CHAPTER II. AN ADVENTURE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT
CHAPTER III. DIPWELL FARM
CHAPTER IV. I HAVE A TASTE OF GRANDEUR
CHAPTER V. I MAKE A DEAR FRIEND
CHAPTER VI. A TALE OF A GOOSE
CHAPTER VII. A FREE LIFE ON THE ROAD
CHAPTER VIII. JANET ILCHESTER
CHAPTER IX. AN EVENING WITH CAPTAIN BULSTED
CHAPTER X. AN EXPEDITION
CHAPTER XI. THE GREAT FOG AND THE FIRE AT MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER XII. WE FIND OURSELVES BOUND ON A VOYAGE
CHAPTER XIII. WE CONDUCT SEVERAL LEARNED ARGUMENTS WITH THE CAPTAIN OF THE PRISCILLA
CHAPTER XIV. I MEET OLD FRIENDS
CHAPTER XV. WE ARE ACCOSTED BY A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE LADY IN THE FOREST
CHAPTER XVI. THE STATUE ON THE PROMONTORY
CHAPTER XVII. MY FATHER BREATHES, MOVES, AND SPEAKS
CHAPTER XVIII. WE PASS A DELIGHTFUL EVENING, AND I HAVE A MORNING VISION
CHAPTER XIX. OUR RETURN HOMEWARD
CHAPTER XX. NEWS OF A FRESH CONQUEST OF MY FATHER'S
CHAPTER XXI. A PROMENADE IN BATH
CHAPTER XXII. CONCLUSION OF THE BATH EPISODE
CHAPTER XXIII. MY TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY
CHAPTER XXIV. I MEET THE PRINCESS
CHAPTER XXV. ON BOARD A YACHT
CHAPTER XXVI. IN VIEW OF THE HOHENZOLLERN'S BIRTHPLACE
CHAPTER XXVII. THE TIME OF ROSES
CHAPTER XXVIII. OTTILIA
CHAPTER XXIX. AN EVENING WITH DR. JULIUS VON KARSTEG
CHAPTER XXX. A SUMMER STORM, AND LOVE
CHAPTER XXXI. PRINCESS OTTILIA'S LETTER
CHAPTER XXXII. AN INTERVIEW WITH PRINCE ERNEST AND A MEETING WITH PRINCE OTTO
CHAPTER XXXIII. WHAT CAME OF A SHILLING
CHAPTER XXXIV. I GAIN A PERCEPTION OF PRINCELY STATE
CHAPTER XXXV. THE SCENE IN THE LAKE-PALACE LIBRARY
CHAPTER XXXVI. HOMEWARD AND HOME AGAIN
CHAPTER XXXVII. JANET RENOUNCES ME
CHAPTER XXXVIII. MY BANKERS' BOOK
CHAPTER XXXIX. I SEE MY FATHER TAKING THE TIDE AND AM CARRIED ON IT MYSELF
CHAPTER XL. MY FATHER'S MEETING WITH MY GRANDFATHER
CHAPTER XLI. COMMENCEMENT OF THE SPLENDOURS AND PERPLEXITIES OF MY FATHER'S GRAND PARADE
CHAPTER XLII. THE MARQUIS OF EDBURY AND HIS PUPPET
CHAPTER XLIII. I BECOME ONE OF THE CHOSEN OF THE NATION
CHAPTER XLIV. MY FATHER IS MIRACULOUSLY RELIEVED BY FORTUNE
CHAPTER XLV. WITHIN AN INCH OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER XLVI. AMONG GIPSY WOMEN
CHAPTER XLVII. MY FATHER ACTS THE CHARMER AGAIN
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE PRINCESS ENTRAPPED
CHAPTER XLIX. WHICH FORESHADOWS A GENERAL GATHERING
CHAPTER L. WE ARE ALL IN MY FATHER'S NET
CHAPTER LI. AN ENCOUNTER SHOWING MY FATHER'S GENIUS IN A STRONG LIGHT
CHAPTER LII. STRANGE REVELATIONS, AND MY GRANDFATHER HAS HIS LAST OUTBURST
CHAPTER LIII. THE HEIRESS PROVES THAT SHE INHERITS THE FEUD AND I GO DRIFTING
CHAPTER LIV. MY RETURN TO ENGLAND
CHAPTER LV. I MEET MY FIRST PLAYFELLOW AND TAKE MY PUNISHMENT
CHAPTER LVI. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I.
