“I should think so, 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 Despatch. 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 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. “Well 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 disapprovaclass="underline" “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 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 behooved 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 doorknob, 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 Bonaparte! 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 hand 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’porth 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!”