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.”