Anne Hereford: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

Hickens came in with the urn. Seeing the letters lying there untouched, he spoke with the familiarity of a privileged servant.

"The Indian mail is in, sir."

Mr. Chandos turned quickly to the table. "I see it is, Hickens." But I don't think he had seen it until then.

"I suppose there's nothing for me from Alfred," said Madame de Mellissie, languidly looking round. "I'm not anxious to read it if there is: it would only be full of groans and scolding. Or from Tom, either? He never writes to me."

Mr. Chandos shook his head. "There's only one from Tom, and that is to me."

"But I see another Indian letter," she said, slowly approaching the table. "It has a black seal."

"Not from Thomas: it is in a strange handwriting. It is addressed to my mother."

"Any letters for my lady, sir?" asked Hill, entering the parlour.

"Two. One of them from India, tell her; but not from Sir Thomas."

Hill retreated with the letters. Emily placed herself in my seat at the head of the table, and we began breakfast. It was a poor meal for all of us that morning. Mr. Chandos drank his coffee at a draught, and opened his brother's letter.