Golden Face: A Tale of the Wild West. Mitford Bertram
the Vallance arms—and then plunged on, to lose themselves in a mile of dark fir wood, where the big trout lay and fattened. A lovely champaign, in sooth; small wonder that the aesthetic stranger should be smitten with a desire to end his days in so sweet a spot.
But this sweet spot had its disadvantages. It was frightfully out of the way, being five miles from the nearest railway station, and that on a branch line. The necessaries of life were only to be obtained with difficulty, and farm and dairy produce was expensive, and in supply, precarious. There was one butcher, and no baker, and a post-office chiefly noteworthy for the blundering wherewith Her Majesty’s mails were received and dispensed. Moreover, the Brackenshire folk were not of a particularly pleasant rustic type. They were very “independent,” which is to say they did what seemed right in their own eyes, irrespective of such little matters as honesty or square dealing. They were, as a rule, incapable of speaking the truth, except accidentally, and they had very long tongues. Suffice it briefly to say, they excelled in the low and sordid cunning which usually characterises the simple-hearted rustic of whatever county.
The Rev. Dudley Vallance had a shibboleth which he never wearied of pronouncing. This was it:—County Society.
Now, at Lant-Hanger this article, within anything like the accepted meaning of the term, did not exist.
It was a crying want, and like all such so capable, it must be supplied. Our “squarson” set to work to supply it by a simple device. He went into bricks and mortar.
His jerry-built “bijou residences,” and tinkered-up rustic cottages soon let, and let comfortably—for him. Not so for the tenants, however, for the honest Brackenshire craftsmen “did” their employer most thoroughly, and the luckless householders found themselves let in for all sorts of horrors they had never bargained for. Thus the Rev. Dudley “did” as he was “done.” But he got his “County Society.”
This, at the period with which we have to deal, in the year of grace 1875, consisted of a sprinkling of maiden ladies and clergymen’s relicts, who leased the delectable dwellings aforesaid; a retired jerry-builder, who knew better than to do anything of the kind; the village doctor; a few neighbouring vicars of infinitesimal intellect; a couple of squireens evolved from three generations of farmers, and, lastly, Mr Santorex of Elmcote; all of whom, with the notable exception of the last-named, constituted an array of satellites revolving round the centre planet, the Rev. Dudley himself.
The Lant property, though comparatively small, was a snug possession. Aesthetically a fair domain, it was all of it good land, and the five to six thousand acres composing it all let well. Wholly unencumbered by mortgages or annuity charges, it was estimated to bring in about 7,000 pounds a year, so that in reckoning the present incumbent a fortunate man, the neighbourhood was not far wrong. There were, however, half-forgotten hints, which the said neighbourhood would now and again let drop—hints not exactly to the credit of the present squire. For it was well known that the Rev. Dudley had inherited Lant from his uncle, not his father, and that this uncle’s son was still living.
Chapter Five.
The Santorexes of Elmcote.
“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