This absolutely certain phase of the danger was so terrible that at first it almost completely dominated her thoughts.  “Oh,” she moaned, “I could see him marry a woman who would make him happy, and yet survive, but this would be worse than death!”

As she became more calm and could think connectedly, her mind reverted to what had been said about Henry’s financial peril; and while she was inclined to take the same view as Miss Wildmere, she soon began to see that her brother-in-law should be informed of all references to him.  Then the impression grew upon her that it would be wisest to tell him all, and let him save his brother, if possible, from a fate infinitely worse than lifelong poverty.  Would this involve the disclosure to Mr. Muir of her secret?  Sometimes she thought that he half suspected her already, and she feared that she could scarcely speak of a subject that touched her heart’s interests so closely without revealing to those keen gray eyes more than she would have them see.  But the risk must be taken to save Graydon.

“Can it be?” she said, after musing awhile, “that Henry is in any such danger as that man asserted, or was it a trumped-up scheme to influence the girl?  Still, he did say that if she would choose Graydon and poverty he would not interpose.  Poverty!  I would welcome bondage and chains with Graydon.  I would almost welcome Henry’s failure, that I might prove to them my devotion.  Every penny of my fortune should be theirs.  Henry has looked very anxious and troubled sometimes when thinking himself unobserved.  He keeps everything to himself so—­”

Suddenly she sprang up with a flash of joy in her face, and whispered to herself, excitedly:  “Suppose there is truth in what was said by those speculators.  I have a fortune, and it’s my own.  Henry said it was so left to me that I could control it after I was eighteen.  I can lend Henry the money to pay Arnault.  I will give him every penny I possess to carry him safely through.  Oh, I am so glad he is coming to-night!”

“Come down to supper,” called Mrs. Muir.

“Why, Madge,” exclaimed the lady, as they sat down under the light of the chandelier, “how flushed you are!  And your eyes fairly beam with excitement.  I half believe you are feverish.”

“Nonsense!  No doses for me now; milk and beefsteak are my remedies.  I’ve been dwelling on some scenes partly imaginary, and you know how wrought-up I get.”

“Oh, yes; now I remember, you asked Miss Thompson for a book, and went for it to her room.  Of course that was the last seen of you.  I never could get so carried away by a story.”

“I haven’t your even disposition, Mary.”

“Miss Wildmere looks brilliant to-night, also.  And if there isn’t her father!  This is the first time I’ve seen him up during the week.  Well, I’m glad to see that his daughter can wake up a little for his sake, a well as for some other man.”

Madge looked at her with mingled curiosity and repugnance.  “Horrid little monster!” she thought.  “Now she is performing her filial act.  As her father said, ‘such high-toned people should not be misjudged.’”