MY TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY
Books and dreams, like the two rivers cited by my father, flowed side by
side in me without mixing; and which the bright Rhone was, which the
brown Arve, needs not to be told to those who know anything of youth;
they were destined to intermingle soon enough. I read well, for I felt
ground and had mounting views; the real world, and the mind and passions
of the world, grew visible to me. My tutor pleased the squire immensely
by calling me matter-of-fact. In philosophy and history I hated
speculation; but nothing was too fantastic for my ideas of possible
occurrences. Once away from books, I carried a head that shot rockets to
the farthest hills.
My dear friend Temple was at sea, or I should have had one near me to
detect and control the springs of nonsense. I was deemed a remarkably
quiet sober thoughtful young man, acquiescent in all schemes projected
for my welfare. The squire would have liked to see me courting the girl
of his heart, as he termed Janet Ilchester, a little more
demonstratively. We had, however, come to the understanding that I was
to travel before settling. Traditional notions of the importance of the
Grand Tour in the education of gentlemen led him to consent to my taking
a year on the Continent accompanied by my tutor. He wanted some one, he
said, to represent him when I was out over there; which signified that he
wanted some one to keep my father in check; but as the Rev. Ambrose
Peterborough, successor to the Rev. Simon Hart, was hazy and manageable,
I did not object. Such faith had the quiet thoughtful young man at
Riversley in the convulsions of the future, the whirlwinds and whirlpools
spinning for him and all connected with him, that he did not object to
hear his name and Janet's coupled, though he had not a spark of love for
her.
I tried to realize to myself the general opinion that she was handsome.
Her eyebrows were thick and level and long; her eyes direct in their
gaze, of a flinty blue, with dark lashes; her nose firm, her lips
fullish, firm when joined; her shape straight, moderately flexible. But
she had no softness; she could admire herself in my presence; she claimed
possession of me openly, and at the same time openly provoked a siege
from the remainder of my sex: she was not maidenly. She caught
imagination by the sleeve, and shut it between square whitewashed walls.
Heriot thought her not only handsome, but comparable to Mrs. William
Bulsted, our Julia Rippenger of old. At his meeting with Julia, her
delicious loss of colour made her seem to me one of the loveliest women
on earth. Janet never lost colour, rarely blushed; she touched neither
nerve nor fancy.
'You want a rousing coquette,' said Heriot; 'you won't be happy till
you 've been racked by that nice instrument of torture, and the fair
Bulsted will do it for you if you like. You don't want a snake or a
common serpent, you want a Python.'
I wanted bloom and mystery, a woman shifting like the light with evening
and night and dawn, and sudden fire. Janet was bald to the heart
inhabiting me then, as if quite shaven. She could speak her affectionate
mind as plain as print, and it was dull print facing me, not the arches
of the sunset. Julia had only to lisp, 'my husband,' to startle and
agitate me beyond expression. She said simple things--'I slept well last
night,' or ' I dreamed,' or ' I shivered,' and plunged me headlong down
impenetrable forests. The mould of her mouth to a reluctant 'No,' and
her almost invariable drawing in of her breath with a 'Yes,' surcharged
the everyday monosyllables with meanings of life and death. At last I
was reduced to tell her, seeing that she reproached my coldness for
Janet, how much I wished Janet resembled her. Her Irish eyes lightened:
'Me! Harry'; then they shadowed: 'She is worth ten of me.' Such pathetic
humility tempted me to exalt her supremely.
I talked like a boy, feeling like a man: she behaved like a woman,
blushing like a girl.
'Julia! I can never call you Mrs. Bulsted.'
'You have an affection for my husband, have you not, Harry?'
Of a season when this was adorable language to me, the indication is
sufficient. Riding out perfectly crazed by it, I met Kiomi, and
transferred my emotions. The squire had paid her people an annual sum to
keep away from our neighbourhood, while there was a chance of my taking
to gipsy life. They had come back to their old camping-ground, rather
dissatisfied with the squire.
'Speak to him yourself, Kiomi,' said I; 'whatever you ask for, he can't
refuse anything to such eyes as yours.'
'You!' she rallied me; 'why can't you talk sensible stuff!'
She had grown a superb savage, proof against weather and compliments.
Her face was like an Egyptian sky fronting night. The strong old Eastern
blood put ruddy flame for the red colour; tawny olive edged from the red;
rare vivid yellow, all but amber. The light that first looks down upon
the fallen sun was her complexion above the brows, and round the cheeks,
the neck's nape, the throat, and the firm bosom prompt to lift and sink
with her vigour of speech, as her eyes were to flash and darken. Meeting
her you swore she was the personification of wandering Asia. There was
no question of beauty and grace, for these have laws. The curve of her
brows broke like a beaten wave; the lips and nostrils were wide, tragic
in repose. But when she laughed she illuminated you; where she stepped
she made the earth hers. She was as fresh of her East as the morning
when her ancient people struck tents in the track of their shadows.
