here’—he puffed himself hot, muttering, ‘Nor vagabond airs neither.’
I knew very well what it meant. A sore spirit on my father’s behalf kept me alive to any insult of him; and feeling that we were immeasurably superior to the Beltham blood, I merely said, apart to old Sewis, shrugging my shoulders, ‘The squire expects me to recollect where I was born. I’m not likely to forget his nonsense.’
Sewis, in reply, counselled me to direct a great deal of my attention to the stables, and drink claret with the squire in the evening, things so little difficult to do that I moralized reflectively, ‘Here ‘s a way of gaining a relative’s affection!’ The squire’s punctilious regard for payments impressed me, it is true. He had saved me from the disgrace of owing money to my detested schoolmaster; and, besides, I was under his roof, eating of his bread. My late adventurous life taught me that I incurred an obligation by it. Kiomi was the sole victim of my anger that really seemed to lie down to be trampled on, as she deserved for her unpardonable treachery.
By degrees my grandfather got used to me, and commenced saying in approval of certain of my performances, ‘There’s Beltham in that—Beltham in that!’ Once out hunting, I took a nasty hedge and ditch in front of him; he bawled proudly, ‘Beltham all over!’ and praised me. At night, drinking claret, he said on a sudden, ‘And, egad, Harry, you must jump your head across hedges and ditches, my little fellow. It won’t do, in these confounded days, to have you clever all at the wrong end. In my time, good in the saddle was good for everything; but now you must get your brains where you can—pick here, pick there—and sell ‘em like a huckster; some do. Nature’s gone—it’s damned artifice rules, I tell ye; and a squire of our country must be three parts lawyer to keep his own. You must learn; by God, sir, you must cogitate; you must stew at books and maps, or you’ll have some infernal upstart taking the lead of you, and leaving you nothing but the whiff of his tail.’ He concluded, ‘I’m glad to see you toss down your claret, my boy.’
Thus I grew in his favour, till I heard from him that I was to be the heir of Riversley and his estates, but on one condition, which he did not then mention. If I might have spoken to him of my father, I should have loved him. As it was, I liked old Sewis better, for he would talk to me of the night when my father carried me away, and though he never uttered the flattering words I longed to hear, he repeated the story often, and made the red hall glow with beams of my father’s image. My walks and rides were divided between the road he must have followed toward London, bearing me in his arms, and the vacant place of Kiomi’s camp. Kiomi stood for freedom, pointing into the darkness I wished to penetrate that I might find him. If I spoke of him to my aunt she trembled. She said, ‘Yes, Harry, tell me all you are thinking about, whatever you want to know’; but her excessive trembling checked me, and I kept my feelings to myself—a boy with a puzzle in his head and hunger in his heart. At times I rode out to the utmost limit of the hour giving me the proper number of minutes to race back and dress for dinner at the squire’s table, and a great wrestling I had with myself to turn my little horse’s head from hills and valleys lying East; they seemed to have the secret of my father. Blank enough they looked if ever I despaired of their knowing more than I. My Winter and Summer were the moods of my mind constantly shifting. I would have a week of the belief that he was near Riversley, calling for me; a week of the fear that he was dead; long dreams of him, as travelling through foreign countries, patting the foreheads of boys and girls on his way; or driving radiantly, and people bowing. Radiantly, I say: had there been touches of colour in these visions, I should have been lured off in pursuit of him. The dreams passed colourlessly; I put colouring touches to the figures seen in them afterward, when I was cooler, and could say, ‘What is the use of fancying things?’ yet knew that fancying things was a consolation. By such means I came to paint the mystery surrounding my father in tender colours. I built up a fretted cathedral from what I imagined of him, and could pass entirely away out of the world by entering the doors.
Want of boys’ society as well as hard head-work produced this mischief. My lessons were intermittent Resident tutors arrived to instruct me, one after another. They were clergymen, and they soon proposed to marry my aunt Dorothy, or they rebuked the squire for swearing. The devil was in the parsons, he said: in his time they were modest creatures and stuck to the bottle and heaven. My aunt was of the opinion of our neighbours, who sent their boys to school and thought I should be sent likewise.
‘No, no,’ said the squire; ‘my life’s short when the gout’s marching up to my middle, and I’ll see as much of my heir as I can. Why, the lad’s my daughter’s son: He shall grow up among his tenantry. We’ll beat the country and start a man at last to drive his yard of learning into him without rolling sheep’s eyes right and left.’
Unfortunately the squire’s description of man was not started. My aunt was handsome, an heiress (that is, she had money of her own coming from her mother’s side of the family), and the tenderest woman alive, with a voice sweeter than flutes. There was a saying in the county that to marry a Beltham you must po’chay her.
A great-aunt of mine, the squire’s sister, had been carried off. She died childless. A favourite young cousin of his likewise had run away with a poor baronet, Sir Roderick Ilchester, whose son Charles was now and then our playmate, and was a scapegrace. But for me he would have been selected by the squire for his heir, he said; and he often ‘confounded’ me to my face on that account as he shook my hand, breaking out: ‘I’d as lief fetch you a cuff o’ the head, Harry Richmond, upon my honour!’ and cursing at his luck for having to study for his living, and be what he called a sloppy curate now that I had come to Riversley for good.
He informed me that I should have to marry his sister Janet; for that they could not allow the money to go out of the family. Janet Ilchester was a quaint girl, a favourite of my aunt Dorothy, and the squire’s especial pet; red-cheeked, with a good upright figure in walking and riding, and willing to be friendly, but we always quarrelled: she detested hearing of Kiomi.
‘Don’t talk of creatures you met when you were a beggar, Harry Richmond,’ she said.
‘I never was a beggar,’ I replied.
‘Then she was a beggar,’ said Janet; and I could not deny it; though the only difference I saw between Janet and Kiomi was, that Janet continually begged favours and gifts of people she knew, and Kiomi of people who were strangers.
My allowance of pocket-money from the squire was fifty pounds a year. I might have spent it all in satisfying Janet’s wishes for riding-whips, knives, pencil-cases, cairngorm buttons, and dogs. A large part of the money went that way. She was always getting notice of fine dogs for sale. I bought a mastiff for her, a brown retriever, and a little terrier. She was permitted to keep the terrier at home, but I had to take care of the mastiff and retriever. When Janet came to look at them she called them by their names; of course they followed me in preference to her; she cried with jealousy. We had a downright quarrel. Lady Ilchester invited me to spend a day at her house, Charley being home for his Midsummer holidays. Charley, Janet, and I fished the river for trout, and Janet, to flatter me (of which I was quite aware), while I dressed her rod as if she was likely to catch something, talked of Heriot, and then said:
‘Oh! dear, we are good friends, aren’t we? Charley says we shall marry one another some day, but mama’s such a proud woman she won’t much like your having such a father as you ‘ve got unless he ‘s dead by that time and I needn’t go up to him to be kissed.’
I stared at the girl in wonderment, but not too angrily, for I guessed that she was merely repeating her brother’s candid speculations upon the future. I said: ‘Now mind what I tell you, Janet: I forgive you this once, for you are an ignorant little girl and know no better. Speak respectfully of my father or you never see me again.’
Here Charley sang out: ‘Hulloa! you don’t mean to say you’re talking of your father.’
Janet whimpered that I had called her an ignorant
