“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.