WITH DOG AND GUN.
"A westerly wind and a cloudy sky,
Proclaim it a hunting morning,"
Sang some one of the merry sportsmen, as the dogs were loosed in a
gently rolling field, where, on one hand, the stiff, straggling rows
of dry cotton stalks ran down to the river bank, and on the other a
dreary fallow plat, overgrown with yellow sedge and clumps of bushes,
spread away to a dense wood. There was, in fact, a gentle breeze
from the west, and a thin veil of fleece clouds covered the sky. The
morning appeared propitious, every one was in high spirits.
The ladies, in an ample spring wagon, had been driven to an elevated
point whence they could have a sweeping view of the grounds to be
shot over. A field glass or two had been furnished them, so that
distance need not trouble their observations.
The men, in a long line and distant from each other not less than
twenty yards, walked slowly with the dogs running to and fro ahead of
them.
The morning was balmy and warm, but not hot, with just a hint of
dampness in the air. Along the river a low-hanging line of gray fog
was slowly fading away.
The ladies alighted from the wagon, with the help of the colored
driver, and disposed themselves in picturesque attitudes, their broad
hats thrown back and the wind fluttering their ribbons. Miss Noble
and Miss Crabb were the most interested, the latter making swift
notes in a little red book.
Reynolds had quite forgotten his promise to Miss Noble about teaching
her how to shoot. He had, in fact, forgotten her as well. Moreton
was on one side of him, Beresford on the other. He felt the
responsibility of having to shoot between too such marksmen; but he
was also keenly alive to the opportunity it would give him for a
display of his finest abilities as a sportsman. He had resolved to
lead the field if possible and he could scarcely have told why. Mrs.
Ransom had said something just before starting about Beresford being
considered the best shot present. This may have served as a
stimulus. She had not meant to be overheard by any gentleman of the
party, her words being for Miss Crabb's ear; but Reynolds did hear.
Her voice had a way of getting to him, as if it sought him of its own
account. It was a very sweet and musical voice, suggesting a reserve
of strength and depth, with just a suspicion in it of that vague
sadness which lurked in her face.
Some hampers containing luncheon had been deposited under a tree by a
little spring near where the ladies were posted, and here, at the
sound of a horn blown by the negro attendant, all were to come at
high noon.
The shooting began early, the first birds being pointed by one of
General DeKay's dogs. It was a fine strong bevy, flushed in a weedy
swale. Mr. Noble and the General both fired right and left, getting
but one bird each. The dogs dropped to shot and the game, well
scattered, was marked down in some low sedge two hundred yards
further on. Two of the dogs were now sent to retrieve the dead
birds, which was scarcely done when another covey was flushed by some
of the party, the birds taking almost the same flight as the first.
This was enough to warm the blood in any sportsman's veins. The dogs
fairly trembled with eagerness. The line was lengthened, the
shooters getting further apart so as to cover a wide territory.
Beresford's pointer was first to stand, Reynolds' setter, a noble
dog, promptly backing, and two birds were flushed. It was a fine
chance for a double shot, but Beresford missed with his first barrel
and killed with his second. Reynolds cut down the missed bird with
his right and killed another that flushed in front of him with his
left. The shooting was now begun in earnest, Beresford making a very
difficult double a few steps farther on, whilst Moreton distinguished
himself by three straight misses. General DeKay and Mr. Noble were
apparently the most excited men in the field. The banker was too
ready, shooting as soon as his bird showed above cover, and the
General was rather slow, poking his gun after his game until it had
flown out of certain range.
As fresh bevies were flushed and the birds scattered themselves over
a wide area, the sportsmen became separated, or hunted in twos and
threes.
Miss Noble and Miss Crabb watched this eager skirmish line through
their glasses, keeping up, meantime, a running discussion of the
incidents as they occurred, with true feminine lapses, now and then,
into criticism of whatever chanced to offend their notions of how a
shoot should be conducted.
"I hope Mr. Reynolds will get outrageously beaten," exclaimed Miss
Noble, "I really do."
"Why?" asked the editor.
"Because I do," was the response so perfectly intelligible and
satisfactory to all women.
"Oh," said Miss Crabb, "you have a grudge, have you?"
"He promised me he would teach me how to shoot," Cordelia laughingly
responded, "and, like all men, he has not kept his word."
"There! did you see that?" cried Miss Crabb still intently surveying
the distant shooters.
"No, what was it?"
"Mr. Reynolds killed a bird that Mr. Beresford had missed and then
turned and killed one that the English gentleman--what's his
name?--had failed on! It was lovely--I like that!"
"Mr. Moreton appears not to be having good luck," said Cordelia, "but
I fancy he's quite as good a shot as any of them. My father says
that any one will have unlucky days, no matter how good a shot he may
be."
