Adam had not seen Julia since the announcement of her engagement, and he had done his best not to think of her. Jenny was not even sure that he knew the actual date of the wedding, for the subject was never mentioned between them. He did know it, and could not drag his thoughts from it. He could picture Julia, the embodiment of his dreams, walking up the aisle on her father’s arm, and he knew that he had reached the end of all dreaming. Whatever the future might hold there would be no enchantment, no glimpses of the isle of Gramarye he had once thought to reach.
It was folly to look back, ridiculous to suppose that Julia was more lost to him today than upon his own wedding-day, fatal to think of her married to Rockhill, whom he could only see as an elderly satyr. Better to count one’s blessings, and to remember how much worse off one might have been.
Looking over his water-logged acres, he thought: I still have Fontley. Then, as he thought how much it would cost to bring his neglected land to prosperity, depression surged up in him again. He shook it off: it would take time to achieve his ambition; it would be years, perhaps, before he had amassed enough capital to make the cut that would drain the swamped fields he had ridden out to inspect; but with thrift and good management it would one day be done, and the mortgages redeemed. To that end all his schemes were immediately directed. It was no use thinking of the other crying needs: it made him feel rather hopeless to reckon up the farm buildings that needed repair, and the stud-and-mud dwellings which must be replaced by decent brick cottages. Still, he had at least made a start, and very fortunate he was to have been able to build even two new cottages, when less than a year before he had faced the prospect of being forced to sell Fontley. That had seemed to him the worst thing that could befall him; he had thought that no sacrifice would be too great that would save his home. He had been offered the means to do it, and he had accepted the offer of his own will; and to indulge now in nostalgic yearning was foolish and contemptible. One could never have everything one wanted in this world, and he, after all, had been granted a great deal: Fontley, and a wife who desired only to make him happy. His heart would never leap at the sight of Jenny; there was no magic in their dealings; but she was kind, and comfortable, and he had grown to be fond of her – so fond, he realized, that if, by the wave of a wand, he could cause her to disappear he would not wave it. Enchantment had vanished from the world; his life was not romantic, but practical, and Jenny had become a part of it.
He rode slowly back to the Priory, wondering why one derived so little comfort from counting blessings. His mood was as bleak as the January day; he wanted to be alone, but he must go back to Jenny, and try not to let her guess what were his true feelings. He hoped that he would be able to maintain a cheerful front, but he thought that it was going to be as difficult a duty as any he had ever undertaken.
But it was only in epic tragedies that gloom was unrelieved. In real life tragedy and comedy were so intermingled that when one was most wretched ridiculous things happened to make one laugh in spite of oneself.
He came round an angle of the Priory from the stable-yard to find Jenny surveying with every sign of disgust a peacock and hen, who appeared to view both her and their surroundings with suspicion and dislike. The sight was at once so surprising and so comical that it drove his other thoughts out of his head. He exclaimed: ‘Where the deuce did they come from?’
‘Need you ask?’ she said bitterly. ‘Papa sent them!’
Amusement sprang to his eyes. ‘Oh, no, you don’t mean it? Now, why should he – Ah, to smarten us up a trifle! Well, and so they will!’
‘Adam! You can’t wish for a couple of peacocks!’ she said. ‘There’s no sense in them! Now, if Papa had sent me a couple of pigeons I’d have said thank-you, and meant it!’
He knew that her view of the animal creation was strictly practical, but this puzzled him. ‘But why? Do you want some pigeons?’
‘No, I can’t say that I do, but at least they would have been of use. You told me that you use pigeon-dung for manure, so – Now, Adam – !’
He had uttered a shout of laughter. ‘Oh, Jenny, you absurd creature! What will you say next?’
She smiled, but abstractedly, considering the peacocks. ‘I know!’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll give them to Charlotte! They are just the thing for the terrace at Membury Place! And if Papa asks you what became of them, Adam, you’ll say that a fox got them!’
