Adam had taken a quick, limping step to the window. He said in a queer voice: ‘Eagles!’
Twenty-six
Pandemonium broke out; there was a rush to the windows; as the post-chaise passed staid gentlemen leaned out, waving and cheering; persons who had never been on more than nodding terms clapped one another on the back; and even the most rabid opponents of the war huzzaed with the best.
Adam stood leaning against the wall, so dizzy that he was obliged to shut his eyes. The room was spinning round; waves of alternate hot and cold swept over him; but he managed to remain on his feet, and to overcome his faintness.
Waiters were sent scurrying for champagne; corks began to pop; and someone called out a toast to Wellington. Everyone drank it; Adam saw that the proposer was one of the Duke’s bitterest critics, and grinned inwardly. The Duke had no critics tonight, only fervent supporters. Adam thought that the enthusiasm would not last for long; but he could not foresee that within three days several of those who were acclaiming Wellington as the country’s saviour would be saying that the battle was rather a defeat than a victory.
Adam did not remain for long in the club, but slipped away presently, and went back to Fenton’s. Kinver was waiting for him, a broad grin on his face. Adam smiled at him with an effort. ‘Did you see the chaise, Kinver?’
‘I should think I did, my lord! With the Eagles sticking out of the windows! Three of them!’
Adam sank wearily into the chair before the dressing-table, and put up a hand to drag the pin out of his neckcloth. Kinver said: ‘I hope you’ll sleep tonight, my lord.’
‘I think I could sleep the clock round,’ Adam said.
He was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow. Kinver thought he had never seen him look more exhausted.
He would have liked to have drawn the curtains round the bed, to guard him from the sunlight that would filter in a few hours through the window-blinds, but he dared not do it: his lordship, accustomed for years to camp-beds, declared himself unable to sleep if snugly curtained from draughts.
But although his room faced east he did sleep the clock round, deeply and dreamlessly, hardly stirring. When he woke at last, the room was full of golden light, subdued by the blinds that Kinver had drawn so closely across the windows. He yawned, and stretched luxuriously, not fully conscious, but aware of a sense of well-being. As he remembered the cause of this, his first thought was one of rejoicing in the victory. Then he realized, as he had scarcely been able to do before, that he was not ruined, but probably richer than he had ever been.
The door creaked; he saw Kinver peeping cautiously at him, and said lazily: ‘I’m awake. What’s the time?’
‘Just gone eleven, my lord,’ Kinver answered, pulling back the blinds.
‘Good God, have I slept as long as that? I must get up!’ He swung his feet to the floor, and stood up, slipping his arms into the sleeves of the dressing-gown Kinver was holding for him. ‘Tell ’em to send up breakfast directly, will you? I’m as hungry as a hawk! Have the newspapers come?’
‘Yes, my lord, they’re laid out for you in the parlour. It looks like Bonaparte’s been sent to grass all right and regular this time.’
He went off to order breakfast, and Adam walked into the adjoining parlour, and opened the Gazette, sitting down at the table to read the Waterloo Dispatch. He had just come to the end of it when his breakfast was brought in. He was looking grave, which made Kinver say, as the waiter withdrew: ‘He is beat, isn’t he, my lord?’
‘To flinders, I should suppose. But, my God! twelve hours of it! I’m afraid our losses must have been enormous.’ He laid the Gazette aside, and as he did so caught sight of the date on it. He stared at it incredulously, exclaiming: ‘Wednesday, 21st June? Oh, my God!’ He saw that Kinver was looking bewildered, and said: ‘The dinner-party for Miss Lydia’s engagement! Now I am in the basket! Why the devil didn’t you wake me hours ago?’
‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, my lord!’ Kinver said, much dismayed. ‘What with all the excitement – and you saying you’d like to sleep the clock round – it went clean out of my head!’
‘Out of mine too. Can it really be Wednesday? Surely –’ He passed a hand over his brow, trying to reckon the days. ‘Yes, I suppose it must be. Oh, lord!’
‘Do you eat your breakfast, my lord, and I’ll send to warn the boys that you’ll be needing the chaise in an hour’s time!’ suggested Kinver. ‘We’ll be at Fontley by nine, maybe earlier.’
