We had called him Posty so long that Jamie Soutar declared our postman
had forgotten the sound of his own name, and had once refused a letter
addressed to himself. This was merely Jamie's humour, for Posty held his
legal designation in jealous remembrance, and used it for the confusion
of pride with much effect.
When Milton, in whom Pharisaism had reached the point of genius, dealt
faithfully with Posty at New Year time on his personal habits, and
explained that he could not give him money lest he should waste it
in strong drink--offering him instead a small volume of an improving
character--Posty fell back on his reserves.
“Ma name,” he said, eyeing Milton sternly, and giving each syllable its
just weight, “is Aircheebald MacKittrick; an' gin ye hae ony
complaint against me for neglect o' duty, ye can lodge it wi' the
Postmaister-General, speecifyin' parteeclars, sic as late arrival or
omittin' tae deliver, an' a'll hae the sateesfaction o' cairryin' yer
letter pairt o' the way tae its desteenation.
“A 've ma, public capaucity as an officer of the Crown”--Posty was now
master of the situation and grew more awful every moment--“an' there a'm
open tae creeticism. In ma private capaucity as a free-born Scot, the
Queen hersel' has nae business tae interfere wi' me. Whether a' prefer
speerits or limejuice for ma tastin' “--Milton had once deceived
Posty with the latter seductive fluid--“whether a' mairry ae wife or
three”--Milton's third nuptials were still fresh in the Glen--“is a
maitter for a man's ain deceesion.
“As regairds the bookie,” and Posty held its cheap covers between his
thumb and forefinger, “ye'ill excuse me. Jamie Soutar gied me a lend o'
his _French Revolution_, an' a'm juist warstlin' thro' wi't. A hev 'na
muckle time for readin', an' Tammas Carlyle's a stiff body, but his
buiks are graund feedin'. Besides”--and now Posty gave the _coup de
grace_--“thae re-leegious bookies hae nae logic for an able-bodied man,
an' the laist ane ye gied me was louse in doctrine, juist stinkin' wi'
Armeenianism.”
Posty was understood to hold an impregnable position with the head of
his department, and it was boasted in the Glen that he had carried the
mails from Drumtochty to Pitscourie--thirteen miles--and back, every
day, excluding Sabbaths, for eight-and-twenty years. It was also
believed that he had only been late twice, when the Scourie burn carried
away the bridge, and Posty had to go four miles up stream to find a
crossing-place, and the day when he struck his head against a stone,
negotiating a drift, and lay insensible for three hours.
At five o'clock to a minute Posty appeared every morning in the village
shop, which had accumulated during the night a blended fragrance of tea
and sugar, and candles and Mac-dougall's sheep dip, and where Mrs. Robb,
our postmistress, received Posty in a negligent undress sanctioned by
official business and a spotless widowhood.
“That's frae the shooting lodge tae his Lordship. It 'ill be aboot the
white hares;” and Mrs. Robb began to review the letters with unfailing
accuracy. “Ye can aye ken Drumsheugh's hand; he's after some siller frae
Piggie Walker. Piggie trickit him aince; he 'ill no dae't again. 'Miss
Howieson.' Ma word! Jean's no blate tae pit that afore her lassie's
name, and her a servant-lass, tho' a 'm no sayin' 'at she disna deserve
it, sendin' her mother a post-office order the beginnin' o' ilka month,
riglar. 'The Worshipful Chief Bummer of the Sons of Temperance Reform.'
Michty, what a title! That's what they ca' that haverin' body frae the
sooth Archie Moncur hed up lecturin' laist winter on teetotalism. Ye
were terribly affeckit yersel, Posty, a' heard”--to which sally the
immovable face gave no sign.
“And here's ane tae auld Maister Yellowlees, o' Kildrummie, askin' him
tae the fast a'm jalousin'. Sall, the Free Kirk fouk 'ill no bless their
minister for his choice. Div ye mind the diveesions o' his laist sermon
here on the sparrows, Posty?”
“'We shall consider at length'”--the voice seemed to proceed from
a graven image--“'the natural history of the sparrow; next we shall
compare the value of sparrow in ancient and modern times; and lastly,
we shall apply the foregoing truth to the spiritual condition of two
classes.'”
