Complete works of r m ba.., p.983
Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 983
It is, we suppose, almost superfluous to say that Doctor Jack and Polly Samson were united in due course, but it is necessary to record that, by special arrangement, Walter Wilkins, Esquire, and Susan Trench were married on the same day. More than that, the Doctor and Watty so contrived matters that they rented a double villa in the suburbs of the nameless city, one-half of which was occupied by Dr Jack’s family, the other by that of Wilkins. Still further, it was so contrived by Philosopher Jack that a small cottage was built on an eminence in his garden, in which there was a room, precisely similar in all respects to that in which he had first met his father-in-law. There was a hammock in this room, slung as the original hammock had been, and although the old telescopes and sou’-westers and marine stores and charts had been sold and lost past redemption, a good many new things, bearing a strong resemblance to such articles, were purchased and placed on the walls and in the corners, so that almost the only difference between it and the old room was the absence of fishy smells. There was an improvement, also, in the view; for whereas, in the old room, the window commanded a prospect of about ten yards in extent, comprising a brick wall, a lamp-post, and a broken pump, the windows of the new room overlooked miles and miles of landscape, embracing villages, hamlets, fields, and forests, away to the horizon.
In this cottage Captain Samson took up his abode, rent free, and the money which he was thus enabled to save, or which Jack insisted on his saving, was spent in helping the poor all round his dwelling. Here the captain spent many happy hours in converse with Polly and her husband. To this room, as time rolled on, he brought a small child, to which, although not its nurse, he devoted much of his spare time, and called it “Polly.”
And oh! it was a wonderful sight to see Polly the second, with her heart in her mouth and her hair flying in the air, riding the captain’s foot “in a storm!”
Here, too, as time continued to roll on, he fabricated innumerable boats and ships for little boys, whose names were Teddie, Watty, Ben, Baldwin, and such like. In this room, also, every Sunday morning early, the captain was to be found with a large, eager, attentive class of little boys and girls, to whom he expounded the Word of God, with many an illustrative anecdote, while he sought to lead them to that dear Lord who had saved his soul, and whose Holy Spirit had enabled him to face the battles of life, in prosperity and adversity, and had made him “more than conqueror.” Here, also, in the evenings of the same holy day, he was wont to gather a meeting of old people, to whom he discanted on the same “old, old story.” In all which works he was aided and abetted by the families of the double house close by.
Besides his constant visitors among the young, the aged, and the poor, the captain had a few occasional visitors at his residence, which, by the way, was named Harmony Hall.
Among these were Bailie Trench and his wife, who were naturally attracted to that region by the presence there of a slender, loving, sprightly boy, whose name was Benjamin Walter Wilkins, and who bore — at least they thought he bore — a striking resemblance to their loved and lost son Ben. The family from the cottage on the Border also paid annual visits to Number 1 of the double house (which was the Doctor’s), and the various members of that family, being very fond of a chat with the old sailor, often found themselves of an evening in “the old store-room” (as the boys styled it) of Harmony Hall.
These visits were regularly returned, chiefly in the summer-time, by the captain and the families of the double house, on which occasions the cottage on the Border was taxed to such an extent that Philosopher Jack was obliged to purchase a neighbouring barn, which he had fitted up as a dormitory that could accommodate almost a battalion of infantry. During these visits the trouting streams of the neighbourhood were so severely whipped that the fish knew the difference between a real and an artificial fly as well as their tormentors, but they were captured for all that.
Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley were also among the occasional visitors at the Hall; but their visits were few and far between, because of their having taken up their permanent abode in California. Only when they came home on business, once in the two years, had they an opportunity of seeing their old comrade, but they never failed to take advantage of such opportunities. These men were not prone to speak about themselves, but from various remarks they made, and from their general appearance, it was easy to see that they were substantial and influential members of society in foreign parts.
From Baldwin the captain heard that Bob Corkey had, during his wanderings, fallen in with Bounce and Badger, and that these three had formed a partnership, in which they tried their luck at gold-digging, farming, fur-trading, and many other sources of livelihood, but, up to the last news of them, without success. There was hope of them yet, however, so thought Baldwin Burr, because of the latest remarks made by them in the hearing of credible witnesses. Bob Corkey, having attained to the lowest depths of destitution and despair, had, it was said, made to his comrades the following observation: “Mates, it strikes me that we are three great fools;” whereupon Bounce had replied, “We’re more than that Bob, we’re three great sinners;” to which Badger had added, with considerable emphasis, “That’s a fact,” and when men come to this, there is hope for them.
The only personage of our tale who now remains to be mentioned is Mrs Niven.
That steady-going female continued her vocation of ministering to the wants of young students, some of whom treated her well, while others — to their shame, be it said — took advantage of her amiability. In regard to this latter fact, however, it may be recorded that Peggy proved a sharp-witted, tight-handed, and zealous defender of her mistress. Among Mrs Niven’s other boarders there was one who was neither young nor a student. He came to reside with her in the following manner: —
One evening Peggy was heard in altercation with a man in the passage who seemed bent on forcing his way into the house. The students who chanced to be in their rooms at the time cocked their ears, like war-steeds snuffing the battle from afar, and hoped for a row. Mrs Niven, after opening the parlour door softly, and listening, called out, “Let the gentleman come up, Peggy.”