Adam hesitated, and then shook his head. ‘No, it won’t do. I must see Wimmering before I leave town. Warn the boys to be ready to set forward, however – at about two, perhaps. I’m surprised Wimmering hasn’t been here to see me.’
‘Well, my lord, Mr Wimmering did call,’ disclosed Kinver guiltily. ‘But when I told him you was abed and asleep, he wouldn’t have you wakened, but said he would call again this afternoon.’
‘I see. I expect you meant it for the best, but I’m not going to sit kicking my heels here: I shall have to drive into the City.’ He then thought that it would be as well to see Drummond too, and smiled at his chagrined valet. ‘Never mind! I must have gone to Drummond’s in any event.’
His call at the bank lasted for longer than he had anticipated, for Mr Drummond considered the occasion worthy of his very special sherry. Civility compelled Adam to conceal his impatience to be gone; so that it was already two o’clock when he reached Wimmering’s place of business.
Wimmering had been on the point of setting out for Fenton’s, and exclaimed in disapproval: ‘My lord! You should not have put yourself to the inconvenience of coming to me! I left word with your man that I would call again!’
‘I know, but I’m in the devil of a hurry!’ Adam said. ‘There’s a dinner-party being held at Fontley tonight, in honour of my sister’s engagement, and I swore I’d return in time for it. I shan’t, of course, but I might arrive in time to bid the guests farewell, don’t you think? I shall be in black disgrace – and deserve to be!’
Mr Wimmering smiled primly. ‘I fancy, when the cause of your absence is known, you will be forgiven, my lord. And may I, before I enter upon any business, beg that I may be forgiven? Your lordship’s head is better than mine. I must confess that I regarded your far-sighted venture with deep foreboding. Indeed, I was so filled with apprehension all yesterday that I found myself unable to swallow as much as a morsel of toast. I blush to own it, but so it was!’
‘You need not!’ Adam said. ‘Don’t speak of yesterday! What I endured – ! Do you know, I even wondered if I ought not to be in Bedlam? I shall never do such a thing again: I haven’t enough bottom for speculation!’
When he presently left Wimmering he was just about to summon up a hack from a nearby stand when he remembered that there was a third call it behoved him to make. He hesitated for a moment, and then resigned himself, and proceeded on foot in the direction of Cornhill. It was going to make him devilishly late, but there was no help for it: the barest courtesy made it necessary for him to visit his father-in-law.
He found Mr Chawleigh alone, and entered his room unannounced, pausing a moment, his hand still grasping the door-knob, looking across at him in sudden concern. Mr Chawleigh was seated at his desk, but he did not seem to be at work. Something about his posture, the sag of his great shoulders, the settled gloom in his countenance made Adam fear that the loss he had suffered must be much larger than he had disclosed. He said in a tone of real concern: ‘Sir – !’
Mr Chawleigh’s expression did not change. He said heavily: ‘You haven’t gone home then, my lord.’
‘Not yet. I’m leaving today, however. It’s Lydia’s party, you know, but I wanted to see you before I left town.’
‘I know,’ Mr Chawleigh said. He got up, and stood leaning his knuckles on his desk. ‘You’ve no need to tell me,’ he said. ‘No need for you to blame me either, for you couldn’t blame me more than I blame myself. Eh, it’s taken all the pleasure out of knowing we’ve beaten Bona
parte! The first time I ever advised anyone against his advantage, and I have to do it to you! Well, I don’t know when I’ve been sorrier for anything, and that’s a fact!’
Adam put his hat and gloves down rather quickly on a chair, and limped forward. ‘My dear sir – !’ he said, a good deal moved. ‘No, no, I assure you – !’
‘Nay, don’t say it, lad!’ Mr Chawleigh interrupted. ‘It’s like you not to ride grub, but I’ve done mighty ill by you, and it don’t make a ha’p’orth of difference that I never meant it to turn out like it has! Now –’
‘Mr Chawleigh –’
‘Nay, you listen to what I’ve got to say, my lord!’ said Mr Chawleigh, coming round the corner of the desk, and laying a hand on Adam’s shoulder. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have thought of selling out, would you?’