“That 's it tae a word. It was michty, an' Donald Menzies threipit that
he heard the deil lauchin' in the kirk. Weel, that's a', Posty, an' an
Advertiser frae Burnbrae tae his son in the Black Watch. He 'ill be hame
sune juist covered wi' medals. A' doot there 's been mair snow thro' the
nicht. It 'ill be heavy traivellin'.”
The light of the oil-lamp fell on Posty as he buckled his bag, and threw
his figure into relief against a background of boxes and barrels.
A tall man even for Drumtochty, standing six feet three in his boots,
who, being only a walking skeleton, ought to have weighed some twelve
stone, but with the bone and breadth of him turned the scale at fifteen.
His hair was a fiery red, and his bare, hard-featured face two shades
darker. No one had ever caught a trace of the inner man on Posty's face,
save once and for an instant--when he jumped into Kelpie's hole to save
a wee lassie. Elspeth Macfadyen said afterwards “his eyes were
graund.” He wore the regulation cap on the back of his head, and as no
post-office jacket was big enough to meet on Posty's chest, he looped it
with string over a knitted waistcoat. One winter he amazed the Glen
by appearing in a waterproof cape, which a humanitarian official had
provided for country postmen, but returned after a week to his former
estate, declaring that such luxuries were unhealthy and certain to
undermine the constitution. His watch was the size of a small turnip,
and gave the authorised time to the district, although Posty was always
denouncing it for a tendency to lose a minute in the course of
summer, an irregularity he used to trace back to a thunderstorm in his
grandfather's time. His equipment was completed by an oaken stick, which
the smith shod afresh every third year, and which Posty would suddenly
swing over his head as he went along. It was supposed that at these
times he had settled a point of doctrine.
Mrs. Robb started him with a score of letters, and the rest he gathered
as he went. The upper Glen had a box with a lock, at the cross roads,
and the theory was that each farm had one key and Posty his own. Every
key except Posty's had been lost long ago, and the box stood open to
the light, but Posty always made a vain attempt to sneck the door, and
solemnly dropped the letters through the slit. Some farms had hidie
holes in the dyke, which Posty could find in the darkest morning; and
Hillocks, through sheer force of custom, deposited his correspondence,
as his father had done before him, at the root of an ancient beech.
Persons handing Posty letters considered it polite to hint at their
contents, and any information about our exiles was considered Posty 's
due. He was hardly ever known to make any remark, and a stranger would
have said that he did not hear, but it was noticed that he carried the
letters to Whinnie Knowe himself during George's illness, and there is
no doubt that he was quite excited the day he brought the tidings of
Professor Ross's recovery.
He only became really fluent after he had been tasting, for which
facilities were provided at five points on his route, and then he gave
himself to theology, in which, from a technical point of view, he could
hold his own with any man in the Glen except Lachlan Campbell and Jamie
Soutar, As he could not always find another theologian when he was in
this mood he used to walk the faster as a relief to his feelings, and
then rest quietly by the roadside for half an hour, wrapt in meditation.
You might have set your watch by his rising when he went on his way like
a man whose mind was now at ease.
His face was so unconscious and unsuspicious during these brief
retreats that it arrested a well-doing tramp one day and exposed him
to misconstruction. It seemed to him, as he explained afterwards to our
policeman, that Posty might have fainted, and he felt it his duty to
take charge of the mail-bag, which its guardian utilised to fill up
the hollow of his back. Very gently did the tramp loosen the strap and
extricate the bag. He was rising from his knees when a big red hand
gripped his arm, and Posty regarded the tree above his head with
profound interest.
“A 'm obleeged tae ye,” a voice began, “for yir thochtfu' attention, an'
the care ye took no tae disturb me. Ye 'ill be a resident in the Glen,
a 'm coontin', an' wantin' yir letters,” and Posty rose with great
deliberation and refastened the strap.
“A' canna mind yir face for the moment, but maybe ye 've veesitin' yir
freends. Dinna gang awa till a' find yir letter; it micht hae money in
't, an' it 's plain ye 've needin't.
“Surely ye didna mean tae assault a puir helpless cratur,” continued
Posty, picking up his stick and laying hold of the tramp by his rags,
“an' rob him o' Her Majesty's mails? Div ye ken that wud be highway
robbery wi' aggravations, and, man, ye micht be hanged and quartered.
