Chapter Twenty Nine.
In which the Tinker falls in Love with a Lady of High Degree.
For many months Spikeman and our hero travelled together, during which time Joey had learnt to grind a knife or a pair of scissors as well as Spikeman himself, and took most of the work off his hands; they suited each other, and passed their time most pleasantly, indulging themselves every day with a few hours’ repose and reading on the wayside.
One afternoon, when it was very sultry, they had stopped and ensconced themselves in a shady copse by the side of the road, not far from an old mansion, which stood on an eminence, when Spikeman said, “Joey, I think we are intruding here; and, if so, may be forcibly expelled, which will not be pleasant; so roll the wheel in, out of sight, and then we may indulge in a siesta, which, during this heat, will be very agreeable.”
“What’s a siesta?” said Joey.
“A siesta is a nap in the middle of the day, universally resorted to by the Spaniards, Italians, and, indeed, by all the inhabitants of hot climates; with respectable people it is called a siesta, but with a travelling tinker it must be, I suppose, called a snooze.”
“Well, then, a snooze let it be,” said Joey, taking his seat on the turf by Spikeman, in a reclining position.
They had not yet composed themselves to sleep, when they heard a female voice singing at a little distance. The voice evidently proceeded from the pleasure-grounds which were between them and the mansion.
“Hush!” said Spikeman, putting up his finger, as he raised himself on his elbow.
The party evidently advanced nearer to them, and carolled in very beautiful tones, the song of Ariel:—
“Where the bee sucks, there lurk I,
In the cowslip’s bell I lie,” etcetera.
“Heigho!” exclaimed a soft voice, after the song had been finished; “I wish I could creep into a cowslip-bell. Miss Araminta, you are not coming down the walk yet; it appears you are in no hurry, so I’ll begin my new book.”
After this soliloquy there was silence. Spikeman made a sign to Joey to remain still, and then, creeping on his hands and knees, by degrees arrived as far as he could venture to the other side of the copse.
In a minute or two another footstep was heard coming down the gravel-walk, and soon afterwards another voice.
“Well, Melissa, did you think I never would come? I could not help it. Uncle would have me rub his foot a little.”
“Ay, there’s the rub,” replied the first young lady. “Well, it was a sacrifice of friendship at the altar of humanity. Poor papa! I wish I could rub his foot for him; but I always do it to a quadrille tune, and he always says I rub it too hard. I only follow the music.”
“Yes, and so does he; for you sometimes set him a dancing, you giddy girl.”
“I am not fit for a nurse, and that’s the fact, Araminta. I can feel for him, but I cannot sit still a minute; that you know. Poor mamma was a great loss; and, when she died, I don’t know what I should have done, if it hadn’t been for my dear cousin Araminta.”
“Nay, you are very useful in your way, for you play and sing to him, and that soothes him.”
“Yes, I do it with pleasure, for I can do but little else; but, Araminta, my singing is that of the caged bird. I must sing where they hang my cage. Oh, how I wish I had been a man!”
“I believe that there never was a woman yet who has not, at one time of her life, said the same thing, however mild and quiet she may have been in disposition. But, as we cannot, why—”
“Why, the next thing is to wish to be a man’s wife, Araminta—is it not?”
“It is natural, I suppose, to wish so,” replied Araminta; “but I seldom think about it. I must first see the man I can love before I think about marrying.”
“And now tell me, Araminta, what kind of a man do you think you could fancy?”
“I should like him to be steady, generous, brave, and handsome; of unexceptionable family, with plenty of money; that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all! I admire your ‘that’s all.’ You are not very likely to meet with your match, I’m afraid. If he’s steady, he is not very likely to be very generous; and if to those two qualifications you tack on birth, wealth, beauty, and bravery, I think your ‘that’s all’ is very misplaced. Now, I have other ideas.”
“Pray let me have them, Melissa.”
“I do not want my husband to be very handsome; but I wish him to be full of fire and energy—a man that—in fact, a man that could keep me in tolerable order. I do not care about his having money, as I have plenty in my own possession to bestow on any man I love; but he must be of good education—very fond of reading—romantic, not a little; and his extraction must be, however poor, respectable,—that is, his parents must not have been tradespeople. You know I prefer riding a spirited horse to a quiet one; and, if I were to marry, I should like a husband who would give me some trouble to manage. I think I would master him.”
“So have many thought before you, Melissa; but they have been mistaken.”
“Yes, because they have attempted it by meekness and submission, thinking to disarm by that method. It never will do, any more than getting into a passion. When a man gives up his liberty, he does make a great sacrifice—that I’m sure of; and a woman should prevent him feeling that he is chained to her.”
“And how would you manage that?” said Araminta.
