AMICE'S WEDDING-DAY.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2140, 27 March 1886, Page 1 (Supplement)

AMICE'S WEDDING-DAY.

I was always glad when my rounds happened to lead through Sanbridge-by-the-Sea ; there were many places where I met with kind friends enough, who were pleased to see the old peddler, who had served them for ever so many years, since they were children themselves, some of them, but somehow I liked the tramp to Sandridge best of all my journeys. One bright sprint? day I came to Sandridge in the afternoou, and as I neared the place I stopped to speak to an old comrade of mine, who was breaking stone by the road-side. 'Any news up yonder? 1 1 asked when we had passed the time of day to each other. 'News !' he grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his band ; ' news, you say? Well, there's more news than I care for, anyhow,' aud then resumed his work. ,' Come, Sammy,' T said, laying down my pack, ' you're put out a bit. What's up?* • What's up ?' he repeated— he always had such a tiresome way of doing that, had Sam Penfold— ' well, a billet's up.' ' What's that !' I asked. ' Why, just this ; thoy ain't got room for die soldiera that are quartered at Ley, so they're handed them on to us ; and neither with yer leave nor by yer leave, in stalk* a great six-foot feller, right into yer house, with a piece of paper in his hand, ' That's hid billet,' say* he and there stays as free as you please, whether you want him or not.' > I laughed at Simmy'i -grievance?, and reshouldering my pack, prepared to walk on.' ' Going to Ben Ryders ?' asked Sam, with a parting grunt. ' Aye.' 1 Then you won't get lodgings there/ he said, with a grim satisfaction ; 'he's got a billet, too.' Somehow I did not like the idea of a rough soldier being quartered at Ryders house, though ie was no business of mine. It didn't seem just right of Ben towards his motherless girl, bat praps it wasn't any fault of his. Anyhow, I would wait before I came to any hasty conclusion on the subject. Up the cliff I toiled with my load, and «s I neared the top, Amice came out to meet me as usual, but whether it was fancy or not I couldn't tell, her face seemed to look paler and graver than it used to be. She wore her usual fish girl's , dress of coarse homespun ; but ntuok in front of it was a oream-colored rose— a! thing I never saw Amice wear before in my life. She wasn't given Cto frippery of any sort. 'Come iv, Paul,' «be said, holding out her hand toward me. ' You're as tired as yod can be, I'm sure.' Just the same welcome as ever ; but there was something in the ring of her voice that told me that I wasn't altogether w .in ted there that day, or at least I though so. However, sitting down in the pore!;, I stopped on for some little time, in int'ig her tell me all the gossip of the villa;,' i Of course, the arrival of the soldiers rune up among other things, and by the flush that overspread the girl's pale cheek as she told me this bit of news,' I felt sure the mischief was done, and that Amice Ryder was heartwhole no longer. ' Did your soldier give you that rose, my lasb ?' I asked suddenly. r For the first time in my life I saw Amice angry. She did not vouchsafe any answer to my question, but, rising 'from her seat, she turned abruptly away and busied herself in the house, getting some refreshment for me, which I hardly deserved after my impertinence. As I smoked my pipe peacefully in the porch, I thought it all over, and made up my ' mind that it was nothing to me if Amice had a lover. Her father could look after her interests better than I could ; only soldiers were such queer chaps; they So often pretended what they never meant, and I was too fond of Amice to see her treated that way. Suddenly, as I sat in the quiet spring sun^hjne, I saw a man toiling up the ascent that led to Ryders cottage. His red coat hanging on his arm showed him to be a soldier. His hat was off, and I could see his face distinctly. 'Amice,' I called out loudly, 'Amice, oome here.' Then as she neared me, I con* .tinued : 'Is yon the man that is quartered here, at your father's house ?' For a moment she looked out a little anxiously, then said quickly : 'Yes, that's him, Paul* i Without another word I left her and

