Lord Trafford went down with Lord Selvaine to Belfayre next day.
During the journey of a little over five hours Trafford was very
thoughtful--he was never at any time very talkative, though he
could on occasion be as bright and light-hearted as most young
men--and he sat in his corner of the carriage with a magazine in
his hand; but the page did not get turned very often.
Marry Miss Chetwynde! It was a momentous sentence. It meant so
much. Some men regard marriage lightly; they look upon it as
a necessity, a duty, more or less pleasant, which has to be
performed, and there’s an end of it. But Trafford, Marquis of
Trafford, was rather different to the ordinary run of men. With him
marriage was a sacred thing, and a marriage without love a hideous
business. If he could have married where he pleased, he would have
asked Ada Lancing to be his wife. They had known each other since
childhood; she had called him more than once, in girlish play, her
husband. He was a modest man, without an ounce of vanity, but he
suspected that she loved him. But he had known all along that a
marriage with Ada Lancing was impossible.
She was the daughter of a Scotch peer, as poor as he was proud--and
to those who can boast acquaintance with Scotch peers this will say
a great deal.
If Trafford had been a wealthy man, if he had possessed, or was
going to inherit, one fortieth of the wealth that used to flow into
the Belfayre coffers, he would have asked Ada Lancing to be his
wife long ago. Both she and he knew that it was impossible, and
both of them must have foreseen that sooner or later Trafford would
have to marry money.
But he had never had the inevitable fact brought home to him so
plainly until last night. Lord Selvaine had, so to speak, driven
the steel home.
Marry Miss Chetwynde!
Trafford recalled her as he gazed at the page that he certainly was
not reading. He could not deny that she was very beautiful; indeed,
he was ready to admit that she was the loveliest girl he had ever
seen; Lord Selvaine had said that she was charming; and Trafford
had not been insensible to the charm which lay in Esmeralda’s
perfect self-unconsciousness and freshness. An atmosphere of the
mountains, of the wide, free valleys from whence she had come,
seemed to surround her. Her very movements, the turn of her head,
the gestures of her shapely hand, were eloquent of the free,
untrammeled life which she had lived. The frank, candid eyes looked
up at him from the printed page, and seemed to look reproachfully,
as if she knew the nature of the sordid bargain he was advised to
offer her.
After all, it was very easy to say, “Marry Miss Chetwynde;” but was
it so easy to accomplish? Would she marry him? He was a man of the
world, and he knew that there were very few women who would refuse
an offer of his hand, though it contained a coronet with the jewels
missing; but perhaps this girl from the wilds was one of those few?
He threw the magazine away from him, and looked wearily out of the
window. Lord Selvaine glanced at him pensively. Lord Selvaine never
read during a journey, and was far too wise to bore himself and his
companion by straining his voice in an attempt to talk through the
rattle of the train. He smoked an occasional cigarette, and passed
a portion of the time in peaceful slumber. Looking at him one would
have imagined him to be the most innocent and unsophisticated,
middle-aged young gentleman in the world; but his acute brain
was hard at work, and it is scarcely too much to say that he was
following every train of thought as it passed through Trafford’s
mind.
He was the master-mind of the Belfayre family, and had always
guided its destinies since he was quite a young man; but it was
not a very easy task to guide Trafford, and Lord Selvaine did not
underestimate the task he had undertaken. He had been very careful
not to mention Miss Chetwynde’s name that morning, and he looked as
placid and serene as if he were quite unconscious of the problem
which his companion was turning over and over in his mind.
When they reached Belmont, which is about four miles from Belfayre,
they found a heavy barouche and pair, with its full complement of
liveried servants, awaiting them. They were received on the station
with a respectful attention, which was as marked and as freely
offered as if they had been royal personages; the station-master
fluttered forward, the porters hurried after the luggage, and
the footmen stood at the carriage door to assist the illustrious
travelers to alight.