“Ye wud never misconduct yirsel like that, but some o' yir freends
micht, an' a' wud like tae send them a bit message.... Lord's sake,
dinna yowl like that, or the neeburs 'ill think a'm hurtin' ye.”
Two hours later the tramp was found behind a hedge anointing his sores
with butter, and using language which Posty, as a religious man, would
have heard with profound regret.
When this incident came to Doctor Davidson's ears, he took a strong
view, and spoke with such frankness and with such a wealth of family
illustration, that Posty was much edified and grew eloquent.
“Say awa, doctor, for it's a' true, an' ye 're daein' yir duty as a
minister faithfu' an' weel. A'm greatly obleeged tae ye, an' a 'll no
forget yir warnin'. Na, na, it 'ill sink.
“Ye'ill no be angry, though, or think me liteegious gin a' pint oot a
difference atween me an' ma brither that ye was neeburin' wi' me in the
maitter o' tastin'.
“A 'ill no deny that a' tak ma mornin', and maybe a forenoon, wi' a
drap down at Pitscoourie after ma dinner, and juist a moothfu' at Luckie
Macpherson's comin' thro' Netheraird, and a body needs something afore
he gaes tae bed, but that's ma ordinar' leemit.
“Noo, Jock is juist in an' oot drammin' frae mornin' tae nicht, baith
in Drumtochty an' Muirtown, and that's bad for the constitution, tae sae
naethin' o' morals.
“Forbye that, doctor, if Jock crosses the line, he gets veecious ower
politics or the catechism, an' he 'll fecht like a gude ane; but gin
a'm juist a wee overcom'--a've never been intoxicat' like thae puir,
regairdless, toon waufies--a' sit doon for half-an'-oor hummilled an'
reflect on the dispensations o' Providence.”
Posty had, in fact, three moods: the positive, when he was a man of few
words; the comparative, when he was cheerful and gave himself to the
discussion of doctrine; and the superlative, when he had been tasting
freely and retired for meditation.
As the years passed, and Posty established himself in all hearts, the
philanthropy of the Glen came to a focus on his redemption, to Posty's
inward delight, and with results still fondly remembered.
Cunningham, the Free Church scholar and shyest of men, gave his mind
to Posty in the intervals of editing Sophocles, and after planning the
campaign for four months, allured that worthy into his study, and began
operations with much tact.
“Sit down, Posty, sit down, I'm very glad to see you, and... I wanted to
thank you for your attention... every one in the Glen must be satisfied
with... with your sense of official duty.”
“Thank ye, sir,” said Posty, in his dryest voice, anticipating exactly
what Cunningham was after, and fixing that unhappy man with a stony
stare that brought the perspiration to his forehead.
“There is one thing, however, that I wanted to say to you, and, Posty,
you will understand that it is a... little difficult to... in fact to
mention,” and Cunningham fumbled with some Greek proofs.
“What 's yir wull, sir?” inquired Posty, keeping Cunningham under his
relentless eye.
“Well, it 's simply,” and then Cunningham detected a new flavour in
the atmosphere, and concluded that Posty had been given into his hands,
“that... there 's a very strong smell of spirits in the room.”
“A' noticed that masel', sir, the meenut a' cam in, but a' didna like to
say onything aboot it,” and Posty regarded Cunningham with an expression
of sympathetic toleration.
“You don't mean to say,” and Cunningham was much agitated, “that you
think...”
“Dinna pit yirsel' aboot, sir,” said Posty, in a consoling voice, “or
suppose a' wud say a word ootside this room. Na, na, there 's times a
'm the better o' a gless masel', an' it's no possible ye cud trachle
through the Greek with-oot a bit tonic; but ye 're safe wi' me,”
said Posty, departing at the right moment, and he kept his word. But
Cunningham was so scandalised that he let out the conversation, and the
Glen was happy for a month over it, for they loved both men, each in his
own way.
When Jock MacKittrick died suddenly Cunningham expressed his sympathy
with Posty, and produced an unexpected impression on that self-contained
man.
“It was only last evening that I saw you and your brother part in the
village; it must be a terrible blow to you.”
“Ye saw that?” broke in Posty; “then ye 're the only man in the Glen
that kens what a sore heart a'm cairryin' the day. Juist ablow the public
hoose, and he gaed up and a' gaed hame; it's a fact.
