R. M. Ballantyne
Post Haste
Preface
This tale is founded chiefly on facts furnished by the Postmaster-Generals Annual Reports, and gathered, during personal intercourse and investigation, at the General Post-Office of London and its Branches.
It is intended to illustratenot by any means to exhaustthe subject of postal work, communication, and incident throughout the Kingdom.
I have to render my grateful acknowledgments to Sir Arthur Blackwood; his private secretary, Charles Eden, Esquire; and those other officers of the various Departments who have most kindly afforded me every facility for investigation, and assisted me to much of the information used in the construction of the tale.
If it does not greatly enlighten, I hope that it will at all events interest and amuse the reader.
R.M. Ballantyne .
Chapter One.
A Hero and His Worshipper
Once upon a timeonly once, observe, she did not do it twicea widow of the name of Maylands went, in a fit of moderate insanity, and took up her abode in a lonely, tumble-down cottage in the west of Ireland.
Mrs Maylands was very poor. She was the widow of an English clergyman, who had left her with a small family and the smallest income that was compatible with that familys maintenance. Hence the migration to Ireland, where she had been born, and where she hoped to live economically.
The tumble-down cottage was near the sea, not far from a little bay named Howlin Cove. Though little it was a tremendous bay, with mighty cliffs landward, and jutting ledges on either side, and forbidding rocks at the entrance, which waged continual warfare with the great Atlantic billows that rolled into it. The whole place suggested shipwreck and smugglers.
The small family of Mrs Maylands consisted of three babesso their mother styled them. The eldest babe, Marybetter known as Maywas seventeen years of age, and dwelt in London, to which great city she had been tempted by an elderly English cousin, Miss Sarah Lillycrop, who held out as baits a possible situation and a hearty welcome.
The second babe, Philip, was verging on fifteen. Having kicked, crashed, and smashed his way though an uproarious infancy and a stormy childhood, he had become a sedate, earnest, energetic boy, with a slight dash of humour in his spirit, and more than a dash of determination.
The third babe was still a baby. As it plays little or no part in our tale we dismiss it with the remark that it was of the male sex, and was at once the hope, fear, joy and anxiety of its distracted mother. So, too, we may dismiss Miss Madge Stevens, a poor relation, who was worth her weight in gold to the widow, inasmuch as she acted the part of general servant, nurse, mender of the household garments, and recipient of joys and sorrows, all of which duties she fulfilled for love, and for just shelter and sustenance sufficient to keep her affectionate spirit within her rather thin but well-favoured body.
Phil Maylands was a hero-worshipper. At the time when our tale opens he worshipped a youththe son of a retired naval officer,who possessed at least some of the qualities that are occasionally found in a hero. George Aspel was daring, genial, enthusiastic, tall, broad-shouldered, active, and youngabout twenty. But George had a tendency to dissipation.
His father, who had recently died, had been addicted to what he styled good-fellowship and grog. Knowing his so-called weakness, Captain Aspel had sent his boy to be brought up in the family of the Reverend James Maylands, but some time before the death of that gentleman he had called him home to help to manage the small farm with which he amused his declining years. George and his father amused themselves with it to such an extent that they became bankrupt about the time of the fathers death, and thus the son was left with the world before him and nothing whatever in his pocket except a tobacco-pipe and a corkscrew.
One day Phil met George Aspel taking a ramble and joined him. These two lived near to each other. Indeed, Mrs Maylands had been partly influenced in her choice of a residence by her desire to be near George.
It was a bitterly cold December afternoon. As the friends reached the summit of the grey cliffs, a squall, fresh from the Arctic regions, came sweeping over the angry sea, cutting the foam in flecks from the waves, and whistling, as if in baffled fury, among the opposing crags.
Isnt it a grand sight? said Phil, as they sought shelter under the lee of a projecting rock.
Glorious! I never look upon that sight, said Aspel, with flashing eyes, without wishing that I had lived in the days of the old Vikings.
The youth traced his descent from the sea-kings of Norwaythose tremendous fellows who were wont in days of yore to ravage the shores of the known and unknown world, east and west, north and south, leaving their indelible mark alike on the hot sands of Africa and the icebound rocks of Greenland. As Phil Maylands knew nothing of his own lineage further back than his grandfather, he was free to admire the immense antiquity of his friends genealogical tree. Phil was not, however, so completely under the fascination of his hero as to be utterly blind to his faults; but he loved him, and that sufficed to cover them up.
