Chapter II: Part 2

By-and-by they arrived at a suitable place, and Jem duly pulled up, and John brought out a well-packed hamper from the rumble, and Mrs. Bussell made tea from a spirit-lamp, and dispensed goodly portions of buttered roll, and ham, and hard-boiled eggs, and John and Jem took turns to act sentry, and little Mrs. Bussell raised an alarm about every five minutes and entered more and more into the spirit of the enterprise. Her husband, setting his white hat rakishly on the back of his head, and looking extremely jocose, endeavoured to throw himself into the part which he had played a half-century before, but did not altogether succeed in representing the trembling young lover, even though he called the old lady by her maiden name, and delivered himself of sundry amorous speeches with a fervour that was occasionally mixed with hilarity.

“Faith, my dear,” he cried when she took him to task, “you must let me talk as I please. I was your lover then, and I am your lover now, for all we’ve been man and wife this fifty years. What signifies it whether your hair is gold or silver, or whether you are fat or slim? Handsome is as handsome does, I say, and you’ve a-been the best wife a man could have.”

“La! John,” said she, and winked away a tear. John put out his rugged old hand and gripped hers.

“The best wife a man could have,” he repeated earnestly. “Fifty years!--I wish we mid have fifty years more together.”

“I wish we was back at the beginning,” said she. “I’d like to go through it all over again, John. I’d take it all and be thankful--the rough and the smooth, and the joy and the sorrow. Except maybe--poor little Ben, you know--I don’t think I’d like to live through those years again. How we hoped, didn’t we? And he was took at the last.”

“Well, ye have the other seven, Susan, my dear, alive and well, and their children. Why, you mid say that one loss has been made up to ye by more than a score of other blessings.”

Mrs. Bussell shook her head, but smiled, and presently wondered aloud if John’s Annie would bring the baby.

“I’d like to have seen it, too,” she added. “I hope Mary will have the sense to keep them. I told her a good many of them would stop the night.”

“Somebody’s coming!” announced Jem at this juncture.

And then what a bustle and clatter ensued, what hasty packing of the hamper, what tremulous climbing into the chaise on the part of the “missus”; with what an air of firmness and resolution did the master straighten his hat and square his shoulders as though preparing to defy all pursuers. And after all it was only the mail cart bowling merrily along; and the driver gave the runaway couple a cheery good-day as he passed. Then, though they laughed long and loud over the false alarm, they realised that the time was getting on, and that it behoved them to hasten to their destination.

The little town of Branston was not yet very wide-awake when they did arrive at the Royal George, and Jem pulled up with a flourish, and threw the reins to a gaping stable-boy with as great an air as would have befitted a coachman in the palmy days when the Flying Stage used to change horses at Branston. The little old lady alighted demurely, her husband supporting her while she planted first one neat little foot, clad in a buckled shoe and clocked white stocking, on the step, and then its fellow, and lifting her off bodily, with much the same tender gallantry as that with which he had doubtless performed a similar office fifty years ago. At his request, Mrs. Bussell was conducted to the best private room; she seemed to have quite identified herself with those bygone days, and clung to his arm fearfully as they mounted the stairs; while in her husband past and present were pleasantly mingled. Thus, when, having deposited his fair charge in the George’s largest sitting-room, he strolled down to the lower premises to give certain orders regarding the horses, he made no ado about taking the landlord into his confidence.

“This ’ere is a runaway trip,” he remarked, with a jocular wink. “’Tis our golden weddin’ day, and the missus and me had a notion o’ spendin’ it quiet, just by our two selves. They’re makin’ a great to-do at our place--children and grandchildren comin’ from all sides, but we just thought we’d give them the slip, and keep the day here same as we done fifty year ago.”

“Ah,” put in the landlord, much interested, “I heard somethin’ about that. You and your lady run off, didn’t ye?”