"Mr. Reynolds hasn't missed yet, so far as I have observed," said
Miss Crabb. "There went down two more birds before his gun. I think
he has the best dog of any of them: it seems to know just what he
wants."
"How is my brother succeeding?" inquired Miss Beresford from her seat
on a wagon-cushion which she had laid on the ground and covered with
a gay shawl.
"Very finely, indeed," was Miss Crabb's ready response. "The honors
seem to lie between him and Mr. Reynolds. They easily lead the rest."
"My brother never has been beaten, I believe," Miss Beresford went
on. "He is said to be the best shot in the state."
"Begging your pardon," Miss Crabb responded, "it really looks as if
Mr. Reynolds would beat; he hasn't missed a shot yet, and I don't
think he's going to."
Miss Beresford smiled rather incredulously, as if her faith in her
brother's superiority could not so easily be shaken.
"But they are all getting so far away that I can not be sure any
longer," continued the observant editor in an apologizing tone.
Mrs. Ransom was seated some distance apart from the rest, busying
herself with pinning a wreath of bay leaves from material gathered
off some small trees by the spring.
The firing, scattered far and wide, came to the ears of these
listeners, softened down to a mere desultory booming, with now and
then the quick repetition that told of a double shot. Even Miss
Crabb ceased her efforts to follow the course of the merry sportsmen.
She fell to work at her note-book as if venting a bitter spite upon
it and for a time her tongue rested from its almost incessant labors.
Cordelia went to where Mrs. Ransom was busy with the bay leaves and
sat down on the dry ground beside her.
"A victor's crown," she said gayly. "So you are going to reward the
winner?"
"Oh no, I have been playing little girl. When I was a child I used
to make wreaths like this, only I have lost the ready knack I had
then."
"It's such a delightful thing to be a little girl," said Cordelia,
impulsively laying her hand on Mrs. Ransom's arm and fixing her frank
eyes upon her face. "I wish I could have always staid about
thirteen--that's the golden age, I think, don't you?"
"I was a very happy little girl," replied Mrs. Ransom. The
evasiveness in her voice and the far away look that came for a moment
into her large blue eyes, were not observed by Cordelia, who, with a
buoyant, retrospective ring in her voice, exclaimed--
"Oh, so was I, ever so happy. There never was any one who had so
delightful a time. It was so easy to be happy then."
"You don't look very sad, even now," said Mrs. Ransom, wholly
recovering her sweet, half-sad smile.
Cordelia laughed merrily.
"One can't always tell what a world of trouble a face like mine may
mask," she replied in her lightest way, but it gave her a real pang
the next moment, recollecting Mrs. Ransom's bitter experience. She
picked up the wreath, which was now finished, and put it on her head.
It gave to her plump, joyous face an air so free, fresh and almost
rustic, that one might have mistaken her for a Western farmer's
daughter. Mrs. Ransom looked at her for a moment, and then on a
sudden impulse, put a hand on either glowing cheek, and drawing her
forward, kissed her again and again.
"I hope your dear, sweet face will never be more of a mask than it is
now," she said. "You blush as if my kiss had been----"
"Had been sour!" interrupted Cordelia with a ringing laugh.
Meantime the men were having what is called glorious sport. The
dogs, now thoroughly warmed with their work, were behaving their
best. It was a pleasing thing to see them consciously competing with
each other, carefully beating back and forth in front of their
masters, allowing no spot of ground to go unexamined, promptly
standing or backing or dropping to shot, eagerly watching each
other's movements and taking quick advantage of every favoring
accident of ground-surface or of cover. Each dog took evident
delight in seeing a bird, flushed from his point, killed by his
master. A missed quail brought as much chagrin to dog as to
sportsman.
Some of the party, in following the flight of the bevies, reached a
country cut up by shallow ravines and gulches leading down to the
river and filled with a dense tangle of small trees and matted vines.
Here the shooting was quite difficult and exciting, and both
sportsmen and dogs were taxed to the utmost of their skill; for it
was impossible to know where a bird would flush or what direction its
flight would take. Mr. Noble was peculiarly suited to this sort of
thing. He was in his element where the cover was thickest and the
swiftest action required. He displayed his nimbleness and readiness
to good effect snap-shooting, as the birds whirred out of the dense
cover to turn into it again, showing themselves for the merest point
of time. He and Reynolds chanced to get together towards noon in a
place where to kill a bird required almost electrical quickness.
Reynolds rarely refused a shot and always killed. His movements did
not appear surprisingly swift, but the gun always got to his shoulder
in time. He did not snap-shoot, as the word goes: his aim was
obtained with the promptness, celerity and certainty of a mechanical
effect. Only four times during the sport did he fail to bring down
his game, and every bird of fifty shot at was hit. But as a true
sportsman, he was ready to yield the palm to the highest achievement,
and while he felt a secret satisfaction in knowing that he had beaten
Beresford, he took even keener pleasure in the victory of his dog.
