Well done Tinker.
“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.