I AM A SUBJECT OF CONTENTION
One midnight of a winter month the sleepers in Riversley Grange were
awakened by a ringing of the outer bell and blows upon the great
hall-doors. Squire Beltham was master there: the other members of the
household were, his daughter Dorothy Beltham; a married daughter Mrs.
Richmond; Benjamin Sewis, an old half-caste butler; various domestic
servants; and a little boy, christened Harry Lepel Richmond, the
squire's grandson. Riversley Grange lay in a rich watered hollow of the
Hampshire heath-country; a lonely circle of enclosed brook and pasture,
within view of some of its dependent farms, but out of hail of them or
any dwelling except the stables and the head-gardener's cottage.
Traditions of audacious highwaymen, together with the gloomy
surrounding fir-scenery, kept it alive to fears of solitude and the
night; and there was that in the determined violence of the knocks and
repeated bell-peals which assured all those who had ever listened in
the servants' hall to prognostications of a possible night attack, that
the robbers had come at last most awfully. A crowd of maids gathered
along the upper corridor of the main body of the building: two or three
footmen hung lower down, bold in attitude. Suddenly the noise ended,
and soon after the voice of old Sewis commanded them to scatter away to
their beds; whereupon the footmen took agile leaps to the post of
danger, while the women, in whose bosoms intense curiosity now
supplanted terror, proceeded to a vacant room overlooking the front
entrance, and spied from the window.
Meanwhile Sewis stood by his master's bedside. The squire was a hunter,
of the old sort: a hard rider, deep drinker, and heavy slumberer.
Before venturing to shake his arm Sewis struck a light and flashed it
over the squire's eyelids to make the task of rousing him easier. At
the first touch the squire sprang up, swearing by his Lord Harry he had
just dreamed of fire, and muttering of buckets.
'Sewis! you're the man, are you: where has it broken out?'
'No, sir; no fire,' said Sewis; 'you be cool, sir.'
'Cool, sir! confound it, Sewis, haven't I heard a whole town of
steeples at work? I don't sleep so thick but I can hear, you dog!
Fellow comes here, gives me a start, tells me to be cool; what the
deuce! nobody hurt, then? all right!'
The squire had fallen back on his pillow and was relapsing to sleep.
Sewis spoke impressively: 'There's a gentleman downstairs; a gentleman
downstairs, sir. He has come rather late.'
'Gentleman downstairs come rather late.' The squire recapitulated the
intelligence to possess it thoroughly. 'Rather late, eh? Oh! Shove him
into a bed, and give him hot brandy and water, and be hanged to him!'
Sewis had the office of tempering a severely distasteful announcement
to the squire.
He resumed: 'The gentleman doesn't talk of staying. That is not his
business. It's rather late for him to arrive.'
'Rather late!' roared the squire. 'Why, what's it o'clock?'
Reaching a hand to the watch over his head, he caught sight of the
unearthly hour. 'A quarter to two? Gentleman downstairs? Can't be that
infernal apothecary who broke 's engagement to dine with me last night?
By George, if it is I'll souse him; I'll drench him from head to heel
as though the rascal 'd been drawn through the duck-pond. Two o'clock
in the morning? Why, the man's drunk. Tell him I'm a magistrate, and
I'll commit him, deuce take him; give him fourteen days for a sot;
another fourteen for impudence. I've given a month 'fore now. Comes to
me, a Justice of the peace!—man's mad! Tell him he's in peril of a
lunatic asylum. And doesn't talk of staying? Lift him out o' the house
on the top o' your boot, Sewis, and say it's mine; you've my leave.'
Sewis withdrew a step from the bedside. At a safe distance he fronted
his master steadily; almost admonishingly. 'It's Mr. Richmond, sir,' he
said.
'Mr....' The squire checked his breath. That was a name never uttered
at the Grange. 'The scoundrel?' he inquired harshly, half in a tone of
one assuring himself, and his rigid dropped jaw shut.
The fact had to be denied or affirmed instantly, and Sewis was silent.
