_Sieg_. You are charged,
Your own heart may inform you why, with such a crime as--
_Gab._ Give it utterance, and then
I’ll meet the consequences.
_Sieg._ You shall do so--
Unless
_Gab._ First, who accuses me?
_Sieg._ All things.
If not all men; the universal rumour--
My own presence on the spot--the place, the time,
And every speck of circumstance, unite
To fix the blot on you.
--Byron.
Mr. Chewkle--attired as a traveller about to undertake a long
journey--entered the waiting-room of the Great Western Railway Station
on the morning following his interview with Nathan Gomer, precisely as
the clock pealed the hour of nine. He gazed about him--inspected with
unabashed steadfastness the features of the individuals assembled in
readiness for the 9.15 train, and then seated himself in a conspicuous
situation.
He arranged his hair and his hat: he looked slowly once more at every
face, and then, putting the knob of his walking stick to his lips, he
fixed his eyes upon a heap of miscellaneous luggage.
He commenced to wait for Nathan Gomer.
At the same hour Nathan presented himself at the gate of the Queen’s
Prison, and, in his turn, waited for admission. He took the opportunity
of obtaining from one of the officers “on the lock” some particulars
respecting Mr. Joshua Maybee, and, immediately the opportunity was
afforded him, he made direct for that man’s apartment on the county side
of the prison.
Josh Maybee was not afflicted with a mania for early rising; he liked
to take out a large share of existence reclining between sheets upon
a mattress: he would have preferred a down bed, but that was a luxury
unknown to the prison, at least on the county side; he, therefore, went
to bed early, and rose late.
He was miserably poor; and, as scarcely anything in the
place acknowledged him for master, he had no fear of being
robbed--consequently, he slept with his door unlocked. It saved him a
trouble night and morning. Nathan Gomer, therefore, entered his room
without difficulty, and, closing the door softly behind him, turned the
key in the lock. He gazed upon the poor mean prison bed, and upon the
pallid old face lying upon the pillow--the eyes closed in sleep. He
sighed--for the sallow hue of the man’s features, and the long lines
furrowing forehead and cheek, told of long incarceration, and much
continued mental suffering.
He drew towards the bed with a noiseless step, and taking off his hat
and gloves, he laid them aside with his stick. He then seated himself
upon the floor by the bedside, placing his face within a foot of
Maybee’s, so that when the latter awoke, he should be promptly alive to
the fact that he was honoured with the presence of a visitor.
Without pretending to assert that the eyes of Nathan Gomer possessed
magnetic influence, it must be acknowledged that very shortly after
Nathan had fixed them upon Joshua Maybee’s sealed orbs, the latter
commenced a tremulous vibration, and ultimately the eyeballs appeared to
be slowly rotating beneath the lids, increasing their motion until the
eyelids seemed forced open, and the eyes of Josh Maybee and Nathan Gomer
met.
For an instant there was perfect silence, accompanied by a fixed stare
on both sides, Maybee being uncertain whether he was dreaming or awake;
then Nathan grinned, whereupon Maybee uttered a roar of fright, and
would have leaped out of bed, but that Nathan restrained him, bade him
lie down again, and not be terrified. He called upon him to preserve his
calmness, as he desired to have a long conversation with him. He also
told him that he would have occasion to exercise his memory with patient
perseverance, and to communicate the result of the examination to
him. He added, that he might expect immediate remuneration for his
revelations, equivalent to their value, as well as the prospect of
a speedy liberation from the den in which he had so long been
incarcerated.
Josh Maybee listened in silent amazement. He looked distrustfully and
suspiciously at his mysterious visitor; and, notwithstanding the grand
promises of pecuniary recompense and release from imprisonment, he
did not seem disposed to entertain the proposition, or to do anything,
indeed, to prolong the interview. His flesh crawled as he looked upon
the singular features of the strange being before him, who nodded and
grinned at him very much after the manner of the gnomes of the Golden
Harz, of whom, in his younger days, he had read with awe; and he could
hardly help thinking that the awful-looking little stranger was, at
least, a native of a lower world, gifted with the power of appearing on
earth, adopting, when he availed himself of the advantage he possessed,
a form and deportment calculated to fling into hysterics of terror all
whom he honoured with his presence.
