Margaret did as she was desired and returned presently with a handful of letters. Mrs. Watson took them on her lap and examined the post-mark and address of each. Several were, from their size and appearance, letters of business—she put them aside—over one she paused:
"Here's one in a lady's hand," said she, "and to my husband! London, I wonder who that's from? I never saw the seal before or the hand writing—there's some mystery there. I wonder whether it's from some mistress or improper person? I dare say it is—men are always deceiving one!"
"Oh, Jane!" cried Margaret, "that's impossible! You, of all people, cannot fear a rival. Robert could not serve you so!"
"Oh! the best of women, my dear, fare no better than the worst, with some men; the best of men are worth very little; and, as to Mr. Watson, he's no better than his neighbours. I can tell you I would not trust him without watching—and I'll see him open and read that letter, or my name is not Jane Watson; but let's see—" turning again to her letters; "what else have we here? One for me—one for Elizabeth—who's that from? look Margaret!"
Margaret readily obeyed, and kneeling down besides her sister's chair, looked at the letter in question.
"I think," said she, "it's from the upholsterer who purchased some of our old furniture, that's H on the seal, and his name was Hill."
"Very likely, but look, Margaret, here's one for Emma—a lady's hand too—the London post-mark, and a coronet on the seal—good gracious, that must be from Miss Osborne, or perhaps from her brother—I wonder if one could see anything inside. You see Lord Osborne has franked it, and it's in an envelope, how tiresome: if it had only been folded like another letter we could have read some of it."
"So we might, I dare say Emma will never tell us a word, she's so close, she never chats comfortably with one about anything; I am sure to this day I know nothing at all about what she thinks of Lord Osborne, or any of his family—it's so provoking and disagreeable."
"So it is, I hate such nasty close dispositions; I, who am all openness and frankness, cannot comprehend anything secret and underhand: well, we cannot help it, and I suppose we shall not know what it is about. Take those letters to the office, Margaret, and tell the clerk they were brought into the drawing-room by mistake."