Grasping his bedclothes in a lump, the squire cried:
'Downstairs? downstairs, Sewis? You've admitted him into my house?'
'No, sir.'
'You have!'
'He is not in the house, sir.'
'You have! How did you speak to him, then?'
'Out of my window, sir.'
'What place here is the scoundrel soiling now?'
'He is on the doorstep outside the house.'
'Outside, is he? and the door's locked?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Let him rot there!'
By this time the midnight visitor's patience had become exhausted. A
renewal of his clamour for immediate attention fell on the squire's
ear, amazing him to stupefaction at such challengeing insolence.
'Hand me my breeches,' he called to Sewis; 'I can't think brisk out of
my breeches.'
Sewis held the garment ready. The squire jumped from the bed, fuming
speechlessly, chafing at gaiters and braces, cravat and coat, and
allowed his buttons to be fitted neatly on his calves; the hammering at
the hall-door and plucking at the bell going on without intermission.
He wore the aspect of one who assumes a forced composure under the
infliction of outrages on his character in a Court of Law, where he
must of necessity listen and lock his boiling replies within his
indignant bosom.
'Now, Sewis, now my horsewhip,' he remarked, as if it had been a simple
adjunct of his equipment.
'Your hat, sir?'
'My horsewhip, I said.'
'Your hat is in the hall,' Sewis observed gravely.
'I asked you for my horsewhip.'
'That is not to be found anywhere,' said Sewis.
The squire was diverted from his objurgations against this piece of
servitorial defiance by his daughter Dorothy's timid appeal for
permission to come in. Sewis left the room. Presently the squire
descended, fully clad, and breathing sharply from his nostrils.
Servants were warned off out of hearing; none but Sewis stood by.
The squire himself unbolted the door, and threw it open to the limit of
the chain.
'Who's there?' he demanded.
A response followed promptly from outside: 'I take you to be Mr. Harry
Lepel Beltham. Correct me if I err. Accept my apologies for disturbing
you at a late hour of the night, I pray.'
'Your name?'
'Is plain Augustus Fitz-George Roy Richmond at this moment, Mr.
Beltham. You will recognize me better by opening your door entirely:
voices are deceptive. You were born a gentleman, Mr. Beltham, and will
not reduce me to request you to behave like one. I am now in the
position, as it were, of addressing a badger in his den. It is on both
sides unsatisfactory. It reflects egregious discredit upon you, the
householder.'
The squire hastily bade Sewis see that the passages to the sleeping
apartments were barred, and flung the great chain loose. He was acting
under strong control of his temper.
It was a quiet grey night, and as the doors flew open, a largely-built
man, dressed in a high-collared great-coat and fashionable hat of the
time, stood clearly defined to view. He carried a light cane, with the
point of the silver handle against his under lip. There was nothing
formidable in his appearance, and his manner was affectedly affable. He
lifted his hat as soon as he found himself face to face with the
squire, disclosing a partially bald head, though his whiskering was
luxuriant, and a robust condition of manhood was indicated by his erect
attitude and the immense swell of his furred great-coat at the chest.
His features were exceedingly frank and cheerful. From his superior
height, he was enabled to look down quite royally on the man whose
repose he had disturbed.
The following conversation passed between them.
'You now behold who it is, Mr. Beltham, that acknowledges to the
misfortune of arousing you at an unseemly hour—unbetimes, as our
gossips in mother Saxon might say—and with profound regret, sir, though
my habit is to take it lightly.'
'Have you any accomplices lurking about here?'
'I am alone.'
'What's your business?'
'I have no business.'
'You have no business to be here, no. I ask you what's the object of
your visit?'
'Permit me first to speak of the cause of my protracted arrival, sir.
The ridicule of casting it on the post-boys will strike you, Mr.
Beltham, as it does me. Nevertheless, I must do it; I have no resource.
Owing to a rascal of the genus, incontinent in liquor, I have this
night walked seven miles from Ewling. My complaint against him is not
on my own account.'
'What brought you here at all?'
'Can you ask me?'
'I ask you what brought you to my house at all?'
'True, I might have slept at Ewling.'
'Why didn't you?'