It was not until Hathan Gomer perceived the alarm his appearance
excited, that he more clearly explained the nature of his visit, and
displayed his knowledge of the information obtained from Chewkle,
then Maybee became more composed, quitted his squalid bed, and dressed
himself in his greased and faded habiliments.
By the liberality of Gomer, he was provided with a breakfast the like of
which he had not tasted for years; and when he had finished his repast,
and emotions stole over him of a right royal and monarchical character,
Nathan commenced enlisting his sympathies in favour of Wilton and his
daughter, whom he remembered on his attention being drawn to them. He
followed up his observations by reverting to the earlier periods of
Maybee’s life, extorted from him a complete history of past events, and
elicited as he proceeded all that was essential to the establishment of
Wilton’s claim to the estates left by old Eglinton.
This done, Nathan Gomer, being beyond a doubt satisfied on all-points,
even to the production of documents, entered into a compact with Joshua
Maybee, which the latter swore to fulfil. The amber-visaged dwarf,
having supplied the poor old prisoner with funds, arranged when he would
again see him, and then took his departure.
He jumped into a cab on quitting the prison, and drove to a solicitor’s.
The interview between him and his legal adviser was marked by much
excitement on the part of Nathan Gomer and evident surprise on that of
the lawyer, as well as by the rapid taking of notes. When this interview
terminated, Nathan flung himself once more into a cab, and was whirled
away at a smart pace for a new destination.
Mr. Chewkle during this period sat in the waiting-room at the railway
station patiently for half-an-hour; he was amused by the coming and
going of persons, by the diversity of bags and parcels moving to and
fro, the contents of which he imagined and coveted, and the general
activity and bustle prevailing in such a place. But when ten o’clock
struck he began to fancy that he had mistaken the time appointed, and
had arrived here an hour before his time.
He sharply examined every person who entered, expecting to see
Nathan, but eleven o’clock came and passed, and Gomer had not made his
appearance.
Mr. Chewkle now began to grow uneasy--he went carefully over the last
night’s interview, but could not alight upon any part of it in which,
to use his own language, he had “sold himself;” he, therefore, tried
to content himself by assuming that Nathan Gomer had been unexpectedly
detained on some important business, and he decided on allowing him the
latitude of another hour.
It was striking twelve when, exhausted by the dreary task of enduring
three hours’ expectancy, he rose to depart, having fixed his eye upon
a lady’s black leather travelling bag, which seemed to be worth taking
away He advanced towards it with the air of one who was about to take
possession of his own property, and hurry away with it. He had his hand
upon the handle, and was in the act of making a plunge at the doorway,
when he felt himself seized by the wrist, and a voice said sharply in
his ear--
“Put down that bag!”
He dropped it instanter, and turned to apologise for his “mistake,” to
as he presumed an officer, but found that he was in the grip of Nathan
Gomer.
His jaw dropped, he uttered a kind of hysterical screeching laugh,
and gasped out something respecting being made to wait so long without
having anything to amuse him, and, at the same time, he felt inwardly
convinced that the dwarf had been hiding somewhere ever since nine
o’clock to have the opportunity of pouncing upon him in the very act in
which he was caught.
Nathan made no allusion to the discrepancy between the hour he had named
to meet Chewkle, and that at which he appeared; he merely said--
“Follow me!”
He quitted his hold of Chewkle as he spoke, and made his way out of
the station into the street, and Chewkle followed him at the same rapid
pace.
