A Civil Contract

Chapter XVIII

it was fortunate for adam that the improvements he had been able to start on the estate kept him too busy to leave him with much time to waste on reflection which he knew to be idle. He could not resent Julia’s visit, because his heart still yearned for her, but the. sight of her in the house where he had hoped to have installed her as his wife stirred up all his suppressed emotion.

When the visitors had departed he braced himself, glancing at Jenny. But she only said: “To be sure, it’s agreeable to see one’s friends, but it’s wonderful how they always choose to come when one’s busy! I’d meant to have spent the afternoon in the stillroom, but it’s too late for that now, and too late for you to go back to your harvesting either.

Neither of them mentioned the visit again. The next days brought their duties, their small successes, and their annoying failures. There was always something to be done, even if it was only teaching Jenny to drive the chair-back gig she had found in one of the coach-houses; and when no active employment offered there were future plans to be considered, and ways and means to be calculated; so that by the time Mr Chawleigh came to Fontley, midway through September, Adam was too much engrossed in estate business to have much leisure for thinking about the ruin of his hopes, or his lost love’s unhappiness..

Mr Chawleigh arrived on a golden afternoon, two hours before he was expected. Neither Jenny nor Adam was at home: a circumstance which disturbed him far less than itdisturbed Dunster, who was thrown off his balance by the size and style of my lady’s parent. Before he had time to recover from the first shock he found himself clutching a pineapple, which Mr Chawleigh handed over with a recommendation to him to set it on a plate in the dining-room, out of the cook’s way. “For we don’t want it messed up into fritters or ices, mind!” He then turned to admonish his valet, a spindleshanked individual who was climbing down from the chaise with a rush bag in his grasp. “Bustle about, now!” he ordered. He seized the bag, and thrust that too into Dunster’s nerveless hand. “Now, this you can take to the cook, and the sooner the better! It’s a turtle, and you may tell him that he’s to roast the meat from the blade-bone — and mind this! — it’s to be stewed for a couple of minutes first, and then put on a lark-spit, and then brushed over with eggs and breadcrumbs before he ties it to the roasting-spit!”

None of Fontley’s guests had ever before handed Dunster a turtle in a rush bag, and he stood dumbfounded until one of the footmen tactfully removed it from his hold, when he recovered himself sufficiently to say: “Yes, sir!”

“And he can make a soutie of the liver,” added Mr Chawleigh. “So her la’ship’s out, is she? Well, that’s no matter: I’ll take a turn about the place till she gets back.”

Pulling himself together, Dunster said: “If you would be pleased to step into the Green Saloon, sir, I will have a message taken to her ladyship directly. No doubt you will be glad of refreshment after your journey, sir.”

“Well, I won’t say no to a glass of Madeira, if his lordship has some in his cellar,” replied Mr Chawleigh genially. “But there’s no sense in sending messages to her la’ship: she’ll come home soon enough! Do you take that jobbernoll of mine up to the guest-chamber, so that he can unpack my gear while I look around.” He cast a glance round the Great Hall, and added: “I take it this is the antique part of the house, and very fine too, I daresay, though I’ve no fancy for stone floors myself, and if that huge fireplace don’t give out more smoke than heat you may call me a Jack Adams!” He then waved aside a reiterated offer of escort to the Green Saloon, saying that he would stretch his legs a bit, so there was nothing for Dunster to do but to withdraw. When he returned to the hall, bringing the Madeira, he found Mr Chawleigh inspecting the staircase. Mr Chawleigh said that it was a handsome piece of carving, but that for his part he would lose no time in laying down a good thick carpet. “It’s a wonder you’ve none of you broke your necks,” he remarked, taking the glass that was being offered to him. “What’s more, it’s to be hoped I don’t break mine. Thankee! No need to leave the decanter: I’m as ready to play off my dust as the next man, but I’m not one as has a spark in his throat. Not but what this is a very tolerable Madeira, and you may fill up my glass again before you take yourself off.”

Having disposed of his wine, and dismissed Dunster, he set out on a tour of investigation.

His feelings were mixed. His first view of the Priory had come as a disappointment, for although he had been told that it was a house of great antiquity his informants had not succeeded in ridding his mind of its belief that it must be a Palladian mansion of uniform and stately design. Nor was he favourably impressed by its position. There was no prospect to be obtained from its windows, and he did not like the surrounding country. When he had alighted from his chaise he had perceived that the house was larger than he had first supposed, but he wondered why anyone should admire such a jumble of buildings. There was no elegant facade, and not even a terrace to lend dignity to the irregular frontage. One worn, shallow step led to the porch; and the great oaken door made him feel as if he were entering a Church.

