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Updated: June 18, 2025
Egremont turned the conversation to the establishing themselves in the pavilion, whither she proceeded to import some fancy-work that she had bought in London, and sent Nuttie to Ronaldson, who was arranging calceolarias, begonias, and geraniums in the conservatory, to beg for some cut-flowers for a great dusty-looking vase in the centre of the table. These were being arranged when Mrs.
Ronaldson took off his hat. "Very good, sir," he remarked. "I will wish you good-night!" Mannering pursued his way homeward with the briefest of farewells. The young reporter retraced his steps. Arrived at Parkins's lodgings he mounted the stairs, and found the room empty. He returned and interviewed the landlord.
Presently his father went off to storm the den of the master of the house, and there was a pleasant quarter of an hour, during which the three went out through the conservatory, and Mark showed the ins-and-outs of the garden, found out Ronaldson, and congratulated him on having some one at last to appreciate his flowers, begging him to make the conservatory beautiful. And Mrs.
"Ronaldson caught one of his messengers sneaking about in his camp near Shah Bagh, trying to corrupt his escort. That may have been in view of this very plan for a general rising, but he thought it was one of the usual schemes for getting hold of Shah Bagh again." "If Abd-ur-Rashid and the Granthis can manage to agree, we are likely to come off badly," said Cowper. "But they won't," said Nisbet.
I ken the way, dark or light, as weel as blind Ralph Ronaldson, that's travelled ower every moor in the country-side, and disna ken the colour of a heather-cowe when a's dune." I highly approved of Andrew's amendment on my original proposal, and we agreed to meet at the place appointed at three in the morning. At once, however, a reflection came across the mind of my intended travelling companion.
Mannering, I believe?" he said, quickly. "What has my name to do with you, sir?" Mannering answered, coldly. "Mine is Ronaldson," the young man answered. "I am a reporter." Mannering regarded him steadily for a moment. "You are the young man, then," he said, "who has discovered the mare's nest of my iniquity."
His father, Colonel Alexander Ronaldson Macdonnell, was the last genuine specimen of a Highland chief, and he was the Fergus McIvor of Walter Scott's "Waverley." He always wore the dress of his ancestors, and kept sentinels posted at his doors. He perished in the year 1828, while attempting to escape from a steamer which had gone ashore.
One Ronaldson especially departed from the simplicity and dignity of the cut approved by Caxton, Aldus, and Elzevir, and substituted for the beautiful terminal of, say the capital T, two ridiculous curled points. I resented it passionately, and frequently remarked that a printer who would use Ronaldson old-style would not hesitate to eat his pie with a knife.
"He's by way of being a pukka soldier, you know," said Mrs. Ronaldson gaily. "That's why he's only a Major." I remembered my anticipation long ago that she would marry a soldier. It was inevitable. She had all the graces of the soldier's wife. She was civil and affable, but she could hardly conceal her intimate conviction that she was not quite as others were. Robert was breezy.
"We have more money than Ronaldson. Don't be afraid. We have gold to spare where Ronaldson had silver." The old man lifted the candle with shaking fingers. Then it dropped with a crash to the ground, and lay there for a moment spluttering. He shrank back. "It's 'im!" he muttered. "Don't kill me, sir. I mean you no harm. It's Mr. Mannering!" The old man had sunk into a seat.
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