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 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 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 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 footman 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.”

He spoke as if the peril were his own—and, indeed, it may be safely asserted that not a member of the ducal house could have felt its downfall more acutely than the faithful steward.

It is not necessary to go into the details of Mr. Helby’s carefully drawn-up statement. Suffice it that he demonstrated with terrible plainness the appalling fact that unless a large sum of money were forthcoming, Belfayre must pass into the hands of the men who had found the sinews of war for so many years past; in short, that the cloud which had hung over the house for so long must fall and crush it, unless it could be dispelled by a DanaË shower of gold. Whence that shower of gold was to come Mr. Helby did not presume to say; but Trafford knew as well as if the steward had put it into words that Mr. Helby was thinking and hoping that he, Trafford, would rescue the ancient house by a wealthy marriage.

He listened without a word, until the statement was finished. Then he rose, a little pale, but otherwise apparently unmoved—for the Belfayres did not wear their hearts upon their sleeves—and saying, “Thank you very much, Mr. Helby; I know how much we are indebted to you for your devotion, your close and anxious attention to our affairs. I will consider what you’ve said,” he pressed Mr. Helby’s hand and left the room.

Mr. Helby, much moved, and showing it, looked hard at the table for a moment or two; then he glanced at Lord Selvaine, who was leaning back in an arm-chair, with half-closed eyes, and his arms behind his head.

“Dreadful! This is dreadful, my lord!” he said. “What is to be done? There is only one thing: if the marquis would only do it.”

“You mean a good marriage?” said Lord Selvaine.

“Yes!” said Mr. Helby, eagerly; “and it would be so easy. His lordship could marry wherever he pleased! Do you think,” anxiously, “he could be persuaded to do it?”

“We shall see,” said Lord Selvaine. “I may say, my dear Mr. Helby, that I am using my powers in that direction. We shall see.”

Trafford went back to the drawing-room, and went up to Lilias. She scanned his pale face anxiously.

“Oh, Trafford!” she said.

“Yes, Lilias,” he said. “Mr. Helby has been speaking plainly, and like most plain speeches, it has hurt. I must go up to town to-morrow morning early.”

“What are you going to do, Trafford?” she asked in a low voice.

“I am going to try to do my duty,” he said. “Go to bed now, dear; it is late.”

She obeyed instantly. He went with her to the foot of the stairs, and when she had disappeared, he stood and looked round him. And in his mind’s eye, he saw a greasy Jew lolling in the carved oak chair, with the tattered flags above him, and the faces of the dead and gone Belfayres looking down from the wall at the vulgar usurper.

He went back to town the next day, and took a hansom to the house in Eaton Square, in which Lady Ada Lancing lived with her guardian, Lady Grange. He asked for Lady Ada, and was shown into the small drawing-room, and stood gnawing his under lip, and looking out of the window, with eyes that saw nothing, waiting for her to appear.

She came in presently, looking, in her afternoon dress, exquisitely beautiful and graceful. The delicate fairness of her face had flushed slightly as she gave him her hand, but the flush died away as she noticed his gravity.

“I have just come from Belfayre, Ada,” he said, going straight at his hard task, just as he always rode straight at the stiffest timber. “I have something to say to you.”

She took a seat, and motioned him to another, but he stood beside her, with his hand grasping the back of her chair.

“Ada, I have bad news. I am hoping that it will seem as bad to you as it is to me. I will not affect a false modesty. You know, Ada, that I love you, and I have thought sometimes that you might care for me. If I could have done so, I would have asked you to be my wife long ago.”

Her hands lay in her lap. She did not clasp them, but he saw that they trembled.

“But it was impossible. To-day it is more than ever impossible. Last night I heard the full account of our misfortune. We are on the brink of ruin. Indeed, it seems to me that we are already over the brink. We are plunged to the neck in debt, and the men of whom we have borrowed may at any moment come down upon us for their just due. There is only one thing that can save us.”

She raised her head slightly, and looked straight before her. Her face was like a piece of china, her blue eyes dim with pain.

“I know,” she said, almost inaudibly.

“Yes,” he said. “I must do what many a man before me has been compelled to do—I must marry money.”

She looked straight before her, but made no movement.

“I have never spoken a word of love to you,” he said; “that would have been dishonorable; but there are other ways of telling a woman you love her besides open speech. You must have known that I cared for you.”

Her lips formed the word, “Yes!”

“I might have gone and done this thing,” he went on, “without saying a word to you; but that, too, would have seemed to me dishonorable. So I come to you, Ada, and I tell you frankly how it stands with me. I have come to say good-bye. We shall meet again, often, I trust, for I could not bear to think that you were going to pass out of my life altogether. We shall meet as friends—the truest friends—but I shall never be able to speak a word of love to you. I must not even convey it by a glance or a touch.”

Her head sunk, and his hand went out to its wealth of gold, but he wisely drew it back.

“Do you think,” he said, “that I have acted wisely, or unwisely, and perhaps cruelly, in coming to you and telling you this? If so, I will ask you to forgive me, and not to think unkindly of me, now that we are really parting forever.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said. He could only just hear her voice. “I have known all along how it must be; that the day, the hour, would come when you would have to leave me. It has not kept me from—from loving you, Trafford, but it has helped me to bear the parting as I bear it now.”

There was a pause, during which he fought hard for self-control; then she said:

“Is—is there any one you have thought of—chosen?”

“You speak as if I had only to choose.”

“And have you not?” she said. “Tell me who it is, for I see there is some one.”

He bit his lip.

“Miss Chetwynde!” he said, under his breath.

Her bosom heaved, and the blood rushed to her face. She rose, and moved away from him. She could bear to talk of his marriage in the abstract, but when it came to the actual woman, she felt the steel driven home.

“That girl!” she said. “A girl from the wilds; a nobody; a vulgar parvenue!” Her hands were clinched to her side; her breath came fast; her blue eyes flashed like fire.

He stood looking at her under his knit brows in silence. What could he say? She laughed hysterically.

“I beg your pardon!” she said, bitterly. “It is scarcely respectful to speak of the future marchioness, the future Duchess of Belfayre, in such terms. Besides, she has so much money—what is it?—two millions? That atones for all. It would gild that beggar-woman in the street there! And she is beautiful, too! Yes; you have chosen well, but—oh, my God! it is hard to bear!” She sunk into a chair, and covered her face with her hands.

He went and knelt beside her, and touched her arm entreatingly. She sprung to her feet, and away from him.

“Don’t touch me!” she panted. “I could not bear that. I know it can not be helped—that you must do this thing—and I will not say a word: more, I will help you!” She drew herself up, and extended her arms. “Yes, I will help you! You shall have this girl and her two millions. You will save Belfayre; but, Trafford, you will be miserable! I know it! You will tire of her before you have lived with her a month. She will make you suffer agonies of wounded pride; you will be ashamed of her; you are ashamed of her now! But it must be! I know—I know! Don’t touch me; don’t come near me! I would rather die than let you see me cry, and I should be weak enough to cry if you said one word, laid so much as the tip of your finger upon me! Go!”

He stood looking at her for a moment, his face as white as hers. He even took a step toward her: but she put out her hand, with a gesture almost imperial, and he took up his hat and went.