“Gentleman indeed!” cried the irate Peggy, who had the intruder by the throat, “he’s only a dirty auld blagyird.”
“Niver ye mind, Peggy,” returned Mrs Niven peremptorily; “I ken him. Let him up.”
Immediately after, there walked into the parlour a bowed, mean-looking, dirty little old man, who, as he sat down on a chair, paid some doubtful compliments to Peggy.
“Oh, Maister Black, is it you!” said Mrs Niven, sitting down beside him.
Besides being all that we have said, Mr Black was ragged, dishevelled, haggard, and in every way disreputable.
“Yes, it’s me, Mrs Niven,” he replied harshly, “and you see I’m in a sorry plight.”
“I see, I see,” said the good woman, taking his hand and shedding tears. “I kent ye had lost a’ by that fearfu’ bank failure, but I didna ken ye had come doon sae low. And oh! to think that it was a’ through me, an your kindness in offerin’ to tak the shares aff my hands. Oh! Maister Black, my heart is wae when I look at ye. Is there onything I can dae for ye?”
Now, it was quite a new light to Mr Black that his relative had not found him out. He had called in a fit of desperation, for the purpose of extorting money from her by any means. He now changed his tactics, and resolved to board and lodge with her gratuitously. The proposition rather startled the poor woman, for she found it difficult to make the two ends meet, even when her house was full of lodgers. She had not the heart to refuse him, however, and thus Mr Black was fairly installed in the old room whose window opened on the cats’ parade.
In her difficulty Mrs Niven went, as she was in the habit of doing, to Philosopher Jack, to whom she represented Mr Black as such a suffering and self-sacrificing man, that his heart was quite melted.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mrs Niven,” he said. “There is a sum of money in my father’s possession, the interest of which enabled me to pay my way when I came back from the gold-fields. My father won’t use that money himself and I won’t accept it from him. We have therefore resolved to devote it to charitable purposes. Now, we will give Mr Black a small annuity out of it, for your sake, Mrs Niven.”
Philosopher Jack was not, however, so easily deceived as Mrs Niven. He afterwards “found out” Mr Black, and told him so in very stern language. Nevertheless, he did not stop his allowance. Neither did he enlighten Mrs Niven as to the man’s true character, though he kept a sharp eye on him.
Thus did Mr Black become a pensioner and a free boarder. There is no sinner on this side (of) the grave who is beyond redemption. That which prosperity and adversity had equally failed to accomplish, was finally brought about by unmerited kindness, — Mr Black’s spirit was quietly and gradually, but surely, broken. The generous forbearance of Edwin Jack, and the loving Christian sympathy of his intended victim, proved too much for him. He confessed his sin to Jack, and offered to resign his pension; but Jack would not hear of it, as the pensioner was by that time too old and feeble to work. He also confessed to Mrs Niven, but that unsuspecting woman refused to believe that he ever did or could harbour so vile a design towards her, and she continued in that mind to her dying day.
Peggy, however, was made of sterner stuff. She not only believed his confession, but she refused to believe in his repentance, and continued to treat him with marked disrespect until her mistress died. After that however, she relented, and retired with him to a poorer residence, in the capacity of his servant. Peggy was eccentric in her behaviour. While she nursed him with the assiduous care and kindness of a rough but honest nature, she continued to call him a “dirty auld blagyird” to the last. The expression of this sentiment did not, however, prevent her from holding more polite intercourse. When his eyes grew dim, she read to him not only from the Bible, but from the Pilgrim’s Progress and Robinson Crusoe, which were their favourites among the books of the little library furnished to them by Christian friends. And many sage and original remarks did Peggy make on those celebrated books. The topics of conversation which she broached with Mr Black from time to time were numerous, as a matter of course, for Peggy was loquacious; but that to which she most frequently recurred was the wonderful career of Philosopher Jack, for Peggy liked to sing his praises, and never tired of treating the old man to long-winded accounts of that hero’s ever memorable voyage to the Southern Seas.
THE END
POST HASTE
CONTENTS
Preface.
Chapter One.
Chapter Two.
Chapter Three.
Chapter Four.
Chapter Five.
Chapter Six.
Chapter Seven.
Chapter Eight.
Chapter Nine.
Chapter Ten.
Chapter Eleven.
Chapter Twelve.
Chapter Thirteen.
Chapter Fourteen.
Chapter Fifteen.
Chapter Sixteen.
Chapter Seventeen.
Chapter Eighteen.
Chapter Nineteen.
Chapter Twenty.
Chapter Twenty One.
Chapter Twenty Two.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Chapter Twenty Four.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Chapter Thirty.
Preface.
This tale is founded chiefly on facts furnished by the Postmaster-General’s Annual Reports, and gathered, during personal intercourse and investigation, at the General Post-Office of London and its Branches.
It is intended to illustrate — not by any means to exhaust — the 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 time — only once, observe, she did not do it twice — a 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 family’s 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 babes — so their mother styled them. The eldest babe, Mary — better known as May — was 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 youth — the 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 young — about 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 father’s 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.
“Isn’t 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 Norway — those 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 friend’s 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 didn’t 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 don’t mean that?” said Phil, with increased admiration; for the boy was not only smitten by his friend’s 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.”