‘No, but –’
‘– so it’s my blame, and it’s for me to make it good, which I will do, and there’s my hand on it! Now, we don’t want any argumentation, so –’
‘You know, sir, you are a great deal too kind to me,’ Adam interposed, his slender hand lost in that enormous paw. He smiled at his father-in-law. ‘But I didn’t come here to reproach you. I came to tell you that I’ve made my fortune!’
‘You’ve done what?’ ejaculated Mr Chawleigh, staring at him under suddenly knit brows.
‘Well, I daresay you won’t think it a fortune,’ said Adam, ‘but I assure you it seems one to me! I hope you’ll forgive me: I didn’t follow your advice!’
The grip on his shoulder tightened. ‘You didn’t sell?’ Mr Chawleigh demanded.
‘No, sir: I bought!’
‘You – Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Mr Chawleigh, apparently stunned. ‘With me and Wimmering telling you – Well, if ever I thought you had it in you – !’ A delighted smile spread over his countenance; he released Adam’s shoulder to pat him on the back. ‘Good lad, good lad!’ he said. ‘Bought – ! And what’s your profit?’
‘I don’t know yet, but Drummond thinks it will be somewhere in the region of twenty thousand, sir.’
‘Twenty – How did you come by the blunt to buy to that tune?’
‘I borrowed it from Drummond – on my own securities.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ said Mr Chawleigh. ‘And I suppose he didn’t get a notion that I was one of your securities?’
‘I told him,’ said Adam blandly, ‘that he was on no account to think that you were in any way concerned.’
Mr Chawleigh regarded him with a fulminating but not unadmiring eye. ‘If you wasn’t a lord,’ he said, ‘I’d call you a young rascal!’
Adam laughed. ‘Oh, no, would you? It was perfectly true! You were not concerned!’
‘Yes, it’s likely I’d let my daughter’s husband be rolled-up, ain’t it?’ retorted Mr Chawleigh, with asperity. ‘Well, well, to think you’d so much rumgumption! Twenty thousand pounds!’ He chuckled; but all at once his expression changed, and he directed one of his searching stares at Adam. ‘I take it you’ll be wanting to redeem the mortgages?’ he said belligerently.
There was a long pause. To redeem the mortgages, to make Fontley his own again, independent of Chawleigh-gold, and free from even the shadow of a threat of Chawleigh-interference, had been Adam’s only motive for plunging into a speculation which he now regarded as the craziest act of his life. Even when he had been most horrified at what he had risked the thought had persisted that the object was worth any risk. The gamble had succeeded; and now, as he gave back his father-in-law’s stare, he realized, in some bewilderment, that having the power to redeem the mortgages he had lost the desire to do it. Almost from the day of his marriage it had been his fixed goal: it should have been his first thought on waking that morning, but he had not thought of it until Mr Chawleigh himself recalled it to his mind. He had thought instead of drainage, and new cottages, and of the experimental farm he had now the means to run. His old obsession suddenly seemed foolish. Mr Chawleigh giving rein to the Juggernaut within him might infuriate him, but he was perfectly capable of handling Mr Chawleigh. And, to do Mr Chawleigh justice, he had never shown the least disposition to interfere in the affairs of Fontley. He had once, in the grip of passion, threatened to foreclose, but Adam had known, even in the heat of the moment, that there was no intention behind the threat, or any comprehension of the effect so brutal a display of power would have on one of finer sensibility than his own. His vulgarity made him sometimes extremely trying, but under it there was much that was admirable, and a softer heart than his fierce aspect would have led anyone to suppose. Looking at him now, Adam knew that he was scowling because he was afraid he was going to be hurt. Well, he shouldn’t be: certainly not by the son-in-law who owed him so much and of whom he was so unmistakably fond.
‘I’ll redeem them if you wish it, sir – of course!’ Adam said.
The scowl lifted a little. ‘Why should I wish it? I’d a notion you couldn’t bear to think I’d aught to do with that place of yours – nor wouldn’t rest easy in your bed till you’d paid me back every penny you’ve had of me!’
‘Good God, sir, I hope you don’t expect that of me?’ countered Adam. ‘I could never repay all I owe you!’
‘Don’t talk so silly!’ growled Mr Chawleigh. ‘You know I don’t!’
