The Deceased Wife's Sister, and My Beautiful Neighbour, v. 3 — John Shaqi
The Deceased Wife's Sister, and My Beautiful Neighbour, v. 3Russell, William Clark
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The Deceased Wife's Sister, and My Beautiful Neighbour, v. 3
Russell, William Clark
English fiction -- 19th century
He followed me into the house. I seated myself at the writing-table.
But hardly believing it possible he could be in earnest, or wishing at
least to make one more effort to conciliate him, I said,
"Will you not defer this matter until to-morrow? Take to-night to think
over your resolution. This kind of separation is very ungracious and
unpleasant. I really do not wish you to go. I have told you before I
like your company, and have found you most valuable. I repeat it now."
"But you are going to marry?"
"What of that? After my marriage we will continue our reading."
"But you are going to marry?" he repeated.
"Good heaven! Do you think Mrs. Fraser an ogress? Do you think she
will eat you? When you know her you will like her." He shook his head
furiously, and violently waved his hand before his face.
"Pay me, Sir, pay me, and let me go!" he exclaimed.
Disgusted by his irritable perversity, I drew out my cheque-book.
"Can you not pay me in gold?" he asked.
"Certainly, if you prefer it. But first let me see what I owe you."
I took a slip of paper and made my calculations; then went to an iron
safe, drew out a cash-box and gave him the money.
"There," said I, "is the discharge of your proper claims. But I owe you
something for the interest you have taken in me and the hearty industry
you have employed on my behalf. This will perhaps make my gratitude
more significant than were I to express it in words only."
And I handed a bank note for twenty pounds.
He took, folded, and put it in his pocket.
"I am obliged to you, Sir," he said, with a low bow, "but in taking it,
it is 'my poverty, but not my will, consents.'"
"Shall my servant carry your portmanteau?"
"Thank you, no; it is not heavy. I can carry it myself."
"The phaeton is at your service, if you wish to drive to Cornpool."
"I will walk, Sir."
I held out my hand, but pretending not to notice the action he gave me
another low bow and left the room. In less than twenty minutes I saw
him walk, portmanteau in hand, down the front garden.
Thus ended my connection with this singular little man.
CHAPTER VI.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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