A Civil Contract

Just before midnight the Dowager entered the library, with a swathed bundle in her arms, which she held out to Adam, saying in thrilling accents that showed clearly whence Lydia derived her histrionic talent: “Lynton! I have brought your son to you!”

He had sprang up at the opening of the door, but he did not attempt to take the infant, which was just as well, since the Dowager had no real intention of entrusting so precious a burden to his inexpert handling. “Jenny?” he said sharply.

“Quite comfortable!” replied the Dowager. “Sadly exhausted, poor little thing, but Dr Purley assures me that we have no need to feel alarm. I must tell you that you are very much obliged to him, my dear Adam: most skilled! So gentlemanlike, too!”

“May I see her?” Adam interrupted.

“Yes, for a very few minutes.”

He went towards the door, but was checked. “Dearest!” said his mother, in pained reproof. “Have you no thought to spare for your son?”

He turned back. “Yes, of course! Let me see him, Mama!”

“The most beautiful little boy!” she said fondly.

He thought he had never seen anything less beautiful than the red and crumpled countenance of his son, and for a moment suspected her of irony. Fortunately, since he could think of nothing whatsoever to say, Mr Chawleigh, who had been obliged to blow his nose for the second time that day, now surged forward, wreathed in smiles, and diverted the Dowager’s attention from her son’s deplorable want of enthusiasm by tickling the infant’s cheek with the tip of an enormous finger, and uttering sounds which put Adam in mind of one calling hens to be fed.

“Eh, the young rascal!” said Mr Chawleigh, apparently delighted by the infant’s lack of response. “So you won’t take notice of your granddad! Top-lofty, ain’t you?” He looked at Adam, and chuckled. “Pluck up, lad!” he advised him. “I know what you’re thinking, but never you fear! Lor’, when I first clapped eyes on my Jenny I pretty near suffered a palsy-stroke!”

Adam laughed, but said: “I must own I don’t think him beautiful! How tiny he is! Is he — is he healthy, Mama?”

“Tiny?” repeated the Dowager incredulously. “He is a splendid little fellow! Aren’t you, my precious?”

Mr Chawleigh winked at Adam, and jerked his thumb towards the door. “You go on up to Jenny!” he said. “My dear love to her, and don’t go putting it into her head she’s got a sickly baby, mind!”

Only too glad to escape from the besotted grandparents, Adam slipped out of the room, to find that he had to run the gauntlet of his household, all lying in wait to felicitate him.

He entered Jenny’s room very quietly, and paused for a moment, looking across at her. He saw how white she was, and how wearily she smiled at him. Pity stirred in him, and with it tenderness. He crossed the room, and bent over her, kissing her, and saying softly: “My poor dear! Better now, Jenny?”

“Oh, yes!” she said in the thread of a voice. “Just so very tired. But it is a son, Adam!”

“A very fine son,” he agreed. “Clever Jenny!”

She laughed weakly, but her eyes searched his face. “Are you pleased?” she asked anxiously.

“Very pleased.”

She gave a little relieved sigh, “Your mama says he’s like your brother. Would you like to have him christened Stephen?”

“No, not at all. We’ll have him christened Giles, after my grandfather, and Jonathan, after his,” he replied.

Her eyes lit up. “Do you mean that? Thank you! Papa will be so pleased and proud! You’ll give him my love, won’t you, and tell him that I am very well.”

“I will. He sent his love to you — his dear love. I left him making the most peculiar noises to his grandson, who treated them with utter contempt — very understandably, I thought!” That made her laugh so much that Nurse, who had tactfully joined Martha at the far end of the room, brought Adam’s visit to an end, informing him in a voice that in no way matched the respectful curtsy she dropped, that my lady must go to sleep now, and would be glad to see him in the morning.

Chapter XXIII

When Mr Chawleigh learned from Jenny that his name was to be bestowed upon his grandson, and at Adam’s suggestion, he was more than pleased: he was overcome. It was several moments before he was able to utter a word. He sat staring at Jenny, his hands on his. knees; and when he did at last speak all he could find to say was: “Giles Jonathan Deveril! Giles-Jonathan-Deveril!”

Nor was this by any means the last time he uttered the names. Every now and then a look of profound satisfaction was seen to spread over his face; his lips would move; he would rub his hands together; and give a little chuckle; and all who observed these signs knew that he was savouring his grandson’s name yet again. He was embarrassingly grateful to Adam, telling him that he hadn’t looked to have such a compliment paid him, and assuring him that he meant to do the handsome thing by the boy. Adam had learned to hear such remarks without wincing; but he soon grew extremely bored by the next manifestation of Mr Chawleigh’s pride in his grandson. The discovery that the infant had no title was a disappointment that seemed likely to bring a lasting cloud to his horizon, nor was his dissatisfaction eased when Adam, rather amused, told him that when he had occasion to write to Giles he would be able to direct his letter to the Honourable Giles Deveril. Mr Chawleigh had a poor opinion of Honourable. He had seen the word written, hut he regarded it with suspicion, because he had never heard anyone called by it.

“No, you wouldn’t. It isn’t used in speech,” said Adam.

“Well, I don’t see the sense of having a title which ain’t used,” said Mr Chawleigh. “Shabby, I call it! Who’s to know he’s got it?”

“I don’t know — and, speaking as one who held the tide until very recently, I promise you Giles won’t care!”

“I’d have liked him to have been a lord,” said Mr Chawleigh wistfully.

“Well, I’ve no wish to seem disobliging,” said Adam, tired of the discussion, “but I don’t consider it to be any part of my paternal duty to put a period of my life merely to provide Giles with a title!”

He spoke a little impatiently, and was immediately ashamed, because Mr Chawleigh said he hoped no offense was taken, as none was intended. To make amends, he devoted himself to Mr Chawleigh’s entertainment all one afternoon, with the result that he became so inwardly chafed that he found himself looking forward with positive yearning to the date of his well-meaning but disastrously irritating guest’s departure. This was not long delayed. Mr Chawleigh remained at Fontley only until he was convinced that there was no danger that Jenny would succumb to puerperal fever, which was another of his bugbears. Satisfied on this point, he was as anxious to be gone as Adam was to see him go: the lord alone knew, he said, what silly mistakes his various subordinates had made during his absence from the City. His worst stroke was left to the last moment, when his chaise was at the door, and he was taking leave of Adam in the porch. His mood was benign: his daughter was safe; he had a lusty grandson; his son- in-law had made him as welcome as if he had been a Duke, even naming the baby after him, and behaving, when he’d come the ugly for no reason at all, as patiently and kindly as if he had been his real son. Mr Chawleigh’s heart was full of gratitude and generosity, and, unfortunately, it overflowed. Shaking Adam warmly by the hand, and looking at him with rough affection, he thanked him for the third time for his hospitality. “If anyone had told me I’d be happy to stay in the country for more than a sennight I’d have laughed in their faces!” he said. “But you make me so welcome, my lord, that if you don’t take care you’ll have me posting down to visit you more often than you bargain for. I’ve got to feel myself so much at home here that the next thing you know I’ll be talking about oats and rye and the like as glib as you do! Which brings me to something I’ve got to say to you!”

“About oats and rye?” said Adam, smiling. “No, no, sir! You stick to your trade and I’ll stick to mine!”

Mr Chawleigh chuckled at this. “Ay, that’s my motto! No, that ain’t it: the thing is, Jenny’s been telling me about some farm or other you’re mad after, for experiments, she said. Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you want with such things, — and I don’t deny it seems corkbrained to me! But there! If you’re set on it, I suppose you’ll have