The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

(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 thingsSave 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.

Chapter Thirty Four

A very Long Chapter, necessary to fetch up the Remainder of the Convoy

As it was late that night, Joey did not open the packet delivered to him from Spikeman until he arose the next morning, which he did very early, as he thought it very likely that he might be apprehended, if he was not off in good time. The packet contained a key, 20 pounds in money, and a paper, with the following letter:—

“My dear boy,—As we must now part, at least for some time, I have left you money sufficient to set you up for the present; I have inclosed a memorandum, by which I make over to you the knife-grinder’s wheel, and all the furniture, books, etcetera, that are in my rooms at Dudstone, the key of which is also inclosed. I should recommend you going there and taking immediate possession, and as soon as I have time, I shall write to the woman of the house, to inform her of the contents of the memorandum; and I will also write to you, and let you know how I get on. Of course you will now do as you please; at all events, I have taught you a profession, and have given you the means of following it. I only hope, if you do, that some day you may be able to retire from business as successfully as I have done. You will, of course, write to me occasionally, after you know where I am. Depend upon it, there is no profession so near to that of a gentleman as that of a travelling tinker.

“Yours ever truly, Augustus Spikeman.

“NB. There is some money in the old place to pay the bill at the cottage.”

Our hero considered that he could not do better than follow the advice of Spikeman. He first wrote a few lines to Mary, requesting that she would send her answer to Dudstone; and then, having settled with the hostess, he set off with his knife-grinder’s wheel on his return home to what were now his apartments. As he was not anxious to make money, he did not delay on his road, and on the fifth day he found himself at the door of the alehouse near to Dudstone, where he had before left the wheel. Joey thought it advisable to do so now, telling the landlord that Spikeman had requested him so to do; and as soon as it was dusk, our hero proceeded to the town, and knocked at the door of the house in which were Spikeman’s apartments. He informed the landlady that Spikeman would not in all probability return, and had sent him to take possession, showing her the key. The dame was satisfied, and Joey went upstairs. As soon as he had lighted the candle, and fairly installed himself, our hero threw himself down on the sofa and began to reflect. It is pleasant to have property of our own, and Joey never had had any before; it was satisfactory to look at the furniture, bed, and books, and say, “All this is mine.” Joey felt this, as it is to be presumed everybody would in the same position, and for some time he continued looking round and round at his property. Having satisfied himself with a review of it externally, he next proceeded to open all the drawers, the chests, etcetera. There were many articles in them which Joey did not expect to find, such as a store of sheets, table linen, and all Spikeman’s clothes, which he had discarded when he went up to London, some silver spoons, and a variety of little odds and ends; in short, Spikeman had left our hero everything as it stood. Joey put his money away, and then went to bed, and slept as serenely as the largest landed proprietor in the kingdom. When he awoke next morning, our hero began to reflect upon what he should do. He was not of Spikeman’s opinion that a travelling tinker was the next thing to a gentleman, nor did he much like the idea of rolling the wheel about all his life; nevertheless, he agreed with Spikeman that it was a trade by which he could earn his livelihood, and if he could do no better, it would always be a resource. As soon as he had taken his breakfast, he sat down and wrote to Mary, acquainting her with all that had taken place, and stating what his own feelings were upon his future prospects. Having finished his letter, he dressed himself neatly, and went out to call upon the widow James. Miss Ophelia and Miss Amelia were both at home.

“Well, Master Atherton, how do you do? and pray where is Mr Spikeman?” said both the girls in a breath.

“He is a long way from this!” replied Joey.

“A long way from this! Why, has he not come back with you?”

“No! and I believe he will not come back any more. I am come, as his agent, to take possession of his property.”

“Why, what has happened?”

“A very sad accident,” replied our hero, shaking his head; “he fell—”

“Fell!” exclaimed the two girls in a breath.

“Yes, fell in love, and is married.”

“Well now!” exclaimed Miss Ophelia, “only to think!”

Miss Amelia said nothing.

“And so he is really married?”

“Yes; and he has given up business.”

“He did seem in a great hurry when he last came here,” observed Amelia. “And what are you going to do?”

“I am not going to follow his example just yet,” replied Joey.

“I suppose not; but what are you going to do?” replied Ophelia.

“I shall wait here for his orders; I expect to hear from him. Whether I am to remain in this part of the country, or sell off and join him, or look out for some other business, I hardly know; I think myself I shall look out for something else; I don’t like the cutlery line and travelling for orders. How is your mamma, Miss Ophelia?”

“She is very well, and has gone to market. Well, I never did expect to hear of Mr Spikeman being married! Who is he married to, Joseph?”

“To a very beautiful young lady, daughter of Squire Mathews, with a large fortune.”

“Yes; men always look for money nowadays,” said Amelia.

“I must go now,” said Joey, getting up; “I have some calls and some inquiries to make. Good morning, young ladies.”

