‘I believe,’ he replied cautiously, ‘that it is some sort of a measure – but pray don’t ask me what sort, for I haven’t the most distant guess!’
‘I think it has something to do with wheat,’ she said.
‘I shouldn’t wonder at it at all if you are right: it sounds as if it would have something to do with wheat.’
She looked up into his face at that, laughter brimming in her eyes. ‘Oh, Rockhill, you are so absurd – and such a comfort to me! I believe you do know: you have farms too, have you not?’
‘Several, I fancy, but I am ashamed to confess that I’ve never concerned myself with their management.’
‘You have an agent, like Papa – though Papa does concern himself a little. Not as Adam does! Helping the reapers! Must he do so? It is very dreadful! I had thought, when he married Jenny, he would have a great fortune.’
He smiled at the trouble in her face. ‘But it is not at all dreadful, little blossom! Didn’t you hear Lady Lynton say that it was his notion of enjoyment? I don’t doubt it: it’s in his blood. Choice, not necessity, takes him out into the fields, I promise you. Coke of Norfolk does the same, and, for anything I know, a dozen others. I’m prepared to wager that before he is much older Lynton will have joined the ranks of the noble farmers – the Russells, the Keppels, Rockingham, Egremont – oh, don’t look dismayed! It is most creditable, besides becoming so fashionable that those of us who think it a dead bore will soon find ourselves quite outmoded.’
‘I don’t think it a bore, precisely,’ Julia said. ‘I love our farm, at Beckenhurst, and have often thought I should like to be a farmer’s wife, with lambs, and calves, and piglets – Papa gave me a lamb once, for a pet, and it was the dearest creature! – but not dull things like crops, except, perhaps, hay.’
‘You shall have a little Trianon,’ he promised.
‘Oh – ! No, no, pray don’t talk so! You said you would not! Besides, I know it’s nonsensical: one can’t have a farm without horrid things like manure, and crops, and swing-ploughs, and turnips! Oh, Rockhill, I can’t so easily forget – turn my thoughts, my affections, in another direction!’
‘But I have only begged to be allowed to love you, blossom.’
‘How good you are! No, no, it would be very ill-done of me: I’ve nothing left to give you, you see.’
‘On the contrary! You have beauty to give me. My house needs a mistress, and my daughters a kind mother. I am afraid,’ said his lordship, in a tone of deep dejection, ‘that they are not happy in their grandmother’s charge. An excellent woman, but a trifle over-strict, perhaps.’
‘Oh, poor little dears, they have quite haunted me since you told me – But hush! here is Jenny coming towards us!’
The Marquis, perfectly well satisfied with the progress he had made, obediently hushed, and presently moved away to talk to his host. With every fibre in his being taut with hostility, Adam still could not dislike him. Rockhill had made many enemies, but when he exerted himself to please no one could be more charming. To Julia he might affect ignorance of farming, but to Adam he chose to disclose a surprising amount of knowledge in one whose enormous revenues derived largely from urban districts. They paced up and down together for a little time, discussing such matters of agricultural interest as the Corn Laws, trunk-drainage, and stall-feeding; and whatever boredom Rockhill felt he concealed admirably.
It was soon time for the visitors to take their leave. There had been no opportunity for Julia to enjoy any private talk with Adam; only at the last did she find herself alone with him for a few minutes. She said then: ‘Do you wish I hadn’t come? You were not glad to see me, were you?’
‘I can’t help but be glad to see you. But it’s true that I wish you hadn’t come. Why did you, Julia? Here, where I once thought to –’ He checked himself. ‘You must know that I can’t but find it painful!’
‘I, too,’ she said mournfully.
‘Then why?’
‘I wanted to see you, to talk to you. I’m so troubled. I’ve been lost, you know, ever since that dreadful day in March. Were you ever in a maze? You can’t find the way out, though you try every path; and you become frightened, wanting to scream to someone to rescue you, but not doing so, because it would be silly, and’ – a bleak smile touched her lips – ‘“because you are getting to be a big girl now, Miss Julia, and only babies cry!”’
