Post Haste, R. M. Ballantyne [sad books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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It was not by any means their first meeting since the recovery of Aspel, but, as we have said, the latter had kept out of the way of old friends, and Phil was only partially excepted from the rule.
“The very man I wanted to see!” cried Phil, with gleaming eyes, as he seized his friend’s hand. “I’ve got mother over to London at last. She’s longing to see you. Come out with me this evening—do. But I’m in sudden perplexity: I’ve just been sent for to do some extra duty. It won’t take me half an hour.—You’re not engaged, are you?”
“Well, no—not particularly.”
“Then you’ll do me a favour, I’m sure you will. You’ll mount guard here for half an hour, won’t you? I had appointed to meet May here this evening to take her home, and when she comes she’ll not know why I have failed her unless you—”
“My dear Phil, I would stay with all my heart,” said Aspel hastily, “but—but—the fact is—I’ve not seen May for a long time, and—”
“Why, what on earth has that to do with it?” asked Phil, in some surprise.
“You are right,” returned Aspel, with a deprecating smile, “that has nothing to do with it. My wits are wool-gathering, Phil. Go: I will mount guard.”
Phil was gone in a moment, and Aspel leaned his head on his arm against one of the pillars of the portico. He had scarcely breathed a prayer for guidance when May approached. She stopped abruptly, flushed slightly, and hesitated a moment, then, advancing with the hearty air of an old playmate, she frankly held out her hand.
This was enough for Aspel. He had been depressed before; he was in the depths of despair now. If May had only shown confusion, or shyness, or anything but free-and-easy goodwill, hope might have revived, but he was evidently nothing more to her than the old playmate. Hope therefore died, and with its death there came over Aspel the calm subdued air of a crushed but resigned man. He observed her somewhat worn face and his heart melted. He resolved to act a brother’s part to her.
“I’m so glad to meet you at last, May!” he said, returning the kindly grasp of the hand with interest, but quite in a brotherly way.
“You might have seen me long ago. Why did you not come? We would all have been so glad to see you.”
May blushed decidedly as she made this reply, but the shades of evening were falling. Moreover, the pillar near to which they stood threw a deep shadow over them, and Aspel did not observe it. He therefore continued—in a quiet, brotherly way—
“Ah! May, it is cruel of you to ask that. You know that I have been unfit—”
“Nay, I did not mean that,” interrupted May, with eager anxiety; “I meant that since—since—lately, you know—why did you not come?”
“True, May, I might have come lately—praise be to God!—but, but—why should I not speak out? It’s all over now. You know the love I once bore you, May, which you told me I must not speak of, and which I have tried to cure with all the energy of my heart, for I do not want to lose you as a sister—an old playmate at least—though I may not have you as—But, as I said, it’s all over now. I promise never again to intrude this subject on you. Let me rather tell you of the glorious work in which I am at present engaged.”
He stopped, for, in spite of his efforts to be brotherly, there was a sense of sinking at his heart which slightly embittered his tone.
“Is true love, then, so easily cured?”
May looked up in his face as she asked the question. There was something in the look and in the tone which caused George Aspel’s heart to beat like a sledge-hammer. He stooped down, and, looking into her eyes,—still in a brotherly way, said—
“Is it possible, May, that you could trifle with my feelings?”
“No, it is not possible,” she answered promptly.
“Oh! May,” continued Aspel, in a low, earnest tone; “if I could only dare to think,—to believe,—to hope, that—”
“Forgive me, May, I’m so sorry,” cried her brother Phil, as he sprang up the steps; “I did my best to hurry through with it. I’m afraid I’ve kept you and George waiting very long.”
“Not at all,” replied May, with unquestionable truth.
“If you could have only kept us waiting five minutes longer!” thought Aspel, but he only said—“Come along, Phil, I’ll go home with you to-night.”
The evening was fine—frosty and clear.
“Shall we walk to Nottinghill?” asked Phil. “It’s a longish tramp for you, May, but that’s the very thing you want.”
May agreed that it was a desirable thing in every point of view, and George Aspel did not object.
As they walked along, the latter began to wonder whether a new experiment had been made lately in the way of paving the streets with india-rubber. As for May, she returned such ridiculous answers to the simplest questions, that Phil became almost anxious about her, and finally settled it in his own mind that her labours in the telegraph department of the General Post-Office must be brought to a close as soon as possible.
“You see, mother,” he said that night, after Aspel had left the cottage and May had gone to her room, “it will never do to let her kill herself over the telegraph instrument. She’s too delicately formed for such work. We must find something better suited to her.”
“Yes, Phil, we must find something better suited to her.—Good-night,” replied Mrs Maylands.
There was a twinkle in the widow’s eye as she said this that sorely puzzled Phil, and kept him in confused meditation that night, until the confusion became worse confounded and he fell into an untroubled slumber.