It must be acknowledged that the two Misses James were not quite so cordial towards Joey as they were formerly; but unmarried girls do not like to hear of their old acquaintances marrying anybody save themselves. There is not only a flirt the less, but a chance the less in consequence; and it should be remarked, that there were very few beaux at Dudstone. Our hero was some days at Dudstone before he received a letter from Spikeman, who informed him that he had arrived safely at Gretna (indeed, there was no male relation of the family to pursue him), and the silken bands of Hymen had been made more secure by the iron rivets of the blacksmith; that three days after he had written a letter to his wife’s father, informing him that he had done him the honour of marrying his daughter; that he could not exactly say when he could find time to come to the mansion and pay him a visit, but that he would as soon as he conveniently could; that he begged that the room prepared for them upon their arrival might have a large dressing-room attached to it, as he could not dispense with that convenience; that he was not aware whether Mr Mathews was inclined to part with the mansion and property, but, as his wife had declared that she would prefer living there to anywhere else, he had not any objection to purchase it of Mr Mathews, if they could come to terms; hoped his gout was better, and was his “very faithfully, Augustus Spikeman.” Melissa wrote a few lines to Araminta, begging her, as a favour, not to attempt to palliate her conduct, but to rail against her incessantly, as it would be the surest method of bringing affairs to an amicable settlement.

To her father she wrote only these few words:—

“My dear Papa,—You will be glad to hear that I am married. Augustus says that, if I behave well, he will come and see you soon. Dear papa, your dutiful child, Melissa Spikeman.”

That the letters of Spikeman and Melissa put the old gentleman in no small degree of rage, may be conceived; but nothing could be more judicious than the plan Spikeman had acted upon. It is useless to plead to a man who is irritated with constant gout; he only becomes more despotic and more unyielding. Had Araminta attempted to soften his indignation, it would have been equally fruitless; but the compliance with the request of her cousin of continually railing against her, had the effect intended. The vituperation of Araminta left him nothing to say; there was no opposition to direct his anathemas against; there was no coaxing or wheedling on the part of the offenders for him to repulse; and when Araminta pressed the old gentleman to vow that Melissa should never enter the doors again, he accused her of being influenced by interested motives, threw a basin at her head, and wrote an epistle requesting Melissa to come and take his blessing. Araminta refused to attend her uncle after this insult, and the old gentleman became still more anxious for the return of his daughter, as he was now left entirely to the caprice of his servants. Araminta gave Melissa an account of what had passed, and entreated her to come at once. She did so, and a general reconciliation took place. Mr Mathews, finding his new son-in-law very indifferent to pecuniary matters, insisted upon making over to his wife an estate in Herefordshire, which, with Melissa’s own fortune, rendered them in most affluent circumstances. Spikeman requested Joey to write to him now and then, and that, if he required assistance, he would apply for it; but still advised him to follow up the profession of travelling tinker as being the most independent.

Our hero had hardly time to digest the contents of Spikeman’s letter when he received a large packet from Mary, accounting for her not having replied to him before, in consequence of her absence from the Hall. She had, three weeks before, received a letter written for Mrs Chopper, acquainting her that Mrs Chopper was so very ill that it was not thought possible that she could recover, having an abscess in the liver which threatened to break internally, and requesting Mary to obtain leave to come to Gravesend, if she possibly could, as Mrs Chopper wished to see her before she died. Great as was Mary’s repugnance to revisit Gravesend, she felt that the obligations she was under to Mrs Chopper were too great for her to hesitate; and showing the letter to Mrs Austin, and stating at the same time that she considered Mrs Chopper as more than a mother to her, she obtained the leave which she requested, and set off for Gravesend.

It was with feelings of deep shame and humiliation that poor Mary walked down the main street of the town, casting her eyes up fearfully to the scenes of her former life. She was very plainly attired, and had a thick veil over her face, so that nobody recognised her; she arrived at the door of Mrs Chopper’s abode, ascended the stairs, and was once more in the room out of which she had quitted Gravesend to lead a new life; and most conscientiously had she fulfilled her resolution, as the reader must be aware. Mrs Chopper was in bed and slumbering when Mary softly opened the door; the signs of approaching death were on her countenance—her large, round form had wasted away—her fingers were now taper and bloodless; Mary would not have recognised her had she fallen in with her under other circumstances. An old woman was in attendance; she rose up when Mary entered, imagining that it was some kind lady come to visit the sick woman. Mary sat down by the side of the bed, and motioned to the old woman that she might go out, and then she raised her veil and waited till the sufferer roused. Mary had snuffed the candle twice that she might see sufficiently to read the Prayer Book which she had taken up, when Mrs Chopper opened her eyes.

“How very kind of you, ma’am!” said Mrs Chopper; “and where is Miss —? My eyes are dimmer every day.”

“It is me, Mary—Nancy that was!”

“And so it is! O, Nancy, now I shall die in peace! I thought at first it was the kind lady who comes every day to read and to pray with me. Dear Nancy, how glad I am to see you! And how do you do? And how is poor Peter?”

“Quite well when I heard from him last, my dear Mrs Chopper.”

“You don’t know, Nancy, what a comfort it is to me to see you looking as you do, so good and so innocent; and when I think it was by my humble means that you were put in the way of becoming so, I feel as if I had done one good act, and that perhaps my sins may be forgiven me.”