walked down the steep road to within ft short distance of the approaching figure; then I stopped dead, and waited for tbe man to come towards me. He was look* ing down on tho ground as he swung him&elf up the steep way. Suddenly he raiwed his eyes and they met mine toll. Ah me, how his face changed as he did to. 4 What do you want now ?' he gasped out. ' Only to let you know that I am heft, and can guess the game you are playing,' I returned. 'As long as you remember that, you're nafo from me. Forget it, sod I shall keep silence no longer.' With a rough laugh he turned away, and left me standing alono ; then I slowly remounted the rocky path with a heavy weight at my he<irt, and prepared myteH for what I could say to the girl who wae waiting for my return abore. She stood watching me from .the porch, where tht rotes were growing in their wild beauty, and I could see a wondering sort of lookin her face as I came near her; but ah* never spoke a word or asked a single question. I was a bit out of breath after my tug uphill, and as what I had to My wanted all the calmness and quietness I could muster, I waited silent for a time ; then took her haud in my withered ont. ' Amice, my lass,' I said, ' I've known you since you were a wee thing toddling about here, and seen you grow up into the woman that you are with' near as much pride as your own father could do, and on the strength of that old friend* ship I want you to make me a promise.' No answer, only she held her head a little bit higher, and looked me straight in the face unflinchingly. ' Will you grant an odd whim, Amice !* I said again. ' I must wait until I hear what it it first, Paul,' she replied. 1 Well, it's this. I've a strange fancy to be one of the guests at your wedding, Amice, and the promise I want from you is this; five days before your marriage tend me word to come to it.' She laughed merrily, her old unoon. •dons laugh, that somehow teemed to hurt me to hear. 'Oh, you silly old Paul,' the said, blushing slightly, ' is that all you've been making such a mystery about? Wellyea, I promise.' I looked at her earnestly. 1 Amice,' I said, • you've given me your promise, and I trust you. Whatever persuasion you may get to the contrary, you give me your honest word that old Paul, the peddler, shall come to your wedding ?' ' Yes,' she said, ' I do, Paul, really and truly.' Only a few months passed away before the summons I had been fearing came. Amice was going to be married and wrote to bid me come to the wedding. There were few railways in those days, remember, so I had to start on foot, 'and walk day and night in order to reach Sandridge in time, ami a heavy jaunt it was, for I was not as young as I used to be. Many greetings met my ears, and many a laugh was raised at my sorry appear* auce, for I looked travel stained and weary enough I warrant. At last I reached the little lych-gate leading into the churchyard, and there my spirit almost failed me, for on tbe ground lay the pretty flowers that the children had thrown before the bride at the walked up the path. But nerving myself for what was before me, I entered the open door almost unnoticed. Then I saw Amice as she stood in her soft grey gown with her beautiful head drooping on to her breast. I only looked at her I say, and the tight gave me courage ; no man living should harm her while 1 lived to prevent it, but my task Mas a hard one for all that. Stepping forward through the little crowd of villagers that looked on, open* mouthed, to see me, I made my way toward the group in the chancel. ' Stop !' I called out aloud, holding up my haud. ' This must not go on.' ' For what reason am I to stop ?' said old Parson Leigh, who was marrying them, t tar tied by my voice, and not knowing how to act. • Because, ' I said, covering my eyes with my hand, to shut out Amice's face from my sight, ' because the man it my son, and he's married already.' 'Is this true?' says Parson Leigh, hit voice shaking a little with the sorrow he felt. ' It's just a downright lie, sir/ he said, simply enough, 'and I am ready to prove it. My father's here to speak for him* self, and heaven knows why any one should want to come between Amice and me like this." I looked up bewildered as the man spoke, and then in an instant the awful mistake I had made flashed across my mind ; this was not tbe man 1 I had seen coming up to Beu Ryders house at all ; this was not my son, but a younger man, and different in every way from that poor wandering fellow. For a minute something seemed to come into my throat and prevent me from speaking. But presently the words ; ' I withdraw what I fluid entirely, sir, and I humbly ask your purdon for the mistake I made, which I will explain later on ' Outside the cottage I stopped, and beckoned the two out into the golden sunlight. • Amice, 1 I said, humbly enough, • I have to abk your pardon for my behavior toward you and yours this day. The man who lodged at you father's house wa< my son, and it never entered into my stupid head that it might be another soldier who was courting you. I only thought of him, and, knowing his ways, made up my mind to have you from him, though he were a dozen times my non. He hat never caused me anything but trouble since he was a lad, and such trouble should never cross your path through one of mine. It is on his account that I have to tramp the country from year's end to year's end, and it is on hi.s account I dare not settle in one place knowing that he would bnu£ disgrace on me if I did so. It is from t-iia man I tried to Bare you, and you must forgive a half -blind old man's mistake, when you remember how hard it was for a father to denounce hii own son. Now, good-bye, and heaven ble*H you both.' Then I had to make my way off at quickly as possible, or fear an old man's s.tlt tears should bring ill-luck on Amice's wedding-day.

Ch\rles G. Lbland says: Horace Greeley once- said to me a conversation : "Any man with more than a million is a nuisance." The Parliamentary Oak in Clipstone Park is said to be 500 years old. This park, says a writer in the Nottingham Guardian, existed before the Conquest, and belongs to the ' Duke of Portland. The tallest oak was the same nobleman's property. It was called "The Duke's Walking Stick," aud was higher than Westminster Abbey. The largest in England is the Calthorpe, Yorkshire ; it measures 78ft. in circumference at the ground. The Three Shire Oak, near Worksop, is called so from the trunk forming parts of the countries of Not" tingham, Derby, and York. The most productive oak wa* that of Galemos, in Monmouthshire, felled in 1810 ; the bark brought £2000 and its timber £670. In the mansion of Tredegar Park, Monmouthshire, there is said to be a room 42ft. long and 27ft. broad, the floor and wainscot of which were the production of a single tree, an oak grown on tin estate,