[CHAPTER VII.]
The morning after the events just recorded, as Mr. Montagu, the brother of Sir Ambrose, was sitting at the breakfast-table with his wife and daughter, they were all startled by the unexpected arrival of a letter from Sir Ambrose. "Bless me!" cried Mr. Montagu, moved for once to forget his usual habits of indifference—"I do believe it is a letter from my brother."
"Your brother!" screamed Mrs. Montagu, starting up to examine it, and in her agitation overturning a patent steam coffee-machine, by which coffee was roasted, ground, made, and poured out with an ad libitum of boiling milk and sugar, all in the short space of five minutes. "Oh!" continued she—"I am scalded to death!"
"I hope not, my dear," said Mr. Montagu, calmly taking up his letter, and carefully examining it on all sides without opening it. "Yes," continued he, "it is indeed from my brother, and I hope it contains no ill news, for I do not perceive any signs of mourning about it." And so saying, he very tranquilly laid his letter again upon the table, and recommenced sipping his coffee.
"La! papa, hadn't you better open your letter and read it?" asked Clara, who was busily employed in assisting her mother.
"Ah!" resumed Mr. Montagu. "True! I never thought of that—I think I had." Then again taking the letter in his hand, he broke the seal and gave it to Clara to read.
"And do you think my daughter is to leave me when I am in this miserable condition, Mr. Montagu, to read letters from your brother, Mr. Montagu—a man who has always treated me with such disrespect, Mr. Montagu,—and I half scalded to death!"
"I am sure I'm very sorry, my dear," began Mr. Montagu.
"Oh, spare your sorrow," exclaimed his wife—"for I'm sure you don't care one single straw about me. You're a cruel man—"