'For the reason, Mr. Beltham, which brought me here originally. I could
not wait—not a single minute. So far advanced to the neighbourhood, I
would not be retarded, and I came on. I crave your excuses for the hour
of my arrival. The grounds for my coming at all you will very well
understand, and you will applaud me when I declare to you that I come
to her penitent; to exculpate myself, certainly, but despising
self-justification. I love my wife, Mr. Beltham. Yes; hear me out, sir.
I can point to my unhappy star, and say, blame that more than me. That
star of my birth and most disastrous fortunes should plead on my behalf
to you; to my wife at least it will.'
'You've come to see my daughter Marian, have you?'
'My wife, sir.'
'You don't cross my threshold while I live.'
'You compel her to come out to me?'
'She stays where she is, poor wretch, till the grave takes her. You've
done your worst; be off.'
'Mr. Beltham, I am not to be restrained from the sight of my wife.'
'Scamp!'
'By no scurrilous epithets from a man I am bound to respect will I be
deterred or exasperated.'
'Damned scamp, I say!' The squire having exploded his wrath gave it
free way. 'I've stopped my tongue all this while before a scoundrel ’d
corkscrew the best-bottled temper right or left, go where you will one
end o' the world to the other, by God! And here's a scoundrel stinks of
villany, and I've proclaimed him 'ware my gates as a common trespasser,
and deserves hanging if ever rook did nailed hard and fast to my barn
doors! comes here for my daughter, when he got her by stealing her,
scenting his carcase, and talking 'bout his birth, singing what not
sort o' foreign mewin' stuff, and she found him out a liar and a beast,
by God! And she turned home. My doors are open to my flesh and blood.
And here she halts, I say, 'gainst the law, if the law's against me.
She's crazed: you've made her mad; she knows none of us, not even her
boy. Be off; you've done your worst; the light's gone clean out in her;
and hear me, you Richmond, or Roy, or whatever you call yourself, I
tell you I thank the Lord she has lost her senses. See her or not,
you've no hold on her, and see her you shan't while I go by the name of
a man.'
Mr. Richmond succeeded in preserving an air of serious deliberation
under the torrent of this tremendous outburst, which was marked by
scarce a pause in the delivery.
He said, 'My wife deranged! I might presume it too truly an inherited
disease. Do you trifle with me, sir? Her reason unseated! and can you
pretend to the right of dividing us? If this be as you say—Oh! ten
thousand times the stronger my claim, my absolute claim, to cherish
her. Make way for me, Mr. Beltham. I solicit humbly the holiest
privilege sorrow can crave of humanity. My wife! my wife! Make way for
me, sir.'
His figure was bent to advance. The squire shouted an order to Sewis to
run round to the stables and slip the dogs loose.
'Is it your final decision?' Mr. Richmond asked.
'Damn your fine words! Yes, it is. I keep my flock clear of a foul
sheep.'
'Mr. Beltham, I implore you, be merciful. I submit to any conditions:
only let me see her. I will walk the park till morning, but say that an
interview shall be granted in the morning. Frankly, sir, it is not my
intention to employ force: I throw myself utterly on your mercy. I love
the woman; I have much to repent of. I see her, and I go; but once I
must see her. So far I also speak positively.'
'Speak as positively as you like,' said the squire.
'By the laws of nature and the laws of man, Marian Richmond is mine to
support and comfort, and none can hinder me, Mr. Beltham; none, if I
resolve to take her to myself.'
'Can't they!' said the squire.
'A curse be on him, heaven's lightnings descend on him, who keeps
husband from wife in calamity!'
The squire whistled for his dogs.
As if wounded to the quick by this cold-blooded action, Mr. Richmond
stood to his fullest height.
'Nor, sir, on my application during to-morrow's daylight shall I see
her?'
'Nor, sir, on your application'—the squire drawled in uncontrollable
mimicking contempt of the other's florid forms of speech, ending in his
own style,—'no, you won't.'
'You claim a paternal right to refuse me: my wife is your child. Good.
I wish to see my son.'
On that point the squire was equally decided. 'You can't. He's asleep.'
'I insist.'
'Nonsense: I tell you he's a-bed and asleep.'
'I repeat, I insist.'
'When the boy's fast asleep, man!'
'The boy is my flesh and blood. You have spoken for your daughter—I
speak for my son. I will see him, though I have to batter at your doors
till sunrise.'
