The first in consequence was the last to enter the room, the Marquis of Rotherham, saying: “Oh, go on, man, go on!” thrusting the attorney before him, and strolling into the library behind him.
His entrance might have been said to have banished constraint. The Lady Serena, never remarkable for propriety, stared incredulously, and exclaimed: “What in the world brings you here, I should like to know?”
“So should I!” retorted his lordship. “How well we should have suited, Serena! So many ideas as we have in common!”
Fanny, well accustomed to such exchanges, merely cast an imploring look at Serena; Mr Eaglesham uttered a short laugh; Sir William Claypole was plainly startled; Mr Perrott, who had drawn up the original marriage settlements, seemed to be suddenly afflicted with deafness; and Lord Dorrington, perceiving an opportunity for further meddling, said, in what was meant to be an authoritative tone: “Now, now! We must not forget upon what a sad occasion we are gathered together! No doubt there is a little awkwardness attached to Rotherham’s unavoidable presence here. Indeed, when I learned from our good Perrott—”
“Awkwardness?” cried Serena, her colour heightened, and her eyes flashing. “I promise you, I feel none, my dear sir! If Rotherham is conscious of it, I can only say that I am astonished he should choose to intrude upon a matter which can only concern the family!”
“No, I am not conscious of it,” responded the Marquis. “Only of intolerable boredom!”
Several pairs of eyes turned apprehensively towards Serena, but she was never a fighter who resented a knock in exchange. This one seemed rather to assuage than to exacerbate her wrath. She smiled reluctantly, and said in a milder tone: “Well! But what made you come, then?”
Mr Perrott, who had been engaged in spreading some documents over the desk, gave a little, dry cough, and said: “Your ladyship must know that the late Earl appointed my Lord Rotherham to be one of the Executors of his Will.”
That this intelligence was as unexpected as it was unwelcome was made plain by the widening of Serena’s eyes as she turned them, in a look compound of doubt and disgust, from Rotherham to the attorney. “I might have guessed that that was how it would be!” she said, turning aside in mortification, and walking back to her seat in the window-embrasure.
“Then it is a great pity you did not guess!” said Rotherham acidly. I might then have been warned in time to have declined the office, for which I daresay there could be no one more unsuited!”
She deigned no reply, but averted her face, fixing her gaze once more upon the prospect outside. Her cousin, wearing his new dignities uneasily, was inspired by his evil genius to assume an air of authority, saying in a tone of reproof: “Such conduct as this is quite unbecoming, Serena! Now that the late unhappy event has made me head of the family I do not scruple to say so. I am sure I do not know what Lord Rotherham must be thinking of such manners.”
He brought himself under the fire of two pairs of eyes, the one filled with wrathful astonishment, the other with cruel mockery.
“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 welclass="underline" 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.