‘I can’t help you!’ he said, in a shaken voice. ‘My love, my love, don’t say these things! Don’t come here! It would be better that we shouldn’t meet, but since we must, let it only be in London, when we find ourselves at the same party! To be together, as we are now – no, no, it won’t do! Believe me, Julia, it will be easier for us both if we meet as seldom as may be possible! This is torture to us both!’
‘I think it need not be. Cannot something be left to us? If your affections had been engaged, or Jenny’s, it would be another matter, but yours is a marriage of convenience! You did it to save Fontley, she to gain social advancement: there has been no pretence of love between you. Jenny could not be hurt by anything that passed between you and me, Adam. She knows that you love me – she has always known it! Does she demand that everything should be at an end between us, even friendship? It isn’t like her! She has what she desired! Does she demand that you should devote yourself to her, as if you had married her for love?’
It was a moment or two before he answered. Then he said slowly: ‘No. Jenny demands nothing of me.’
‘Ah, I knew she could not! She’s never unreasonable! She’s matter-of-fact, too: full of commonsense, without much sensibility, perhaps – she would tell you so herself! – but –’
He interrupted her. ‘Yes, she would say that. I don’t know how true it may be, but I do know that she can be hurt. You say she has always known that I love you. I’ve supposed that she must, but she has never spoken of it to me, or betrayed by the least sign that she does know.’
‘Why should she care? You’ve given her so much! She can’t grudge me your friendship! Are you thinking of what people would say? But if I were to be married? One’s position is then so different!’
He gave a shaken laugh. ‘Oh, Julia, my little foolish one! No, I wasn’t thinking of your position, but of Jenny’s. I couldn’t mortify her so. She offered me a carte blanche once, but I knew when I entered into our contract that I was marrying a girl bred in a stricter mould than is general in our order.’
‘Oh, yes, yes! Respectability is Jenny’s god, but must it be yours?’
He did not answer for a moment, and then he said gently: ‘I owe Jenny a great deal, you know. She studies all the time to please me, never herself. Our marriage – isn’t always easy, for either of us, but she tries to make it so, and behaves more generously than I do. Given her so much! You know better than to say that, my dear! I had nothing to give her but a title – and I wonder sometimes if she sets any more store by that than you would.’
‘Of course she does! I don’t blame her: I know what it must have meant to her, situated as she was, to be so elevated! You may think it a worthless thing, but how could she? Easy to despise what you’ve always had! Once, she said that to me. I hadn’t understood – I was in such distress! – but I did then. She said she wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last to marry for the sake of position.’
‘Did she? But position wouldn’t compensate her for the humiliation of being pitied, or sneered at, by the ton, because it was seen that I still loved you, Julia.’
‘Oh, no, no! But people don’t! Think of the Ashcotts! Everyone knows that Ashcott is more than Mrs Porth’s friend, but no one –’
‘It is also pretty freely rumoured that Lady Ashcott has found consolation,’ he interrupted. ‘But what would Jenny do, if I neglected her? She wasn’t born into our set; she hasn’t a host of friends and relations, as you have – as Lady Ashcott has; and she’s too shy to make her own way. We made a one-sided bargain: it’s she who gives, and I who take – but I can at least give her loyalt
y!’
She caught her breath on a sob. ‘I didn’t mean – or wish – I wouldn’t injure her! But we have been such dear friends, Adam! Must we never meet and talk together, as we were used to do? Jenny wouldn’t grudge us such a tiny crumb of comfort!’
‘It wouldn’t be comfort, Julia. Oh, my love, can’t you under-stand – ?’
‘I miss you so,’ she said sadly. ‘Wouldn’t it be a little comfort?’
He could only shake his head. She turned away, saying: ‘I didn’t know we must be wholly estranged. I must be very stupid, I think.’
Eighteen
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 it disturbed 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 façade, 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!’
A Civil Contract Page 26
