She replied, with dignity: “I am very much attached to Serena, Lord Rotherham.”
“And resent my sympathy?”
“I cannot think that you know—or have ever known—how to value her,” she said, almost trembling at her own boldness.
“Oh, I know her virtues!” he responded. “She would have been well enough had she ever been broke to bridle.”
She could not trust herself to answer him. A slight pause ensued; he then said, with the abruptness which always disconcerted her: “Is she at loggerheads with Spenborough?”
She hesitated. He had picked up a book that lay on the table, and was idly flicking over the pages, but he raised his eyes from it-directing a piercing look at her. “Well?”
She was a little flustered by this compelling glance, and the imperative note in his voice. “It is often very painful to her. Lord Spenborough means to do right, but he is not always—does not always know how to tell her what he means to do—in—in a way that won’t offend her!”
“I can guess! Spenborough’s a fool, and has the misfortune to succeed an excellent landlord.”
“Indeed, he is fully conscious of that, and also—I fear—that his people do not like him as they like her!”
“Inevitable. I told her at the outset to remove from this neighbourhood.”
“Perhaps she should have done so,” Fanny said sadly. “She is made to feel sometimes that he holds her Papa’s notions cheap. But I am sure he does not mean any such thing!”
“Pretty well for a man who never came to Milverley but as a guest on sufferance! But it won’t do to bolster Serena up in such ideas as that!”
“Oh, no, no! Nor would she ever say such a thing to him, or to anyone, except perhaps me! She is most loyal to him. Even when she disapproves of something he has done, and—and is told of it by one of our people—one of
“Ay, there’s the rub, eh? You need not tell me she gives ’em no encouragement! I know Serena!”
“Perhaps,” said Fanny wistfully, “she will grow more accustomed to it, in time.”
“She will never do so,” he replied bluntly. “How do
“They are always very kind and civil, I assure you.”
“It falls to your lot to keep the peace, does it? You will not succeed, and, I repeat—I don’t envy you!”
She said nothing, wishing that Serena would come in, and wondering how to entertain this uncomfortable guest. No topic of conversation occurred to her; after another pause, she said: “Perhaps I should send someone to find Serena. I am afraid something has detained her, or—or—”
He laughed suddenly. “No, don’t do that, I beg! Having fallen into her black books for not having craved her permission to call here today, I plunged rather deeper by assuring her that my business would not take up more than a few minutes of her time. This, I fancy, led her to suppose that I was in haste, and so she warned me that I should be kept waiting while she changed out of her habit. Do you care to wager any sum on the length of time she will take over that operation? I will lay handsome odds against the chance of her appearing under half an hour.”
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, looking more dismayed than amused. “Oh,
“Against that chance, I lay no odds at all. Are you moped to death here?”
She jumped nervously, startled by the sudden question. “Oh—! No, no! Sometimes, perhaps—the weather has been so inclement! When the spring comes we mean to do great things with the garden. It had been sadly neglected, you know.”
He complimented her upon her show of snowdrops, saying they were more forward than those at Claycross; she was encouraged to pursue the topic; and in the safe discussion of horticulture twenty minutes were successfully spent. The butler then came in to announce that a nuncheon awaited my lady’s pleasure; and Fanny, desiring him to have a message carried to Lady Serena, conducted Rotherham to the breakfast-parlour. He continued to converse amiably with her: she thought she had seldom seen him so affably inclined, and was considerably astonished, since nothing, she felt, could have been more calculated to put him out of temper than Serena’s continued absence. When Serena did at last sweep into the room, she waited, with a fast-thudding heart, for the expected explosion. But Rotherham, rising, and setting a chair for Serena, said, in the voice of a man agreeably surprised: “Why, Serena, already? I had thought it would have taken you longer! You should not have hurried: there was not the least need!”
One look at Serena’s face had been enough to tell Fanny that she was in a dangerous mood. She quaked; but after a moment, while the issue trembled in the balance, Serena burst out laughing, and exclaimed: “Detestable man! Very well! if you are not in quarrelling humour, so be it! What’s the news in town?”
The rest of the visit passed without untoward incident: even, Fanny thought, pleasantly. Serena was lively; Rotherham conversable; and neither said anything to provoke the other. They parted on good terms; and Fanny, perceiving how much good the visit had done to Serena’s spirits, was even sorry that it would not soon be repeated. Rotherham was returning immediately to London, for the opening of Parliament, and was unlikely to be in Gloucestershire again for some time.
The ladies settled down again to the uneventful existence which was their lot, almost the only alleviation to the monotony being the frequent visits of Emily Laleham. Little though she had known it, Serena had for long been the object of Miss Laleham’s awed admiration. As a schoolroom miss, she had had glimpses of her, riding with her father, and had thought that surely no one had ever been more beautiful, or more dashing. She worshipped from afar, wove wonderful stories around her, in which she rescued the goddess from extremely unlikely perils, but never, in her wildest flights, had she imagined herself on terms of quite ordinary friendship with her. But Serena, amused by her ingenuousness, had encouraged her to repeat her visit to the Dower House. She needed no pressing, but thereafter was always finding excuses to call there.
But by the end of February even the mild diversion provided by Emily’s visits came to an end, for the Lalehams removed to London, Lady Laleham being quite unable to endure more than three months in the country. Only the schoolroom party remained in Gloucestershire, a house in the best part of town having been hired by Sir Walter for the season. “For my coming-out!” said Emily proudly.
“Very kind of Papa!” smiled Serena.
“Oh, yes! At least, it is Grandmama’s, of course. I wish she could be there to see me in my Court dress!”
“Your grandmama doesn’t live in London, I collect?”
“Oh, no, she lives in Bath! And I love her
March, coining in like a lion, saw Fanny the victim of neuralgia. Jane came to visit her, but this attention was marred by an air of graciousness which conveyed a strong impression of a great lady condescending to her humbler relations. Jane was beginning to assume consequential manners, and was unwise enough to tell Serena that she did not think it quite the thing for her to ride “all over the country” with only a groom for companion. Spenborough could not like it. “I told him I would certainly drop a hint in your ear.”
“Drop one from me in his!” flashed Serena. “That I am not an attorney’s daughter on my preferment!”
The encounter was one of many. Uneasy tension lay between the two houses; there were frequent quarrels; Serena’s temper grew brittle, and several times she snapped at Fanny. Then, one wet afternoon, she found Fanny weeping softly beside the fire in her bedroom, and was aghast.
“Fanny! Dearest Fanny, what is it?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” Fanny sobbed, trying to hide her face. “Pray, do not—! I didn’t mean—It is just that I am a little low!”
Serena was on her knees before her, holding her hands comfortingly. “It is not like you! I’m sure there must be some reason—Oh, Fanny, it is not because I was cross?”
“Oh, no! I never meant to vex you, only I am so stupid!”
Filled with remorse, Serena soothed and petted her back to tranquillity. “I am the most hateful wretch alive! To turn on you, merely because Hartley had enraged me! I don’t know what I deserve!”
Fanny dried her eyes. “It was silly of me. I know how hard it is for you to endure Hartley. And Jane is growing so conceited! Even I feel it, and it is much worse for you to have her behaving as though she had lived at Milverley
