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 itdisturbed 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 facade, 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?”