Some minutes later the boy was taken out of his bed by his aunt
Dorothy, who dressed him by the dark window-light, crying bitterly,
while she said, 'Hush, hush!' and fastened on his small garments
between tender huggings of his body and kissings of his cheeks. He was
told that he had nothing to be afraid of. A gentleman wanted to see
him: nothing more. Whether the gentleman was a good gentleman, and not
a robber, he could not learn but his aunt Dorothy, having wrapped him
warm in shawl and comforter, and tremblingly tied his hat-strings under
his chin, assured him, with convulsive caresses, that it would soon be
over, and he would soon be lying again snug and happy in his dear
little bed. She handed him to Sewis on the stairs, keeping his fingers
for an instant to kiss them: after which, old Sewis, the lord of the
pantry, where all sweet things were stored, deposited him on the floor
of the hall, and he found himself facing the man of the night. It
appeared to him that the stranger was of enormous size, like the giants
of fairy books: for as he stood a little out of the doorway there was a
peep of night sky and trees behind him, and the trees looked very much
smaller, and hardly any sky was to be seen except over his shoulders.
The squire seized one of the boy's hands to present him and retain him
at the same time: but the stranger plucked him from his grandfather's
hold, and swinging him high, exclaimed, 'Here he is! This is Harry
Richmond. He has grown a grenadier.'
'Kiss the little chap and back to bed with him,' growled the squire.
The boy was heartily kissed and asked if he had forgotten his papa. He
replied that he had no papa: he had a mama and a grandpapa. The
stranger gave a deep groan.
'You see what you have done; you have cut me off from my own,' he said
terribly to the squire; but tried immediately to soothe the urchin with
nursery talk and the pats on the shoulder which encourage a little boy
to grow fast and tall. 'Four years of separation,' he resumed, 'and my
son taught to think that he has no father. By heavens! it is infamous,
it is a curst piece of inhumanity. Mr. Beltham, if I do not see my
wife, I carry off my son.'
'You may ask till you're hoarse, you shall never see her in this house
while I am here to command,' said the squire.
'Very well; then Harry Richmond changes homes. I take him. The affair
is concluded.'
'You take him from his mother?' the squire sang out.
'You swear to me she has lost her wits; she cannot suffer. I can. I
shall not expect from you, Mr. Beltham, the minutest particle of
comprehension of a father's feelings. You are earthy; you are an
animal.'
The squire saw that he was about to lift the boy, and said, 'Stop,
never mind that. Stop, look at the case. You can call again to-morrow,
and you can see me and talk it over.'
'Shall I see my wife?'
'No, you shan't.'
'You remain faithful to your word, sir, do you?'
'I do.'
'Then I do similarly.'
'What! Stop! Not to take a child like that out of a comfortable house
at night in Winter, man?'
'Oh, the night is temperate and warm; he shall not remain in a house
where his father is dishonoured.'
'Stop! not a bit of it,' cried the squire. 'No one speaks of you. I
give you my word, you're never mentioned by man, woman or child in the
house.'
'Silence concerning a father insinuates dishonour, Mr. Beltham.'
'Damn your fine speeches, and keep your blackguardly hands off that
boy,' the squire thundered. 'Mind, if you take him, he goes for good.
He doesn't get a penny from me if you have the bringing of him up.
You've done for him, if you decide that way. He may stand here a beggar
in a stolen coat like you, and I won't own him. Here, Harry, come to
me; come to your grandad.'
Mr. Richmond caught the boy just when he was turning to run.
'That gentleman,' he said, pointing to the squire, 'is your grandpapa.
I am your papa. You must learn at any cost to know and love your papa.
If I call for you to-morrow or next day they will have played tricks
with Harry Richmond, and hid him. Mr. Beltham, I request you, for the
final time, to accord me your promise observe, I accept your
promise—that I shall, at my demand, to-morrow or the next day, obtain
an interview with my wife.'
The squire coughed out an emphatic 'Never!' and fortified it with an
oath as he repeated it upon a fuller breath.
'Sir, I will condescend to entreat you to grant this permission,' said
Mr. Richmond, urgently.
