She was a pretty girl, with dark hair and complexion, but with soft, blue-gray eyes. She was short, and very small, so that she looked quite a school-girl, although she was in reality nineteen. This was Lilias Selvaine. She was the niece of the[94] duke, and, young as she was, was the feminine head and mistress of the palace. She had lived with the duke and the late duchess ever since she was a child, and when the duchess died, Lilias, though only just out of the school-room, had stepped into her place, and undertaken the control of the vast establishment.
Of course, there was the steward, Helby; and a housekeeper, who was a great deal more stately than the late duchess had been; and a butler, to say nothing of a groom of the chambers, and other high and lofty functionaries. But this girl, five feet nothing, and with little soft, mousey ways, ruled like a queen over them all. Her word, spoken in the softest of voices, was law from one end of the vast place to the other; and never was law more wisely administered. The duke was extremely fond of her, and when he occasionally waxed obstinate, after the manner of old men, Lilias was the only person who had any influence over him. Between Trafford and herself there existed a very deep and strong affection. They regarded each other as brother and sister; and it was to Trafford, whom she admired and almost reverenced, that she turned when in want of advice and assistance.
She paused on the threshold of the room, as if she feared she was intruding; but at a sign from Trafford, as the three men rose—for the duke would rather have died in his chair than remain seated when a lady entered the room—she came forward, and offered her cheek to Trafford and Lord Selvaine.
“I am so glad you have come!” she said. Then she went softly to the duke, and laid her little hand upon his shoulder lovingly. “It is time for you to have your hot milk, dear,” she said. “Will you have it here, or will you come into the drawing-room?” Her quick eyes noticed that he looked rather tired, as if he had been talking, and she said, as she touched the bell: “You shall have it here; it will be cozier.”
The footman brought in the tea, and, looking very petite and girlish, she presided over it with simple dignity.
The duke could not dismiss the project of the watering-place from his mind; and as they sat over their tea, he recurred to it, and, with a childish enthusiasm, dilated upon its manifold advantages.
Lilias, with downcast eyes, endeavored in vain to woo him from the subject. And Trafford and Lord Selvaine, seeing that while they remained he would talk, rose and said they would take a stroll before the dressing-bell. They went out through the window on to the terrace, and Lord Selvaine rolled a cigarette, but for some time said nothing; he wanted[95] the duke’s audacious project to work its due effect upon Trafford’s mind. At last, as they crossed the lawn, he paused, and looked down at the bay beneath them.
“To construct Belfayre Bay, say three quarters of a million; new orchid houses, five thousand pounds; a fresh lot of gee-gees for the stables, so many more thousands; other projects necessitating lavish expenditure, so many more thousands. And, mind you, my dear Trafford, it would not be easy to divert him from his intention without telling him the truth. Now, I have as much courage as the common or garden coward, but I am forced to confess that I should not like the task of informing the duke that he hasn’t, so to speak, a penny in the world, and that Belfayre is on the verge of ruin.”
“No, he must not know,” said Trafford in a low voice.
“Ah!” said Lord Selvaine, blandly, “but how long shall we be able to conceal the truth from him? The Jews are a patient race, but even they will not wait for their pound of flesh forever. I don’t know exactly how we stand; but I have taken the liberty to ask Helby to step up after dinner, and we will go through that most objectionable performance known as a business talk.”
He turned and gazed at the house pensively, and Trafford looked at it also.
“It would be rather hard,” said Lord Selvaine, in a low voice, and as if communing with himself, “to see the place pass into the hands of Messrs. Levy, Moses and Aaron; and there is nothing to prevent it, for you know, my dear Trafford, we cut off the entail years ago. Imagine a greasy Jew, with fat and dirty fingers covered with rings, lording it with his bounder friends in the House of Belfayre!”
Trafford’s brow contracted, and his teeth clinched tightly.
“Say no more!” he said.
Lord Selvaine shrugged his shoulders.
“A thousand pardons, my dear Trafford. Pray forgive me for playing the part of that most detestable person, Cassandra. Let us go down and look at the horses which are soon to have so many merry companions.”
The dinner was served in the small dining-room; and the duke, departing from his usual rule, dined with them. He was delighted at having Trafford with him, and all through the dinner talked blithely and happily. Lilias, at the head of the table, glanced at the two men now and again with her grave, tender eyes. She, too, knew the sad condition in which Belfayre stood, and she knew how Trafford must be suffering, while the duke talked as if he still had boundless wealth at his[96] command, and need only express a desire to obtain its gratification. Immediately the dinner was over, the duke rose to go to his own apartment, and Trafford drew his father’s arm within his, and assisted the old man up the wide staircase.
“God bless you, my dear Trafford!” he said, as Trafford handed him over to the ducal valet. “I am always so happy when you can come down! I wish you could be with us oftener.” He laid his white hand on Trafford’s shoulder, and looked into the grave, handsome face affectionately. “Some day, Trafford, I hope you will not come alone. I trust that I may be spared to welcome a daughter, to see my son’s children—the future Duke of Belfayre—playing at my knee. Good-night, my dear Trafford. God bless you!”
As Trafford went down-stairs there was a mist before his eyes, and they must have been still moist when he entered the drawing-room, for Lilias looked up at him anxiously, and drew her skirt aside that he might share the lounge with her.
“What is to be done, Lilias?” he said in a low voice.
Her hand stole into his sympathizingly.
“Dear Trafford!” she murmured.
“He does not seem to understand in the very least,” said Trafford.
“No,” she said. “Last week he sent up to town for a suite of pearls—it was my birthday; and I haven’t thanked you yet, Trafford, for my beautiful bracelet. See, I have it on. Didn’t you notice it? Let me give you a kiss for it! It was a magnificent suite; they must have cost—oh! I can’t tell how much—and I had to send them back, and make some excuse to the jewelers.”
“I am sorry you did that, Lilias,” he said, biting his lip. “Surely we could have afforded a trifling gift to you who do so much for us.”
“No, dear,” she said, gravely. “It is cowardly to shrink from the truth—we can not afford it. Mr. Helby often makes some difficulty about the money for even the household expenses. You do not think me heartless for speaking like this, Trafford, dear? But I want you to understand that uncle must not be encouraged in all these wild schemes.”
“I know—I know!” he said.
She said no more, but went softly to the piano, and played the Chopin which he loved, and which she knew would soothe him. She had understood him ever since they had been children together, and her comprehension of all his moods was quickened by her sisterly love. While she was playing, a footma[97]n entered to say that Mr. Helby was in the library. As Trafford left the room he bent over her, and whispered:
“Thank you, Lilias!”
Mr. Helby was a middle-aged man, with a hard, honest face, and iron-gray hair. His father and his grandfather before him had been stewards of Belfayre, and he had inherited their integrity and faithful devotion to the family which they had served. Trafford, as he shook hands with him, saw that he had brought a bundle of papers and books with him, and as he sunk into a chair, he said:
“You have no good news, I’m afraid, Mr. Helby?”
Mr. Helby looked from Lord Selvaine to Trafford, and shook his head gravely.
“No, Lord Trafford,” he said, “I have not had any good news for many years past. Sometimes I have thought that you half suspected me of croaking without due cause—and, indeed, I have, from a natural dislike to causing you pain, concealed the extremity of our case; but Lord Selvaine tells me that you now wish to know exactly how we stand, and I have drawn up an exact statement that you may see for yourself how grave our position is.&............