“We did,” returned John. “Her father, ye see, old Sherren--they did use to call en Squire--she was the only child, and he reckoned on her makin’ a grand match, takin’ up wi’ one o’ the reg’lar gentry, ye know; but he wasn’t a bit better nor the rest of any of us yeoman farmers. Well, I wasn’t much of a match in those days--my father had a long family and not much to divide between us; but I liked the maid, and the maid she did like me, so we took the law into our own hands. My missus, she did use to go a-feedin’ of her chicken very early in the mornin’, so the folks got accustomed to hearin’ her get up and go out before daylight almost--and one mornin’ she did go out and she didn’t never go back.”

“I remember,” cried the other, “you tricked them wi’ an empty post-chaise, didn’t ye?”

“To be sure,” returned the old farmer chuckling. “’Twas Joe Boyt did that. He did ride for all he were worth, the wrong way. And me and the maid ran a couple of mile on our own legs, till we come to the high road where Jem was awaitin’ for us wi’ the very same old shay as we did drive over in to-day. I did swear I’d buy it if ever I had the chance, and I’d take Jem into my service. And I did both.”

“The old Squire came round before long,” remarked the landlord; “yes, I heard the tale often enough. There’s an old chap here as used to be ostler in the old days, and he minds well how you and the lady came here to hide, so to speak, till the coach came up.”

“That’s it!” cried old John delightedly, slapping his thigh to give emphasis to his words. “The coach took us to Bath and we had the job done there--licence, you know. And the missus and I, d’ye see, had the notion o’ stoppin’ here to-day in memory of that time, and makin’ believe we was doin’ it over again. Between you and me,” said John, poking the landlord in the waistcoat and winking knowingly, “I d’ ’low my old woman does truly believe she is back in the old times again. Women do seem to have a wonderful power of imagination. There, she was a-feedin’ her chicken this mornin’, if ye please, just as she done the mornin’ we made off.”

“Well, well,” commented the landlord. “You ought to let old ’Neas Bright have a look at ye both. He’s up in the almhouse now, poor old chap, through not bein’ able to work any more, but he’d hobble down if he was to know ye were here.”

“Send for en, then, send for en,” cried John eagerly; “but look ye, landlord--keep the secret. Don’t ye let the folks know who we are or what we’ve come for, else maybe the children ’ull catch as yet.”

The landlord laughed and promised, and thereupon John went back to his lady, whom he found peeping cautiously out at the Market Place from behind the window curtain.

“Did you think about ordering dinner?” inquired she.

“No, my dear, I left that to you.”

“Oh, John,” she cried bashfully, “I feel nervous-like. I don’t want to ring the bell and have folks starin’ at me. Go down again and order it--at twelve sharp.”

“What shall we have?” he inquired.

“There now--to ask such a thing. Why, the same as we had this day fifty year ago, of course.”

“And what was that?” asked he.

“Why, John, I never thought you would forget anything about that day. We had a beefsteak-pudding and a boiled fowl with parsley-and-butter sauce, and potatoes in their jackets, and greens.”

“So we had,” said John.

“And you had cheese and a crusty loaf, and I had a bit o’ rice puddin’. And you had a tankard o’ best October ale, and I had a glass of sherry wine. Don’t you remember, John, you would make me take the wine though I wasn’t used to it and was afraid it might go to my head?”

“Yes, to be sure,” returned he. “Well, I’ll go and order all that.”

“And then come back to me--come straight back to me, John. Don’t stay gossiping downstairs. I feel quite nervous.”

“Do you think this was the room we had?” inquired John, pausing half-way to the door. “It don’t look the same somehow.”

“They’ve spoilt it with this new-fangled furniture,” returned she; “but it is the same. I remember this little window at the end looking towards the Market Place. Oh, John--see here.”

“What is that, my dear?”

“Why, look here at the corner of the pane. Here are our very name letters, S for Susan, and J for John, and the true-lovers’-knot on the top. I remember your scratching ’em quite well.”

“Why, so I did,” cried he. “I’d a glass-cutter in my big knife. Well, to be sure! There they are--and here we are!”

“Here we are,” echoed she. “Thanks be to God for all His mercies.”

