United States or Cocos Islands ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Bashwood was ill, and begged to intimate for the second time that she earnestly trusted she had given him no offense. "No! no!" he called through the door. "I'm quite well I'm writing, ma'am, I'm writing please to excuse me. She's a good woman; she's an excellent woman," he thought, when the landlady had retired. "I'll make her a little present.
"That's it, sir!" he said, eagerly; "that's what I wanted to speak to you about; that's what I've been preparing in my mind. Mr. Pedgift, sir, the last time you were at the great house, when you came away in your gig, you you overtook me on the drive." "I dare say I did," remarked Pedgift, resignedly. "My mare happens to be a trifle quicker on her legs than you are on yours, Bashwood.
No such thing is at all likely; but if I gave old Bashwood this commission, it would flatter his sense of his own importance to me, and would at the same time serve the excellent purpose of keeping him out of my way." "Thursday morning, nine o'clock. I have just got back from the park. "For once I have proved a true prophet.
These were the terms in which Bashwood the younger answered his father's supplication for help after having previously ruined his father's prospects for life: "Shadyside Place. Tuesday, July 29th. "MY DEAR DAD We have some little practice in dealing with mysteries at this office; but the mystery of your letter beats me altogether.
Midwinter secured the letter as he had secured the letter that preceded it side by side in his pocket-book with the narrative of Allan's Dream. "How many days more?" he asked himself, as he went back to the house. "How many days more?" Not many. The time he was waiting for was a time close at hand. Monday came, and brought Mr. Bashwood, punctual to the appointed hour.
Stopping to rest and recruit his strength at the first hotel he came to, a chance dispute between the waiter and a stranger about a lost portmanteau reminded him of his own luggage, left at the terminus, and instantly took his mind back to the circumstances under which he and Mr. Bashwood had met.
Armadale is the man?" "What man?" "The man who is going to marry her." "Yes! yes! yes! Let me go, Jemmy let me go." The spy set his back against the door, and considered for a moment. Mr. Armadale was rich Mr. "It may be a hundred pounds in my pocket if I work it myself," thought Bashwood the younger. "And it won't be a half-penny if I leave it to my father."
Bashwood made his way, as well as the crowd would let him, along the line of carriages, and, discovering no familiar face on that first investigation, joined the passengers for a second search among them in the custom-house waiting-room next.
"Drive at once to the gates of the Sanitarium, and wait there till I join you." Mr. Bashwood hesitated. She lifted her eyes to his, and, with a look, sent him out of the room. "The gentleman is coming to, ma'am," said the landlady, as the steward closed the door. "He has just breathed again."
The interval day, the Tuesday, was passed by Mr. Bashwood in the steward's office at the great house. He had a double motive for absorbing himself as deeply as might be in the various occupations connected with the management of the estate. In the first place, employment helped him to control the devouring impatience with which he looked for the coming of the next day.