Lord Selvaine received all this obsequious attention quite easily,
and as if it were his due; but Trafford, although he had been used
to it all his life, always found it rather irksome. He got out
of the carriage unaided, and nodded to the saluting porters, and
looked at the heavy chariot with an expression of distaste.
“I think I’ll walk, Selvaine,” he said.
“Do,” said Lord Selvaine, cheerfully. “It will give you an
appetite; I’ve a good mind to accompany you, but”--with his little
smile--“I’ve a better mind to ride.”
Trafford walked off with his easy stride, and Lord Selvaine, as
the carriage rolled by, waved his hand with a pleasant smile. The
road from the station to Belfayre is one of the most beautiful
in England. It runs through leafy lanes with banks upon which
the ferns grow as luxuriantly as if they were in Lady Blankyre’s
conservatory. After a mile or two it emerges from the lane and
crosses a heath almost Scotch in its extent and coloring.
Beyond the heath the road climbs a hill, upon the brow of which
stands the great house or palace of Belfayre, its white vastness
standing out so conspicuously that it dominates, but not vulgarly,
the whole scene.
On the left of Trafford lay the sea, shining as blue as a sapphire,
and rolling softly in upon the sands of Belfayre Bay. On the
right stretch, for mile upon mile, meadows and park, park and
meadows. The village lay behind Belfayre. Every inch of the land
for miles--the golden sands beneath him, the softly undulating
hills, the red cliffs, all belonged to the great duke--or the
money-lenders.
Every inch of the village, every house, cottage, inn--it might
almost be said every man, woman and child--belonged to Belfayre--or
the money-lenders.
Now and again a shepherd or a small farmer, or a woman with a
little child, or a boy with a sack, met him, and they, one and all,
knew him, and stood aside to let him pass, touching their hats or
courtesying with silent respect as if he were a prince; and now and
again Trafford stopped and said a few words in his pleasant, grave
voice, and the individuals thus favored went on their way glowing
with pride to tell, as quickly as they could, how they had just met
the marquis, and that he had spoken to them “quite friendly and
sociable-like.”
When he reached the first lodge, an exquisitely beautiful little
building, kept with such scrupulous neatness--the ivy closely
clipped, the lattice windows shining like diamonds, the stone
mullion white and spotless, the garden like a toy, with its spring
flowers--that it looked as if it had been built yesterday, instead
of a century ago, the lodge-keeper’s wife came out and opened the
gates, and courtesied with a subdued little smile, as if she were
glad to see him, but wouldn’t for the world be so disrespectful as
to show it.
Trafford paused a moment to ask after her husband and children,
then went on his way. He walked on a broad road of carefully laid
gravel, rolled and swept until its surface was almost as smooth
as marble. Noble elms, carefully tended, formed an avenue whose
branches made a green arch high above his head. Between the trees
he could still catch glimpses of the sapphire sea; the red deer
fled as he approached, a rabbit scuttled across his path. The
avenue wound round in serpentine lengths, making the ascent to the
house easy; and suddenly the great place came into view.
It looked like marble as it shone in the sunlight and the clear
air. Since a grateful nation had bestowed Belfayre upon the famous
man who first bore the title, successive owners had added to
and enriched it, until it had become a palace of which England,
the land of palaces, was proud, and to which foreigners and
Americans--who are not foreigners--made eager pilgrimage. The road
opened out into a vast semi-circle, from this rose a flight of
white marble steps, which led to the wide terrace, also of marble,
upon which stood marvels of statuary, collected at fabulous cost
from the ancient homes of art.
The palace rose from the terrace, and was not unlike a Greek temple
in its grand severity. The door-way, flanked by the long line of
tall windows, was almost as vast as that of a cathedral, and was
fronted by a porch of carved marble, and a peristyle of such beauty
that travelers always found it difficult to pass it even for the
treasures of art which were enshrined in the house beyond.
Trafford stood on the terrace, and looked round at the magnificent
scene gravely and sadly. It was all so splendid, so eloquent of
power, and wealth, and human greatness; and yet, what a mockery it
was! The power, the wealth, the greatness, where were they? If they
had not already passed, they were swiftly passing away.
