A Civil Contract (4 page)

She directed an arch look at her parent, and said audaciously: ‘Pooh! As though we couldn’t bring Papa about our thumbs!
Stoopid!
’

Adam raised his eyes. ‘Julia, you haven’t understood. Dear love, this is no case of being obliged to live for a time in straitened circumstances. I – I
have
no circumstances. Within a very short space now I shan’t even have a home to offer you.’

She stared at him incredulously. ‘No home? But – but Fontley – ?’

‘I am putting Fontley up for sale.’

There was a shocked silence. Charles Oversley directed a look of astonished enquiry at his father, but Oversley was looking under suddenly frowning brows at Adam. Julia cried, in a throbbing voice: ‘Oh, no, no, no!’

Adam did not speak.

She pulled her hands free. ‘You cannot mean that! Oh, how can you talk so? Dear, dear Fontley! All its associations – the home of the Deverils throughout the ages!’

‘No, hang it, Ju!’ expostulated her brother. ‘Can’t have been! I mean, it’s a Priory! That’s the same as a monastery, ain’t it? Dissolution of the monasteries – well, I don’t precisely remember when that was, but the thing is there can’t have been any Deverils living there before it – unless, of course – No, that won’t fit!’ he decided, adding knowledgeably: ‘Celibacy of the clergy, you know. So that’s a hum!’

In spite of himself Adam laughed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. The first Deveril of whom we have any very precise information settled in Leicestershire. There has been a Deveril at Fontley only since 1540 – and a shocking rogue he was, from all I can discover!’

‘Very likely,’ agreed Mr Oversley sagely. ‘Seems to me that most of those old fellows were regular thatchgallows. Well, only think of the Oversley who made
our
fortunes! When he wasn’t playing least in sight he was pretty well swimming in lard, wasn’t he, Papa?’

‘Alas, too true!’ said his father, twinkling.

‘Oh, don’t talk so, don’t talk so!’ Julia broke in. ‘How can you turn everything to jest? Adam, you didn’t mean it! Strangers at Fontley? Oh, no! every feeling revolts! The groves and the alleys! The chapel ruins where I’ve so often sat, feeling the past all about me, so close that I could almost fancy myself a part of it, and see the ghosts of those dead Deverils who lived there!’ She paused, looking from one to the other, and cried passionately: ‘Ah, you don’t understand! Not even you, Adam! How is it possible? Charlie doesn’t, I know, but you – ?’

‘I should rather think I don’t!’ said her brother. ‘If you ever saw a ghost you’d run screeching for your life! What’s more, I remember those ruins quite as well as you do, and very likely better! Whenever we stayed at Fontley we used to play at hide-and-seek amongst ’em, and capital sport it was!’

‘There were other days,’ Julia said, in a low tone. ‘You choose to pretend that you don’t care, Adam, but I know you too well to be hoaxed! You were used to partake of all my sentiments: this reserve has been forced on you by Papa!’

Adam replied steadily: ‘I do care. It would be absurd to pretend that I didn’t. If I seem to you reserved it’s because I care too much to talk about it.’

She said, with quick sympathy: ‘Oh, how horrid I am! how stupid! I understand you – of course I understand you! We won’t speak of it, or even think of it! As for repining, I shan’t do so, I promise you! Could you be happy in a cottage? I could! How often I have longed to live in one – with white walls, and a thatched roof, and a neat little garden! We’ll have a cow, and I’ll learn to milk, and make butter and cheese. And some hens, and a bee-hive, and some pigs. Why, with these, and our books, and a pianoforte, we shall be as rich as nabobs, and want nothing to complete our felicity!’

‘Oh, won’t you?’ struck in her unappreciative brother. ‘Well, if you mean to cook the meals Lynton will precious soon want something more! And who’s to kill the pigs, and muck out the henhouse?’

