
severe disapproval. “Been frettin’ about summat?”
If Ruby had been pale before, she was rosy enough now.
“What do you mean?” she stammered; “what makes you say that?”
“I thought you mid be disapp’inted-like about that letter,” responded
the postman.
“Oh, the letter. Yes--’tis very strange it doesn’t come.”
“Well, it’s none o’ my fault,” retorted Chris roughly. “Ye needn’t look
at me like that. I’d bring it to ye fast enough if ’twas there.”
“Well, of course--I never thought you wouldn’t. I’m sure I never said
anything----” cried poor Ruby, more and more agitated.
“Ye shouldn’t go frettin’ yourself though,” he remarked. “That won’t
make it come any faster. And you shouldn’t blame me.”
“I _don’t_ blame you,” gasped the girl. “I don’t--indeed I don’t”--but
here, in spite of herself, her voice was lost in a burst of sobs.
Postman Chris set down his bag and produced a khaki pocket
handkerchief--a relic no doubt of South African days. This he tendered
very gallantly to Ruby, who, if truth be told, was at that moment
at a loss for one, having used her own to wipe out a particularly
impracticable sum from a small pupil’s slate.
She accepted the offering in the spirit in which it was meant, dried
her eyes, and returned the handkerchief to the postman with a watery
smile. At that smile Chris changed colour, but he tucked away the
handkerchief in his sleeve without a word, respectfully saluted, and
departed. He never looked back at the girl, but as he walked away he
said to himself: “That there maid, she be all I thought her. ’Tis a
pity I didn’t see her afore she took up wi’ t’other chap. I wouldn’t
ha’ left her a-pinin’ so long, and a-waitin’ and a-waitin’ for a letter
what never comes. But she’ll stick to him--ah, sure she’ll stick to
him.”
And with that he heaved a profound sigh, and turned off in the
direction of the post-office.
The former mode of procedure was now changed. Ruby locked up the
schoolhouse every day after lesson-time and Postman Chris regularly
overtook her on the way home. By mutual consent they avoided the
painful subject of the letter and conversed on indifferent topics; and
more than once when Chris walked away he muttered to himself: “She be
the prettiest, and she be the wittiest, and she be--ah, ’tis a dalled
pity I weren’t on the field first.”
One day when the well-known step came up behind Ruby it was accompanied
by a shout:--
“Hi!” cried Postman Chris; “hi! Miss Damory! I’ve a-got summat for ye
at last.”
Ruby turned towards him without any very great elation, for, if truth
be told, a letter from her only correspondent had never caused her
heart to beat one tittle faster than its wont. But as Chris came up
with an excited face she felt she could do no less than simulate great
delight at his news.
“At last!” cried she, holding out her hand for the letter. But Chris
did not deliver it up at once. He looked up the road and down the
road--it was indeed little more than a lane, and at that hour solitary
enough; there was a strange flash in his eye.
“This’ll be the end of all between you and me, I suppose?” said he.
“Ye’ll have got your letter, and ye’ll not care for seein’ me come no
more. I’ve a mind to make you pay for it.”
Ruby’s extended hand dropped by her side, and she started back.
“Here’s a Fine Thing,” said Postman Chris, still with that gleam in
his eye as he held up the letter. “Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine
Thing; what’s the owner of Fine Thing to do?”
“What do you mean?” whispered Ruby.
“’Tis your turn to pay the forfeit now!” cried he. “I’ve bowed to the
wittiest and knelt to the prettiest; I’d have finished the job if you’d
ha’ let me. ’Tis your turn, I say; I’ll let you off all but the last.”
“I don’t know what you take me for, Chris Ryves,” cried Ruby
tremulously. “I think you should be ashamed of yourself. You ought to
know enough of me by this time to see that I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Well, I be that kind o’ man,” returned Chris obstinately. “This here’s
the end--this here’s my last chance. If you want your precious letter,
you must pay for it.”
