With all his failings, the Rev. Dudley Vallance had one redeeming
point--he was excessively fond of his children; but it is probable that
he loved his only son more than all the rest put together. To him he
could refuse nothing. Indeed, so loth was he to part with him even for
a time that he could not bring himself to allow Geoffry to enter any
profession. He must remain at home. There was no need for him to earn
his living, since he would one day succeed to the Lant property, and
meanwhile he could be learning to look after it.
Fortunately, Geoffry was something of a bookworm, and studious of
temperament, or the bringing-up he had received, and the aimless life
which it entailed upon him, would have sent the boy straight to the
dogs. As it was, he was cut out by Nature for a college don rather than
for a country squire, and during his University career he was known
essentially as a reading man.
It may be imagined, then, that when he returned home at the end of the
summer term, after taking a brilliant double first, the pride and
delight of his reverend parent knew no bounds, and by a series of
festivities, unparalleled since the distinguished youth's coming of age,
was Lant-Hanger at large, and particularly its "County Society," bidden
to share the parental joy.
But, alas! that the latter should be so short-lived. The object of all
this fun and frolic seemed in no way to relish it at all. Instead of
returning home cheerful, overflowing with spirits, thoroughly enjoying
life with the zest of the average young Englishman who has just scored a
signal success, and sees a congenial and rose-bestrewn future before
him, poor Geoffry seemed to have parted with all capacity for enjoyment.
He was pale and listless, absent, bored, and--shall we own it?--at
times excessively irritable, not to say peevish. His father was deeply
concerned, and his mother, who read off the symptoms as briefly as the
village doctor would diagnose a case of incipient scarlet fever, felt
more of anger than concern.
"I really don't know what to do about the boy," said the Rev. Dudley,
dejectedly, coming into his wife's morning-room the day after the last
of their house party had dispersed. "It's dreadful to see the poor
fellow in such low spirits. He must have been working too hard,
whatever he may say to the contrary. It's hard to part with him so
soon, the dear fellow, but we positively must send him abroad to travel
for the summer. Nothing like travel."
"Try him, and see if he'll go," was the short reply.
"We must insist upon it. We must get medical advice--a doctor's opinion
to back us up. The boy will be ill--ill, mark me. He eats nothing. He
doesn't sleep, for I hear him moving in his rooms far into the small
hours. He looks pale and pulled down, and doesn't even care for his
books. Then, when all the people were here, he would steal away from
everybody, and wander about and mope by himself all day. We had some
nice people, too; and pleasant, good-looking girls. Come, hadn't we?"
"Oh, yes; a most complete party. Only one ingredient left out."
"And that?"
"Yseulte Santorex." And Mrs Vallance shut down the envelope she was
closing with a vicious bang.
"God bless my soul! you don't say so? Surely it hasn't gone so far as
that?"
"It has gone just as far as that abominable girl could carry it," was
the uncompromising reply. "Surely you are not simple enough to imagine
that the daughter of that hybrid Spanish atheist would neglect such an
opportunity? The girl has simply made a fool of him."
"You dislike her to that extent?" said Mr Vallance, vacantly, his mind
full of the woeful plight into which his son was plunged. "I don't
know. Sometimes I think her not a bad sort of girl considering the
fallow in which her mind has been allowed to lie. And Geoffry might do
worse."
"Oh, yes. He might, but not much. A forward, bold, masculine minx,
tramping the countryside, fishing and shooting. And she is utterly
devoid of respect for her elders, and as for principle or religion--
faugh! I beg leave to think, Dudley, that he hardly could do worse."
This spitefulness on the lady's part was not wholly devoid of excuse.
For her elders, as represented by Mrs Dudley Vallance, Yseulte
certainly had scant respect. And then, if she became their son's wife,
the day might come when Mrs Vallance would have to abdicate Lant Hall
in her favour, whereas no such calamity could in the nature of things
ever befall its reverend squire. Of course Geoffry must marry somebody
or other one day; but Geoffry's mother could contemplate such a
contingency with far more equanimity than that of being dispossessed by
a girl whom she detested, and whom she knew despised her.
