The Dowager had tried for years to induce the Fifth Viscount to renovate Fontley, asserting, with truth, that its shabbiness was a disgrace; and when he had returned to it from the Peninsula Adam had heartily agreed with her; but, escaping from the cushioned splendour of the town house, all the inconveniences of Fontley seemed to him admirable, and he would have received with hostility even a suggestion that the frayed rug in which he caught his heel should be replaced. He did not quite acknowledge it, but in his mind was a jealous determination never to allow Chawleigh-hands to touch his home; shabbiness would not destroy its charm; Chawleigh-gold would destroy it overnight.
But his acceptance of decay did not extend to his land. Here he wanted every modem improvement he could get. He might indulge foolish sentiment over a torn rug; he had none to waste on an ill-drained field, an outdated plough, or a labourer’s cottage falling to ruin; and had Mr Chawleigh shared his love of the land he might have been willing to admit him into some sort of a partnership, overcoming his pride for the sake of his acres. But Mr Chawleigh, fascinated by mechanical contrivances, had no interest in agriculture. Born in a back-slum, of town-bred ancestry, there was no tradition of farming behind him, and no inherited love of the soil. How anyone could wish to live anywhere but in London was a matter passing his comprehension, but he knew that the nobs (as he phrased it) possessed country estates, and since an estate added greatly to a nob’s consequence Adam’s value in his eyes had been considerably enhanced when he had learnt from Lord Oversley that he was the owner of a large one in Lincolnshire, and of a mansion which figured in every Guide Book to the county. Lord Oversley spoke reverently of Fontley. Mr Chawleigh had no great opinion of antiquity, but he knew that the nobs set store by it, so it was obviously desirable that Jenny should become the mistress of an ancient country seat. In his view, this meant a palatial residence, set in extensive gardens, with such embellishments as ornamental water, statuary, and Grecian temples, the whole being surrounded by a park. Had he considered the matter, he would have supposed that a farm to supply the needs of the household would be attached to the mansion; but that the owner should concern himself with its management he would have thought absurd, and even improper. As for the rest of the estate, he knew that in an agricultural district this must consist largely of farms, which were let out to tenants, and from which the overlord drew a large part of his subsistence. In his opinion, it was a poor source of revenue. No one was going to make Mr Chawleigh believe that there were fortunes to be made in farming: as far as he could see, it was as chancy a business as speculating on ’Change. In any event, it was not for the overlord to meddle in such matters: whatever had to be done was done by his agent. “Gentlemen,” said Mr Chawleigh, like another before him, “have no right to be farmers.”
William Sidford, bailiff, was not quite sure, either, that he approved of Adam’s interest in what had never interested his volatile parent, although he had welcomed the advent of a master who not only listened to what he had to say, but who seemed to understand that only ruin could result from wresting every penny it would yield out of the land, and ploughing not one penny back into it. He had felt hopeful, at first, of being able to check the rot he had been deploring for years; but after spending the better part of four days in the Sixth Viscount’s company he was attacked by qualms. His new master was chuck-full of modern ideas, which he had got out of books. William Sidford had no time to waste on books, and he approached new theories with extreme caution, since it stood to reason that what had been good enough for his father and his grandfather must be good enough for him. Not that he was an enemy to progress: when my lord talked of road-making, under-draining, and embanking, he was heartily in agreement with him; and he was by no means averse from adopting the Four-Course System. But when my lord began to talk about Tull’s Drill, and such new crops as swedes and mangel-wurzels, it became apparent to him that it was his duty to check him. Such notions might answer: he didn’t say they wouldn’t, nor that the Tullian Method wasn’t a good one; but one thing he could tell his lordship, and that was that he wouldn’t find the Tullian Method in general use amongst those who might be supposed to know their business. Having been accustomed all his life to see fields that were luxuriant in summer barren, and often flooded, in winter, he found it difficult to adjust his mind to my lord’s ideas: winter crops were certainly desirable, but it would cost a mint of money to make it possible to grow them; and as for the enclosures my lord talked about, he didn’t know, he was sure, but he had heard it said that enclosures made for poor lean people.
“But, according to what I have read,” said Adam, “it is rather the open field system that does that, because it means winter idleness, with no hedges to plash, ditches to scour, draining to maintain, or drilled crops to keep clean.” He added, as William Sidford looked doubtfuclass="underline" “You’ve told me — and I’ve seen for myself — that there’s much distress amongst the farm labourers.”
“That’s so, my lord, but it’s on account of the low prices. I disremember when the times were so sickly,” Sidford said. “By what I’m hearing, there’s upwards of two hundred country banks have stopped payment — like they did a matter of twenty years ago.”
These last words were charged with significance, and referred, as Adam realized, to the financial crash of ‘93, in which the Fifth Viscount had been disastrously involved. It was plain that William Sidford thought the time ill-chosen for unnecessary expenditure. He began to grumble about the Corn Laws, and the Property Tax, but to deaf ears. Adam interrupted him suddenly, saying: “Wasn’t my grandfather very friendly with Mr Coke of Norfolk? Would he be willing to advise me, I wonder?”
William Sidford could advance no opinion, but none was expected, the question having been rhetorical. Adam brought the conference to an end, saying, with a smile; “I’m woefully ignorant, am I not? I must go to school again. In the meantime, set in hand, if you please, the work upon which weare agreed.”
William Sidford left him to the task of composing a letter to Mr Coke. Mistrusting the cross-country mails, he sent it by the hand of one of his grooms. It was productive of an instant response: Mr Coke held the Fourth Viscount’s memory in affection, and would be happy to advise his present lordship to the best of his ability. He suggested that Adam should honour him with a visit to Holkham immediately, if that should be convenient to him. Detecting the cordiality underlying the formality of Mr Coke’s reply, Adam decided to take him at his word. He despatched a brief note to Jenny, informing her that his return to town would be a trifle delayed; and set out for Norfolk.
The apprehensions natural to a modest young man thrusting himself upon the notice of his grandfather’s old friend were instantly overcome by the warmth of Mr Coke’s welcome. Mr Coke, living in the inherited splendour of Holkham, was a shrewd man of simple tastes and forthright disposition. He had succeeded to the property of his noble kinsman, Lord Leicester, on the distaff side, and instead of scheming to get the Earldom revived, he had applied himself to the task of improving and developing a large estate whose rent-roll amounted to no more than two thousand guineas. Today, rather less than forty years later, it more nearly approached the sum of twenty thousand pounds, and the handsome young man of whom no one had heard had for long been a power in the land. He had never made the least push to get the title revived: he was content to be Mr Coke of Norfolk, and neither his wealth nor his unchallenged supremacy in the agricultural world altered his kindly, unpretentious character. He entertained all sorts at Holkham, from Royal Dukes to quite insignificant persons, and treated everyone alike, without ceremony, but with a genuine desire to make his guests comfortable. In this he was ably seconded by his youngest daughter, who kept house for him. Within a very few minutes of having his hand warmly grasped, and a likeness traced in his countenance to his grandfather, Adam felt at home, and by the time he had spent an evening in his host’s company he found himself able not only to ask for advice but to take Mr Coke far more deeply into his confidence than he would previously have believed to be possible.