As a rule it always is late, except when it is preternaturally early; sometimes it comes at half-past ten, sometimes with the hot water. There is a blessed uncertainty about its advent that keeps every one on the tiptoe of expectation, and probably benefits circulation.
The postman himself is an institution in the village, being of an unknown age, in fact, the real and original oldest inhabitant, and still with no signs of coming dissolution about him, thereby carrying out Dicken's theory that a dead post-boy or a dead donkey is a thing yet to be seen. He is a hoary-headed old person, decrepit and garrulous, with only one leg worth speaking about, and an ear trumpet. This last is merely for show, as once old Jacob is set fairly talking, no human power could get in a word from any one else.
"I am always so glad when the post doesn't arrive in time for breakfast," Doatie is saying gayly. "Once those horrid papers come, every one gets stupid and engrossed, and thinks it a positive injury to have to say even 'yes' or 'no' to a civil question. Now see how sociable we have been this morning, because that dear Jacob is late again. Ah! I spoke too soon," as the door opens and a servant enters with a most imposing pile of letters and papers.
"Late again, Jermyn," says Sir Nicholas, lazily.
"Yes, Sir Nicholas,—just an hour and a half. He desired me to say he had had another 'dart' in his rheumatic knee this morning, so hoped you would excuse him."
"Poor old soul!" says Sir Nicholas.
"Jolly old bore!" says Captain Rodney, though not unkindly.
"Don't throw me over that blue envelope, Nick," says Nolly: "I don't seem to care about it. I know it, I think it seems familiar. You may have it, with my love. Mrs. Geoffrey, be so good as to tear it in two."
Jack is laughing over a letter written by one of the fellows in India; all are deep in their own correspondence.
Sir Nicholas, having gone leisurely through two of his letters, opens a third, and begins to peruse it rather carelessly. But hardly has he gone half-way down the first page when his face changes; involuntarily his fingers tighten over the luckless letter, crimping it out of all shape. By a supreme effort he suppresses an exclamation. It is all over in a moment. Then he raises his head, and the color comes back to his lips. He smiles faintly, and, saying something about having many things to do this morning, and that therefore he hopes they will forgive his running away from them in such a hurry he rises and walks slowly from the room.