“By being infinite in my variety, always cheerful, and instead of permitting him to stay at home, pinned to my apron-string, order him out away from me, join his amusements, and always have people in the house that he liked, so as to avoid being too much tête-à-tête. The caged bird ever wants to escape; open the doors, and let him take a flight, and he will come back of his own accord. Of course, I am supposing my gentleman to be naturally good-hearted and good-tempered. Sooner than marry what you call a steady, sober man, I’d run away with a captain of a privateer. And, one thing more, Araminta, I never would, passionately, distractedly fond as I might be, acknowledge to my husband the extent of my devotion and affection for him. I would always have him to suppose that I could still love him better than what I yet did—in short, that there was more to be gained; for, depend upon it, when a man is assured that he has nothing more to gain, his attentions are over. You can’t expect a man to chase nothing, you know.”
“You are a wild girl, Melissa. I only hope you will marry well.”
“I hope I shall; but I can tell you this, that if I do make a mistake, at all events my husband will find that he has made a mistake also. There’s a little lurking devil in me, which, if roused up by bad treatment, would, I expect, make me more than a match for him. I’m almost sorry that I’ve so much money of my own, for I suspect every man who says anything pretty to me; and there are but few in this world who would scorn to marry for money.”
“I believe so, Melissa; but your person would be quite sufficient without fortune.”
“Thanks, coz; for a woman that’s very handsome of you. And so now we will begin our new book.”
Miss Melissa now commenced reading; and Spikeman, who had not yet seen the faces of the two young ladies, crept softly nearer to the side of the copse, so as to enable him to satisfy his curiosity. In this position he remained nearly an hour; when the book was closed, and the young ladies returned to the house, Melissa again singing as she went.
“Joey,” said Spikeman, “I did not think that there was such a woman in existence as that girl; she is just the idea that I have formed of what a woman ought to be; I must find out who she is; I am in love with her, and—”
“Mean to make her a tinker’s bride,” replied Joey, laughing.
“Joey, I shall certainly knock you down, if you apply that term to her. Come let us go to the village,—it is close at hand.”
As soon as they arrived at the village, Spikeman went into the alehouse. During the remainder of the day he was in a brown study, and Joey amused himself with a book. At nine o’clock the company had all quitted the tap-room, and then Spikeman entered into conversation with the hostess. In the course of conversation, she informed him that the mansion belonged to Squire Mathews, who had formerly been a great manufacturer, and who had purchased the place; that the old gentleman had long suffered from the gout, and saw no company, which was very bad for the village; that Miss Melissa was his daughter, and he had a son, who was with his regiment in India, and, it was said, not on very good terms with his father; that the old gentleman was violent and choleric because he was always in pain; but that every one spoke well of Miss Melissa and Miss Araminta, her cousin, who were both very kind to the poor people. Having obtained these particulars, Spikeman went to bed: he slept little that night, as Joey, who was his bedfellow, could vouch for; for he allowed Joey no sleep either, turning and twisting round in the bed every two minutes. The next morning they arose early, and proceeded on their way.
“Joey,” said Spikeman, after an hour’s silence, “I was thinking a great deal last night.”
“So I suppose, for you certainly were not sleeping.”
“No, I could not sleep; the fact is, Joey, I am determined to have that girl, Miss Mathews, if I can; a bold attempt for a tinker, you will say, but not for a gentleman born as I was. I thought I never should care for a woman; but there is a current in the affairs of men. I shall now drift with the current, and if it leads to fortune, so much the better; if not, he who dares greatly does greatly. I feel convinced that I should make her a good husband, and it shall not be my fault if I do not gain her.”
“Do you mean to propose in form with your foot on your wheel?”
“No, saucebox, I don’t; but I mean to turn my knife-grinder’s wheel into a wheel of fortune; and with your help I will do so.”
“You are sure of my help if you are serious,” replied Joey; “but how you are to manage I cannot comprehend.”
“I have already made out a programme, although the interweaving of the plot is not yet decided upon; but I must get to the next town as fast as I can, as I must make preparations.”
On arrival, they took up humble quarters, as usual; and then Spikeman went to a stationer’s, and told them that he had got a commission to execute for a lady. He bought sealing-wax, a glass seal, with “Espérance” as a motto, gilt-edged notepaper, and several other requisites in the stationery line, and ordered them to be packed up carefully, that he might not soil them; he then purchased scented soap, a hair-brush, and other articles for the toilet; and having obtained all these requisites, he added to them one or two pair of common beaver gloves, and then went to the barber’s to get his hair cut.
“I am all ready now, Joey,” said he, when he returned to the alehouse; “and to-morrow we retrace our steps.”
“What! back to the village?”
“Yes; and where we shall remain some time, perhaps.”
On reaching the village next morning, Spikeman hired a bedroom, and, leaving Joey to work the grindstone, remained in his apartments. When Joey returned in the evening, he found Spikeman had been very busy with the soap, and had restored his hands to something like their proper colour; he had also shaved himself, and washed his hair clean and brushed it well.
“You see, Joey, I have commenced operations already; I shall soon be prepared to act the part of the gentleman who has turned tinker to gain the love of a fair lady of high degree.”
“I wish you success: but what are your plans?”
“That you will find out to-morrow morning; now we must go to bed.”