This sardonic interpolation went unheeded. Julia was rapt in contemplation of the picture she had conjured up; and Adam, tenderly amused though he was, felt too deeply moved to laugh. He could only shake his head; and it was left to Lord Oversley to bring his daughter down to earth, which he did, by saying briskly: ‘Very pretty, my dear, but quite impractical. I hope Adam can find something better to do than to keep pigs. Indeed, I have no doubt he will, and all the more easily without encumbrance! No one is more sorry than I am that things have turned out as they have, but you must be a good girl, and understand that marriage is out of the question. Adam feels this as strongly as I do, so you need not think me a tyrant, puss!’

She listened with whitening cheeks, and turned her eyes imploringly towards Adam. She read the answer in his face, and burst into tears.

‘Julia! Oh, don’t, my darling, don’t!’ he begged.

She sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands, her slender form convulsed by deep sobs. Fortunately, since neither her father nor her brother showed the smallest ability to contend with such a situation, Lady Oversley at that moment came into the room.

A very pretty woman, plumper than her daughter, but with the same large blue eyes, and sensitive mouth, she exclaimed distressfully, and hurried forward. ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear! No, no, my love! Adam, dear boy! Oh, you
poor
children! There, there, Julia! Now, hush, my dearest! You mustn’t cry so: you will make yourself quite ill, and think how painful for poor Adam! Oh, dear, I had no notion you had come in from your ride! Oversley, how
could
you? You must have been perfectly brutal to her!’

‘If it is brutal to tell her that she can’t live in a thatched cottage, rearing hens and pigs, I have certainly been brutal, and Adam too!’ retorted Oversley, with some acerbity.

Lady Oversley, having removed Julia’s hat, had clasped her in her arms, and was tenderly wiping the tears from her face, but she looked up at this, and exclaimed: ‘Live in a cottage? Oh, no, dearest, you would be very ill-advised to do that! Particularly a thatched one, for I believe thatch harbours rats, though nothing, of course, is more picturesque, and I perfectly understand why you should have a fancy for it! But you would find it sadly uncomfortable: it wouldn’t do for you at all, or for Adam either, I daresay, for you have both of you been accustomed to live in such a
very
different style. And as for hens, I would not on any account rear such dispiriting birds! You know how it is whenever an extra number of eggs is needed in the kitchen: the hen-woman is
never
able to supply them, and always says it’s because the creatures are broody. Yes, and then they make
sad
noises, which you, my love, with your exquisite sensibility, would find quite insupportable. And pigs,’ concluded her ladyship, with a shudder, ‘have a
most
unpleasant odour!’

Julia, tearing herself out of that soft embrace, started to her feet, dashing a hand across her eyes. Addressing herself to Adam, standing rigid behind a chair, his hands gripping its back, she said in a voice choked by sobs: ‘I could have borne any privation – any discomfort! Remember it!’ She laughed hysterically, and hurried to the door. Looking back, as she opened it, she added: ‘
My
courage did not fail! Remember that too!’

‘Well, of all the shabby things to have said!’ ejaculated Mr Oversley, as the door slammed behind his sister.

‘Hush, Charlie!’ commanded his mama. She went to Adam, and warmly embraced him. ‘Dear boy, you have done just as you ought – just as we knew you would! My heart
aches
for you! But don’t despair! I am persuaded you will come about! Recollect what the poet says! I’m not sure
which
poet, but very likely it was Shakespeare, because it generally is, though why I can’t imagine!’

With these obscure but encouraging words she departed, pausing only to recommend Mr Oversley to follow her example. Only too thankful to escape from this painful scene, Mr Oversley took leave of Adam. When he had gone, Adam said: ‘I think, sir, that I’ll take myself off too.’

‘Yes, in a minute!’ Oversley said. ‘Adam – what you said to Julia – Fontley – You are not serious? Things are not as bad as
that
?’

‘I was quite serious, sir.’

‘Good God! But you must have ten or twelve thousand acres of good land!’

‘Yes, sir. Much of it encumbered, and all of it so neglected that the rent-roll has dwindled to little more than a thousand pounds a year. It could be ten times as much if I had the means –’ He stopped. ‘Well, I haven’t the means, and I can only hope that someone more fortunately circumstanced will perceive how easily farms worth no more than twelve shillings an acre might be valued, five years from now perhaps, at four times that sum. I think we must be fifty years behind the times at Fontley.’