Sitting alone in the breakfast parlour of The Rosebud, one morning in June, Miss Stivergill read the following paragraph in her newspaper:— “Gallant Rescue.—Yesterday forenoon a lady and her daughter, accompanied by a gentleman, went to the landing-wharf at Blackfriars with the intention of going on board a steamer. There were some disorderly men on the wharf, and a good deal of crowding at the time. As the steamer approached, one of the half-drunk men staggered violently against the daughter above referred to, and thrust her into the river, which was running rapidly at the time, the tide being three-quarters ebb. The gentleman, who happened to have turned towards the mother at the moment, heard a scream and plunge. He looked quickly back and missed the young lady. Being a tall powerful man, he dashed the crowd aside, hurled the drunk man—no doubt inadvertently—into the river, sprang over his head, as he was falling, with a magnificent bound, and reached the water so near to the young lady that a few powerful strokes enabled him to grasp and support her. Observing that the unfortunate cause of the whole affair was lulling helplessly past him with the tide, he made a vigorous stroke or two with his disengaged arm, and succeeded in grasping him by the nape of the neck, and holding him at arm’s-length, despite his struggles, until a boat rescued them all. We believe that the gentleman who effected this double rescue is named Aspel, and that he is a city missionary. We have also been informed that the young lady is engaged to her gallant deliverer, and that the wedding has been fixed to come off this week.”
Laying down the paper, Miss Stivergill lifted up her eyes and hands, pursed her mouth, and gave vent to a most unladylike whistle! She had barely terminated this musical performance, and recovered the serenity of her aspect, when Miss Lillycrop burst in upon her with unwonted haste and excitement.
“My darling Maria!” she exclaimed, breathlessly, flinging her bonnet on a chair and seizing both the hands of her friend, “I am so glad you’re at home. It’s such an age since I saw you! I came out by the early train on purpose to tell you. I hardly know where to begin. Oh! I’m so glad!”
“You’re not going to be married?” interrupted Miss Stivergill, whose stern calmness deepened as her friend’s excitement increased.
“Married? oh no! Ridiculous! but I think I’m going deranged.”
“That is impossible,” returned Miss Stivergill, “You have been deranged ever since I knew you. If there is any change in your condition it can only be an access of the malady. Besides, there is no particular cause for joy in that. Have you no more interesting news to give me?”
“More interesting news!” echoed Miss Lillycrop, sitting down on her bonnet, “of course I have. Now, just listen: Peter Pax—of the firm of Blurt, Pax, Jiggs, and Company, Antiquarians, Bird-Stuffers, Mechanists, Stamp-Collectors, and I don’t know what else besides, to the Queen—is going to be married to—whom do you think?”
“The Queen of Sheba,” replied Miss Stivergill, folding her hands on her lap with a placid smile.
“To—Tottie Bones!” said Miss Lillycrop, with an excited movement that ground some of her bonnet to straw-powder.
Miss Stivergill did not raise her eyes or whistle at this. She merely put her head a little on one side and smiled.
“I knew it, my dear—at least I felt sure it would come to this, though it is sooner than I expected. It is not written anywhere, I believe, that a boy may not marry a baby, nevertheless—”
“But she’s not a baby,” broke in Miss Lillycrop.
“Tottie is seventeen now, and Pax is twenty-four. But this is not the half of what I have to tell you. Ever since Pax was taken into partnership by Mr Enoch Blurt the business has prospered, as you are aware, and our active little friend has added all kinds of branches to it—such as the preparation and sale of entomological, and ichthyological, and other -ological specimens, and the mechanical parts of toy-engines; and that lad Jiggs has turned out such a splendid expounder of all these things, that the shop has become a sort of terrestrial heaven for boys. And dear old Fred Blurt has begun to recover under the influence of success, so that he is now able to get out frequently in a wheel-chair. But the strangest news of all is that Mister Enoch Blurt got a new baby—a girl—and recovered his diamonds on the self-same day!”
“Indeed!” said Miss Stivergill, beginning to be influenced by these surprising revelations.
“Yes, and it’s a curious evidence of the energetic and successful way in which things are managed by our admirable Post-Office—”
“What! the union of a new baby with recovered diamonds?”
“No, no, Maria, how stupid you are! I refer, of course, to the diamonds. Have you not seen reference made to them in the papers?”
“No. I’ve seen or heard nothing about it.”
“Indeed! I’m surprised. Well, that hearty old letter-carrier, Solomon Flint, sent that ridiculously stout creature whom he calls Dollops to me with the last Report of the Postmaster-General, with the corner of page eleven turned down, for he knew I was interested in anything that might affect the Blurts. But here it is. I brought it to read to you. Listen: ‘On the occasion of the wreck of the Trident in Howlin’ Cove, on the west of Ireland, many years ago, strenuous efforts were made by divers to recover the Cape of Good Hope mails, and, it will be recollected, they were partially successful, but a portion which contained diamonds could not be found. Diving operations were, however, resumed quite recently, and with most satisfactory results. One of the registered-letter-bags was found. It had been so completely imbedded in sand, and covered by a heavy portion of the wreck, that the contents were not altogether destroyed, notwithstanding the long period of their immersion. On being opened in the Chief Office in London, the bag was found to contain several large packets of diamonds, the addresses on which had been partially obliterated, besides about seven pounds weight of loose diamonds, which, having escaped from their
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