And thereupon she clasped both her little wrinkled hands round his arm and gave it a tender squeeze, and he stooped down and kissed her round, wholesome, pink old cheek.

Well, after John had ordered the dinner, and after old ’Neas Bright had come limping down from the almshouse and had related divers anecdotes, and drunk the couple’s health, and gone away rejoicing with a half-crown piece in his pocket, John and Susan sat down behind the screen which cut off one corner of the room from the rest, and gave themselves up to repose and reminiscence.

Perhaps it was because they were so happy and so much absorbed in each other, and also perhaps because they had both of them grown a trifle hard of hearing of late years, that they did not notice a sudden bustle and excitement in the street below.

Had they looked out they would have seen a string of vehicles of different kinds drawn up just outside--spring-carts, gigs, a waggonette, and last but not least, a waggon drawn by a team of splendid farm-horses and filled to overflowing with country people. All the occupants of these conveyances were dressed in holiday attire, all wore enormous white nosegays, while the horses’ blinkers and the drivers’ whips were alike decorated with snowy streamers. The door opened suddenly, and some one ran round the screen.

“Why, there they are!” cried a child’s jubilant voice. “There’s grandpa and grandma a-sittin’ hand-in-hand.”

And then from the staircase, and from the hall, and from the street arose a sudden deafening cheer.

“I d’ ’low they’ve caught us!” cried John, with a whimsical glance at his spouse; but she was already engaged in fondling the child and scarcely heard him.

A moment afterwards the room was crowded with the descendants of the old folks--three generations of them: middle-aged prosperous-looking sons and daughters; rosy grandchildren and even one great-grandchild, for young John’s Annie _had_ brought her baby, which proved to be the finest child of its age that had ever been seen, and to have “come on wonderful” since Mrs. Bussell last beheld it. And there was such a kissing and hugging and scolding and laughing as had surely never before been heard in that staid, respectable old room, and grandma was very arch and coy on being reproached for her unkind notion, and grandpa chuckled boisterously, and rubbed his hands, and Mary, the only unmarried daughter, related how her suspicions had at first been aroused on discovering that the chickens had been fed so early--all the family knowing the history of that bygone ruse by heart; and how, though she _did_ at first fancy they might have gone to Weymouth, she had made inquiries in the neighbourhood, and had ascertained that a chaise with three people wearing white nosegays had been seen driving Branston-way very soon after daylight. And then John, the eldest son, took up the tale, and related how they had settled to wait till all the family had arrived, and how he had declared that the labourers and their wives should not be baulked of their share of merry-making, and how the whole party was come to keep the golden wedding at Branston.

“The folks are waiting for you outside now,” he concluded; “you’d best show yourselves to them, else they’ll never forgive you.”

So over to the window marched the bridal couple, and there they stood arm-in-arm, the illusion being a little damaged by the presence of the baby which grandma would not relinquish, and by the background of laughing folk, all of whom bore so strong a family likeness to their progenitors that their relationship could not be doubted.

A rousing cheer went up once more, and John waved his hat in reply, and Susan laughed and nodded, and was suddenly taken by surprise by a dimness in the eyes and a choking sensation in the throat.

“I don’t know however I could have had the heart to run away from them,” she murmured.

And then when the speeches had been made, and the presents delivered, and the wedding-feast, supplemented by many substantial additions, set forth upon the table, and when she sat down with John the elder on her right and John the younger on her left, and Annie’s baby sound asleep in her lap, and looked round at the kindly happy faces, she surreptitiously squeezed her husband’s hand:--

“You and me was very happy this time fifty year,” she said, “but after all--I don’t know--I d’ ’low this is best.”

POSTMAN CHRIS.

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.”

KEEPER GUPPY.

“Lard ha’ mercy me! What be doin’, Jan? You that’s only jist out o’ your bed! Whatever ’ud Doctor say? Boots too! Where be goin’?”

Old John Guppy cast a lowering glance at his spouse, and continued to button his gaiters in silence. This task concluded, he stretched out his hand and pointed imperatively to the gun slung over the chimney-piece.

