Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 133.djvu/50

44 vards would be enormously increased. And so forth.

"I heard you were in that," said Balfour, curtly.

"Well, what do you think of it?" said Lord Willowby, with some eagerness.

"I don't know," answered the younger man, absently looking out of the window. "I don't think there is any certainty about it. I fancy the Americans have been overspending and overbuilding for some time back. If that land were thrown on your hands, and you had to go on paying the heavy assessments they levy out there—it would be an uncommonly awkward thing for you."

"You take rather a gloomy view of things this morning," said Lord Willowby, with one of his fierce and suddenly vanishing smiles.

"At any rate," said Balfour, with some firmness, "it is a legitimate transaction. If the people want the land, they will have to pay your price for it: that is a fair piece of business. I wish I could say as much—you will forgive my frankness—about your Seven per Cent. Investment Association."

His lordship started. There was an ugly implication in the words. But it was not the first time he had had to practise patience with this Scotch boor.

"Come, Balfour, you are not going to prophesy evil all round?"

"Oh, no," said the younger man, carelessly. "Only I know you can't go on paying seven per cent. It is quite absurd."

"My dear fellow, look at the foreign loans that are paying their eight, ten, twelve per cent."

"I suppose you mean the South American republics!"

"Look how we distribute the risk. The failure of one particular investment might ruin the individual investor: it scarcely touches the association. I consider we are doing an immense service to all those people throughout the country who will try to get a high rate of interest for their money. Leave them to themselves, and they ruin themselves directly. We step in, and give them the strength of co-operation."

"I wish your name did not appear on the board of directors," said Balfour, shortly.

Lord Willowby was not a very sensitive person, but this rudeness caused his sallow face to flush somewhat. What, then: must he look to the honor of his name now that this sprig of a merchant—this tradesman—had done him the honor of proposing to marry into his family? However, Lord Willowby, if he had a temper like other people, had also a great deal of prudence and self-control, and there were many reasons why he should not quarrel with this blunt-spoken young man at present.

They had not remembered to telegraph for the carriage to meet them; so they had to take a fly at the station, and await patiently the slow rumbling along the sweetly scented lanes. As they neared the hall, Balfour was not a little perturbed. This was a new and a strange thing to him. If the relations between himself and his recently-found sweetheart were liable to be thus suddenly and occultly cut asunder, what possible rest or peace was there in store for either? And it must be said that of all the conjectures he made as to the cause of this mischief, not one got even near the truth.

Lady Sylvia was sent for; and her father discreetly left the young man alone in the drawing-room. A few minutes afterwards the door was opened. Balfour had been no diligent student of women's faces; but even he could tell that the girl who now stood before him, calm, and pale, and silent, had spent a wakeful night, and that her eyes had been washed with tears; so that his first impulse was to go forward and draw her towards him, that he might hear her confession with his arms around her. But there was something unmistakably cold and distant in her manner that forbade his approach.

"Sylvia," he cried, "what is all this about? Your father fancies you and I have quarrelled."

"No, we have not quarrelled," she said, simply—but there was a tired look in her eyes. "We have only misunderstood each other. It is not worth talking about."

He stared at her, in amazement.

"I hear papa outside," she said; "shall we join him?"

But this was not to be borne. He went forward, took her two hands firmly in his, and said with decision,—

"Come, Sylvia, we are not children. I want to know why you left last night. I have done my best to guess at the reason; and I have failed."

"You don't know, then?" she said, turning the pure, clear, innocent eyes on his face with a look that had not a little indignation in it. It was well for him that he could meet that straight look without flinching.

"I give you my word of honor," said