Hardly heeding him, Oversley exclaimed: ‘Adam, this must not be! Yes, yes, I know! You’re saddled with short tenancies – no proper covenants – open fields – too much flax and mustard being grown – bad drainage – But these ills can be remedied!’

‘Not by me,’ Adam replied. ‘If I had twenty – fifteen – even
ten
thousand pounds at my disposal I think there is a great deal I could do – supposing that I were free of debt, which, unhappily, I am not.’

Looking very much shocked, Oversley began to pace up and down the room. ‘I hadn’t thought – Good God, what can have possessed – Well, never mind that! Something must be done! Sell Fontley! And what then? Oh, yes, yes! You’ll rid yourself of debt, provide for your sisters, but what of yourself? Have you considered that, boy?’

‘I daresay I shan’t find myself quite destitute, sir. And if I do – why, I shan’t be the first officer to live on his pay! I haven’t sold out, you know. As soon as I’ve settled my affairs –’

‘Nonsense!’ interjected Oversley. ‘Don’t stand there talking as though selling your birthplace was no more to you than disposing of a horse whose action you don’t like!’ He resumed his pacing, his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he said over his shoulder: ‘Julia’s not the wife for you, you know. You don’t think it now, but you’ll live to be glad of this day’s work.’ Receiving no answer to this, he repeated: ‘Something must be done! I don’t scruple to tell you, Adam, that I think it your duty to save Fontley, whatever it may cost you to do it.’

‘If I knew how it might be done I don’t think I should count the cost,’ Adam said, a little wearily. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know. Don’t tease yourself over my affairs, sir! I shall come about. I’ll take my leave of you now.’

‘Wait!’ said Oversley, emerging briefly from deep cogitations.

Adam resigned himself. Silence reigned, while his lordship stood frowning at the carpet. After a long pause he looked up, and said: ‘I think I may be able to help you. Oh, don’t stiffen up! I’m not offering to frank you, my dear boy! The lord knows I would if I could, but it’s all I can do to keep myself above hatches. This curst war! Ay, and if Boney is beaten before the year’s out – did you see that Bordeaux has declared for the Bourbons? The latest on-dit is that there’s a deputation coming to invite Louis to go back to France. I have it on pretty good authority that they are expecting it, at Hartwell. I don’t know how it will answer, and in any event they don’t look for any sudden prosperity in the City, whatever be the outcome. Well, that’s for tomorrow, and not what I had in mind to say to you. It occurs to me –’ He paused, and shook his head. ‘No, better I shouldn’t disclose to you – I don’t suppose for a moment you’d like it, and I’m not even sure that – Still, it might be worth while to throw out a feeler!’ He looked undecidedly at Adam. ‘Not going back to Fontley immediately, are you? Where are you staying?’

‘At Fenton’s, sir. No, I’m not going home for some days yet: there’s a great deal of business to be done, and although Wimmering is very good – far more competent than I am, indeed! – things can’t be settled without me.’

‘Good!’ said Oversley. ‘Now, there’s only one thing I have to say to you at present, Adam! Don’t do anything rash until I’ve seen what I can do! I have a notion in my head, but it might well be that it won’t answer, so the least said to you now the better!’

When Adam had left Mount Street Lord Oversley suffered some qualms of conscience, fearing that he had raised hopes that he might presently be obliged to dash to earth. Had he but known it his apprehensions were wasted: Adam’s hopes were not at all raised. If, at a moment of severe emotional stress, he had been capable of weighing them, he would have concluded that they were the words of a kindly optimist, for he could imagine no way in which Oversley could rescue him from his embarrassments. He was not so capable. For many hours the ruin of his own hopes drove the larger problems with which he was confronted to the back of his brain. They were not forgotten, but while his lost love’s breaking voice still echoed in his ears, and her beautiful face was vivid in his memory, every other ill seemed trivial.

In some detached corner of his mind he knew that his present despair could not, in nature, endure, and ought not to be encouraged, but it was long before he could drag his thoughts from contemplation of what might have been and concentrate them instead on what must be.