“Reach that down,” he commanded.

“Ye’re never goin’ out! You as has been four month and more on your back! What’s the use on’t? There’s a new keeper yonder--new ways, and strangers pretty nigh everywhere. I’d ha’ had a bit more sperrit nor to go up there where I bain’t wanted.”

“I be goin’, woman. Squire do pay I money, an’ I’ll give en his money’s worth. I must have an eye to things, or they’ll be gettin’ in a reg’lar caddle up yon. New keeper, he’ll not know so very much about the place, and Jim--he were always a terr’ble sammy--he never did seem to see what was under his nose wi’out I were there to rub it into it.”

“Well, but Jan, the bit o’ money what Squire gives ’ee is a pension--same as what soldiers an’ sick-like do get i’ their ancient years. Squire don’t expect ’ee to do no more work for en now, and ye be so fearful punished wi’ the rheumatics, an’ all. No--‘Mrs. Guppy,’ says Squire to I, so considerate as could be, ‘Mrs. Guppy,’ he says, ‘Jan have served I faithful nigh upon two score year--now he can take a bit o’ rest,’ he says; ‘I’ve a-made sure as he’ll be comfortable in’s old age. The pension ’ull be paid reg’lar so long as he do live,’ says he, ‘or so long as I do live,’ he says, laughin’ cheerful-like, ‘for ’pon my word, I do think your Jan ’ll very likely see I down--he be uncommon tough, so old as he mid be,’ says Squire. ‘And if I do go first, my son ’ll see as he wants for nothin’ in his time,’ he says. So let I light your pipe, Jan, my dear, and sit ’ee down sensible like, i’ the chimbley corner--’tis the best place for ’ee, good man.”

“You can light my pipe, if you like,” said John, still gloomily, “but I be goin’ up-along all the same. Things ’ull be goin’ to ruin if I don’t tell ’em how they used to be carried on i’ my time.”

“I d’ ’low ye’ll not get so far,” said Mrs. Guppy; “but of all the obstinate men--well, there, ’tis a good thing as the A’mighty made half the world o’ women-folk, else everythin’ ’ud be fair topsy-turvy.”

John wedged his pipe firmly in the corner of his mouth, put his gun under his arm, and, taking his thick stick from the chimney corner, set forth, without vouchsafing any answer; he limped painfully as he walked, and Mrs. Guppy, looking sorrowfully after him, opined that he’d have had enough of it afore he’d gone half a mile. But though she had been wedded to John for thirty-five years, she had not yet learned the quality of his spirit; he uttered many groans as he shambled along, and lifted the poor limb, which had so long been well-nigh useless, with increasing effort, but he held bravely on his way until he reached his destination, a vast stretch of land, half park, half down, peopled by innumerable rabbits and furnished with copses and plantations, which no doubt afforded cover to game of every kind. Here John paused for the first time, turned his head on one side, clicked his tongue and jerked forward his gun with a knowing air as a rabbit crossed his path.

“If ’t ’ad ha’ been loaded I’d ha’ made short work o’ thee, my bwoy,” he remarked. “There don’t seem to be so many o’ you about as there did used to be i’ my time, though--not by a long ways. That there noo chap ’ull ha’ let ye go down, I reckon. There bain’t many like poor old Jan Guppy--nay, I’ll say that for ye, Jan. You was worth your salt while you were about--’e-es, and so long as ye be above ground I d’ ’low you’ll make it worth Squire’s while to keep ye.”

Having delivered this tribute to himself with a conscientiously impartial air, he proceeded on his way, and presently came in sight of the keeper’s cottage, or rather lodge, set midway in the long avenue which led to the Squire’s mansion, and smiled to himself at the sudden out-cry of canine voices which greeted his approach.

“There they be, the beauties! That’s Jet--I’d know her bark among a thousand. I d’ ’low she knows my foot,” as one voice detached itself from the chorus and exchanged its warning note for a strangled whine of rapture. “She’ll break that chain o’ hers if they don’t let her loose. ’Ullo, Jet, old girl! Hi, Rover! Pull up, Bess!”

