She had attained her object—if any she had—and she intended to leave as abruptly as she had entered, caring not to see one of her relatives, save Evangeline, more.
When the door closed, one of the distinguished guests, a peer and a bachelor, known to be enormously wealthy, turned to his half distracted host and said—
“Grahame, your eldest daughter is the most lovely woman I ever beheld; she has the dignity of an empress and the form of a goddess; Cleopatra herself could not have been more grandly beautiful.”
Mr. Grahame bowed, distressed beyond measure. He knew not how to answer.
“Gentlemen,” the peer added, addressing the guests, “pray honour my toast with bumpers—Miss Grahame!” He drained his glass to the dregs, so did all but Grahame. The wine tasted like molten lead in his mouth; he put down his glass scarcely touched.
“Upon my life,” exclaimed the young Duke, with his vacant laugh—“I do believe you aw smitten with Miss Gwahame’s chawms, Elsingham.”
“I accept your tribute to my taste,” he answered, with a seriousness of tone, which there was no mistaking; “a man honoured with the hand of one so beautiful ought to wish for no greater exaltation on earth. Were Miss Grahame heart-free, and would she condescend to turn her eyes upon one who would offer her a waning life’s devotion, I think, upon my faith, your Grace would have good reason to find your suggestion not very wide of the truth.”
The Duke laughed loudly, and was echoed by one or two others. Lester Vane sat grimly silent; so did Grahame. The latter suddenly rose up, and bade his son Malcolm do the honours of the table for him, during a short absence.
He had caught at a straw. He had been long drowning, and everything resembling a straw, approaching the vortex in which he was slowly and surely revolving, he clutched at.
His daughter Helen might yet be a peeress, the idol of a nobleman of vast wealth. She might now be the means of plucking him from destruction, even while the destroying waters were bubbling on his lips.