“The fouk are sayin' the day as a' cam alang the Glen, 'Ye 'ill miss
Jock, Posty, he slippit aff afore his time.' An' a juist gie them an,
'Ou, aye, it maks a difference,' but they dinna ken ma secret; hooever
did ye licht on it?
“There's nae use denyin' 't that he said tae me, 'Ye'ill tak yir
evenin', Posty,' for Jock aye ca'd me that--he was prood o't bein' in
the faimily--an' gin ye ask me what cam ower me that a' sud hae refused
him a' canna tell.
“'Na, na, Jock,' a' said, 'a 've hed eneuch the day, an' a'm gaein'
hame;' he lookit at me, but a' wes dour, an' noo it 's ower late; a'll
never taste wi' Jock again.” And Posty's iron manner failed, and for
once in his life he was profoundly affected.
The last philanthropist who tried his hand on Posty before he died was
“the Colonel” as we called him--that fine hearty old warrior who stayed
with the Carnegies at the Lodge, and had come to grief over Jamie Soutar
at the evangelistic meeting. The Colonel was certain that he could
manage Posty, for he was great at what he called “button-holing,” and so
he had his second disaster, understanding neither Drumtochty nor Posty.
Being full of the simplest guile he joined Posty on the road and spun
the most delightful Indian yarns, which were all intended to show what
splendid fellows his soldiers were, and how they ruined themselves with
drink. Posty gave most patient attention and only, broke silence twice.
“Drinkin'--if ye are meanin' intoxication--is waur than a failin', it 's
a sin an' no a licht ane. Ye ken whar the drunkards gang tae in the end,
but dinna let me interrupt ye.”
Later he inquired anxiously where the Colonel's regiment had been
recruited, and was much relieved by the answer.
“A' wes thinkin' they cudna be oor lads that lat the drink get the upper
hand; they sud be able tae tak their drappie cannily an' no mak fuies
o' themselves, but a 've heard that a gless or twa o' speerits 'ill turn
their heads in the sooth.”
When the Colonel, considerably damped by these preliminaries, came to
close grips, Posty took a stand.
“'Pledge' did ye say, Colonel; na, na, a' dauma hae onything tae dae wi'
sic devices, they 're naething else than vows, an' vows are aboleeshed
in this dispensation. The Catholics keep them up a'm informed, but a'm a
Protestant, an' ma conscience wudna alloo me tae sign.
“But a'm terribly pleased wi' yir stories, sir, an' they gar the time
pass fine, an' ye maunna be offended. Gin ye cud meet me the morn at the
boonds o' the pairish, a'm willin' tae argie the maitter o' vows up the
Glen juist tae shairp-en oor minds.
“As for the bit ribbon,” and Posty held it as if it carried infection,
“gin ye hed belanged tae Drumtochty ye wud hae kent nae man cud wear
sic a thing. Oor fouk hae an' awfu' sense o' humour; it 's sae deep they
canna lauch, but they wud juist look at the man wi' a ribbon on, an' as
sure's deith they wudna be weel for the rest o' the day.
“Besides, Colonel, a 'm suspeckin' that there's juist ae preceedent for
the ribbon in the Bible, that wes the Pharisees, when they made broad
their phylacteries, and a' ne 'er likit thae gentry.”
“Sall gin ilka man began tae pit his virtues on his coat, an' did it
honest, it wud be a show at kirk and market. Milton wud hae naethin' but
yir ribbon, an' Burnbrae, wha's the best man in the Glen, wudna hae room
on his Sabbath coat for his decorations,” and Posty chuckled inwardly to
the horror of the Colonel.
Three days afterwards the great tragedy happened, and no one needed
again to trouble himself about Posty. It was summer time, with thunder
in the air, and heavy black clouds above Glen Urtach. June was the month
in which Mrs. Macfadyen scoured her blankets, and as her burn was nearly
dry, she transferred her apparatus to the bank of the Tochty, where a
pool below the mill gave her a sure supply of water. Elspeth lit a fire
beneath the birches on the bank, and boiled the water. She plunged
the blankets into a huge tub, and kilting up her coats danced therein
powerfully, with many a direction to Elsie, her seven-year-old, to “see
ye dinna fa' in, or ye 'll be carried intae the Kelpie's Hole ablow, an'
it 'll no be yir mither can bring you oot.”
