Chapter XXX.

Plotting, Reading and Writing. 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."