Mr. Grahame sat alone to reflect upon his situation. A cloud had once more risen upon his fair sky, and threatened a storm. The flight, and possible mésalliance of his daughter Helen would certainly become known, and prove humbling to the pride of his house. The arrangements between himself and Wilton had yet to be completed. He had received large sums of money, for which he had given acknowledgments, and should anything arise to destroy the present understanding, his position would be frightful. Utter ruin and beggary must at one blow ensue.
But there was no reason to presume that the proposition made by Nathan Gomer, and acceded to by Wilton, would not be completed: there was a possibility of his son Malcolm marrying Flora Wilton. Still there was the possible contingency of something arising to prevent either being accomplished. Ah! if old Wilton had but perished in the fire which had consumed his house, or had died in prison, the whole of the wealth in dispute would have come to him, Grahame.
If the old man were to die now—before the arrangement was completed the same result would take place, for the existence of Mark Wilton was a problem, so far as Grahame’s knowledge of him went.
If he were to die now!
Safety, wealth, and a future secure from the fears that now tortured him, would be the consequence to him.
If he were to die now!
Grahame’s heart throbbed, and he felt cold as ice. He threw his eyes stealthily round the library. He was alone!
The man was old. How small a thing might rob him of life; a common accident—a potion administered in mistake—a subtle poison in fruit.
Mr. Grahame rose from his chair. Could he have seen the aspect of his own features at this moment in the glass, he would have almost screamed with horror. He tottered rather than walked to a book-case, and ran his eye down the back of his books; presently he clutched at one, drew it out, and moved back with it to the immediate vicinity of the lamp.
The book was labelled On Poisons.