The sun was still shining brightly on the Glen, when the distant storm
burst on Ben Hornish, whose steep sides drain into the Urtach, that ends
in the Tochty. Down the Tochty came the first wave, three feet high,
bringing on its foaming yeasty waters branches of trees, two young
lambs, a stool from some cottage door, a shepherd's plaid, and all kinds
of drift from eddies that had been swept clean. Elspeth heard the roar,
and lifted her eyes to see Elsie, who had been playing too near the
edge, swept away into the pool beneath, that in less than a minute was
a seething cauldron of water that whirled round and round against the
rocks before it rushed down the bed of the river.
“Ma bairn! ma bairn! God hae mercy upon her!” and Elspeth's cry ran
through the bonnie birk wood and rose through the smiling sky to a God
that seemed to give no heed.
“Whar is she?” was all Posty asked, tearing off his coat and waistcoat,
for he had heard the cry as he was going to the mill, and took the lade
at a leap to lose no time.
“Yonder, Posty, but ye...”
He was already in the depths, while the mother hung over the edge of the
merciless flood. It seemed an hour--it was not actually a minute--before
he appeared, with the blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, and
hung for a few seconds on a rock for air.
“Come oot, Posty, ye hae a wife and bairns, an' ye 'll be drooned for
Elspeth was a brave-hearted, unselfish woman.
“A'll hae Elsie first,” and down he went again, where the torrent raged
against the rocks.
This time he came up at once, with Elsie, a poor little bundle, in his
arms.
“Tak' her quick,” he gasped, clinging with one hand to a jagged point.
And Elspeth had no sooner gripped Elsie by her frock than Posty flung up
his arms, and was whirled down the river, now running like a mill-race,
and Elspeth fancied she saw him turning over and over, for he seemed to
be insensible.
Within an hour they found his body down below the Lodge with many wounds
on it, besides that gash, and they knew at once that he had been dashed
to death against the stones.
They carried him to the Lodge--the Colonel insisted on being a
bearer--and for two hours by the clock they did their best for Posty.
“It 's no a drop o' water 'ill droon Posty,” said Jamie Soutar, “and
that his ain Tochty, an' as for a clout (blow) on the head, what's that
tae a man like Posty! he 'll be on the road the mornin'.” But Jamie
spoke with the fierce assurance of a man that fears the worst and is
afraid of breaking down.
“The water hes been ower muckle for him aifter a',” our cynic said to
Archie Moncur, who had long striven to make a teetotaller of Posty, as
they went home together, “tho' he didna give in tae the end.”
“A' doot a' wes a wee hard on him, Jamie”--Archie had the tenderest
heart in the Glen and was much loved--“but there wes nae man a' like't
better.”
“Yer tongue wes naithin' tae mine, Airchie, when a' yoke't on him, but
he bore nae ill will, did Posty, he had an awfu' respeck for ye an' aye
spoke o' ye as his freend.”
“Sae a' wes--wha wudna be--he hed a true heart hed Posty, and nae
jukery-packery (trickery) aboot him.”
“An' a graund heid tae,” went on Jamie; “there wes naebody in the Glen
cud meet him in theology, except maybe Lachlan, and did ye ever hear him
say an ill word aboot ony body?”
“Never, Jamie, an' there wes naebody he wesna interested in; the
black-edged letters aye burned his fingers--he hated tae deliver them.
He wes abody's freend wes Posty,” went on Archie, “an' naebody's enemy.”
“He deed like a man,” concluded Jamie; “there 's juist anither
consolation--the lassie 's comin' roond fine.”
When the new Free Kirk minister was settled in Drumtochty, Jamie told
him the story on the road one day and put him to the test.
“What think ye, sir, becam' o' Posty on the ither side?” and Jamie fixed
his eyes on Carmichael.
The minister's face grew still whiter.
“Did ye ever read what shall be done to any man that hurts one of God's
bairns?”
“Fine,” answered Jamie, with relish, “a millstane aboot his neck, an'
intae the depths o' the sea.”
“Then, it seems to me that it must be well with Posty, who went into the
depths and brought a bairn up at the cost of his life,” and Carmichael
added softly, “whose angel doth continually behold the face of the
Father.”
“Yir hand, sir,” said Jamie, and when the great heresy trial began at
Muirtown, Jamie prophesied Carmichael's triumphant acquittal, declaring
him a theologian of the first order.