Part 4

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.