The Great Hall did impress him, however. It was the sort of room anyone could see belonged to a lord. There were two suits of armour flanking the fireplace; various ancient weapons were arranged on the walls; and the Deveril arms were carved in the centre of the stone chimney-piece. Having taken stock of these embellishments, he wandered off down the vaulted corridor, which led, past a succession of parlours, to a secondary hall, another staircase, and the library. He thought poorly of the parlours: none of them was large, and most of them were wainscoted, which made them dark. The library pleased him better. It was larger and loftier; and if a new carpet were laid down, and the worn leather covering the chairs renewed it would be a tolerably handsome apartment. He was gratified to see the K’ang-hsi bowl occupying a place of honour. It would have been safer in a cabinet, but it certainly looked very well in the corner embrasure: He would warn Jenny not to let the servants dust it.

By the time Jenny returned to the Priory Mr Chawleigh had explored the better part of the house, and had come to the conclusion that it was a regular rabbit warren, with far too many uneven floors, ill-fitting windows, odd steps, and rooms too small to be of use. He preferred the modern wing, but even this disappointed him, for there was no suite of state apartments, and most of the furniture was so old-fashioned as to be downright shabby.

When Jenny arrived he was standing on the carriage-drive, scanning the gardens. This was unfortunate, for if she had not seen him she would have driven into the stable-yard, and he would have been spared the degrading spectacle of his daughter seated in a paltry gig with a staid cob between the shafts, and no groom beside her to lend her protection or consequence. As it was, she drove up to the house, calling out: “Papa! Good gracious, have you been here long? And me not here to welcome you! Well, I am sorry, but I never thought you could arrive this early!” She leaned down to kiss him. “I’ll just drive the gig into the yard, and be with you directly.”

“I should have thought,” said Mr Chawleigh, in a voice of displeasure, “that you’d have had a groom to do that for you — even if you don’t take one up beside you, like you should! Never did I think to live to see the day when you’d go careering over the country in a dowdy old gig without so much as your maid beside you, and that’s a fact! What’s more, you ain’t dressed as I like to see you: anyone would take you for a farmer’s wife!”

“Well, that’s just what I am!” she retorted. “Now, don’t put yourself in a fume, Papa! No one dresses fine in the country. And as for me driving alone, if Adam sees no harm in it I’m sure you need not. I’ve only been to see how the new cottages go on: never off our own land, I promise you!”

“You come down, and tell one of the footmen to take the gig off to the stables!” commanded her parent.

Perceiving that he was seriously vexed, she thought it prudent to obey. She then tucked her hand in his arm, and said: “Don’t be cross, Papa! How nice it is to have you here at last! Do you like Fontley? Have you been about the house at all?”

“It’s not what I expected,” he replied. “I’m bound to say I thought it would be more handsome. From the way my Lord Oversley puffed it off to me — well, it gave me a very different notion of it than what turns out to be the truth!”

Her heart sank; and by the time he had suggested to her various plans for knocking several small rooms into one, carpeting the Grand Staircase, reflooring most of the rooms, and installing a great many modern conveniences, she was so much dismayed that she blurted out: “Papa! If you say such things to Adam I’ll never forgive you!”

That’s a pretty way to talk!” he ejaculated.

“Yes, but you don’t understand! Adam is so passionately devoted to Fontley! As if it was a sacred thing! All the Deverils are!”

“You don’t say so! Well, there’s no accounting for tastes, and I’m sure I’ve no wish to tread on his lordship’s toes — though I’d have thought he’d want to see it brought more up-to-date, if he’s so proud of it!”

“It isn’t meant to be up-to-date, Papa: it’s historical!”

“History’s all very well in its place,” said Mr Chawleigh, largemindedly, “but I don’t see what anyone wants with it in his home. You can’t pretend it’s comfortable! And when it comes to having a ruined chapel in your garden, with a couple of mouldy tombs as well — why; it’s enough to give anyone a fit of the dismals! If I was his lordship, I’d be rid of it, and set up a few good succession houses instead: there’d be some sense in that!”

