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.”