Nathan made his way to a small tavern in the vicinity, and diving into
a low, dark, room, motioned to Chewkle, who was at his heels--with an
unpleasant suspicion that a policeman was bringing up the rear--to take
a seat.
He ordered Chewkle a stiff glass of a compound called, by a most elastic
stretch of the imagination, brandy and water, and when they were alone,
and Chewkle actively engaged in disposing of his powerful beverage,
Nathan briefly told him that he had decided to take no steps in the
matter, upon which he, Chewkle, had, on the previous evening, visited
him.
“You’ve made up your mind to that, eh?” said Chewkle, eyeing him
steadfastly.
“Quite: I am resolved,” was the reply.
“You may change your mind?” suggested Chewkle. “No,” said Gomer.
“Nothing will make me alter my determination.”
“I can,” observed Chewkle, emphatically.
“No; the same propositions and inducements have been held out before, but
proved, after considerable cost, valueless.”
“This won’t,” urged Chewkle.
Nathan Gomer shook his head.
“I tell you it won’t!” cried Chewkle, almost fiercely. “Look a-here!”
he exclaimed, in a lower tone, and touching Nathan on the sleeve; “you’d
rather Wilton have the property than Grahame, wouldn’t you?” Nathan
nodded.
“Well, suppose the man I spoke to you about last night was to die?”
“To die?” echoed Nathan, coldly.
“Yes, was to die all of a sudding, and I was to put into Grahame’s hand
a cettifyket of the man’s death? He would push on his claim. Wilton’s
only chance would be floored, and Grahame must win.”
“But the man is healthy, and won’t die,” suggested Gomer, with a
_nonchalant_ air, which had its effect.
“Healthy men die very suddenly sometimes, you know,” said Chewkle, in a
meaning tone; “and its a strornirary fact that men who are wanted out o’
the way goes out of the way jest in the nick o’ time.” Nathan felt the
roots of his hair tingle and vibrate. The scoundrel meant murder: he was
sure of that.
He made no answer. Chewlde dropped his head suddenly, and hissed in
Nathan’s ear.
“S’pose old Wilton hisself was to turn up his toes when he was out a
walking, eh? I ’spects Grahame would come in for the swag then, eh?
Grahame’s a keen sort, I can tell you.”
Nathan’s face grew a deeper amber than ever; his eyes almost blazed in
their brightness; he felt a kind of choking sensation; but he controlled
himself.
“Wilton has a son,” he murmured.
“Gone away--not known where, as they says on the enwellops when a
lawyer’s letter, with a writ in it, comes back,” replied Chewkle,
quickly. “Ah!” he added, “Grahame would have possession of the lot
before that young un turned up, and if he ever should show again, he
wouldn’t easily get out of the Scotchman’s clutches.”
Nathan Gomer mused; presently he said--
“There is something in your suggestion worth consideration.”
“I knows there is,” chimed in Chewkle.
“I may, therefore, alter my mind in so far as paying Wilton a visit,
and consulting with him upon it,” observed Gomer; “but, really, I don’t
think anything will come of it in the face of the arrangement now being
effected,” he continued.
“Are the dockyments signed by both parties?” inquired Chewkle, rather
eagerly.
“No, they are not yet signed,” replied Gomer “but a part of the
provisions have been carried out, for I have advanced Grahame a large
sum of money.”
“I knows it; on the understanding that if the agreement ain’t completed,
he is to return all the money advanced.”
“Exactly.”
“He can’t do it,” returned Chewkle, emphatically. “You came down upon
him with that proposal, like a hangel from the sky, and saved him from
crunching up like a bit o’ burnt wood--you saved him from wuss--much
wuss--but that’s neither here nor there. How-somever, he won’t let a
chance slip to get the whole of the estate into his claws. I’ll try a
leetle more o’ this brandy, if you please; it’s some o’ the right sort,
this is,” subjoined Chewkle, labouring under a delirious delusion on
that point.