I write of her in the style consonant to my ideas of her at the time.
I would have carried her off on the impulse and lived her life, merely to
have had such a picture moving in my sight, and call it mine.
'You're not married?' I said, ludicrously faintly.
'I 've not seen the man I'd marry,' she answered, grinning scorn.
The prizefighter had adopted drinking for his pursuit; one of her aunts
was dead, and she was in quest of money to bury the dead woman with the
conventional ceremonies and shows of respect dear to the hearts of
gipsies, whose sense of propriety and adherence to customs are a
sentiment indulged by them to a degree unknown to the stabled classes.
In fact, they have no other which does not come under the definite title
of pride;--pride in their physical prowess, their dexterity, ingenuity,
and tricksiness, and their purity of blood. Kiomi confessed she had
hoped to meet me; confessed next that she had been waiting to jump out on
me: and next that she had sat in a tree watching the Grange yesterday for
six hours; and all for money to do honour to her dead relative, poor
little soul! Heriot and I joined the decent procession to the grave.
Her people had some quarrel with the Durstan villagers, and she feared
the scandal of being pelted on the way to the church. I knew that
nothing of the sort would happen if I was present. Kiomi walked humbly
with her head bent, leaving me the thick rippling coarse black locks of
her hair for a mark of observation. We were entertained at her camp in
the afternoon. I saw no sign of intelligence between her and Heriot.
On my asking her, the day before, if she remembered him, she said, 'I do,
I'm dangerous for that young man.' Heriot's comment on her was impressed
on me by his choosing to call her 'a fine doe leopard,' and maintaining
that it was a defensible phrase.
She was swept from my amorous mind by Mabel Sweetwinter, the miller's
daughter of Dipwell. This was a Saxon beauty in full bud, yellow as mid-
May, with the eyes of opening June. Beauty, you will say, is easily
painted in that style. But the sort of beauty suits the style, and the
well-worn comparisons express the well-known type. Beside Kiomi she was
like a rich meadow on the border of the heaths.
We saw them together on my twenty-first birthday. To my shame I awoke in
the early morning at Riversley, forgetful of my father's old appointment
for the great Dipwell feast. Not long after sunrise, when blackbirds
peck the lawns, and swallows are out from under eaves to the flood's
face, I was hailed by Janet Ilchester beneath my open windows. I knew
she had a bet with the squire that she would be the first to hail me
legal man, and was prepared for it. She sat on horseback alone in the
hazy dewy Midsummer morning, giving clear note:
'Whoop! Harry Richmond! halloo!' To which I tossed her a fox's brush,
having a jewelled bracelet pendant. She missed it and let it lie, and
laughed.
'No, no; it's foxie himself!--anybody may have the brush. You're
dressed, are you, Harry? You were sure I should come? A thousand happy
years to you, and me to see them, if you don't mind. I 'm first to wish
it, I'm certain. I was awake at three, out at halfpast, over Durstan
heath, across Eckerthy's fields--we'll pay the old man for damage--down
by the plantation, Bran and Sailor at my heels, and here I am. Crow,
cocks! bark, dogs! up, larks! I said I'd be first. And now I 'm round
to stables to stir up Uberly. Don't be tardy, Mr. Harry, and we'll be
Commodore Arson and his crew before the world's awake.'
We rode out for a couple of hours, and had to knock at a farmhouse for
milk and bread. Possibly a sense of independence, owing to the snatching
of a meal in midflight away from home, made Janet exclaim that she would
gladly be out all day. Such freaks were exceedingly to my taste. Then I
remembered Dipwell, and sure that my father would be there, though he had
not written of it, I proposed to ride over. She pleaded for the horses
and the squire alternately. Feasting was arranged at Riversley, as well
as at Dipwell, and she said musically,
'Harry, the squire is a very old man, and you may not have many more
chances of pleasing him. To-day do, do! To-morrow, ride to your father,
if you must: of course you must if you think it right; but don't go this
day.'
'Not upset my fortune, Janet?'
'Don't hurt the kind old man's heart to-day.'
'Oh! you're the girl of his heart, I know.'
'Well, Harry, you have first place, and I want you to keep it.'
'But here's an oath I've sworn to my father.'
'He should not have exacted it, I think.'
'I promised him when I was a youngster.'
'Then be wiser now, Harry.'
'You have brilliant ideas of the sacredness of engagements.'
'I think I have common sense, that's all.'
'This is a matter of feeling.'
'It seems that you forgot it, though!'
Kiomi's tents on Durstan heath rose into view. I controlled my verbal
retort upon Janet to lead her up to the gipsy girl, for whom she had an
odd aversion, dating from childhood. Kiomi undertook to ride to Dipwell,
a distance of thirty miles, and carry the message that I would be there
by nightfall. Tears were on Janet's resolute face as we cantered home.