Sure, they were a wild lot, after all? he said in a questioning tone, as he looked up at the glowing countenance of his friend, who, with his bold mien, bulky frame, blue eyes, and fair curls, would have made a very creditable Viking indeed, had he lived in the tenth century.
Of course they were, Phil, he replied, looking down at his admirer with a smile. Men could not well be otherwise than wild and warlike in those days; but it was not all ravage and plunder with them. Why, it is to them and to their wise laws that we owe much of the freedom, coupled with the order, that prevails in our happy land; and didnt they cross the Atlantic Ocean in things little better than herring-boats, without chart or compass, and discover America long before Columbus was born?
You dont mean that? said Phil, with increased admiration; for the boy was not only smitten by his friends physical powers, but by his supposed intellectual attainments.
Yes, I do mean that, returned Aspel. If the Norsemen of old did mischief, as no one can deny, they were undoubtedly grand old scoundrels, and it is certain that they did much good to the world, whether they meant it or not.
Phil Maylands made no reply, but continued to look meditatively at his friend, until the latter laughed, and asked what he was thinking about.
Its thinking I am, what I wouldnt give if my legs were only as long as yours, George.
That they will soon be, returned George, if they go on at the rate theyve been growing of late.
Thats a true word, anyhow; but as mens legs dont go on growing at the same rate for ever, its not much hope I have of mine. No, George, its kind of you to encourage me, but the Maylands have ever been a short-legged and long-bodied race. So its said. However, its some comfort to know that short men are often long-headed, and that many of them get on in the world pretty well.
Of course they do, returned Aspel, and though they cant grow long, they never stop short in the race of life. Why, look at Nelsonhe was short; and Wellington wasnt long, and Bonny himself was small in every way except in his intellectwhos that coming up the hill?
Its Mike Kenny, the postman, I think. I wonder if he has brought a letter from sister May. Mother expects one, I know.
The man who had attracted their attention was ascending towards them with the slow, steady gait of a practised mountaineer. He was the post-runner of the district. Being a thinly-peopled and remote region, the runners walk was a pretty extensive one, embracing many a mile of moorland, vale and mountain. He had completed most of his walk at that time, having only one mountain shoulder now between him and the little village of Howlin Cove, where his labours were to terminate for that day.
Good-evening, Mike, said George Aspel, as the man approached. Any letters for me to-night?
No, sur, not wan, answered Mike, with something of a twinkle in his eye; but Ive left wan at Rocky Cottage, he added, turning to Philip Maylands.
Was it Mays handwriting? asked the boy eagerly.
Sure I dont know for sartin whose hand it is i the inside, but its not Miss Mays on the cover. Niver a wan in these parts could write like hercopperplate, no less.
Come, George, lets go back, said Phil, quickly, weve been looking out for a letter for some days past.
Its not exactly a letter, Master Phil, said the post-runner slowly.
Ah, then, shed never put us off with a newspaper, said Phil.
No, its a telegram, returned Mike.
Phil Maylands looked thoughtfully at the ground. A telegram, he said, thats strange. Are ye sure, Mike?
Troth am I.
Without another word the boy started off at a quick walk, followed by his friend and the post-runner. The latter had to diverge at that place to leave a letter at the house of a man named Patrick Grady. Hence, for a short distance, they followed the same road.
Young Maylands would have passed the house, but as Grady was an intimate friend of George Aspel, he agreed to stop just to shake hands.
Patrick Grady was the soul of hospitality. He was not to be put off with a mere shake of the hand, not hetelegrams meant nothing now-a-days, he said, everybody sent them. No cause for alarm. They must stop and have a glass of mountain dew.
Aspel was resolute, however; he would not sit down, though he had no objection to the mountain dew. Accordingly, the bottle was produced, and a full glass was poured out for Aspel, who quaffed off the pure spirit with a free-and-easy toss and smack of the lips, that might have rendered one of the beery old sea-kings envious.
No, sur, I thank ye, said Mike, when a similar glass was offered to him.
What! ye havent taken the pledge, have ye? said Grady.
No, sur; but Ive had three glasses already on me walk, an thats as much as I can rightly carry.
Nonsense, Mike. Youve a stiff climb before youhere, take it off.
The facile postman did take it off without further remonstrance.
