“What do you say?” asked Wilton, trying to catch his words.
“Nothing for your ear,” replied Nathan, a little tartly. “I have a bad habit of talking while I am thinking--foolish that; I may venture to say that it is a very foolish habit.”
Wilton responded; and then Nathan Gomer, drawing a chair near to him, sat down and at once proceeded to business.
He circumstantially and clearly related all the incidents which had transpired in connection with Josh Maybee, even to the trick which he had himself played Chewkle, and he assured him that the missing documents were all secured and in safe possession. Arrangements also, he informed him, had been completed with Maybee, who had a rightful share in the property. The only thing he waited for, was to know what course was to be pursued with respect to Grahame, who was now entirely in their power.
Wilton’s features assumed a hard, grim expression. His eyeballs contracted into small glittering circles. He fastened them upon the brilliant orbs of Nathan Gomer.
“No mercy,” he growled through his clenched teeth, “he must be crushed.”
“A-hem!” coughed Nathan Gomer; “revengeful, eh, Wilton?”
“Revengeful!” echoed Wilton, with a hiss. “What! do you think I can forget the years of grinding, torturing poverty he has caused me? Do you think I can wipe out, with a wave of the hand, the recollection of the last effort of his accursed cupidity--the act which tore me from my children, and hurried me to the horrors of a debtor’s prison? Nathan! Nathan?” he cried, clutching at his companion’s wrist, and speaking in a low, guttural tone--an evidence of the depth of the emotion under which he laboured--“can I consign his acts to oblivion when I look round these walls--when I pace these chambers--when I wander in the grounds yonder, among the flowers and the trees, and miss _her_ companionship, her gentle presence, who made this abode a Paradise--whose absence shrouds it in intense gloom?”
“No--no--no!” almost groaned Nathan, shrouding his eyes with his hands. “She reigned here a queen of light, of joy; the music of her voice, the magic of her sweet and tender beaming eyes, made Harleydale a heaven. Was she not thrust from hence?--was she not crammed into a den of wretchedness--into a foul, impure atmosphere?--compelled to endure privation, want, rags? By whom?--by whom?--answer me that.”