"Well, well! we won't say that; we won't say quite that," rejoined Mr
Vallance. "Perhaps you are a little hard on poor Yseulte. She is
young, remember, and at a thoughtless age. But she is thoroughbred in
the matter of birth, and will be well off. We must not expect
everything at once. And the girl is very pretty, with all her faults.
I am not surprised at Geoffry's infatuation."
"No more am I," was the short reply.
"Oh, but you must look at a question of this kind apart from prejudice.
And then I can't bear to see poor Geoffry simply eating his heart out
like this. I am becoming seriously alarmed about him; and I tell you
what it is, my dear, as he really has staked his happiness on this girl,
he shall have her. I'll see Santorex about it this very day."
"Oh, well, if you have quite made up your mind, the sooner you do so the
better," answered his spouse, resignedly.
"Very well, then, that's settled," said the Rev. Dudley, with a sigh of
relief.
There was just one thing they forgot, this worthy couple, namely, that
before settling a matter of the kind so comfortably and out of hand, it
might be necessary to obtain the concurrence of the party most
concerned, to wit Yseulte Santorex herself. But that Yseulte might
unhesitatingly decline the honour of the projected alliance never
occurred to them for one moment, and any suggestion of the bare idea of
such a contingency would have thrown them into a state of wild
amazement.
During the above debate, the subject thereof was doing exactly as his
father had said; wandering about by himself--and moping. Strolling down
the cool mossy lane, shaded between its high nut-hedges, he found
himself upon the river-bank. It was time to go home. They would be
wondering what had become of him; perhaps sending everywhere in search
of him. In his then morbid frame of mind, Geoffry shrank from being
made a fuss over. Mechanically he turned to retrace his steps.
"Great events from little causes spring." The little cause in this
instance was a little flock of sheep, which a farmer's lad, aided by his
faithful collie, was driving into the lane from an adjacent field. The
animals were kicking up a good deal of dust; Geoffry was no fonder of
walking in a cloud of dust than most people. The lane was narrow, and
sheep are essentially idiotic creatures; were he to try and pass these,
they would, instead of making room for him, inevitably scamper on ahead
as fast as their legs could carry them, thereby kicking up about ten
times more dust. That decided him. He would extend his walk.
Over a rail, an unexpected flounder into a dry ditch, and he stood up to
his neck in brambles and nettles. But the sting of the latter was
hardly felt; for his eyes fell upon an object which set his knees
trembling and his heart going like a hammer. A moment earlier and he
would have missed the phenomenon which evoked this agitation, but for
the sheep. What was it? Only a broad-brimmed straw hat, and beneath it
a great knot of dark brown hair rippling into gold.
It needed not this, nor the supple figure in its cool light dress which
became visible, as with an effort poor Geoffry staggered up from his
thorny hiding-place, to reveal the identity of this new feature of the
situation. She was standing with her back towards him, about fifty
yards away, taking a fishing-rod to pieces, and she was alone.
At the tearing and rustling noise caused by his efforts to free himself
from the clinging brambles, she turned quickly, the half-startled look
upon her features giving way to a wholly amused one as she took in the
situation. Geoffry, noting it, felt savage, reckless, mad with himself
and all the world. Could he never appear before her but in a ridiculous
light--the central figure of some absurd situation?
"Why, Mr Vallance, you seem to have fallen among thorns," she cried,
adding, with a merry laugh, "and the thorns have sprung up and choked
you. But never mind. Sit down and rest here in the shade, while I do
up my tackle, and then we can walk home together as far as our ways
lie."
The tone was kind and sympathetic, and Geoffry felt soothed. Red and
perspiring, he cast himself down with a grateful sigh upon a mossy bank,
in the shadow of the great oak beneath which she was standing.
"That'll be some consolation," he replied ruefully. "It was nothing,
though--the tumble, I mean. I must have caught my foot in something,
and came a cropper. But, it was well worth while."
