Ellinor was receiving to-night in the great drawing-room, and she looked fit to reign there. She wore a dress of golden-hued chiffon. Across her bosom and on the skirt were sprays of daisies, and the heart of every daisy was a blazing sapphire—a type of the girl's nature she was totally unaware of.
Her father had taken up his favourite position with his back to one of the fireplaces, and she stood near him. Mr. Rawdon had improved during the last few months. He shuffled less; his clothes, thanks to Ellinor, were irreproachable, and, especially since his daughter's engagement, he had grown daily more calm.
The Peytons were announced.
Sir Arthur and Lady Peyton, Mr. Peyton, and Mr. ———; the name was lost.
Ellinor saw a spare, tall man, keen-faced and vigilant. He was bowing before her. She heard a slow, slightly nasal monotone beginning—
"I must apologize, Miss Rawdon—" He had reached the slight elevation of the last syllable, when an irresistible impulse made her turn from him to her father.
Matthew Rawdon had grown deadly pale. He had leant back against the mantel, clutching himself nervously.
"Father!"
He gave a swift motion of the hand, bidding her be still, and with an effort recovered himself.
A moment later she heard again the American's voice.
"You have a fine place here, Mr. Rawdon, one of the finest I should say in this fine country."
Her father made some inaudible reply; the curious pallor was still upon his face, but dinner was announced; she had no chance of speaking to him. During dinner she watched him anxiously. She saw that he was more than usually nervous; that he drank a good deal of wine. Once or twice she caught a penetrating glance, swift and direct, thrown by the American to that end of the table.
Throughout she seemed to hear above every other sound the slight rise and fall of that slow, clear monotone, and felt she hated the man. It was a relief and reassuring to turn her head and catch Guy's smile, and she was thankful when she could give the signal for withdrawal.
After the ladies had gone, the American had the field to himself. His metallic bell gradually silenced the other men, and he got the ear of the table.
Mr. Rawdon's chief merits as a host were that he gave good wine, good dinners, and left his guests entire freedom. He usually headed the table in silence, with the result that, on the present occasion, his white, exhausted face escaped remark, except from Guy Peyton. Matthew Rawdon had now something more than toleration from his future son-in-law—partly on Ellinor's account, partly on his own.
The unobtrusive self-effacement of the little man appealed strongly to those who came within his immediate influence. The American was dilating on the fortunes made and lost on the other side of the Atlantic.
"A curious case," he was saying, "a curious case I knew once—a poor, wretched little clerk in an office in Boston city—he had a wife and child and one hundred and fifty pounds a year. One fine day he presented a cheque at a bank, signed by one of the best known names in the city—a cheque for three hundred dollars. The cheque was a forgery, sir—a forgery! The man was caught, trying to escape to Europe, and sent to prison. He had been speculating, gambling—buying small shares out of petty economies; everything failed. When he had no more, he forged a name. Poor little chap, he threw himself at the feet of the man he had wronged and begged for mercy; but he went to the hulks—his wife died of a broken heart.
"Now, sir, for the re-markable point. While that man was serving his time, some darned sentimental fool died, and left him every penny of his co-lossal fortune. His time served out, the man went to Europe, where he was unknown, to spend his money. When I saw him again, sir, he was about to ally himself, through his daughter, to one of the oldest and proudest families of this proud old country. He had changed two letters of his name. The name of the clerk, sir, was Daw—"
There was a sound as of a blow, a clatter of silver and glass. The host had fallen forward in his chair; his body lay across the table, the arms stretched out.
"Where is my father?"
Guy Peyton was by Ellinor's side in the drawing-room. Nearly half an hour had elapsed since the abrupt conclusion of the American's story. Mr. Rawdon had been carried from the table, but Guy had taken care that no rumour of alarm should reach Ellinor until he himself could go to her.
"He is not quite himself; he is in the library."