After breakfast the squire introduced me to his lawyer, Mr. Burgin, who,
closeted alone with me, said formally,
'Mr. Harry Richmond, you are Squire Beltham's grandson, his sole male
descendant, and you are established at present, and as far as we can
apprehend for the future, as the direct heir to the whole of his
property, which is enormous now, and likely to increase so long as he
lives. You may not be aware that your grandfather has a most sagacious
eye for business. Had he not been born a rich man he would still have
been one of our very greatest millionaires. He has rarely invested but
to double his capital; never speculated but to succeed. He may not
understand men quite so well, but then he trusts none entirely; so if
there is a chasm in his intelligence, there is a bridge thrown across it.
The metaphor is obscure perhaps: you will doubtless see my meaning. He
knows how to go on his road without being cheated. For himself, your
grandfather, Mr. Harry, is the soul of honour. Now, I have to explain
certain family matters. The squire's wife, your maternal grandmother,
was a rich heiress. Part of her money was settled on her to descend to
her children by reversion upon her death. What she herself possessed she
bequeathed to them in reversion likewise to their children. Thus at your
maternal grandmother's death, your mother and your aunt inherited money
to use as their own, and the interest of money tied fast in reversion to
their children (in case of marriage) after their death. Your
grandfather, as your natural guardian, has left the annual interest of
your money to accumulate, and now you are of age he hands it to you, as
you see, without much delay. Thus you become this day the possessor of
seventy thousand pounds, respecting the disposal of which I am here to
take your orders. Ahem!--as to the remaining property of your mother's--
the sum held by her for her own use, I mean, it devolved to her husband,
your father, who, it is probable, will furnish you an account of it--ah!
--at his leisure--ah! um! And now, in addition, Mr. Harry, I have the
squire's commands to speak to you as a man of business, on what may be
deemed a delicate subject, though from the business point of view no
peculiar delicacy should pertain to it. Your grandfather will settle on
you estates and money to the value of twenty thousand pounds per annum on
the day of your union with a young lady in this district, Miss Janet
Ilchester. He undertakes likewise to provide her pin-money. Also, let
me observe, that it is his request--but he makes no stipulation of it
that you will ultimately assume the name of Beltham, subscribing yourself
Harry Lepel Richmond Beltham; or, if it pleases you, Richmond-Beltham,
with the junction hyphen. Needless to say, he leaves it to your
decision. And now, Mr. Harry, I have done, and may most cordially
congratulate you on the blessings it has pleased a kind and discerning
Providence to shower on your head.'
None so grimly ironical as the obsequious! I thought of Burgin's
'discerning' providence (he spoke with all professional sincerity) in
after days.
On the occasion I thought of nothing but the squire's straight-
forwardness, and grieved to have to wound him. Janet helped me.
She hinted with a bashfulness, quite new to her, that I must go through
some ceremony. Guessing what it was, I saluted her on the cheek. The
squire observed that a kiss of that sort might as well have been planted
on her back hair. 'But,' said he, and wisely, 'I'd rather have the girl
worth ten of you, than you be more than her match. Girls like my girl
here are precious.' Owing to her intercession, he winked at my departure
after I had done duty among the tenants; he barely betrayed his vexation,
and it must have been excessive.
Heriot and I rode over to Dipwell. Next night we rode back by moonlight
with matter for a year of laughter, singing like two Arabian poets
praises of dark and fair, challengeing one to rival the other. Kiomi!
Mabel! we shouted separately. We had just seen the dregs of the last of
the birthday Burgundy.
'Kiomi! what a splendid panther she is!' cries Heriot; and I: 'Teeth and
claws, and a skin like a burnt patch on a common! Mabel's like a
wonderful sunflower.'
'Butter and eggs! old Richie, and about as much fire as a rushlight. If
the race were Fat she 'd beat the world.'
'Heriot, I give you my word of honour, the very look of her 's eternal
Summer. Kiomi rings thin--she tinkles; it 's the difference between
metal and flesh.'
'Did she tinkle, as you call it, when that fellow Destrier, confound him!
touched her?'
'The little cat! Did you notice Mabel's blush?'
'How could I help it? We've all had a dozen apiece. You saw little
Kiomi curled up under the hop and briony?'
'I took her for a dead jackdaw.'
'I took her for what she is, and she may slap, scream, tear, and bite,
I 'll take her yet-and all her tribe crying thief, by way of a diversion.
She and I are footed a pair.'
His impetuosity surpassed mine so much that I fell to brooding on the
superior image of my charmer. The result was, I could not keep away from
her. I managed to get home with leaden limbs. Next day I was back at
Dipwell.