He entered the vast hall. Coming from the bright sunlight outside,
its vastness, lighted only by a great stained window, seemed almost
grim. Tattered flags hung from the vaulted roof; figures, in the
actual armor worn by his ancestors in many a battle, stood round
the hall; against the paneled wall hung portraits of famous (and
infamous) Belfayres.
Statuary gleamed, ghost-like, at intervals, its whiteness relieved
by stately palms, ranged round the pedestals. Ancient weapons were
arranged in trophies, and reflected the light from the stained
window, and the fire of great logs, which, though the day was so
warm outside, burned in the open marble fire-place. The floor was
of polished wood, with here and there upon it an Oriental rug,
like a splash of color spilled from some gigantic palette. A gaunt
deer-hound rose from before the fire, and came majestically toward
Trafford, and thrust its long nose in his hand.
Two footmen, in the dark claret livery, stood, almost as statuesque
as the figures in armor, at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to
receive the marquis and his commands.
“Is the duke down?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” was the reply. “His grace is in the library with
Lord Selvaine.”
Trafford went upstairs, preceded by one of the footmen, who opened
the door leading from the corridor to the suite of rooms always
set apart and kept in perfect readiness for the marquis. They
were among the best and stateliest in the house, as befitted the
future duke and master; but, although they were magnificently and
perfectly appointed, it may be hazarded that Trafford was quite as
comfortable in his much smaller and more modest chambers in the
Albany. His valet, who had come down in the same train, and ridden
on the box-seat of the barouche, assisted his master to change his
clothes; then Trafford went down-stairs, and into the library.
It was the smallest of the reception-rooms, but as wonderful in its
way as the stateliest of the saloons and the huge dining-room. The
walls were lined with book-cases of rosewood, relieved by ormolu
and Wedgwood plaques; some of the volumes were priceless; and the
library, as a whole, was a famous one. A fire was burning, and
beside it, in an easy-chair, reclined the Duke of Belfayre. He was
tall and very thin, with snow-white hair and a perfectly colorless
face, lined by innumerable wrinkles. With his clean-cut features,
his long, white hands, his air of perfect repose and gracious
benignity, he looked every inch a duke.
He had been singularly handsome, as was Trafford, and there was a
strong resemblance between father and son. One noticed it in the
expression in the eyes, in the movement of the brows, but, more
markedly, in a certain turn of the head. His grace was listening,
with a genial courtliness, to Lord Selvaine, and as Trafford
entered, the wrinkled face beamed with a soft smile. Holding out
the white hand, he said, in a musical voice, which echoed that of
his son:
“Ah! Trafford, how do you do? It is very good of you to come
down--Selvaine, too!”--he gave a little bow to Lord Selvaine--“very
good of you both. You must have so much to do in London, and London
can ill spare you, Selvaine. You are looking well, Trafford.
Selvaine tells me that the season promises to be a very busy
one. You begin much earlier now than we used to, and I think you
continue it longer. You find the country looking well, Trafford?”
“Yes, sir,” said Trafford. “And you are quite well, I hope.”
“Quite--quite!” said the duke, cheerfully. “I am not quite so
strong as I used to be, but one must not be surprised at that. Come
and sit here.” He motioned to a seat beside him, and Trafford sat
down, and put his hand on the arm of the duke’s chair. The old man
laid his own hand upon his son’s strong one, and patted it. “I am
glad you and Selvaine have come down, Trafford; indeed, I was on
the point of asking Lilias to write, and ask you to do so; for I
wanted to talk to you on a matter of business.”
“Yes, sir,” said Trafford.
“Yes,” said the duke, with a kind of placid eagerness, which one
sees displayed by a child at the prospect of a new toy. “I have
been thinking a great deal lately of that scheme which the famous
architect--I am ashamed to say I forget his name; it began, if I
remember rightly, with a P--the scheme which he laid before us
respecting the Belfayre Bay.”