This did not promise well for the success of the visit; it was not, in fact, at all successful, but neither Mr Chawleigh’s strictures on the house, nor his suggestions for its improvement was to blame for this. To Jenny’s relief, Adam took these in good part. Mr Chawleigh was powerless to put any of his schemes into execution, so Adam was able to listen to them with amusement. They included the throwing out of several bows and bays, the employment of a landscape gardener to lay out the gardens to better advantage, and the introduction of a herd of deer to the park. Mr Chawleigh argued that deer would make Fontley more the thing, but Adam said: “If you wish to bestow a herd on me, sir, let it be a herd of short-horns!”

But Mr Chawleigh would have nothing to do with cattle. He told Adam that he had a bee in his head, which made Jenny exclaim: “Now, that’s something I want! I’ve been talking to Wicken — he’s our head gardener, Papa! — and we are agreed that a few hives are exactly what we need here. And I for one don’t want a grand landscape gardener coming to upset us all! Just as I’ve started to bring the knot-garden back into order, and have ordered more rose-trees for planting later! No, I thank you!”

“Ay!” said Mr Chawleigh. “Pottering about a garden is new to you, my girl, but I’ll warrant you’ll soon tire of it! And as for cows, my lord, you’ve no call to meddle with such, and you’ll get none from me! You leave farming to those as was bred to it, and that’s my advice to you!”

His disapproval of Adam’s agricultural activities was profound, but this was not what made his visit disastrous. It did not take him more than a day to realize that Jenny was not looking well; and he was so much inclined to set this to the account of Fontley’s situation that she told him the truth.

The result was unhappy. His first delight was swiftly followed by wrath; for when he asked when the infant would be born, and learned that it would be in March, he did a rapid sum in his head, and demanded incredulously: “You’ve been in a promising way these three months, and never a word to me?”

Neither she nor Martha Pinhoe succeeded in mollifying him; it was Adam who soothed his rage and his hurt. He said: “Yes, you have every right to be vexed, sir. I should have insisted on your being told — and also my mother.”

“Oh!” growled Mr Chawleigh. “So she don’t know either?”

“No one knows, except Martha and our doctor here. I don’t think I should have known if I hadn’t seen that she was unwell, and pretty well forced her to tell me.”

“You don’t say!” gasped Mr Chawleigh. “What the devil’s got into her? It ain’t coming by way of the back-door! Well, if ever I knew my Jenny to behave so missish!”

Adam smiled at that, but replied: “I think her reluctance to tell either you or me was partly due to her dislike of what she calls fuss. And partly to spare you the anxiety she guessed you would feel. She’s very much attached to you, you know, sir.”

This diplomacy was not without its effect. Mr Chawleigh pondered for a few moments, champing his powerful jaws. “A fine way to show she’s attached to me!” he said at last, determined not to be won over too easily. “Her own father, and the last to hear of it!” He went on fulminating for a minute or two, but suddenly said: “Thought I’d be anxious, did she? Well, she didn’t miss her tip! You may lay your life I’m anxious, my lord!”

“I hope you need not be, sir. Our doctor here assures me I need feel no apprehension.”

“And who’s he, pray?” said Mr Chawleigh scathingly. “I’ll have no country sawbones attending my Jenny! Croft’s the man for her, and Croft she shall have, say what you will!”

“It is you who now have the advantage of me,” said Adam, a little coldly. “Who, if you please, is Croft?”

“He’s an accoucheur — top-of-the-trees! If I could have brought him in to Mrs Chawleigh, him being then what he is now, she might be with me this day — ay, and I might have had a son to my name too!”

“But that’s precisely what Jenny has set her face against — to have such a person called in, driving her crazy! If I knew of any cause for alarm the case would be different, and I shouldn’t hesitate — ”

“It ain’t what you know, but what I know!” interrupted Mr Chawleigh. “And if you think you can come the lord over me when it’s my Jenny that’s in question — ” He stopped, controlling himself with a strong effort.

There was just a moment’s pause before Adam, recognizing that this outburst sprang from concern, said quietly: “No, I don’t think that. I must have expressed myself very badly if you could suppose — ”

“Nay, I didn’t mean it!” said Mr Chawleigh roughly. “You couldn’t have treated me more civil if I’d been a Duke, and well I know it! The thing is that it’s got me regularly nattered, me knowing what I do know! Now, lookee here, lad! She’s the very make of her ma, my Jenny! Three times did Mrs C. miscarry — and the lord only knows how Jenny came to be born hale and hearty! A son was what Mrs C. wanted — well, so I did too, though I’ve lived to regret it! She went her full time at the end, and a son it was, but he was a stillborn, and Mrs C. was taken from me, like I told you. She wouldn’t have a fuss made, and that’s what came of it! I won’t have it happen to my Jenny, no matter what you say, nor she says either!”

