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For the first time in her life, when the bright sun shone into her room, Beatrice turned her face to the wall and dreaded the sight of day. The post-bag would leave the hall at nine in the morning Hugh would have the letter at noon. Until then she was safe. Noon came and went, but the length of the summer's day brought nothing save fresh misery.
Morning came, and as soon as Harold was dressed, he rushed to the farm- yard, but he could not find Paul anywhere, and concluded that he had been sent out with the cows, and would be back by breakfast-time. As soon as he had brought home the post-bag, he dashed across the road again, but came back in a few moments, looking beside himself. 'He's gone! he said, and threw himself back in a chair.
One morning Captain Rymer and his family were seated at breakfast; Mrs Rymer had just poured out a cup of tea, and Mary had handed it to him with a slice of toast which she had carefully buttered, when the post-bag was brought into the room. He opened it, and drew forth a long official-looking envelope. "No other letter?" asked his wife.
Here's letters!" And he threw down a pocket-book containing a heap of papers of the poor lady's composition. "Those are letters, indeed. What a post-bag!" says the chaplain.
Remember what I said to you in the library. Whatever you do, Laura, don't make an enemy of the Count!" We went downstairs. Laura entered the drawing-room, while I proceeded across the hall, with my letter in my hand, to put it into the post-bag, which hung against the wall opposite to me.
The mind would not receive it! The heartfelt bustle of that hour is hardly credible; the thrill of the great shower of letters from the post-bag, the childish hope and interest with which one gazed in all these strangers' eyes.
This letter, which was fiery enough to have set any ordinary post-bag in a blaze, declared, among other matters, that the lady's answer would decide the writer's fate, for life or for death. Mademoiselle de la Motte sat down and wrote a reply which she sent by her confidential maid, who placed it in the hands of the captain's faithful valet, to be secretly carried to his master.
He was just putting a letter into the post-bag. After he had dropped it in and had closed the bag, he asked me where I had left Madame Fosco. I told him, and he went out at the hall door immediately to join his wife. His manner when he spoke to me was so unusually quiet and subdued that I turned and looked after him, wondering if he were ill or out of spirits.
His answer was written, his hand was on the post-bag, and at that moment the whole struggle had to be risked over again risked when he was most unfit for it! He was not a man under any ordinary circumstances to procrastinate, but he procrastinated now.
What should we say if we found the Express, as was written on the boy's post-bag, busily engaged in a game of bowls on the road, regardless of the loss of time or money thereby occasioned? I think we should be inclined to write to the papers.
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