Twenty-two
Jenny’s baby was expected at the end of March, but before she was brought to bed Adam had narrowly escaped being involved in the Corn Law Riots, and an appalling piece of news had burst like a thunder-clap over Europe. On the first day of the month, the ex-Emperor Napoleon, having escaped from Elba and slipped through the British blockade, landed in the south of France with a small force, and issued proclamations calling on the faithful to trample the white cockade underfoot, and to return to their former allegiance.
After the first shock, it was felt by all but the most pessimistic that this attempt to regain command of France would prove abortive. Masséna, from Marseilles, had sent two regiments to cut Bonaparte off on his march to Paris; and it did not seem, according to reports received in London, that the ex-Emperor’s return was being greeted with any marked display of enthusiasm. But the news grew steadily more disquieting. Instead of following the main road through unfriendly Provence, Bonaparte chose the mountain road to Grenoble, and Masséna’s troops failed to intercept him. At Grasse his reception was chilly; but as he proceeded northward through the Dauphiné men began to flock to his standard.
It was reassuring to learn that in Paris complete calm reigned; and if there were those who doubted the willingness of the Minister of War to take active measures against his old master their suspicions were soon allayed by the news that Marshal Soult had proposed to the Council to throw a large force into the southern provinces, under the command of Monsieur, the King’s brother, with three Marshals to support him. With this force in his front, and Masséna’s regiments in his rear, Bonaparte must be trapped.
He met a battalion of Infantry of the Line on the road beyond Gap, and, with his unfailing instinct for the dramatic gesture, dismounted and walked forward alone. An officer shouted an order to fire, but it was not obeyed. ‘Men of the Fifth!’ said Napoleon, standing squarely before the uneasy troops, ‘I am your Emperor! Know me! If there is one of you who would kill his Emperor here I am!’
It was hardly surprising that men who had fought under the Eagles should not have availed themselves of this invitation. Instead, they broke their ranks, yelling Vive l’Empéreur! and tearing off their white cockades.
After that the end was certain. The Parisians, enjoying a period of prosperity, due to the influx of wealthy English travellers to their city, were for the most part loyal to the Bourbons; at Vienna the Congress declared Bonaparte to be hors la loi; the King maintained his lethargy; and Marshal Ney, quite as dramatic a person as the ex-Emperor, heroically announced his intention of bringing Bonaparte to Paris in an iron cage; but Bonaparte continued to advance, gathering troops all the way, and entering Lyons without opposition. A letter inviting Ney to meet him, and promising that flamboyant gentleman a welcome as warm as after the Moskowa, was enough to persuade Ney, Prince of the Moskowa, to renounce his allegiance, and to take himself and his willing troops over to the ex-Emperor’s side. They met at Auxerre, on the 17th March; on the evening of the 19th the King, with his family and his Ministers, left Paris in ignominious haste, with Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the English Chargé d’Affaires during the absence of the Duke of Wellington in Vienna, and a horde of visitors to the capital; and on the 20th Napoleon was carried shoulder-high into the Palace of the Tuileries to begin a new reign.
‘What did I tell you?’ demanded Mr Chawleigh of his son-in-law, who was in London on a brief visit. ‘Didn’t I say we’d have him rampaging all over the Continent again before the cat could lick its ear?’
‘You did, sir, but I’ll lay you handsome odds we don’t!’
r /> ‘I’ve no wish to rob you, my lord!’ said Mr Chawleigh grimly.
Mr Chawleigh was taking the gloomiest view of the entire political situation. He said he didn’t know what the country was coming to; and, exacerbated by Adam’s cheerful mien, recommended him to look at what had happened to us in America.
The news of the defeat and death of Sir Edward Pakenham at New Orleans, in January, had just reached London, and the reminder did bring a cloud to Adam’s brow: not because he doubted the ability of the Army to make a recover, but because no one who had served in the Peninsula could fail to sorrow at Pakenham’s death. But he only replied: ‘Come out of the dismals, sir! You should meet the fellows in my Regiment! I swear they’ve never been in better heart!’
