Coristine, who
longed for a sight of fresh young life after the vision of death, did
not know what kept that young life within, and, like an unreasonable
man, was inclined to be angry. He was overwrought, poor fellow,
sleepless and tired, and emotionally excited, and, therefore, ready for
any folly under the sun.
Mrs. Carmichael had entered the house, with the Captain and Mr. Terry.
The lawyer remained alone in the garden, waiting for something to turn
up. Something did turn up in the shape of the stage on its way to the
post office, which dropped its only passenger at the Bridesdale gate.
The passenger was a young fellow of about twenty-five, rather over than
under middle height, of good figure, and becomingly dressed. His
features were good enough, but lacked individuality, as did his combined
moustache and side whiskers, that formed a sort of imperfect W across
his face. He held his nose well up in the air, spoke what, in his
ignorance, he fondly imagined to be aristocratic English, and carried,
with an apologetic and depressed air, a small Gladstone bag. The
newcomer dusted his trouser legs with a cane utterly useless for walking
purposes; then, adjusting his eye-glass, he elevated it towards the
solitary occupant of the garden, as he entered the gate.
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