It was perhaps fortunate that there was too much business demanding his attention to leave him with much time for reflection. It acted as a counter-irritant rather than a palliative, but it kept him fully occupied.

A diversion, which presented him with an added anxiety, as well as some inevitable amusement, was provided by his younger sister, who sent him a long letter, for which he was obliged to disburse the sum of two shillings. Lydia apologized for this vicarious extravagance, pointing out to him that since he was away from home she had been unable to obtain a frank.

She had abandoned her matrimonial schemes. Charlotte (Adam invoked a silent blessing on her head) was of the opinion that the acquisition of a wealthy and senile husband was not a matter to be accomplished with the speed requisite for the re-establishment of the family fortunes. Recognizing the force of this argument, Lydia wrote to warn Adam not to place any reliance on her former project. In a loving attempt to alleviate the pangs of disappointment she assured him that if she should contrive, at some future date, to achieve her ambition her first care would be to compel her hapless spouse to buy back Fontley, and to bestow it instantly on her dear Adam.

Meanwhile, she was making plans for her own maintenance. She thought it only right to inform Adam that Mama, after calculating ways and means, had come to the conclusion that although no one must doubt her readiness to stuff her last crust into the mouth of a famished daughter she would be wholly incapable of providing for this damsel out of the miserable portion which was her jointure.

With a sinking heart Adam picked up the second sheet of this missive, and discovered that Mama had formed the intention of seeking an asylum in Bath, with her sister, Lady Bridestow. This, Lydia wrote, could never prosper, since Aunt Bridestow was a widow of much longer standing than Mama.

The precise significance of these words eluded Adam, but he gathered that they were ominous. Whatever might be the issue the younger Miss Deveril had realized that she was unlikely to be a comfort to Mama, and had therefore decided to seek her own fortune, since nothing (heavily underscored) would prevail upon her to be a charge on her brother. It was just possible that her new scheme might not win his approbation, but she had no doubt that his commonsense would rapidly enable him to perceive all the advantages attached to it.

In the deepest foreboding he turned the sheet, to discover that his worst fears had been outdistanced: the younger Miss Deveril (but she rather thought she should adopt the name of Lovelace) had formed the intention of leaping to fame and affluence upon the London stage with her brilliant portrayals of all the better known comedy rôles. And let not Adam doubt that she could do this! At Christmas, when a large party had been entertained at Fontley, theatricals had been the order of the day.
Twelfth Night
had been the chosen play; and by the greatest stroke of good fortune the lady selected to enact the part of Maria had been struck down at the eleventh hour by a sudden indisposition and Lydia had taken her place. Everyone had declared her to be a Born Actress. In this unanimous judgement she concurred, but doubted, modestly, whether she would make a hit in the tragic rôles. Comedy was her
forte
, and although this might entail the playing of some breeches-parts she was persuaded that Adam would see no real objection to that, whatever Charlotte might say. In short, she would be very much obliged to him if he would approach whichever of the theatrical managers he thought the most respectable, and represent to this magnate that a rare chance was offered him of engaging the services of a young actress perfectly ready to take the town by storm, and not at all afraid of challenging comparison with such experienced players as Mrs Jordan, or Miss Mellon, or Miss Kelly. He gathered, with a grin, that the appearance on the boards of Miss Lydia Deveril (or Lovelace) would be the signal for these ladies to retire into chagrined obscurity.

He might laugh at his sister’s naïve plans, but they added nothing to his peace of mind. It distressed him to know that she was scheming how to support herself when she should have been thinking of her coming-out, and drove to the back of his tired mind his own trouble. He found the time, not to approach a respectable manager, but to write a tactful reply to Lydia; and was engaged on this task when a waiter came up to his private parlour with a visiting-card on a salver, and a note addressed to him in Lord Oversley’s hand.

‘Gentleman waiting downstairs, my lord.’

Adam picked up the card, and read it with slightly raised brows. It was a rather larger card than was usually carried, and the name on it was inscribed in extremely florid script.
Mr Jonathan Chawleigh
ran the legend. It was followed by an address in Russell Square, and by another in Cornhill. This seemed very odd. Mystified, Adam turned to Lord Oversley’s letter. It was brief, merely requesting him to receive
my good friend
,
Mr Chawleigh
, and to give careful consideration to any proposition which that gentleman might lay before him.

