The Argosy — page 349: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

320 The Story of Charles Strange. ought to have waited in,” I remarked. “I have come up at the greatest inconvenience.” “She has gone off in a tantrum,” cried the Major, lowering his voice as he carefully closed the door and pushed a chair towards me, just as if the house were still in his occupancy. ‘But where has she gone?” I asked, not taking the chair, but standing with my elbow on the mantelpiece. ‘’Who’s to know? ‘To you, in Essex Street, I shouldn’t wonder. She was on the heights of impatience at your not coming.” ‘Not to Essex Street, I think, Major. I should have seen her.” ‘Nonsense! ‘There’s fifty turnings and windings between this and Essex Street, where you might miss one another; your cab taking the straight way and she the crooked,” retorted the Major. ‘When Blanche gets her back up, you can’t easily put it down.” ‘*Something has gone contrary, I expect.” ‘¢ Nothing has gone contrary but herself,” said the Major in reply, who seemed in a cross and contrary mood on his own part. ‘‘ Women are the very deuce for folly.” ‘ Well, what is it all about, sir? I suppose you can tell me?” The Major sat down in Lord Level’s easy chair, pushed back his cloak, and prepared to explain. ‘What it’s all about is just nothing, Charles; but so far as Madam Blanche’s version goes, it is this,” said he. ‘They were about to sit down, yesterday evening, to dinner—which they take on Sundays at five o’clock (good, pious souls!) and limit their fare to roast beef and a tart—when a telegram arrived from Marshdale. My lord seemed put out about it; my lady was no doubt the same. ‘I must go down at once, Blanche,’ said he, speaking on the spur of the moment. ‘But, why? Where’s the need of it?’ re- turned she. ‘Surely there can be nothing at Marshdale to call you away on Sunday and in this haste?’ ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘there is ; there’s illness.’ And then, Blanche says, he tried to cough down the words, as if he had made a slip of the tongue. ‘Who is ill?’ said Blanche. ‘ Let me see the telegram.’ Level slid the telegram into his pocket, and told her it was Mr. Edwards, the old steward. Down he sat again at the table, swallowed a mouthful of beef, sent Sanders to put up a few things in his small portmanteau, and was off ina cab like the wind. Fact is,” added the Major, ‘ had he failed to catch that particular train, he would not have got down at all, being Sunday ; and Sanders says that catching it must have been a near shave for his lordship.” Ts that all?” ‘‘No. This morning there was delivered here a letter for his lordship ; post-mark Marshdale, handwriting a certain Italian one that Blanche has seen before. She has seen the writer, too, it seems ; a fair lady called Nina. Blanche argues that as the letter came from Marshdale, the lady must be at Marshdale, and she means to know ECORNIELIOOKS,E@ m