"Now, Chickie, hurry up with the oats, and we'll go and try for a brace
of trout before the sun blazes out."
"Mercy on us, do let the child finish her breakfast! It's bad enough
being obliged to have it twice laid, without being hurried to death, one
would think."
But the "child" stands in no need of the maternal--and querulous--
championship.
"I'm ready, father," she cries, pushing her chair back.
"Right. Get on a hat then," is the reply, in a prompt and decisive, but
not ungenial tone, and the head which had been thrust through the
partially opened door disappears.
"That's your father all over," continued the maternal and querulous
voice. "How does he know I don't want you at home this morning? But
no, that doesn't matter a pin. I may be left to toil and slave, cooped
up in the house, while everybody else is frisking about the fields all
day long, fishing and what not--"
"But, mother, you don't really want me, do you?"
"--And then your father must needs come down so early, and, of course,
wants his breakfast at once, and then it has to be brought on twice; and
he must flurry and fidget everyone else into the bargain. Want you?
No, child, I don't want you. Go away and catch some fish. If I did
want you, that wouldn't count while your father did--oh, no."
Yseulte Santorex made no reply. She did the best thing possible--
however, she kissed and coaxed the discontented matron, and took a
prompt opportunity of escaping.
One might search far and wide before meeting with a more beautiful girl.
Rather above the medium height, and of finely formed frame, it needed
not the smallness of her perfectly shaped hands and the artistic
regularity of her features to stamp her as thoroughbred. It was
sufficient to note the upright poise of her head, and the straight
glance of her grand blue eyes, but surer hall-mark still, she was
blessed with a beautifully modulated voice. When we add that she
possessed a generous allowance of dark brown hair, rippling into gold,
we claim to have justified our opening statement concerning her. Her
age at this time was twenty; as for her disposition, well, reader, you
must find that out for yourself in the due development of this
narrative.
Losing no more time than was necessary to fling on a wide straw hat, the
girl joined her father in the hall, where he was waiting a little
impatiently--rod, basket, landing-net, all ready.
"You shall land the first fish, Chickie," he said, as they started. "It
isn't worth while taking a rod apiece, we shall have too little time,"
with a glance upward at the clouded sky which seemed disposed to clear
every moment.
"I oughtn't to tax your self-denial so severely, dear," answered the
girl, "when I know you're dying to get at the river yourself."
"Self-denial, eh? Thing the preachers strongly recommend, and--always
practise. Beginning here," with a slight indicating nod.
Yseulte laughed. She knew her father's opinion of his spiritual
pastor--in point of fact, shared it.
"I knew a man once who used to say that self-abnegation was a thing not
far removed from the philosopher's stone. Its indulgence inspired him
with absolute indifference to life and the ills thereof, and at the same
time with a magnificent contempt for the poor creatures for whose
benefit he practised it."
"Very good philosophy, father. But the compensation for foregoing the
delights of having one's own way is not great."
"My dear girl, that depends. The key to the above exposition lies in
the fact that that individual never had a chance of getting his own way.
So he made a virtue of necessity--an art which, though much talked
about, is seldom cultivated."
"Your friend was a humbug, father," was the laughing reply. "A doleful
humbug, and no philosopher at all."
"Eh? The effrontery of the rising generation--commonly called in the
vulgar tongue--nerve! A humbug! So that's your opinion, is it, young
woman?"
"Yes, it is," she answered decisively, her blue eyes dancing.
"Phew-w! Nothing like having your own opinion, and sticking to it," was
all he said, with a dry chuckle. Then he subsided into silence,
whistling meditatively, as if pondering over the whimsicality he had
just propounded, or contemplating a fresh one. These same
whimsicalities, by the way, were continually cropping up in Mr
Santorex' conversation, to the no small confusion of his acquaintance,
who never could quite make out whether he was in jest or earnest, to the
delight of his satirical soul. To the infinitesimal intellects of his
neighbours--the surrounding vicars, for instance--he was a
conversational nightmare. They voted him dangerous, even as their kind
so votes everything which happens to be incomprehensible to its own
subtle ken. What sort of training could it be for a young girl just
growing to womanhood to have such a man for a father--to take in his
pernicious views and ideas as part of her education, as it were? And
herein the surrounding vicaresses were at one with their lords. Stop!
Their what? We mean their--chattels.
But Yseulte herself laughed their horror to scorn. Her keen perceptions
detected it in a moment, and she would occasionally visit its expression
with a strong spice of hereditary satire. She could not remember the
time when her father had treated her otherwise than as a rational and
accountable being, and the time when he should cease to do so would
never come--of that she was persuaded. Nor need it be inferred that she
was "strong-minded," "advanced," or aspiring in any way to the "blue."
Far from it. She had plenty of character, but withal she was a very
sweet, lovable, even-tempered, and thoroughly sensible girl.
There were two other children besides herself--had been, rather, for one
had lain in Lant churchyard this last ten years. The other, and eldest,
was cattle-ranching in the Far West, and doing fairly well.
Mr Santorex was unquestionably a fine-looking man. A broad, lofty
brow, straight features, and firm, clear eyes, imparted to his face a
very decided expression, which his method of speech confirmed. He was
of Spanish origin, a fact of which he was secretly proud; for although
Anglicised, even to his name, for several generations, yet in direct
lineage he could trace back to one of the very oldest and noblest
families of Spain.