Have a dhrop, Phil?
No, thank ee, said Phil, firmly, but without giving a reason for declining.
Being a boy, he was not pressed to drink, and the party left the house. A short distance farther on the road forked, and here the post-runner turned off to the right, taking the path which led towards the hill whose rugged shoulder he had yet to scale.
Mike Kenny breasted it not only with the energy of youth and strength, but with the additional and artificial energy infused by the spirits, so that, much to his own surprise, his powers began to fail prematurely. Just then a storm of wind and sleet came down from the heights above, and broke with bitter fury in his face. He struggled against it vigorously for a time till he gained a point whence he saw the dark blue sea lashing on the cliffs below. He looked up at the pass which was almost hid by the driving sleet. A feeling of regret and self-condemnation at having so readily given in to Grady was mingled with a strong sense of the duty that he had to discharge as he once more breasted the steep. The bitter cold began to tell on his exhausted frame. In such circumstances a small matter causes a man to stumble. Kennys foot caught on somethinga root it might beand he fell headlong into a ditch and was stunned. The cold did its work, and from that ditch he never rose again.
Meanwhile Mr Grady looked out from the window of his cottage upon the gathering storm, expressed some satisfaction that it did not fall to his lot to climb hills on such a day, and comforted himselfthough he did not appear to stand in need of special comfortwith another glass of whisky.
George Aspel and Philip Maylands, with their backs to the storm, hurried homewards; the former exulting in the grandthough somewhat disconnectedthoughts infused into his fiery soul by the fire-water he had imbibed, and dreaming of what he would have dared and done had he only been a sea-king of the olden time; the latter meditating somewhat anxiously on the probable nature of his sisters telegram.
Chapter Two.
Tells of Womans Work and some of Womans Ways
Many, and varied, and strange, are the duties which woman has to perform in this lifeespecially in that wonderful and gigantic phase of this life which is comprehended in the word London.
One chill December afternoon there sat in front of a strange-looking instrument a womanat least she was as nearly a woman as is compatible with the age of seventeen. She was also prettynot beautiful, observe, but prettysparklingly pretty; dark, dimpled, demure and delightful in every way; with a turn-up nose, a laughing eye, and a kindly look.
Her chief duty, from morning to night, consisted in playing with her pretty little fingers on three white pianoforte keys. There were no other keysblack or whitein connection with these three. They stood alone and had no music whatever in themnothing but a click. Nevertheless this young woman, whose name was May Maylands, played on them with a constancy and a deft rapidity worthy of a great, if not a musical, cause. From dawn to dusk, and day by day, did she keep those three keys clicking and clittering, as if her life depended on the result; and so in truth it did, to some extent, for her bread and butter depended on her performances on that very meagre piano.
Although an artless and innocent young girl, fresh from the western shores of Erin, May had a peculiar, and, in one of her age and sex, almost pert way of putting questions, to which she often received quaint and curious replies.
For instance one afternoon she addressed to a learned doctor the following query:
Can you send copy last prescription? Lost it. Face red as a carrot. In agonies! What shall I do? Help!
To which the learned doctor gave the matter-of-fact but inelegant reply:
Stick your feet in hot water. Go to bed at once. Prescription sent by post. Take it every hour.
But May Maylands did not stick her feet in hot water; neither did she go to bed, or take any physic. Indeed there was no occasion to do so, for a clear complexion and pink cheeks told of robust health.
On another occasion she asked an Irish farmer if he could send her twenty casks of finest butter to cost not more than 6 pence per pound.
To which the farmer was rude enough to answer Not by no manner of means.
In short Mays conduct was such that we must hasten to free her from premature condemnation by explaining that she was a female telegraphist in what we may call the literary lungs of Londonthe General Post-Office at St. Martins-le-Grand.
On that chill December afternoon, during a brief lull in her portion of the telegraphic communication of the kingdom, May leaned her little head on her hand, and sent her mind to the little cottage by the sea, already described as lying on the west coast of Ireland, with greater speed than ever she flashed those electric sparks which it was her business to scatter broadcast over the land. The hamlet, near which the cottage stood, nestled under the shelter of a cliff as if in expectation and dread of being riven from its foundations by the howling winds, or whelmed in the surging waves. The cottage itself was on the outskirts of the hamlet, farther to the south. The mind of May entered through its closed door,for mind, like electricity, laughs at bolts and bars.