The officers and men of the 52nd were indeed in good heart, and rendering thanks to Providence for having spared them the crushing disappointment of being absent from the coming battle à outrance with the Frogs. Twice had the Regiment set sail for America, and twice had their transports been driven back to port by contrary winds. They were now preparing with the greatest enthusiasm to embark again, their destination this time being the Low Countries.
Encountering Lord Oversley in Brooks’s Club, Adam learned that my Lord and Lady Rockhill, enjoying a protracted honeymoon in Paris, had not been amongst those who had fled in such unseemly haste. The Marquis, a cynic, had placed no dependence whatsoever on the loyalty of King Louis’s soldiers; and when the news of Bonaparte’s landing reached Paris, he brought his bride home immediately, and without loss of dignity. He said languidly that he was quite unfitted to take part in the helter-skelter flight he foresaw; and had never, at any stage of his career, derived amusement from watching the too-easily predictable behaviour of mobs.
Adam was glad to know that Julia was safe in England, but as he had never doubted Rockhill’s ability to take care of her the intelligence relieved his mind of no particular anxiety. Julia, taking Parisian society by storm, winning for herself the title of La Belle Marquise, had begun to seem remote. Jenny’s approaching confinement, the low prices on the agricultural market, the vexed question of the proposed new Corn Laws, were matters of more pressing moment; and added to these was the inevitable longing to be back with his Regiment, which no duty-officer as keen as Adam could escape. So urgent was this desire that if Jenny had not been so near her time he thought he must, by hedge or by stile, have rejoined, casting every prudent consideration to the winds. His good sense told him that to have done so would have been nothing more than a heroic gesture, but this neither quenched his desire nor alleviated the angry fret in his mind. He tried to conceal it from Jenny, and thought that he had succeeded, until she said, in her gruffest voice, and keeping her eyes lowered: ‘You don’t mean to volunteer, do you?’
‘Good God, no!’ he replied.
She glanced fleetingly up at him. ‘I know you’d like to, but – I hope you won’t.’
‘I give you my word I won’t. As though Old Hookey couldn’t do the thing without Captain Deveril’s assistance!’
Towards the end of the month, Mr Chawleigh arrived at Fontley to attend the birth of his grandchild. He found Jenny in good health, calmly awaiting the event, all her preparations made, and her house in order, but this in no way assuaged his too-evident anxiety. Adam thought that it would have been better for Jenny had he remained in London, but he had not had the heart to close his doors to him, and could only hope that he would not make Jenny nervous. But two days before Jenny began to be ill the household was cast into astonishment by the wholly unexpected arrival of the Dowager, who had come (she said) because she felt it to be her duty to support dear little Jenny through her ordeal, and lost no time at all in bringing both Mr Chawleigh and Adam to a sense of their folly, uselessness, and total irrelevance.
Adam greeted her with mixed feelings. He was grateful to her for overcoming her disinclination to exert herself on behalf of a daughter-in-law of whom she disapproved; but he feared that her descent upon Fontley would throw Jenny into disorder. He was mistaken. If the Dowager had a passion, it was for babies. She had doted on all her children during their infancies, and her bosom was now filled with grandmotherly fervour. Jenny’s failings were not forgotten, but they were set aside: the Dowager, assuming command of the household, was determined to ensure that nothing should be allowed to endanger the birth of her first grandchild; and nothing could have exceeded the gracious kindness with which she enveloped Jenny, or the indulgent contempt with which she dismissed male apprehensions.
Adam begged Jenny to tell him whether she would prefer to be rid of her mother-in-law, but she replied with unmistakable sincerity that the Dowager was being of the greatest support and comfort to her.
Like many women of invalidish habits, the Dowager had borne her children with perfect ease. She could perceive no reason for supposing that Jenny would suffer complications outside her own experience, and her conviction that the issue would be happy gave Jenny a confidence she had hitherto lacked.
Adam, finding himself reduced to schoolboy status, was much inclined to rebel; but Mr Chawleigh, observing him with a sympathetic eye, said gloomily: ‘It’s no manner of use nabbing the rust, my lord. You wait till Jenny starts in labour! The way females behave when one of ’em’s in the straw you’d think we was no better than a set of lobcocks they’d be very well-pleased to be rid of! And don’t you get to thinking you’d anything to do with this baby, lad, because all you’ll get will be a set-down if you start trying to put yourself forward!’
