POSTMAN CHRIS.
Itwas 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 anurbanity 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 backupon 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—shehad 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 allwas 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 alittle 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 whichwould 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 itdocome, 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.”
“Idon’tblame 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 intoa 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. “Youraunt! 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.”