His glass was replenished, and the interval seemed to give Nathan Gomer
time to cogitate, although, actually, his plan had been matured before
he sought Chewkle at the railway station.
At length he said--
“I will see Wilton, but I cannot make the journey to Harleydale until
three weeks have elapsed.”
“Three weeks,” echoed Chewkle; “say three years. A-hem! Wilton may be
dead before three weeks is over.”
“Scoundrel!” thought Gomer. He fixed his eye upon Chewkle, and said--
“That is as Providence directs! For myself, I have important business in
Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, and Dublin, which must be transacted,
and I have no one to nominate in my place if I go to Harleydale.”
“Could I do the work?” exclaimed Chewkle, falling plump into the trap.
“You?” exclaimed Gomer, inquiringly.
“Yes; I am used to all sorts of commission work, bill-broking and
collecting. I’ll hunt up a man with any officer in the force, and I’ll
dun a man out of his account and out of his mind with any collector in
the kingdom.”
“What commission?” asked Gomer. “Oh! I’ll leave that to you. I has five
per cent on small things, and two and a-half on large, and my expenses,
but I’ll leave that to you.”
Gomer sat and mused, and expressed doubts as to whether he could trust
him, and played so much and so well with his fish that the latter
absolutely gorged himself with the hook. He importuned the dwarf so
urgently at last to employ him in the business he spoke of, that the
little man consented, on condition that he started to Birmingham by the
three o’clock train that day.
To this proposition Chewkle assented readily, and declared himself ready
to go home to his lodgings at once, get a few things for his journey,
and then depart on his mission. Gomer accompanied him, furnished him
with papers, instructions, and money for his travelling expenses, and
never left him until he saw the train leave the platform at Euston
Square Station, with Chewkle inside, bound for Birmingham.
Nathan Gomer returned to his solicitor’s, and it was late at night
before he saw his bed. The following morning, an application was made
in the Court of Chancery in the case of Maybee, and an eloquent Counsel
dwelt long and forcibly on the terrible punishment inflicted upon a man
imprisoned for eighteen years, through an act of negligence on the part
of his solicitor.
The Lord Chancellor granted an order for the man to be produced in
Court, and on the following day, wan, haggard, and sallow in the
face, dirty and tattered in his attire, he was brought before the Lord
Chancellor, in the custody of an officer of the Queen’s Prison. The
Lord Chancellor interrogated him, and elicited much that excited great
commiseration, and his discharge was ordered forthwith.
The necessary legal forms having been complied with, Nathan Gomer
conveyed him away from the prison, after settling all claims, and bore
him--where Mr. Chewkle was likely to have much trouble to find him.
Nathan had requested Mr. Chewkle to correspond with him at stated
intervals, and inform him of the progress he had made in the mission he
had undertaken--chiefly a collection of overdue bills. The agent
duly kept his engagements, although Nathan Gomer began to have shrewd
suspicions that he was keeping as well some of the proceeds. However,
the postmarks upon his communications were evidence of his being far
from London, and that served the purpose of his employer to perfection.
Having made skilful and satisfactory arrangements in London, Nathan
Gomer started from thence to Harleydale Manor, to have an interview with
Wilton upon the new and important phase in his situation.
He arrived at his destination at a remarkable moment.
On reaching the manor-house, and entering the hall, he gave his name
to the hall-keeper, and was informed that a servant had the moment
previously ascended to the library to announce a gentleman who had
followed him up.
Nathan Gomer, with a light step, sprang up the stairs, and arrived at
the library door as the servant, in a loud tone of voice, announced--“Mr.
Mark Wilton.”
For the moment he was astounded, but recovering himself, he raised his
finger to the servant, who recognized him and would have announced him
too. He glided behind a screen, and awaited the result of a meeting
which he knew would prove of a peculiar kind.
He had no conception of the scene enacting at the moment of Mark’s
arrival, and he was to be surprised even yet more than he expected.