All the barks had now ceased, and a pointer came scurrying to the gate, followed by a large retriever.

“There ye be, my lads--too fat, too fat. Ah, they be feedin’ o’ them too well now--not so good for work, I d’ ’low! Poor old Jet! Ye be tied-up, bain’t ye? There, we’ll come to ye.”

Passing through the wicket-gate, he was limping unceremoniously round to the back of the cottage, when the door was thrown open and the astonished figure of the keeper’s wife appeared in the aperture.

“Mornin’, mum,” said John, lifting his hand half-way to his forelock, which was his nearest approach to a polite salutation when in parley with folks of Mrs. Sanders’ degree. “I be Mr. Guppy, what was keeper here afore your master. I be jist come to take a look about.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Sanders, who was a very genteel and superior person; “my husband would have had great pleasure in taking you round, Mr. Guppy, but he’s out just at present.”

“No matter for that, mum, I’ll go by myself. What, Jet! There ye be, my beauty; dear, to be sure, a body ’ud never think ’twas the same dog. She do seem to ha’ fell away terr’ble, mum.”

Jet, a curly-coated black spaniel, was at that moment straining wildly at her chain, and wriggling her little black body in such spasms of ecstasy at the sight of her old master that it would have needed a very sharp eye to detect any alteration in her appearance, if, indeed, such existed; but John spoke in a tone of conviction.

“She bain’t half the dog she were. What do you feed her on, mum? Jet, she did used to be dainty--didn’t ye, Jet? Her coat do stare dreadful, mum, now don’t it? A prize dog didn’t ought to have its coat neglected like that. When I had the charge o’ she, dally! if I didn’t comb and brush her morn an’ night, same as if she’d been a young lady. Be dalled if I didn’t! Where be your master, mum?”

Mrs. Sanders’ face, always somewhat frosty in expression, had become more and more pinched and supercilious during the colloquy, and she now replied extremely distantly that she couldn’t say for certain where Mr. Sanders might be, but that very likely he was looking after the young pheasants.

“Ah!” commented John, with interest; “and where mid he ha’ got them this year?”

“On this side of the North Plantation,” returned the lady unwillingly.

“A bad place, mum, a very bad place; no birds ’ull ever do well there. If he’d a-come to I, I could ha’ telled en that. They’ll never thrive up yon in that draughty place--no, that they won’t; and it’ll be too cold for ’em. I’m afeared he’ll have a bad season. The North Plantation--dear, some folks doesn’t know much! Well, I’ll go and have a look at ’em, and if I do see your husband, I mid be able to gie en a word or two o’ advice.”

“Ho! no need for that, I think,” cried Mrs. Sanders wrathfully. “’Tisn’t very likely as my husband, wot ’as lived in the fust o’ families, and been keeper to a markis, ’ud want to take advice from an old gentleman like you, Mr. Guppy, as has never left the one place all your life.”

“I could have advised en agen the North Plantation, anyhow,” said John stolidly. “Well, I’ll wish ’ee good-day, mum. I’ll be goin’ my ways up-along.”

And he hobbled off, muttering to himself as he went: “The North Plantation! The chap must be a fool!... They poor dogs, they was glad to see I!--jist about; but bain’t he a sammy! There he do go and feed up the shooting dogs so as they be for all the world like pigs, and Jet, what we used to keep same as a little queen, he do seem to take no more notice of nor if she was a cat! Poor Jet! How she did cry to get to I! Well, well! I may be able to put things straight a bit.”

Proceeding at his slow pace, the pilgrimage to the North Plantation was a matter of considerable time, and it was noon before he halted at length beside the enclosure where hundreds of tiny pheasant chicks ran in and out of their several coops, with a venturesomeness much deplored by their distracted hen foster-mothers.

A tall, middle-aged man was walking about amid the pens, with a proudly proprietary air which announced him to be the head-keeper.