Trafford glanced at Lord Selvaine, but that gentleman did not
remove his eyes from the fire, but leaned back in his chair as
placidly impassive as if the matter to be discussed were either of
no importance or of little interest to him.
“If you remember,” continued the duke in his soft voice, and with
the same smile and manner, “that gentleman made an elaborate plan
for transforming the bay into a watering-place.”
“I remember, sir,” said Trafford in his deep voice.
“He had the whole thing perfectly elaborated, and drew plans which
showed quite plainly how admirably adapted the position was for the
change which he proposed. I was looking at the sketches the other
day; in fact, I have been studying them most closely, and it seems
to me that the whole thing could be accomplished quite easily. We
have only to build an esplanade along the front of the center of
the bay, to construct a pier at the western end, and to erect some
suitable houses in terraces upon the rising ground behind.”
Trafford again glanced at his uncle, and again Lord Selvaine
refused to respond, but continued to gaze blandly at the fire. The
duke leaned back, and resumed, moving his white hand to and fro.
“They would form a crescent, don’t you see. A large hotel, which
could be placed in the center; or it might be erected at the
eastern end. There, in a nutshell, you have the scheme; and it
certainly seems to me an admirable one in every way. Most admirable
and ingenious! It would considerably enhance the value of the
property; but I do not attach so much importance to that as to
the fact that it would provide labor for a very large number of
deserving people, and would add another place of recreation and
pleasure for the many worthy and excellent persons who delight to
spend their leisure by the sea.”
“And the cost, sir?” said Trafford, quietly.
“The cost?” said the duke, easily. “It was estimated, I believe, by
the talented gentleman who formulated the scheme. I have no doubt
the cost would be large, but”--with a smile--“I do not see why that
should be any obstacle. Similar developments have been made on
other estates, and I imagine that what Levonshire and Radogan have
done we can do.”
“Certainly--certainly!” said Lord Selvaine, blandly.
“I am so glad you agree with me, my dear Selvaine,” murmured
the duke. “Your judgment is always so excellent, I might say,
infallible.”
Lord Selvaine gave the minutest bow.
“The cost,” continued the duke, “was, if I remember rightly,
several hundred thousand pounds--let us say, somewhere about half a
million. That is of little consequence.”
“Quite so; very little,” said Lord Selvaine.
“It is the result we must consider. I wish you and Trafford, my
dear Selvaine, would consider the matter. Helby” (Mr. Helby was the
steward) “has the plans, and shall go over them with you. If you
think the proposition a good one, pray let it be proceeded with at
once. I should like to see it done.”
“We will,” said Lord Selvaine.
“Thank you very much,” murmured the duke, as if the trivial
project were now satisfactorily launched. “Did you notice the
tulips, my dear Trafford, as you came across the terrace. I think
they are more beautiful than usual. And I want you to go into the
third orchid house before dinner, if you have time. I got as far
yesterday, and it seemed to me--I may be wrong--that they were
rather crowded. If this is so, we must have new houses built. I
think they should be much larger than the old ones. Will you give
any instructions, if they be necessary?”
“Certainly--certainly!” said Lord Selvaine, answering for Trafford,
who looked sadly at the carpet.
The duke patted Trafford’s hand.
“It is a shame to trouble you with business, Trafford, directly you
arrive; but I sometimes think that Helby is scarcely--scarcely as
energetic as he used to be. I’ve an idea--it may be erroneous--that
the stables, for instance, are not as well kept up as they should
be. As you know, we have always made a point of--of filling the
stalls. You are fond of horses, I know, Trafford, and I should be
deeply grieved if you were to find it necessary to complain of a
scarcity, or the quality, of the horses. Will you please go over
the stables to-morrow, and look into the matter?”
“Yes, sir,” said Trafford, as cheerfully as he could.
The duke continued chatting about the estate, and town gossip,
always with the same placid serenity and simple, childish
satisfaction. In the midst of their talk the door opened, and a
young woman came in.