Though now in easy circumstances, not to say wealthy, he had not always
been so. During the score of years he had lived at Lant-Hanger, about
half of that period had been spent in dire poverty--a period fraught
with experiences which had left a more than bitter taste in his mouth as
regarded his neighbours and surroundings generally, and the Rev. Dudley
Vallance in particular. Then the tide had turned--had turned just in
the nick of time. A small property which he held in the north of Spain,
and which had hitherto furnished him with the scantiest means of
subsistence, suddenly became enormously valuable as a field of mineral
wealth.
With his changed circumstances Mr Santorex did not shake off the dust
of Lant-Hanger from his shoes. He had become in a way accustomed to the
place, and was fond of the country, if not of the people. So he
promptly leased Elmcote, a snug country box picturesquely perched on the
hillside overlooking the valley of the Lant, and having moved in, sat
down grimly to enjoy the impending joke.
He had not long to wait. Lant-Hanger opened wide its arms, and fairly
trod on its own heels in its eagerness to make much of the new
"millionaire," whom, in his indigent days, it had so consistently
cold-shouldered as a disagreeable and highly undesirable sort of
neighbour. Next to Lant Hall itself, Elmcote was the most important
house in the parish, and its tenant had always been the most important
personage. So "County Society," following the example of its head and
cornerstone, the Rev. Dudley Vallance, metaphorically chucked up its hat
and hoorayed over its acquisition.
Down by the river-side this warm spring morning, Yseulte, never so happy
as when engaged in this, her favourite sport, was wielding her fly-rod
with skill and efficiency, as many a gleaming and speckled trophy lying
in her creel served to show.
The movement became her well. Every curve of her symmetrical form was
brought out by the graceful exercise. Her father, standing well back
from the bank, watched her with critical approval. True to his
character as a man of ideas, he almost forgot the object of the present
undertaking in his admiration for his beautiful daughter, and his
thoughts, thus started, went off at express speed. What a lovely girl
she was growing--had grown, indeed. What was to be her destiny in life?
She must make a good match of course, not throw herself away upon any
clodhopper in this wretched hole. That young lout, Geoffrey Vallance,
was always mooning in calf-like fashion about her. Not good enough.
Oh, no; nothing like. Seven thousand a year unencumbered was hardly to
be sneezed at; still, she must not throw herself away on any such
unlicked cub. He fancied he could do better for her in putting her
through a London season--much better. And then came an uneasy and
desolating stirring of even his philosophical pulses at the thought of
parting with her. He was an undemonstrative man--undemonstrative even
to coldness. He made at no time any great show of affection. He had
long since learned that affection, like cash, was an article far too
easily thrown away. But there was one living thing for which, deep down
in his heart of hearts, he cherished a vivid and warm love, and that was
this beautiful and companionable daughter of his.
"Never mind about me, dear. I think I won't throw a fly this morning,"
he said, as the girl began insisting that he should take a turn, there
being only one rod between them. "Besides, it's about time to knock off
altogether. The sun is coming out far too brightly for many more
rises."
"Father," said the girl, as she took her fishing-rod to pieces, "I can't
let you shirk that question any longer. Am I to pay that visit to
George's ranche this summer or not?"
"Why, you adventurous Chickie, you will be scalped by Indians, tossed by
mad buffaloes, bolted with by wild horses. Heaven knows what. Hallo!
Enter Geoffry Plantagenet. He seems in a hurry."
"No! Where? Oh, what a nuisance!"
Following her father's glance, Yseulte descried a male figure crossing
the stile which led into the field where they were sitting, and
recognised young Vallance, who between themselves was known by the above
nickname. He seemed, indeed, in a desperate hurry, judging from the
alacrity wherewith he skipped over the said stile and hastened to put a
goodly space of ground between it and himself before looking back. A
low, rumbling noise, something between a growl and a moan, reached their
ears, and thrust against the barrier was discernible from where they sat
the author of it--a red, massive bovine head to wit. Struggling to
repress a shout of laughter, they continued to observe the new arrival,
who had not yet discovered them, and who kept turning back to make sure
his enemy was not following, in a state of trepidation that was
intensely diverting to the onlookers.
"Hallo, Geoffry!" shouted Mr Santorex. "Had old Muggins' bull after
you?"
He addressed started as if a shot had been fired in his ear. It was bad
enough to have been considerably frightened, but to awake to the fact
that Yseulte Santorex had witnessed him in the said demoralised state
was discouraging, to say the least of it.
"That's worse than the last infliction of Muggins you underwent, isn't
it, Mr Vallance?" said the latter mischievously, referring to the
idiotic game of cards of that name.
"Did he chevy you far, Geoffry?" went on Mr Santorex, in the same
bantering tone.
"Er--ah--no; not very," said the victim, who was somewhat perturbed and
out of breath. "He's an abominably vicious brute, and ought to be shot.
He'll certainly kill somebody one of these days. I must--er--really
mention the matter to the governor."
But there was consolation in store for the ill-used Geoffry. Having
thus fallen in with the Santorex's it was the most natural thing in the
world that he should accompany them the greater part of the way home.
Consolation? Well, have we not sufficiently emphasised the fact that
Yseulte Santorex was a very beautiful girl?
It must be admitted that the future Squire of Lant did not, either in
personal appearance or mental endowment, attain any higher standard than
commonplace mediocrity. He was very much a reproduction of his father,
though without his father's calculating and avaricious temperament, for
he was a good-natured fellow enough in his way. "No harm in him, and
too big a fool ever to be a knave," had been Mr Santorex' verdict on
this fortunate youth as he watched him grow up. Had he been aware of
it, this summing-up would sorely have distressed the young Squire, for
of late during the Oxford vacation Geoffry Vallance had eagerly seized
or manufactured opportunities for being a good deal at Elmcote.