Guppy wiped the sweat of weakness and fatigue from his brow and uttered a quavering “Hullo!” Mr. Sanders turned and walked majestically towards him.

“What do you want,” he inquired briefly.

“I be jist come up-along to have a look round,” announced John. “I’m Mr. Guppy, what was here afore you. You be in my shoes now, I mid say, but I don’t bear ’ee no grudge for ’t--no, I don’t bear ’ee no grudge,” he repeated handsomely.

“Right,” said Sanders, who was a good-humoured fellow enough, if a little puffed up by the dignity of his position. “Glad to see you, Mr. Guppy. We’ve got a nice lot here, haven’t we?”

“’E-es,” agreed Guppy, with a note of reserve in his voice; “’e-es, a tidyish lot; but you’ll not bring up the half o’ them.”

“Won’t I, indeed?” retorted Sanders, somewhat warmly. “What makes you say that?”

“I could ha’ telled ’ee as this here weren’t a fit place for young pheasants,” returned the ex-keeper, not without a certain triumph. “If you’d ha’ come to I, I could ha’ telled ye. I’ve a-been thirty-nine year and nine month i’ this place, and I’ve never put the young pheasants here once--never once. What do you say to that?”

“Well, I say as every man has his own notions,” returned the other. “You might have a fancy for one place, as very likely I’d take agen, and, on the other hand, you seem to have some notion agen this ’ere place, as _I_ think most suitable.”

“Well, ye’ll find out your mistake, I d’ ’low,” said Guppy unflinchingly. “Done pretty well wi’ eggs this year?”

“Yes, pretty well on the whole. We had to buy a few hundreds, but, as I told Mr.----”

“Buy ’em! Buy eggs! You must ha’ managed wonderful bad. I’ve a-been here nigh upon farty year, and never bought so much as one--not one. Dally! ’Twill come terr’ble expensive for Squire if ye do carry on things that way.”

“Something had to be done, you see,” cried Sanders, who was now beginning to be distinctly nettled. “You seem to have been such a stick-in-the-mud lot--there was hardly any game about the place that I could see when I come.”

“Oh! and weren’t there?” retorted John sarcastically. “Ye must ha’ poor eyes, Maister Sanders. There, ’twas what I did use to say to a cousin o’ Squire’s as used to come shooting here twenty-five years ago, and couldn’t hit a haystack. ‘There don’t seem to be anything to shoot, keeper,’ he’d say; and I’d answer back, ‘Ye must ha’ wonderful poor eyes, sir.’ Ho, ho! he were a stuck-up sort o’ gentleman as were always a-findin’ fault and a-pickin’ holes, but I mind I had a good laugh agen him once. ’Twas a terr’ble hot day, and we’d walked miles and miles, and I were a bit done-up at the end, and thankful for a sup o’ beer. And he comes up to I, and says, laughin’ nasty-like, ‘Well, Guppy, you don’t seem much of a walker. Now, I could go all day.’ ‘’E-es, sir,’ says I, ‘and so can a postman. I d’ ’low your bags ’ad much same weight at the end o’ your rounds.’”

Sanders vouchsafed no comment on this anecdote, and John, propping his stick against the paling, proceeded with much difficulty to climb over it, and to hobble from one pen to the other, stooping stiffly to inspect the young birds and the arrangements made for their comfort.

“They big speckly hens is too heavy for these here delicate little fellows,” he remarked. “Game hens is the best--’twas what I did always have. ’Tis more in nature as the game hens should make the best mothers to young pheasants. They be a poor-looking lot, Maister Sanders. I did use to have ’em a deal more for’ard at this time o’ year. What be feedin’ ’em on?”

“Now look ’ere, I’m not going to stand any more o’ this,” thundered the keeper, fairly losing his temper. “I’m not going to have you poking and prying about this place no longer. You’ve got past your work, and I’m doing it now. If the Squire’s satisfied, that’s all I need think about. If he isn’t, he can tell me so.”