‘Desire Mr Chawleigh to step upstairs,’ Adam said.

He recognized in the waiter’s wooden countenance, and in the utter lack of expression with which he replied: ‘Very good, my lord,’ profound disapproval. Undismayed, but at a loss to account for Mr Chawleigh’s visit, he nodded the waiter away, and awaited events. That Lord Oversley had some scheme in mind for his relief was plain enough, but in what way the unknown Mr Chawleigh could contribute to it he was quite unable to imagine.

In a few minutes the waiter returned, announcing Mr Chawleigh, and into the room stepped a very large, burly man, who halted on the threshold, and favoured Adam with a fierce stare, directed from under a pair of craggy brows.

The stare was at once suspicious and appraising. Adam met it tranquilly enough, but he did not entirely relish it. There was amusement in his face, but a faint hauteur too: what the devil did this fellow, who looked like a tradesman, mean by glaring at him?

Mr Chawleigh was a middle-aged man, whose powerful frame was clad in an old-fashioned suit of snuff-coloured broadcloth. Unlike his host, who wore a close-fitting coat of black superfine, with cutaway tails, pantaloons, and Hessian boots, Mr Chawleigh favoured a mode that had been for many years worn only by respectable tradesmen, and perhaps a few country squires who had no ambition to figure in the world of ton. His coat was full-skirted, and he wore knee-breeches, with stockings, and square-toed shoes embellished with steel buckles. His shirt-points were no more than decently starched, and his neckcloth was tied with more neatness than artistry; but his waistcoat relieved the general drabness of his raiment with broad, alternating stripes of grass-green and gold. The most henhearted member of the dandy-set would have died at the stake rather than have worn such a garment, but it was certainly magnificent. So was the diamond pin stuck into Mr Chawleigh’s neckcloth, and the emerald ring on his finger. He was plainly a man of substance, but he reminded Adam of nothing so much as a belligerent bull, with his great, muscular shoulders, his short, thick neck, and the habit he had of champing his jaws, as though chewing the cud of his ruminations.

‘Mr Chawleigh?’ Adam said.

‘That’s my name. Jonathan Chawleigh: no more and no less! That ain’t to say I couldn’t get a handle set to it, if I’d a mind to do it. I’d look as like as ninepence is to nothing, wouldn’t I? Nay, Jonathan Chawleigh’s good enough for me! Good enough for anyone, come to think of it,’ he added ruminatively. ‘I’ll tell you this, my lord! – you won’t find a name that’s more honoured in the City, look where you will!’ This was uttered in a voice of menacing challenge; but fortunately for Adam, who could think of nothing whatsoever to say, Mr Chawleigh continued abruptly: ‘Now, I’m one that likes to be sure of my ground! You
are
the Viscount of Lynton?’

Taken aback, Adam answered: ‘I’m Viscount Lynton – yes.’

‘No
of
?’ said Mr Chawleigh acutely.

‘No
of
,’ corroborated Adam, with admirable gravity. ‘We Viscounts, you know, are a part of what you might call the scaff and raff of the peerage! No one under the rank of an Earl may use of!’

‘That’s something his lordship
didn’t
tell me,’ Mr Chawleigh observed. ‘I daresay it don’t make much odds, but the fact is I did fancy an Earl. Still, a Viscount’s better than a Baron. A Baron’s no manner of use to me: you won’t budge me from
that
!’ He directed another of his searching looks at Adam, and chuckled: ‘Ay, you’re wondering who the devil I am, and what I want with you, ain’t you?’

Adam laughed. ‘I do wonder what you want with me, but not who you are, sir! You are Lord Oversley’s friend. Won’t you sit down?’