“How dare you?” cried Ruby, turning as white as a sheet. “You are very
much mistaken, Mr. Ryves. I’d rather die--than--than----”
“Than have anything to say to me,” he interrupted fiercely. “Oh, I know
that very well, Miss Damory; you’re not for the likes o’ me, as you did
show me plain enough at the beginning of our acquaintance. But a chap
isn’t so very bad if he does ask for a crumb before the whole loaf is
handed over to another man. Give me one, Ruby--just one!”
Ruby backed away from him against the hedge.
“This is an insult,” she cried.
“An insult!” he repeated, suddenly sobered. “Oh, if you look on it
that way. There’s your letter,” he went on, dropping his voice.
“There’s your letter, Miss Damory; I hope it’ll give ye every joy and
satisfaction.”
And with that he handed the disputed document to the schoolmistress,
took off his hat with a flourish, and marched away quick time. Not so
quick, however, but that a little petulant cry fell upon his ears, and,
wheeling involuntarily, he saw that the letter had been flung upon the
ground, and that Ruby Damory was leaning against the hedge with her
face buried in her hands.
Chris came back at the double.
“There!” he cried penitently. “I’m a brute beast. I beg your pardon, my
maid. I’m truly sorry--truly, I am.”
“Oh,” sobbed Ruby, “how could you be so unkind?”
“I’m sure I don’t know how I came for to forget myself like that,” he
returned ruefully; “but I’ll never offend again, Miss Damory--never.”
“To expect me--to--to do that,” faltered Ruby, “when you’d never said a
word of love to me--when you’d never even asked to walk with me.”
The postman’s brown face assumed a puzzled air; he drew a step nearer,
and picked up the letter.
“But,” said he; then paused, and once more tendered the document to the
schoolmistress.
“Oh, bother!” cried she irritably. “It’ll keep.”
Chris’s countenance lit up suddenly.
“Will it, indeed?” cried he. “That’s a tale--a very different tale.
There, when I was comin’ along wi’ that letter, ’twas all I could do
not to bury it or to drop it into a ditch. I mastered myself, ye know,
but I were terr’ble tempted, and that was why,” he added with a sly
glance, “I did look for some reward.”
“But why did you want to destroy my aunt’s letter?” asked Ruby.
“Your aunt!” exclaimed Chris. “Your _aunt_! Well, that beats all.”
He took off his hat and waved it; he danced a kind of jig upon the
footpath; he threw himself sideways against the hedge, laughing all the
while, so that Ruby stared in amazement. Suddenly he composed himself.
“That be another tale, indeed, my maid,” said he. “I were a-thinking
all the time ’twas your young man you was expectin’ to hear from. But
why was you always so eager on the look-out for me?”
“I’m sure I wasn’t,” said Ruby, and she blushed to the roots of her
hair. She dared not look at Chris for a full moment, but at last was
constrained to raise her eyes to his face, and there, lo, and behold!
he was blushing too. And looking at her--yes--with that very self-same
expression which she had seen in his eyes on the morning when she had
first hidden herself behind the blackboard. He came a step nearer, and
his blue-coated arm began to insinuate itself between the hedge and her
trim waist.
“Then why, my maid,” he began gently--“that there game, ye know--why
didn’t you let me finish?”
“Why,” said Ruby, between laughing and crying, “because you hadn’t
begun.”
He whistled softly under his breath.
“Shall us begin now?” said he. “You and me--we’ll do it proper this
time.”
“Begin courting?” said she innocently.
“Yes, we’ll play the game right. Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine
Thing--that’s you, my dear--now what’s the owner of this Fine Thing to
do? The owner--that’s me--why--this----”
He accompanied the word with appropriate action.
“For shame!” cried she, in a tone which nevertheless was not
displeased, “you’ve begun at the wrong end after all.”
“Not at all,” he retorted, “’tis the proper way to start a courtship.
I’ll tell ye summat, Ruby, my maid. We’ll have the banns put up on
Sunday.”