Old Wilton, upon the name of his son being announced, started and
staggered as if he had been smitten a violent blow; then he drew himself
up erect. His flushed face became pale, and his brow remained contracted
as sternly as before.
Mark Wilton entered with a hasty step, and advanced rapidly to his
father, with the intention of embracing him, but he paused upon
observing the old man’s attitude and demeanour.
He stretched out his hands.
“Father!” he exclaimed, with emotion.
The old man remained rigid as a statue, and made no sign of taking the
proffered hands.
How changed he was since Mark had last seen him! Then in a poor lodging,
surrounded by poverty and bowed by care and toil, he seemed the poor
haggard slave of want; now, the tenant of a noble mansion, attired as
a gentleman, conscious of the position to which he had been born,
he looked like a patrician, only to be approached with deference and
humility.
But for certain characteristics of feature, Mark would not have known
him again.
Wilton regarded his son with a glance which, while it noted the change
that time and climate had made in him too, abated none of its sternness.
“Mr. Mark Wilton,” he said, in harsh tones, “years have passed since you
flung away your title to address me by the name of father. You quitted
my roof by an exercise of your own self-will; you return to me, I
presume, under a similar influence, not having during the whole interval
communicated with me or any of your relatives. I am therefore to
attribute, I suppose, your present visit to the circumstance of a change
for the better in my condition reaching your filial ear.” Mark’s face
became the hue of crimson. He folded his arms, and looked his father
steadfastly in the eyes.
“I left home, sir,” he exclaimed, in a firm tone, “under motives which
I had hoped you would have appreciated. I was a burden to you, sir, in
your poverty. I absorbed a share of that income which was barely enough
to support the family without my addition. I had no means of aiding you,
for I knew no trade. I left you, therefore, to fight the world as best
I could, so that I relieved you of a tax upon your exertions. I left you
in silence, because I would spare myself the entreaties, the urgings and
implorings, to me to remain at home. They would have deeply affected
and pained me without making me swerve from my purpose. I have remained
silent during my absence, because my career has been a chequered one.
I would not write to you until I could send some earnest of my love
for you all with my communication. It was only at the last moment when
almost in a day I became the owner of considerable wealth, that I felt
the time had come for you to be made acquainted with my existence, and
immediately I hastened to England to share with you what I had obtained;
and if it were not enough for all, to leave you once more until I had
won from Fortune sufficient for myself. Such, sir, are the facts I
cannot beg you to believe them, because you know, sir, as a boy, I
respected truth too reverently to give you the right to doubt them. I
have no more to say, sir, than this. My bursting heart tells me that had
my most fondly loved, my sainted mother have been spared by God to have
met me here, my reception would not have been such as you have extended
to me.”
Mark pressed his hands over his eyes. There was a convulsive twitching
about the mouth of old Wilton, and his eyelids filled with water.
“Mark!” he exclaimed, in a husky voice: “Mark--my son! In the name of
her whom you have apostrophised, come to my heart!”
Mark sprang into his father’s arms, and they embraced. They wrung each
other’s hands warmly, and the reconciliation was complete.
Harry Vivian would have retired, to leave the father and son to
themselves, though Colonel Mires did not offer to move, but old Wilton
waved his hand to him to stay.
“You will oblige me by remaining, if you please, Mr. Vivian,” he
said, making an effort to clear his voice. “We will settle our little
unpleasant conference before you take your departure. You must see that
it will be wise to do so--nay, that it will emphatically be necessary to
do so.”
“What!” exclaimed young Wilton, suddenly: “is that Mr. Harper’s nephew?”
Old Wilton assented grandly with, his head. The manner was distinctly
patronising.
Alas! how easy it is to forget past services, when the remembrance would
interfere with present selfish considerations!
Young Wilton advanced rapidly to where Vivian stood, and seized his
hand.
“Hal!” he cried.
“Mark!” exclaimed Hal.