Mr Chawleigh allowed himself to be shepherded to a chair, but said, keeping his shrewd eyes fixed on Adam’s face: ‘Told you that, did he? I take that kindly in him. I wouldn’t make so bold myself, though I don’t deny I’ve been able to nudge his lordship on to a sure thing now and now, and I’ve always found him very affable. But I’m no tuft-hunter, prating about my grand friends, Lord This and Lord That, which don’t bamboozle any but gapeseeds. You want to remember that!’ he added, shooting out a thick finger at Adam. ‘You won’t find me setting up in Mayfair, all amongst the nobs, for I know well I’d be doing naught but making a bobbing-block of myself.’ He refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff. ‘That’s better!’ he announced, wiping his nose with a handkerchief of finest lawn. ‘Hardman’s 37: nothing to beat it!’ He looked at Adam with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘So that’s all you know about me, is it? A friend of my Lord Oversley!’ He brooded over this for a moment or two. ‘Didn’t tell you more than that, eh?’

‘No,’ Adam replied, adding, with a smile: ‘Having told me that there was no need to tell me more.’

‘H’m! Didn’t tell you what my business with you is? I thought he would – though he did say he would leave me to lay to you my own way. Damme if he’s not a knowing one! Guessed I’d want more than his testimony before I’d come up to the chalk.’ He nodded, and cast another penetrating stare at Adam. ‘If he had told you what I am he’d have told you that I’m mighty well up in the stirrups. I’m one as likes round dealing – which isn’t to say I won’t get a point the better of a man in a matter of trading, mark you! But there’s no one can say he was clerked by Jonathan Chawleigh! I run no rigs, my lord, because it ain’t my nature, and, what’s more, a good name’s worth a hundred Dutch bargains! I’ve got that all right and regular, and as for my credit, that’s good wherever there’s trading done. You’ll be wanting to know how I made my blunt – for I didn’t come into the world hosed and shod!’

Feeling slightly stunned, Adam was about to disclaim any such desire when his instinct warned him that his overpowering visitor would take this in bad part. He tried, therefore, to look as if he were interested. Mr Chawleigh smiled indulgently, and said: ‘I’ll wager you wouldn’t be much the wiser if I was to tell you, my lord, and that’s as it should be: each to his own last! You might say I was an India merchant, which is how I began in trade. I’m that, sure enough, but I’m some other things besides: in fact, I’ve got a finger in pretty well every pie that was worth the baking.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Adam, ‘but why do you tell me this?’

‘It might be,’ said Mr Chawleigh, watching him, ‘that I’d be willing to stick a finger in your pie, my lord.’

‘So I collect,’ said Adam. ‘But if Lord Oversley has informed you that my pie is worth the baking I think I should tell you that he has misled you.’

‘That’s as may be. But I’ll tell you to your head, my lord, that the tip of my little finger in your pie would be enough to save your groats. Suppose I was to thrust my whole hand in?’

‘You’d find yourself with a bad investment, Mr Chawleigh. I don’t know what Lord Oversley may have told you, but since I’ve no more liking for Dutch bargains than you have I’ll make it plain to you at once that my affairs are quite out of frame. I imagine you don’t invest your money without seeing at least the chance of a handsome return. I can’t offer you that. If, as I suspect, you think of taking up a mortgage –’

‘I’ve got no interest in mortgages,’ interrupted Mr Chawleigh. ‘Not but what I’d buy up those you’ve got already, and never ask a penny of you – if we reached an agreement! Nor I don’t want to buy that place of yours neither. It’s not money I’m looking for, my lord. It’s something different I want, and you may take it I’m ready to pay down my dust to get it if I find the right article, which it may be I have done. Setting aside what his lordship says of you, I like the cut of your jib, my lord – no offence meant or taken, I hope!’

‘None at all,’ responded Adam, as much amused as bewildered. ‘I am much obliged to you! But what is it that you do want of me?’

Mr Chawleigh sat champing his jaws for several moments, as though uncertain how to proceed. Finally, he scratched his head, and ejaculated: ‘Damme if anyone ever had to urge me to come to the point before in a matter of business! I’m a plain man, my lord, and how to wrap things up in clean linen I don’t know, nor don’t want to. The fact is, it ’ud have come better from his lordship. However, you’ve put the question to me downright, and I’ll give you a square answer: It’s your name I want, my lord.’