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.