r
it--" He, too, stopped confusedly, looked at the testimonial, and said
no more.

There was another moment of silence. The night was warm, and Mr.
Bashwood, among his other misfortunes, had the deplorable infirmity of
perspiring in the palms of the hands. He took out a miserable little
cotton pocket-handkerchief, rolled it up into a ball, and softly dabbed
it to and fro, from one hand to the other, with the regularity of a
pendulum. Performed by other men, under other circumstances, the action
might have been ridiculous. Performed by this man, at the crisis of the
interview, the action was horrible.

"Mr. Pedgift's time is too valuable, sir, to be wasted on me," he said.
"I will mention what ought to be mentioned myself--if you will please to
allow me. I have been unfortunate in my family. It is very hard to bear,
though it seems not much to tell. My wife--" One of his hands closed
fast on the pocket-handkerchief; he moistened his dry lips, struggled
with himself, and went on.

"My wife, sir," he resumed, "stood a little in my way; she did me (I am
afraid I must confess) some injury with Sir John. Soon after I got the
steward's situation, she contracted--she took--she fell into habits (I
hardly know how to say it) of drinking. I couldn't break her of it, and
I couldn't always conceal it from Sir John's knowledge. She broke out,
and--and tried his patience once or twice, when he came to my office on
business. Sir John excused it, not very kindly; but still he excused
it. I don't complain of Sir John! I don't complain now of my wife." He
pointed a trembling finger at his miserable crape-covered beaver hat on
the floor. "I'm in mourning for her," he said, faintly. "She died nearly
a year ago, in the county asylum here."

His mouth began to work convulsively. He took up the glass of wine
at his side, and, instead of sipping it this time, drained it to
the bottom. "I'm not much used to wine, sir," he said, conscious,
apparently, of the flush that flew into his face as he drank, and still
observant of the obligations of politeness amid all the misery of the
recollections that he was calling up.

"I beg, Mr. Bashwood, you will not distress yourself by telling me any
more," said Midwinter, recoiling from any further sanction on his part
of a disclosure which had already bared the sorrows of the unhappy man
before him to the quick.

"I'm much obliged to you, sir," replied Mr. Bashwood. "But if I don't
detain you too lon