“Well, you can certainly be sure of that!” said Rotherham.

“For my part,” said Dorrington, in a peevish voice, “I consider it very odd in my poor brother, very odd indeed! One would have supposed—however, so it has always been! Eccentric! I can find no other word for it.”

This provoked Mr Eaglesham, swelling with annoyance, to point out to his lordship the very remote nature of his connection with the late Earl. There were others, he took leave to tell him, whose claims to have been appointed Executor of the Will were very much nearer than his. Lord Dorrington’s empurpled cheeks then became so alarmingly suffused that Spenborough said hastily that the appointment of Lord Rotherham was perfectly agreeable to him, whatever it might be to others.

“Obliging of you!” said Rotherham, over his shoulder, as he crossed the room to where Fanny was still standing nervously beside her chair. “Come! Why do you not sit down?” he said in his abrupt, rather rough way. “You must be as anxious as any of us, I daresay, to be done with this business!”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” she murmured. She glanced fleetingly up at him, as she seated herself, faltering: “I am very sorry, if you dislike it. Indeed, I am afraid it may be troublesome to you!”

“Unlikely: Perrott will no doubt attend to everything.” He hesitated, and then added, in a still brusquer manner: “I should be making you speeches of condolence. Excuse me on that head, if you please! I am no great hand at polite insincerities, and give you credit for believing you cannot wish to figure as inconsolable.”

She was left feeling crushed; he walked away to a chair near the window in which Serena sat, and she, taking advantage of Sir William Claypole’s claiming his daughter’s attention at that moment, said: “You might give her credit for some natural sorrow!”

“Dutiful!”

“She was most sincerely attached to my father.”

“Very well: I give her credit for it. She will soon recover from such sentiments, and must be less than honest if she does not feel herself to have been released from a most unnatural tie.” He looked at her from under the heavy bar of his black brows, a satirical gleam in his eyes. “Yes, you find yourself in agreement with me, and don’t mean to admit it. If sympathizing speeches are expected of me, I will address mine to you. I am sorry for you, Serena: this bears hard on you.”

There was no softening either in voice or expression, but she knew him well enough to believe that he meant what he said. “Thank you, I expect I shall go along very tolerably when I have become—a little more accustomed.”

“Yes, if you don’t commit some folly. On that chance, however, I would not wager a groat. Don’t shoot dagger-looks at me! I’m impervious to ’em.”

“On this occasion at least you might spare me your taunts!” she said, in a low, indignant voice.

“Not at all. To spar with me will save you from falling into a green melancholy.”

She disdained to answer this, but turned again to look out of the window; and he, as indifferent to the snub as to her anger, took up a lounging position in his chair, and sardonically surveyed the rest of the company.

Of the six men present he gave the least impression of being a mourner at a funeral. His black coat, which he wore buttoned high across his chest, was at odd variance with a neckcloth tied in a sporting fashion peculiarly his own; and his demeanour lacked the solemnity which characterized the elder members of the party. From his appearance, he might have been almost any age, and was, in fact, in the late thirties. Of medium height only, he was very powerfully built, with big shoulders, a deep—chest, and thighs by far too muscular to appear to advantage in the prevailing fashion of skin-tight pantaloons. He was seldom seen in such attire, but generally wore top-boots and breeches. His coats were well-cut, but made so that he could shrug himself into them without assistance; and he wore no other jewellery than his heavy gold signet-ring. He had few graces, his manners being blunt to a fault, made as many enemies as friends, and, had he not been endowed with birth, rank, and fortune, would possibly have been ostracized from polite circles. But these magical attributes were his, and they acted like a talisman upon his world. His Belcher neckties and his unconventional manners might be deplored but must be accepted: he was Rotherham.

He was not a handsome man, but his countenance was a striking one, his eyes, which were of a curiously light grey, having a great deal of hard brilliance, and being set under straight brows which almost met. His hair was as black as a crow’s wing, his complexion swarthy; and the lines of his face were harsh, the brow a little craggy, the chin deeply cleft, and the masterful nose jutting between lean cheeks. His hands were his only beauty, for they combined strength with shapeliness. Any of the dandy set would have used all manner of arts to show them off: my Lord Rotherham dug them into his pockets.