Such guilt as I have to answer for I may avow. I made violent love to
this silly country beauty, and held every advantage over her other
flatterers. She had met me on the evening of the great twenty-first, she
and a line of damsels dressed in white and wearing wreaths, and I had
claimed the privilege of saluting her. The chief superintendent of the
festivities, my father's old cook, Monsieur Alphonse, turned twilight
into noonday with a sheaf of rockets at the moment my lips brushed her
cheek. It was a kiss marred; I claimed to amend it. Besides, we had
been bosom friends in childhood. My wonder at the growth of the rose I
had left but an insignificant thorny shoot was exquisite natural
flattery, sweet reason, to which she could not say nonsense. At each
step we trod on souvenirs, innocent in themselves, had they recurred to
childish minds. The whisper, 'Hark! it's sunset, Mabel, Martha Thresher
calls,' clouded her face with stormy sunset colours. I respected Martha
even then for boldly speaking to me on the girl's behalf. Mrs. Waddy's
courage failed. John Thresher and Mark Sweetwinter were overcome by my
father's princely prodigality; their heads were turned, they appeared to
have assumed that I could do no wrong. To cut short the episode, some
one wrote to the squire in uncouth English, telling him I was courting a
country lass, and he at once started me for the Continent. We had some
conversation on money before parting. The squire allowed me a thousand a
year, independent of my own income. He counselled prudence, warned me
that I was on my trial, and giving me his word of honour that he should
not spy into my Bank accounts, desired me to be worthy of the trust
reposed in me. Speculation he forbade. I left him satisfied with the
assurance that I meant to make my grand tour neither as a merchant, a
gambler, nor a rake, but simply as a plain English gentleman.
'There's nothing better in the world than that,' said he.
Arrived in London, I left my travelling companion, the Rev. Ambrose
Peterborough, sipping his Port at the hotel, and rushed down to Dipwell,
shot a pebble at Mabel's window by morning twilight, and soon had her
face at the casement. But it was a cloudy and rainbeaten face. She
pointed toward the farm, saying that my father was there.
'Has he grieved you, Mabel?' I asked softly.
'Oh, no, not he! he wouldn't, he couldn't; he talked right. Oh, go, go:
for I haven't a foot to move. And don't speak so soft; I can't bear
kindness.'
My father in admonishing her had done it tenderly, I was sure.
Tenderness was the weapon which had wounded her, and so she shrank from
it; and if I had reproached and abused her she might, perhaps, have
obeyed me by coming out, not to return. She was deaf. I kissed my hand
to her regretfully; a condition of spirit gradually dissolved by the
haunting phantom of her forehead and mouth crumpling up for fresh floods
of tears. Had she concealed that vision with her handkerchief, I might
have waited to see her before I saw my father. He soon changed the set
of the current.
'Our little Mabel here,' he said, 'is an inflammable puss, I fear. By
the way, talking of girls, I have a surprise for you. Remind me of it
when we touch Ostend. We may want a yacht there to entertain high
company. I have set inquiries afloat for the hire of a schooner. This
child Mabel can read and write, I suppose? Best write no letters, boy.
Do not make old Dipwell a thorny bed. I have a portrait to show you,
Richie. A portrait! I think you will say the original was worthy of
more than to be taken up and thrown away like a weed. You see, Richie,
girls have only one chance in the world, and good God! to ruin that--no,
no. You shall see this portrait. A pretty little cow-like Mabel, I
grant you. But to have her on the conscience! What a coronet to wear!
My young Lord Destrier--you will remember him as one of our guests here;
I brought him to make your acquaintance; well, he would not be
scrupulous, it is possible. Ay, but compare yourself with him, Richie!
and you and I, let us love one another and have no nettles.'
He flourished me away to London, into new spheres of fancy. He was
irresistible.
In a London Club I was led up to the miniature of a youthful woman,
singular for her endearing beauty Her cheeks were merry red, her lips
lively with the spark of laughter, her eyes in good union with them,
showing you the laughter was gentle; eyes of overflowing blue light.
'Who is she?' I asked.
The old-fashioned building of the powdered hair counselled me to add,
'Who was she?'
Captain DeWitt, though a member of the Club, seemed unable to inform me.
His glance consulted my father. He hummed and drawled, and said:
'Mistress Anastasia Dewsbury; that was her name.'
'She does not look a grandmother,' said my father.
'She would be one by this time, I dare say,' said I.
We gazed in silence.
'Yes!' he sighed. 'She was a charming actress, and one of the best of
women. A noble-minded young woman! A woman of cultivation and genius!
Do you see a broken heart in that face? No? Very well. A walk will
take us to her grave. She died early.'
I was breathing 'Who?' when he said, 'She was my mother, my dear.'
It was piteous.
We walked to an old worn flat stone in a London street, where under I had
to imagine those features of beautiful humanity lying shut from us.
She had suffered in life miserably.