The noble animal had performed a feat in the presence of Beresford,
Mr. Noble, Moreton and General DeKay, that proved him a king of dogs.
"I'll give you a thousand dollars cash for him!" exclaimed the banker
excitedly.
The entire party broke forth with hearty applause.
It came about as follows: The dog had been sent into some weeds by
Moreton to retrieve a dead bird, which he promptly did. It was as he
was returning, with the game in his mouth, and leaping clear above
the weed-tops, as was his habit, that he suddenly, at the highest
point of a bound, turned his head half about, and stiffened himself
in mid-air, on the scent of another bird. He struck the ground
standing staunchly, his eyes fixed, his feet slightly spread, his
back and tail on a line. The sportsmen could hardly believe it a
genuine point; but when the bird was flushed and killed, they stood
for a moment looking at the sensitive thorough-bred, with that
flawless admiration which men reserve for beautiful women and
sure-nosed dogs; then they all applauded.
Beresford felt defeated at every point, and in his heart a
premonition of failure began to ferment. A few days ago he had met
Agnes Ransom at his father's house in Montgomery, and had fallen a
prey to her gentle voice and grave, sweet face. Since then she had
been constantly in his mind, her influence growing upon him by force
of memory, some new grace adding itself to the impression, as each
hour recalled a word, a smile or a glance unconsciously treasured by
him. Now it all seemed slipping away. It is one of the most natural
of mental operations, this swift reaching forward to grasp an evil
before it is more than vaguely threatened. We call it foreboding: it
may be the last refinement of logic. Beresford kept to himself the
rest of the morning, rather gloomily borrowing of the future.
Something told him that Agnes Ransom and Reynolds were going to be
lovers. His enthusiasm flagged and he shot with less than his usual
care. On the contrary, Reynolds seemed to be attended by the god of
good luck; every chance seemed to favor him. His self-confidence
never once deserted him. He too was borrowing of the future, and
what he borrowed was very sweet. Deep in his heart nestled the
precious belief that Mrs. Ransom had involuntarily--nay,
unconsciously--responded to his interest in her. This gave him nerve
and alertness and force. When he would flush a bird, the loud hum of
its wings and the bullet-like rapidity of its flight did not disturb
his thought or his vision. He threw up his gun with a promptness and
self-possession that insured a perfect aim. When he fired the result
was a thoroughly fine, clean shot, stopping the game dead in mid-air,
so that it fell without a flutter. Yet all the time his dream went
on.
At about half-past twelve the horn blew loud and long from the place
where the ladies had been stationed with the luncheon. Most of the
shooters were loth to leave off the exciting sport, even though the
stirrings of hunger began to be importunate. The mellow notes of
invitation fancifully executed by the negro "bugler" had nothing very
insistent in them. It was a long while before the party began to
straggle back. Reynolds was first to reach the little grove above
the spring near where the ladies had been waiting and watching. He
strode swiftly along with his gun across his shoulder, his dogs
following at his heels. A small, fancifully twisted tuft of
mistletoe that he bore in his left hand was heavy with milk-white
berries and waxen green leaves. His broad-brimmed hat was far back
on his head, leaving his swarthy face unshaded. He had almost
touched Mrs. Ransom before he saw her where she sat under a little
pine tree with her hands listlessly crossed in her lap, her head
uncovered and her dark hair gleaming in strong contrast with the
almost colorless fairness of her face. He started perceptibly on
discovering her, but a smile came over his face, as he bowed and said:
"A charmingly airy place you have: may I join you? I am really quite
tired."
"Certainly, there's ample room," she half-hesitatingly replied, a
little color slowly warming her cheeks, "but I believe the luncheon
is spread and you must be hungry."
"No, I'd rather rest. The party is scattered in every direction; it
will be some time before all are in. What a wide view from
here--could you see us shooting?"
"Yes, that is Miss Crabb and Miss Noble could--but really I did not
look. It frightens me to see a gun fired. It is a silly weakness
that I can't overcome."
He had thrown aside upon the ground his old-fashioned game-bag
stuffed with the dead birds, and laid his gun across it. He sat down
a little way from her, in a half-reclining position, resting the
weight of his heavy shoulders on one elbow.
"I never before saw quails so numerous, I believe," he said, twirling
the spray of mistletoe and looking at his favorite dog which had
crouched panting before him. "We have had a fine morning's shoot."
"I am very glad. My uncle would have been so disappointed if you had
failed to find birds," she responded, her voice, so sweet, so
peculiarly artless and tender.
"He is a fervent sportsman," she continued, "and sets great store by
his annual shooting party. Last year the rain interfered and he was
terribly put out about it."