Since Lord Dorrington and Mr Eaglesham showed no disposition to bring their acrimonious dialogue to an end, and Lord Spenborough’s polite attempt to recall them to a sense of their surroundings were not attended to, Rotherham intervened, saying impatiently: “Do you mean to continue arguing all day, or are we to hear the Will read?”

Both gentlemen glared at him; and Mr Perrott, taking advantage of the sudden silence, spread open a crackling document, and in severe accents announced it to be the last Will and Testament of George Henry Vernon Carlow, Fifth Earl of Spenborough.

As Serena had foretold, it contained little of interest to its auditors. Neither Rotherham nor Dorrington had expectations; Sir William Claypole knew his daughter’s jointure to be secure; and once Mr Eaglesham was satisfied that the various keepsakes promised to his wife had been duly bequeathed to her he too lost interest in the reading, and occupied himself in thinking of some pretty cutting things to say to Lord Dorrington.

Serena herself still sat with her face turned away, and her eyes on the prospect outside. Shock had at first left no room for any other emotion than grief for the loss of her father, but with the arrival of his successor the evils of her present situation were more thoroughly brought to her mind. Milverley, which had been her home for the twenty-five years of her life, was hers no longer. She who had been its mistress would henceforth visit it only as a guest. She was not much given to sentimental reflection, nor, during her father’s lifetime, had she been conscious of any deep attachment to the place. She had taken it for granted, serving it as a matter of duty and tradition. Only now, when it was passing from her, did she realize her double loss.

Her spirits sank; it was an effort to keep her countenance, and impossible to chain her attention to the attorney, reciting in a toneless voice and with a wealth of incomprehensible legalities a long list of small personal bequests. All were known to her, many had been discussed with her. She knew the sources of Fanny’s jointure, and which of the estates would furnish her own portion: there could be no surprises, nothing to divert her mind from its melancholy reflections.

She was mistaken. Mr Perrott paused, and cleared his throat. After a moment, he resumed his reading, his dry voice more expressionless than before. The words: “... all my estates at Hernesley and at Ibshaw” intruded upon Serena’s wandering thoughts, and informed her that her share of the bequests had been reached at last. The next words brought her head round with a jerk.

“... to the use of Ivo Spencer Barrasford, the Most Noble the Marquis of Rotherham—”

“What?” gasped Serena.

“... in trust for my daughter, Serena Mary,” continued Mr Perrott, slightly raising his voice, “to the intent that he shall allow her during her spinsterhood such sums of money by way of pin-money as she has heretofore enjoyed, and upon her marriage, conditional upon such marriage being with his consent and approval, to her use absolutely.”

An astonished silence succeeded these words. Fanny was looking bewildered, and Serena stunned. Suddenly the silence was shattered. The Most Noble the Marquis of Rotherham had succumbed to uncontrollable laughter.

2

Serena was on her feet. “Was my father out of his senses?” she cried. “Rotherham to allow—! Rotherham to consent to my marriage! Oh, infamous, abominable!”

Her feelings choked her; she began to stride about the room, panting for breath, striking her clenched fist into the palm of her other hand, fiercely thrusting her uncle Dorrington aside when he attempted ponderously to check her.

“Pray, Serena—! Pray, my dear child, be calm! Abominable indeed, but try to compose yourself!” he besought her. “Upon my word! To appoint a trustee outside the family! It passes the bounds of belief! I suppose I am not nobody! Your uncle! What more proper person could have been found to appoint? God bless my soul, I was never more provoked!”

“Certainly one may say that eccentricity has been carried pretty far!” observed Mr Eaglesham. “Very improper! I venture to say that Theresa will most strongly disapprove of it.”

“It must be shocking to any person of sensibility!” declared Spenborough. “My dear cousin, everyone must enter into your feelings upon this occasion! No one can wonder at your very just displeasure, but, depend upon it, there can be found a remedy! Such a whimsical clause might, I daresay, be upset: Perrott will advise us!” He paused, looking towards the attorney, who, however, preserved an unencouraging silence. “Well, we shall see! At all events, the Will cannot be binding to Rotherham. It must be within his power to refuse such a Trusteeship, surely!”