“Why, at first he winked at ‘the trade’ and took many a bale and cask as a bribe, but later he demanded a percentage on every cargo, and, being refused, promptly ratted and set the law in motion, with the result that there’s been wild doings hereabouts o’ late and may be wilder yet. The excise officers will find theirs a hard task, for, as I say, we’re all ‘in it’ more or less. I’ve drank many a glass of right Nantzy, and even Parson Hartop, godly soul, has smoked tobacco that hath paid no more duty than the laces on my daughter’s petticoat. Are ye travelling far, sir?”
“To High Dering.”
“Ah, ’tis a village over yonder!” said the painter, with a jerk of his head. “’Tis a village, sir, that labours under a blight, a disease, a very effective curse.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Sir John, a little startled.
“Yes, sir. The name of this particular disease is Dering—Sir John Dering.”
“Ah,” sighed Sir John, “I have heard of him also——”
“And little to his good, I’ll warrant!” quoth the painter. “Dering of Dering is the biggest landlord in these parts—and the worst.”
“How so, sir?”
“Owning so much land, he consequently owes a duty to the county and to his tenants—a debt he hath never paid and never will, being a poor fool, sir, a miserable wretch who takes and gives nothing, who passes his life in riot and debauchery shut up in Paris salons when he might be walking these hills a free man, honoured by his tenantry.... Are you staying long hereabouts?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Sir John. “And my name is Derwent.”