Margaret was not present, nor the Duke of St. Allborne. They must have been absent hours.
“Send your papa to me, Eva!” exclaimed Mrs. Grahame, in a broken, guttural voice.
“Papa has not been in the room for a long time,” she replied; “he quitted before Margaret went into the garden with the Duke.”
“Send servants into the garden, and bid your sister return instantly hither; let her know her absence has occasioned remark.”
Mrs. Grahame staggered to a seat as she spoke, and Evangeline quitted the saloon to obey her.
The unhappy woman sat alone—sick, dizzy, agonised.
After all, a volcano existed beneath the surface of ice.
No one came and sat down by her; her guests appeared to shun her. She heard one heartless woman exclaim, “A cold night for a journey, even with love to warm it.” She heard a man say, “I don’t dislike the spirit which made her go off with such éclat!” and another utter a taunt in reference to the boldness of St. Allborne. She had a dim comprehension of what it all meant, but was powerless to act. She was transfixed by a whirl of thoughts—horrifying thoughts; she lost consciousness of what was going on about her; she seemed to be burdened by a frightful nightmare, which, while it presented the most horrible visions to her distracted eyes, refused her the power to move a limb—she appeared frozen to her seat.
She was at length restored to the no less horrible reality, by Evangeline—who, rousing her by her tearful embrace, pointed out to her the fact that every guest was gone; that the most active search had failed to discover Margaret, and that Mr. Grahame was not in the house, though no one had seen him leave it.
Mrs. Grahame fell down in a swoon, and was borne to her bed insensible.