The grasp of the hand that followed was not less warm and earnest than
that which had taken place between father and son.
Mark knew Hal’s nature well, and prized its worth at its true value.
After a few brief words of congratulation on both sides, Mark said--
“My father speaks of an ‘unpleasant conference.’” He looked sharply at
Colonel Mires. “I hope, Hal, there is nothing between you and him”----
“Be silent for the present, Mark,” exclaimed his father, hastily. “You
shall know all shortly, and I am sure you will see matters from the same
point of view as myself. Mr. Vivian, you were about to speak when my
son entered. Will you be kind enough to proceed? My son may as well be
present at what is about to take place.”
Hal bowed.
“I have but little to say, Mr. Wilton,” he exclaimed in reply; “but
that little, I trust, will be to the pur pose. I have been charged with
having surreptitiously and artfully ensnared the affections of your
daughter. Miss Wilton. I answer, that this charge has been made to
you by one who deliberately preferred it, knowing it to be utterly,
shamefully and scandalously false.”
Colonel Mires, with a furious gesture sprang to his feet. Harry Vivian
turned to him with a firm, unmoved air, and waved him calmly but
contemptuously back to his seat.
“Mr. Wilton,” he said, with dignified appeal, “I remained silent while
contumely and base imputations were heaped upon my head. I expect--nay,
I demand, that at least justice be rendered to me!”
Mark Wilton appeared thunder-stricken by what was passing, and stood
gazing upon his father and his old playmate in mate surprise.
In the meanwhile, Mr. Wilton observed hastily to the accused--
“Certainly, Mr. Vivian, it is your right, and justice shall be meted out
to you. But this distinct denial, so unexpected, what does it mean?”
“This, Mr. Wilton,” returned Vivian, unable to control the excitement
under which every nerve quivered; “that while acknowledging a deep
and passionate love for your daughter, Miss Wilton, I scornfully and
indignantly repudiate the infamous charge of having surreptitiously or
insidiously attempted to win her heart. I have, sir, so instinctive, so
full a perception of her innocence and purity--of the natural delicacy
of the direction of her mind--that a purpose so base would never suggest
itself to me. Further, sir, I consider the presumption that Miss Wilton
would lend an ear to such incitement an insult to her; and, but for your
presence, I would have lashed, like a hound, the paltry knave who is the
author of the insult and of the lie!”
“Wilton, Wilton, I cannot submit to this outrage!” roared Colonel Mires,
once more starting to his feet and making a dash at Hal; but Mark Wilton
sprang forward and stayed him. He forced him back to the spot where he
had been seated.
“I know not who you are, or under what circumstances you are here,” he
said, sternly, to him, “but I do know Mr. Vivian, and I have the fullest
faith in his honour. I know, too, by what has just passed, that you have
been using the name of my sister too freely and too impertinently for
my satisfaction. Now you must not attempt here, by blustering or playing
the part of a bully, to seek to escape from your position. You must
either prove what you have gone so far as to assert, or you must look to
be expelled hence by an operation more summary than dignified.”
“Unhand me,” cried Mires, his lips purple with passion. “Mr. Wilton, as
your guest, I claim to be treated with propriety and respect.”
Mr. Wilton called impetuously to his son to return to his side, and
suggested to Colonel Mires that his own intemperate movement had caused
Mark’s interference. He then turned to Hal, and said--
“Mr. Vivian, you register a denial and make an admission in a breath;
are you prepared upon your honour to state that you have had
no clandestine meeting with my daughter, at any period of your
acquaintance?”
“I am.”
“How?” almost screamed Mires, “will you dare to utter a falsehood so
easily and so clearly to be disproved?”
“By whom?” asked Hal, contemptuously.
“By me!” he cried, with furious emphasis.