“Very well,” Adam said. “What do you wish me to do? To take her back to London? I will, of course — but she has been in better health since we came to Fontley, and her wish is to remain here.”

“Ay!” said Mr Chawleigh, with a bark of laughter. “Because she knows that’s your wish, my lord! But she don’t bamboozle me! My Jenny wish to be stuck down in the country for months on end? That’s a loud one! Moped to death, that’s what she’d be!”

“Would she?” Adam said slowly. “I own, I thought so too, but she isn’t moped, you know.”

“She hasn’t been here much above a month!” retorted Mr Chawleigh grimly. “What’s more she don’t know what it will be like in the winter! I’m no countryman, but don’t you tell me that you ain’t surrounded by water here, because I wouldn’t believe you!”

“You may at least believe me when I tell you that Fontley has never yet been affected by floods!” said Adam, nettled.

“Ay, so I may, but you won’t tell me you’ve never had the water come up over the road, and found yourself on an island!”

“If there were any likelihood of that I would bring Jenny to town long before it happened, I promise you. We should have plenty of warning.”

“And I suppose you’ll have plenty of warning that there’s going to be a heavy fall of snow, such as will block all the roads for a sennight?” said Mr Chawleigh, with heavy sarcasm. “What if we get a winter like we had last year, with even the Thames so hard-frozen that there was a fair held on it, and the whole country snowbound? A nice thing it would be if Jenny was to be took ill of a sudden! Why, you’d never get the rabbit-catcher here, let alone — ” He broke off in confusion, and corrected himself. “The month-nurse, I should say! Yes, you may laugh, my lord, but it wouldn’t be a laughing matter!”

“No, of course it wouldn’t. But these apprehensions never troubled my mother, sir! Of her five children, four of us were born at Fontley — one of my sisters in November, myself in January.”

“That’s got nothing to say to anything. Without meaning any disrespect to her la’ship, she’s one of the lean ’uns, and it’s my belief they brush through the business a deal more easily than roundabouts like my Jenny.”

Adam was silent for a moment; then he said: “Very well, sir. It shall be as you think best. But I’m afraid she won’t like it.”

This was soon to be an understatement. When the news was broken to Jenny that she was to return to London, there to await the birth of her child, under the aegis of a fashionable accoucheur, she flew into a towering rage which considerably startled Adam, and reminded him forcibly of her father. That worthy was also surprised. He said that he had never known her to put herself into such a passion, and recommended her not to cut up so stiff. She rounded on him. “I knew how it would be!” she said. “Oh, I knew how it would be, the instant I told you I was breeding! I wish I hadn’t done so! I wish you’d never come to Fontley! Well, I won’t go to London! I won’t see Dr Croft! I won’t — ”

“Don’t you think you can talk to me like that, my girl! interrupted Mr Chawleigh ominously. “You’ll do as you’re bid!”

“Oh, no, I will not!” she flashed. “Not as you bid me, Papa! You’ve no business to interfere — spoilt it all — ”

“Jenny.”

Adam had not raised his voice, but it checked her. Her narrowed eyes went swiftly to his face, glaring but arrested. He went to her, and took her hands, holding them closely, and saying, with a faint smile: “A little beyond the line, Jenny. Ring your peal over me, not over your father!”

She burst into tears.

“Jenny!” ejaculated Mr Chawleigh, aghast. “Now, give over, love, do! There’s no call — ” He stopped, encountering his son-in-law’s eyes. Their message was unmistakable; so, too, was the tiny jerk of the head towards the door. It was many years since Mr Chawleigh had bowed to authority, and he was quite at a loss, when he found himself outside the room, to account for his submission.

“Adam!” Jenny uttered, tightly gripping his hands. “Don’t heed Papa! I’m very well! I promise you I am! I don’t wish to leave Fontley! I mean to be so busy — and you — know we are to have shooting-parties — and the hunting! You told me you were looking forward to that! Adam — ”

“My dear, if that’s what troubles you there’s not the smallest need! I daresay you’ll grant me leave of absence now and then! I wish we might have stayed here through the winter, but your father won’t hear of it, and — Jenny, think! How can I go against him in a matter which concerns your well-being?”

She pushed her hands away, saying in a trembling voice: “You don’t wish to go against him. You don’t wish me to be here. You never did! You had rather see Fontley fall into ruin than allow me any part of it! You won’t even like to see your son here, because hell be my son too!”