The arrival of the month-nurse made the female dominion at Fontley absolute, and drew Adam into close alliance with his father-in-law. ‘The only female in the whole house who doesn’t treat me as if I was only just out of short coats is Jenny herself!’ he told Mr Chawleigh wrathfully.
‘I know,’ nodded that worthy. ‘I remember when Mrs C. was brought to bed there wasn’t one of the maids, not even the kitchen-girl that wasn’t a day more than fourteen, that didn’t make me as mad as Bedlam, carrying on as if they was grandmothers, and me a booberkin!’
When Jenny’s labour began the month-nurse warned Adam that she was not going to be quick in her time. A few hours later she said, with a bright cheerfulness which drove the colour from Mr Chawleigh’s cheeks, that she would be glad if his lordship would send a message to fetch Dr Purley from Peterborough. Adam had, in fact, sent for both this recommended accoucheur, and for Dr Tilford, as soon as Jenny’s pains began; and within a very few minutes Dr Tilford drove up in his gig. In due course he was joined by Dr Purley, who, having been engaged to attend throughout the labour, brought both his night-bag and his servant with him. His air of confidence exercised a beneficial effect upon Mr Chawleigh; but it seemed an alarmingly long time before he redeemed his promise to report to my lady’s husband and father what his opinion was of her case. However, when he and Dr Tilford joined the anxious gentlemen in the library he appeared quite untroubled, and assured my lord that although he feared it would be some time before her ladyship was safely delivered neither he nor his colleague (with a courteous bow to Dr Tilford) could discover any cause for undue apprehension. Mr Chawleigh could not like the qualifying epithet, and immediately put Dr Purley in possession of the details of his own wife’s several disastrous experiences. Without precisely saying so, Dr Purley managed to convey the impression that the late Mrs Chawleigh had been unfortunate in not having been a patient of his; and he left Mr Chawleigh, if not wholly reassured, at least more inclined to take a hopeful view of the situation.
But midway through the second day, after a sleepless night, Mr Chawleigh, whose nerves had been growing rapidly more disordered, lost his precarious hold over his temper, and tried his best to provoke Adam into a quarrel. Adam entered the room after an absence of an hour to be greeted with a ferocious glare, and a demand to know where he had been.
‘Only in the estate-room, sir,’ he replied. ‘My bailiff has been here with some business needing my attention.’
Mr Chawleig
h’s jaw worked. His son-in-law’s quiet voice, far from acting as a damper, violently irritated him. ‘Oh, you have, have you?’ he retorted, with bitter sarcasm. ‘And as cool as a cucumber, I make no doubt! Business needing your attention! Why, you don’t know the meaning of the word! You and your piddling farms! Much you care for my Jenny!’
Adam stood rigidly silent.
‘Ay, you may look down your nose!’ Mr Chawleigh flung at him. ‘As proud as a cock on your own dunghill, ain’t you, my lord? But if it weren’t for me you’d have no dunghill – and what’s more, if my Jenny snuffs it, I’ll see to it you don’t have it, as sure as my name’s Jonathan Chawleigh, because it’ll be your blame, giving Croft the go-by, like you did – bringing her down here – not caring the snap of your fingers what might come of it! Well, that’s where you’ll find you’ve made your mistake! And she not thinking of anything but how to please you, and be worthy of you! Worthy of you! She’s too good for you, and so I tell you to your head!’
Anger, colder than Mr Chawleigh’s, but quite as deadly, had welled up in Adam. As he looked at that coarse red face, he felt for a moment almost sick with loathing. Then he saw that large tears were rolling down Mr Chawleigh’s cheeks, and was suddenly sorry for him. He did not know that the things he said were unpardonable, or that self-control in moments of stress was incumbent on him. He had fought his way up in the world with no other weapons than his hard head and his ruthless will. He was brutal but generous, overbearing yet curiously humble, and he gave way to his emotions with the ease of a child.