Hal regarded him with a scornful curl of the lip, and said--
“I have not to learn that you find pleasure in sneaking into shadowy
coverts and dark spots to play the spy in order that you may fill well
the equally honourable office of informer. I shall prove _that_ one
day to your small satisfaction. In this instance, your contemptible
manouvres will avail you nothing; they have given you a foundation,
and your own vile nature supplied materials for a fabric, but it is a
_chateau d’Espagne_ of the dirtiest kind.”
Hal turned from him to Mr. Wilton, and added--
“I reiterate, sir, there is not a shadow of foundation for such a
charge. Once in my life I have met Miss Wilton alone, but the rencontre
was accidental and unexpected. I have now only to say that, undesirous
as I am to recur to the past, I am compelled to call your attention to
your knowledge of the circumstances which have drawn us together, and I
ask you to remember any act of mine that has given you reason to
doubt that I have acted, or should act, in any way unworthily or
dishonourably.”
He ceased, and a silence of almost a minute ensued. Mr. Wilton did recur
to the past; he remembered the offer of service made by the generous
youth in the hour of his frightful distress. He remembered that mainly
to his gallantry he was indebted for not only the life of his daughter,
but for the preservation of the important document which had restored
him to his present position. But he remembered, too, the vow he had made
to the friend of his boyhood, and it decided him how to act. He looked
upon Vivian’s handsome face, flushed with excitement, and felt that it
offered a fair excuse for Flora’s unwished-for predilection. “It will
soon wear off,” he mentally exclaimed, “when she no longer meets with or
sees him.”
“Mr. Vivian,” he said, addressing him with an assumed calm loftiness, “I
am content to believe that you may have conceived an attachment for my
daughter, and that you have not acted upon that impression to secretly
endeavour to secure her affection in return. Let all that has been said
upon that point be at once, and for ever, buried. It, however, becomes
a grave duty on my part to counsel you to eradicate that passion,
because it can never be recompensed as you may hope. My daughter Flora
is another’s. She was promised to that individual when in infancy, even
under a vow to ratify it. I cannot recall it. I would not if I could.
She never can be yours. Now, Mr. Vivian, I am not unmindful of your past
services; I appreciate them warmly, and am most unlikely to forget them
by any breach of the laws of hospitality, but you must see this can no
longer be a place for you to visit. I must, therefore, take my farewell
of you. I shall be happy to hear of your future welfare and of your
fame, for I have always entertained an opinion that a high destiny
awaits you. At any time that I can be of service”----
Hal made an impatient, indignant gesture. Mr. Wilton bowed.
“I understand the feeling,” he said, “and I honour it. However, I desire
not to part in anger with you; be this the proof;” he tendered his hand to
Hal, who coldly received it. “But,” concluded Mr. Wilton, impressively,
“I desire that we may part at your earliest convenience. With this I
terminate this most unpleasant interview, and would crave to be left
alone with my son.”
Hal bowed stiffly, and proceeded to retire. Colonel Mires rose to depart
also. Mark Wilton stepped before him.
“Stay,” he said, sternly, pointing to the Colonel’s seat. “You may have
something more to tell my father; and permit me to suggest to you to
make hay while the sun shines. Father,” he said, “I will attend Mr.
Vivian, during the remainder of his brief stay, for the honour of the
house, and--you understand,” he concluded, hastily, as he ran after
young Vivian.
Wilton glanced at the passionate workings of Colonel Mires’ features,
as he watched Hal depart, and comprehended his son’s meaning at once. He
therefore detained the Colonel with him until Mark’s return informed him
of Vivian’s departure.
Immediately after Mark had disappeared, Nathan Gomer glided out of the
room too, and pausing in the corridor muttered to himself--
“I don’t like this. What does the old man want? He had enough sorrow
and affliction in his poverty; does he want to create a condition of
unhappiness in his wealth? He shan’t. I will see Flora and talk with her
about this affair--my mission is to see the children all happy, and I
will--ay, I will.”
As he concluded, he rapidly made his way to Flora’s chamber, and tapped
lightly at the door.