Yseulte smiled, trying hard not to render the smile a mischievous one.
"Well, you're the best judge of that. And now, have all your visitors
left?"
"Yes, and a good job too," was the fervent reply.
"How ungrateful! I'm sure they did their best to make themselves
agreeable, especially to you. Confess; you are dreadfully bored now
that they are gone."
"Not in the very least. _You_ are here--and--and--" He broke off,
helpless and stuttering.
"But I shall not be much longer. I am going away too."
He sprung to his feet as if he had been stung.
"What? You are going away? When?"
"Very soon. In a week or ten days; perhaps not quite so soon." Already
she wished she had not told him. It would have been better, for every
reason, that he should have heard the news at second hand.
"In a week or ten days!" he echoed. "But not for long--Yseulte, say it
will not be for long!"
If at times the girl had been guilty of a touch of feminine spitefulness
in the reflection that she had completely subjugated--and through no
artful intent--the hope of this family whom, not without reason, she
detested, assuredly she felt sorry and ashamed of it now, as she noted
the pitiable effect which her announcement produced upon her admirer.
His face was as pale as death.
"But what if it will be for long?" she answered, gently. "For months,
perhaps--or a year."
"Then I'll go and hang myself."
Poor Geoffry! For weeks--for months--he had been anticipating such a
moment as this; had revolved every kind of set speech; every form of the
most moving entreaty; every promise to devote his life to her happiness
and welfare; all in the most impassioned language that the earnestness
of his love could suggest: and had shivered with apprehension lest his
nervousness and misgiving should intervene to mar the effect and leave
him stuttering and looking an ass; yet now that the critical moment had
come, all his carefully-planned oratory had resolved itself into the
brusque, passionate statement--"Then I'll go and hang myself." Yet
never was declaration more exhaustive.
She understood his meaning; she did not wish him to say more; and her
tone was very gentle, very pitiful, as she replied:
"Be a man."
The utterly wretched expression upon his face, showed that he had
understood her. Never was proposal more terse; never refusal more
prompt and decisive. It was impossible for each to misunderstand the
other.
"Have I no chance, Yseulte?" he said, the eager trepidation of his
former tone having given way to one of dull hopelessness, which moved
her infinitely.
"No," she answered, gently. "It would be cruel to leave you in any
doubt. There are many reasons against it--insuperable reasons."
"Oh, what are they? Tell me what they are," he cried, relapsing into
his former tone. "They can be removed--there is nothing I will not do,
or give up, for you. What are they? You don't like my people, I know;
but you have always been kind and friendly with me. Surely my relations
need not stand in the way?"
"You must not ask me for reasons, Geoffry. Let us talk over this
rationally. If I cared for you as you wish, nothing should stand in the
way. But as I do not, even you would not thank me for coming between
yourself and those who do. Only think what a firebrand I should be."
"No, you would not. I tell you there is nothing I would not do for
you--or would not give up for you. Only just try me."
What complication-loving fiend should have brought to her recollection
then the vision of that pictured face which had made such an impression
upon her--the face of the disinherited heir of Lant Hall? The leaven of
her father's cynical philosophy almost moved her to experiment on this
_corpus vili_ ready to her hand, and ascertain whether his protestations
would go the length of espousing her ideas of right and wrong as
regarded that particular subject. But she restrained herself in time.
Very dejectedly and in silence he walked beside her as far as their ways
lay together. He would fain have reopened his pleadings, but with a
hurried farewell she left him before he could detain her.
"Well, Chickie? Been having it out with Geoffry Plantagenet?" said her
father, who, from his library window, had witnessed their parting at the
divergence of the roads.
"Yes; that's just what I have been doing. And--I think, dear, we
oughtn't to laugh at poor Geoffry quite so much."
"Oh, that's how the land lies, is it?" answered Mr Santorex, struck by
the unwonted gravity which she had brought to bear upon the subject.
"All right, we won't. Not that _we_ shall have much longer to laugh at
anyone," he added somewhat ruefully.