‘Yes, of course I do – and also that nothing pleases you more than to shower expensive luxuries on me,’ Adam said, affection as well as amusement in his eyes. ‘As for Fontley, if you mean that I won’t let you carpet the Grand Stairway, or fill the park with deer, you are perfectly right! But I give you warning that I have every intention of trying if I can’t persuade you to dip that little finger of yours into a project I have in mind. I’ve no time to go into that now, however. About the mortgages – I have a much better scheme than to waste my money on redeeming them from you: I should infinitely prefer it if you will settle them on Giles.’
The scowl had entirely vanished. ‘Now, that is a good scheme!’ exclaimed Mr Chawleigh, rubbing his hands together. ‘Ay, I’ll do that, bless him! I’ll have it drawn up legally, all shipshape and Bristol fashion, never fear!’ A thought occurred to him; he said: ‘If you was to do something handsome by the Government you could get yourself made an Earl, couldn’t you?’
‘To add to Giles’s consequence? Not for the world! He’s by far too top-lofty already – believes himself to be of the first importance!’
‘Young varmint!’ said Mr Chawleigh fondly. ‘I’d like him to have a proper title, though. Ay, and I’d like to see you made an Earl, my lord, and I don’t deny it.’
‘If you set such store by titles, sir, why don’t you get one for yourself? I think you should be an alderman!’
He spoke at random, merely to divert Mr Chawleigh’s mind, but he instantly perceived that he had unwittingly hit the mark. Mr Chawleigh stared at him very hard, and said: ‘Now, where did you come by that notion, my lord?’
‘Ah!’
‘Well, maybe I will be an alderman before I’m much older,’ admitted Mr Chawleigh. ‘But don’t you go blabbing about it, my lord, because it ain’t certain, mind! I’m not saying anything but that there is a vacancy, which everyone knows, now that poor old Ned Quarm’s stuck his spoon in the wall, and it might be that I’ll be voted for.’
‘I won’t breathe a word to a soul,’ promised Adam. ‘Alderman Chawleigh! I must say, I like it!’
‘You think it sounds well, my lord?’ asked Mr Chawleigh anxiously.
‘Very well! I can fancy myself saying my father-in-law, the alderman, too. We shall be all odious pretension – and quite insufferable when you become Lord Mayor!’
Mr Chawleigh was so much delighted by this sally that he was still chuckling when Adam took leave of him.
It was four o’clock when Adam reached Fenton’s again, and, in his valet’s opinion, much too late to set out on his journey. ‘For we shan’t be at Fontley before two or three in the morning, my lord, not travelling by night, and everyone will be abed a
nd asleep!’
‘Yes, but if I put off the start until tomorrow my guests will have left before my arrival, and I shall never be forgiven,’ argued Adam. ‘But if they know that I travelled all night to make my apologies in person they will look on me with much more kindness – I hope! Good God! They won’t have heard the news! Oh, that quite settles it! I shall be instantly absolved! And, in any event, I want to go home!’
Twenty-seven
It was a little before nine o’clock on the following morning when Jenny called Come-in! to a knock on her door. She was seated at her dressing-table, while Martha Pinhoe set the final pins in her smooth braids, and it was in the looking-glass that she met her errant husband’s guilty but laughing eyes. Her own twinkled in spite of herself, but she said severely, as she turned in her chair to face him: ‘Well! A pretty way to use me, my lord!’
‘I know, I know!’ he said penitently, coming across the room to kiss her. ‘But even if I’d remembered what the date was, which I own I didn’t, I couldn’t have come! Have you heard the news?’
She put up a hand to clasp his shoulder for a moment. ‘I should think everyone in the house has heard it by now. When did you arrive?’
‘Just before three. I drove into the yard, so that I shouldn’t rouse you all. My dear, I do beg your pardon! Infamous of me to have abandoned you! Did you desire Lambert to take my place?’
‘He wasn’t here,’ she replied. ‘Or Charlotte, or your mama!’
‘Oh, good God!’ he exclaimed, aghast. ‘You don’t mean to say that Charlotte is confined already?’
‘That’s just what I do mean to say. And not a word of warning to me – not that I blame her for that, because she was in the very act of stepping into the carriage when she felt her pains begin. Lambert sent over one of the grooms directly, of course, but there we all were, sitting in the Long Drawing-room, and expecting every minute to see the Membury Place party walk in. And the end of it was poor Lydia hadn’t one member of her own family at her engagement party!’