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.”