'No, never: I won't!' rejoined the squire, red in the face from a fit
of angry coughing. 'I won't; but stop, put down that boy; listen to me,
you Richmond! I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll—if you swear on a Bible,
like a cadger before a bench of magistrates, you'll never show your
face within a circuit o' ten miles hereabouts, and won't trouble the
boy if you meet him, or my daughter or me, or any one of us—hark ye,
I'll do this: let go the boy, and I'll give ye five hundred—I'll give
ye a cheque on my banker for a thousand pounds; and, hark me out, you
do this, you swear, as I said, on the servants' Bible, in the presence
of my butler and me, “Strike you dead as Ananias and t' other one if
you don't keep to it,” do that now, here, on the spot, and I'll engage
to see you paid fifty pounds a year into the bargain. Stop! and I'll
pay your debts under two or three hundred. For God's sake, let go the
boy! You shall have fifty guineas on account this minute. Let go the
boy! And your son—there, I call him your son—your son, Harry Richmond,
shall inherit from me; he shall have Riversley and the best part of my
property, if not every bit of it. Is it a bargain? Will you swear?
Don't, and the boy's a beggar, he's a stranger here as much as you.
Take him, and by the Lord, you ruin him. There now, never mind, stay,
down with him. He's got a cold already; ought to be in his bed; let the
boy down!'
'You offer me money,' Mr. Richmond answered. 'That is one of the
indignities belonging to a connection with a man like you. You would
have me sell my son. To see my afflicted wife I would forfeit my
heart's yearnings for my son; your money, sir, I toss to the winds; and
I am under the necessity of informing you that I despise and loathe
you. I shrink from the thought of exposing my son to your besotted
selfish example. The boy is mine; I have him, and he shall traverse the
wilderness with me. By heaven! his destiny is brilliant. He shall be
hailed for what he is, the rightful claimant of a place among the
proudest in the land; and mark me, Mr. Beltham, obstinate sensual old
man that you are! I take the boy, and I consecrate my life to the duty
of establishing him in his proper rank and station, and there, if you
live and I live, you shall behold him and bow your grovelling pig's
head to the earth, and bemoan the day, by heaven! when you,—a common
country squire, a man of no origin, a creature with whose blood we have
mixed ours—and he is stone-blind to the honour conferred on him—when
you in your besotted stupidity threatened to disinherit Harry
Richmond.'
The door slammed violently on such further speech as he had in him to
utter. He seemed at first astonished; but finding the terrified boy
about to sob, he drew a pretty box from one of his pockets and thrust a
delicious sweetmeat between the whimpering lips. Then, after some
moments of irresolution, during which he struck his chest soundingly
and gazed down, talked alternately to himself and the boy, and cast his
eyes along the windows of the house, he at last dropped on one knee and
swaddled the boy in the folds of the shawl. Raising him in a
business-like way, he settled him on an arm and stepped briskly across
gravel-walk and lawn, like a horse to whose neck a smart touch of the
whip has been applied.
The soft mild night had a moon behind it somewhere; and here and there
a light-blue space of sky showed small rayless stars; the breeze smelt
fresh of roots and heath. It was more a May-night than one of February.
So strange an aspect had all these quiet hill-lines and larch and
fir-tree tops in the half-dark stillness, that the boy's terrors were
overlaid and almost subdued by his wonderment; he had never before been
out in the night, and he must have feared to cry in it, for his sobs
were not loud. On a rise of the park-road where a fir-plantation began,
he heard his name called faintly from the house by a woman's voice that
he knew to be his aunt Dorothy's. It came after him only once: 'Harry
Richmond'; but he was soon out of hearing, beyond the park, among the
hollows that run dipping for miles beside the great highroad toward
London. Sometimes his father whistled to him, or held him high and
nodded a salutation to him, as though they had just discovered one
another; and his perpetual accessibility to the influences of spicy
sugarplums, notwithstanding his grief, caused his father to
prognosticate hopefully of his future wisdom. So, when obedient to
command he had given his father a kiss, the boy fell asleep on his
shoulder, ceasing to know that he was a wandering infant: and, if I
remember rightly, he dreamed he was in a ship of cinnamon-wood upon a
sea that rolled mighty, but smooth immense broad waves, and tore thing
from thing without a sound or a hurt.