"He certainly knows how to manage an affair like this," Reynolds
said. "I never saw any thing so perfectly planned and executed. We
found the birds at once and have been shooting ever since. Nothing
could have been better."
He carelessly took up her hat, which lay within easy reach of him,
and thrust the stem of the mistletoe spray behind the broad band of
ribbon that encircled the crown. It was a cold looking cluster.
"Not a bad bit of decoration, is it?" he smilingly inquired. "It is
the most peculiar and beautiful sprig of mistletoe I ever saw. See
how the smaller stems have grown around each other in fanciful
twists."
She made a quick, suddenly-arrested movement, as if to snatch away
the frigid-looking winter cluster, then glancing up into his face,
simply said:
"The hat is not of a kind to bear much embellishment."
He appeared not to hear her. In fact he did not hear her, or if he
did it was merely her voice, not her words. The relaxation from the
physical exercise and mental excitement of the sport was so sweetly
supplemented by the influence of Mrs. Ransom's gentle presence that
he fell into a mood as dreamy and tender as the air and sunshine
around him. Some vague stimulus was affecting his nerves and blood,
suffusing his brain with a happiness as precious as it was
undefinable. Like the effect of rare wine, this sudden mood seemed
to be connected in some way with evil, as if it were too delicious
not to have some after-taste of the hidden poison it contained. He
knew and he did not know what it was that, like a skulking serpent,
shadowy and hideously menacing on account of its uncertain
proportions as well as on account of its venomous nature, darted now
and again through his dream. Mrs. Ransom, as if in some way touched
with the subtile essence of his mood, looked at him and felt a little
premonition of some new experience in store for her. At this moment
she and Reynolds were as detached from all the rest of the world as
if they had been the only inhabitants of an undiscovered island.
They were aware of this and for a few moments reveled in the
fascination of the experience. Somewhere in the conscience of each
an ill-defined protest against the future stirred uneasily.
Reynolds was first to recover himself. Clearing his mind, as if with
a wave of the hand, he held the hat towards her with a careless
movement.
"Put it on and let me see how it will look," he said. "I pride
myself in my ability to trim hats."
If she had a mind to be offended she quickly changed. His smile was
so frank and his eyes so bold and honest that it was impossible for
her to suspect him or to refuse his light request. But she could not
keep a pink flush from rising into her cheeks, and her lips glowed
like cherries. He looked calmly at her for a moment, then in a
perfectly earnest way said:
"I like it, it becomes you: please let it stay, will you? You are
lovely when you look like that."
[Illustration: "You are lovely when you look like that." _Page 107_.].
His eyes were fixed upon hers with a deep and tender meaning.
Despite herself her heart leaped violently and she grew pale. In her
confusion she arose. He saw the change come over her face and sprang
hastily to his feet.
"I hope I have not offended you, you are not----" he earnestly began.
She interrupted him with a little laugh.
"Nothing so serious as that," she lightly exclaimed, waving one fair
hand. "It is time for us to be looking after the luncheon."
She stooped and patted the head of one of the dogs. The rest of the
sportsmen came straggling up the incline from the fields, one of them
singing a gay hunting carol.
Reynolds picked up his bag and gun. There was a glow in his eyes and
a hot tingle in his veins. He looked at the lithe, graceful form,
and sweet, earnest face of the young woman, as at an inestimable
treasure. The flush had returned to her cheeks and lips, though she
had struggled hard to overcome this incomprehensible emotion.
"Why can't we stay here a little longer?" he asked, almost with
vehemence. "I was enjoying it so much. There's no dire necessity
for going, just at this moment. is there?"
She fixed her eyes on his for a second, then lowered them and turned
half away. It was a mere glance, a flash, but it was an involuntary
confession that she understood his feelings and did not dare to give
them opportunity. What further meaning it conveyed he could only
wish he knew.
"Yonder is uncle," she murmured. "Poor old man, I know he's tired!"
and she almost ran to meet General DeKay.
Reynolds watched her go tripping down the gentle slope, through the
stunted wire grass and tufts of sedge, wearing on her hat his spray
of mistletoe. She looked like a mere girl, slim and _svelt_, whose
movements were as light and free as the wind. She had won over his
dog and it trotted away beside her, looking up into her face. He
felt his heart throbbing heavily, and something like a tender mist
gathered in his eyes. An almost uncontrollable desire to go swiftly
after her and clasp her in his arms took possession of him. Would he
ever get so near her again? Would she ever again give him a look
like that which was now pictured so vividly in his memory? Ah, those
serious, tender, earnest eyes, that low, gentle, haunting voice!
Would those sweet, half-sad lips ever meet his with a kiss of
unquenchable love? He stood there actually trembling with the stress
of his suddenly-generated emotions, an underglow of passion showing
in his bronzed face.