1. MARCH THE THIRTEENTH. THREE TO SIX O'CLOCK A.M.
They entered Anglebury Station in the dead, still time of early morning, the clock over the booking-office pointing to twenty-five minutes to three. Manston lingered on the platform and saw the mail-bags brought out, noticing, as a pertinent pastime, the many shabby blotches of wax from innumerable seals that had been set upon their mouths. The guard took them into a fly, and was driven down the road to the post-office.
It was a raw, damp, uncomfortable morning, though, as yet, little rain was falling. Manston drank a mouthful from his flask and walked at once away from the station, pursuing his way through the gloom till he stood on the side of the town adjoining, at a distance from the last house in the street of about two hundred yards.
The station road was also the turnpike-road into the country, the first part of its course being across a heath. Having surveyed the highway up and down to make sure of its bearing, Manston methodically set himself to walk backwards and forwards a stone's throw in each direction. Although the spring was temperate, the time of day, and the condition of suspense in which the steward found himself, caused a sensation of chilliness to pervade his frame in spite of the overcoat he wore. The drizzling rain increased, and drops from the trees at the wayside fell noisily upon the hard road beneath them, which reflected from its glassy surface the faint halo of light hanging over the lamps of the adjacent town.
Here he walked and lingered for two hours, without seeing or hearing a living soul. Then he heard the market-house clock strike five, and soon afterwards, quick hard footsteps smote upon the pavement of the street leading towards him. They were those of the postman for the Tolchurch beat. He reached the bottom of the street, gave his bags a final hitch-up, stepped off the pavement, and struck out for the country with a brisk shuffle.
Manston then turned his back upon the town, and walked slowly on.
In two minutes a flickering light shone upon his form, and the postman overtook him.
The new-comer was a short, stooping individual of above five-and-forty, laden on both sides with leather bags large and small, and carrying a little lantern strapped to his breast, which cast a tiny patch of light upon the road ahead.
'A tryen mornen for travellers!' the postman cried, in a cheerful voice, without turning his head or slackening his trot.
'It is, indeed,' said Manston, stepping out abreast of him. 'You have a long walk every day.'
'Yes--a long walk--for though the distance is only sixteen miles on the straight--that is, eight to the furthest place and eight back, what with the ins and outs to the gentlemen's houses, it makes two-and-twenty for my legs. Two-and-twenty miles a day, how many a year? I used to reckon it, but I never do now. I don't care to think o' my wear and tear, now it do begin to tell upon me.'
Thus the conversation was begun, and the postman proceeded to narrate the different strange events that marked his experience.
Manston grew very friendly.
'Postman, I don't know what your custom is,' he said, after a while;
'but between you and me, I always carry a drop of something warm in my pocket when I am out on such a morning as this. Try it.' He handed the bottle of brandy.
'If you'll excuse me, please. I haven't took no stimmilents these five years.'
''Tis never too late to mend.'
'Against the regulations, I be afraid.'
'Who'll know it?'
'That's true--nobody will know it. Still, honesty's the best policy.'
'Ah--it is certainly. But, thank God, I've been able to get on without it yet. You'll surely drink with me?'
'Really, 'tis a'most too early for that sort o' thing--however, to oblige a friend, I don't object to the faintest shadder of a drop.'
The postman drank, and Manston did the same to a very slight degree.
Five minutes later, when they came to a gate, the flask was pulled out again.
'Well done!' said the postman, beginning to feel its effect; 'but guide my soul, I be afraid 'twill hardly do!'
'Not unless 'tis well followed, like any other line you take up,' said Manston. 'Besides, there's a way of liking a drop of liquor, and of being good--even religious--at the same time.'
'Ay, for some thimble-and-button in-an-out fellers; but I could never get into the knack o' it; not I.'
'Well, you needn't be troubled; it isn't necessary for the higher class of mind to be religious--they have so much common-sense that they can risk playing with fire.'
'That hits me exactly.'
'In fact, a man I know, who always had no other god but "Me;" and devoutly loved his neighbour's wife, says now that believing is a mistake.'
'Well, to be sure! However, believing in God is a mistake made by very few people, after all.'
'A true remark.'
'Not one Christian in our parish would walk half a mile in a rain like this to know whether the Scripture had concluded him under sin or grace.'
'Nor in mine.'
'Ah, you may depend upon it they'll do away wi' Goddymity altogether afore long, although we've had him over us so many years.'
'There's no knowing.'
'And I suppose the Queen 'ill be done away wi' then. A pretty concern that'll be! Nobody's head to put on your letters; and then your honest man who do pay his penny will never be known from your scamp who don't. O, 'tis a nation!'
'Warm the cockles of your heart, however. Here's the bottle waiting.'
'I'll oblige you, my friend.'
The drinking was repeated. The postman grew livelier as he went on, and at length favoured the steward with a song, Manston himself joining in the chorus.
'He flung his mallet against the wall, Said, "The Lord make churches and chapels to fall, And there'll be work for tradesmen all!"
When Joan's ale was new, My boys, When Joan's ale was new.'
'You understand, friend,' the postman added, 'I was originally a mason by trade: no offence to you if you be a parson?'
'None at all,' said Manston.