“Jenny!”

She gave a strangled sob, and fairly ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

For a few minutes hewas furiously angry. They had been going on so comfortably together that he had almost forgotten the time when he had not wanted her at Fontley. Her outburst seemed to him unjust; her final words unpardonable. His heart hardened against her. Then his good sense told him that those words at least had been flung at him merely because she was in an ungovernable rage, and could think of nothing worse to say.

He went out presently into the garden. He supposed that he ought to go in search of Jenny, but his anger still smouldered; and because her words had held so much truth he did not know what he could say to reassure her. She was too acute to be deceived by lip-service, and in his present mood of resentment he knew he would find it hard to offer her even as much as that He crossed the lawn with his slightly halting step, and passed into the rose-garden. Here Jenny found him some minutes later. He was rather absently nipping off the withered blooms, and when he saw her, hesitating under the arch of the yew hedge, he looked gravely at her, saying nothing.

She had seldom appeared less attractive, for her face was swollen with her tears. She said huskily: “I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean it! Forgive me — pray!”

His heart melted. He moved quickly towards her, not thinking that she was plain and commonplace but only that she was in trouble. He said in a light, caressing tone: “As though I didn’t know that! What a shrew I have married! Scolding like a cut-purse merely because your father and I have more regard for your health than you have!”

“It was very bad,” she muttered. “I don’t know what made me — I think it must be my situation!”

“Oh, indeed?” he said. “All the fault of this son whom I shall dislike to see here! Well, if he means to make his mama as cross as a cat I certainly shall dislike to see him here, or anywhere else!”

She hung her head, saying imploringly: “Oh, no, no! How could I say such a wicked thing? I know it wasn’t true!”

He patted her shoulder. “So I should hope! Moreover, Lady Lynton, if you think that I dislike seeing you here you must be even more gooseish than I had supposed — which is not possible!”

She laughed, rather shakily, but said, after a moment’s hesitation: “You don’t wish to go back to London, do you?”

“No, I don’t. I’d thought we were snugly settled here for the winter, and came shockingly near to recommending your papa to go to the devil. But there’s no denying that you’re not in high health, Jenny, or that Fontley is rather too remote for either your father’s peace of mind or mine. It may be that you’ll need a more skilled practitioner than old Tilford. It’s a great bore, but we’ll run no stupid risks, my dear.”

“No,” she said submissively. “I’ll do what you think right How soon must we go? Not quite yet — need we?”

“No, not if you go on fairly prosperously. Next month, before the winter begins to set in. And if this top-of-the-trees doctor of your father’s gives you leave, I’ll bring you back again. That’s a promise!”

She began to look more cheerful, though she said wistfully, as they strolled back to the house, her hand tucked into Adam’s arm: “I wanted him to be born here, where you were born.”

“But for anything we know she might prefer to be born in London,” objected Adam provocatively. “You were, after all!”

“She?” exclaimed Jenny. “No!”

“I have a great fancy for a daughter,” said Adam.

“Well, I haven’t,” said Jenny, in accents far more like her own. “Not till we’ve a son, that is! If I thought — Good gracious, Papa is right! I will consult his horrid doctor!”

He gave a shout of laughter; and later, when Mr Chawleigh anxiously asked him if he had persuaded Jenny to behave like a sensible woman, replied promptly: “Yes, indeed: like a woman of most superior understanding! I had only to hint that she might present me with a daughter to make her perceive instantly the wisdom of putting herself in the hands of an experienced accoucheur!”

“Now, Adam — !” protested Jenny.

“Yes, but it’s not a bit of good thinking that he can do anything about that,” Mr Chawleigh pointed out.

“Good God! And you said he was top-of-the-trees!”

“I didn’t say he was a magician! Yes, I know you’re laughing at me, my lord, but it won’t do for you to go putting a silly notion hike that into Jenny’s head. Oh, so now you’re in whoops, are you, my girl? Well,” said Mr Chawleigh, regarding his hosts indulgently, “I was always one for a good laugh myself, so I don’t grudge it you.”

When he discovered that the Lyntons had no intention of removing to London until the end of October, he was by no means pleased; but, happily for the peace of the establishment, he was diverted by an accident to the pulley-wheel used in the ice-house. Anything savouring of mechanism immediately claimed his interest, and the rest of his short stay was spent very agreeably by him in overseeing the necessary repair, and devising a rather better arrangement of the sloping door in the passage above the vault.