There is perhaps no more superb sight than the "meet" of an English
hunting-field--whether it be staghounds or fox. Even the grand panoply
of war, with its serried ranks and braying band, is not more exciting
than the tableau of scarlet coats grouped over the green, the hounds
bounding impatiently around the gold-laced huntsman; here and there a
horse rearing madly, as if determined on dismounting his rider; and at
intervals the mellow horn, and sharply-cracked whip keeping the dogs in
check.
The picture is not complete without its string of barouches and pony
phaetons, filled with their fair occupants, a grand "drag" driven by the
duke, and carrying the duchess; beside it the farmer in his market cart;
and outside of all the pedestrian circle of smock-frocks, "Hob, Dick,
and Hick, with clubs and clouted shoon," their dim attire contrasting
with the scarlet, though each--if it be a stag-hunt--with bright hopes
of winning the bounty money by being in at the death of the deer.
At such a meet was Captain Maynard, mounted upon a steed from the
stables of Sir George Vernon. Beside him was the baronet himself and
near by his daughter, seated in an open barouche, with Sabina for her
sole carriage companion.
The tawny-skinned and turbaned attendant--more like what might have been
seen at an Oriental tiger hunt--nevertheless added to the
picturesqueness of the tableau.
It was a grouping not unknown in those districts of England, where the
returned East Indian "nabobs" have settled down to spend the evening of
their days.
In such places even a Hindoo prince, in the costume of Tippoo Sahib, not
unfrequently makes appearance.
The day was as it should be for a hunt. There was a clear sky, an
atmosphere favourable to the scent, and cool enough for for putting a
horse to his speed. Moreover, the hounds had been well rested.
The gentlemen were jocund, the ladies wreathed in smiles, the
smock-frocks staring at them with a pleased expression upon their stolid
faces.
All appeared happy, as they waited for the huntsman's horn to signal the
array.
There was one in that gathering who shared not its gaiety; a man mounted
upon a chestnut hunter, and halted alongside the barouche that carried
Blanche Vernon.
This man was Maynard.
Why did he not participate in the general joy?
The reason might have been discovered on the opposite side of the
barouche, in the shape of an individual on horseback also, who called
Blanche Vernon his cousin.
Like Maynard too, he was staying at Vernon Park--a guest admitted to a
still closer intimacy than himself.
By name Scudamore--Frank Scudamore--he was a youth still boyish and
beardless. All the more, on this account, was the man of mature age
uneasy at his presence.
But he was handsome besides; fair-haired and of florid hue, a sort of
Saxon Endymion or Adonis.
And she of kindred race and complexion--of nearly equal age--how could
she do other than admire him?
There could be no mistaking his admiration of her. Maynard had
discovered it--in an instant--on the day when the three had been first
brought together.
And often afterward had he observed it; but never more than now, as the
youth, leaning over in his saddle, endeavoured to engross the attention
of his cousin.
And he appeared to succeed. She had neither look nor word for any one
else. She heeded not the howling of the hounds; she was not thinking of
the fox; she was listening only to the pretty speeches of young
Scudamore.
All this Maynard saw with bitter chagrin. Its bitterness was only
tempered by reflecting how little right he had to expect it otherwise.
True he had done Blanche Vernon a service. He believed it to have been
repaid; for it must have been through her intercession he had been
rescued from the Zouaves. But the act on her part was one of simple
reciprocity--the responsive gratitude of a child!
How much more would he have liked being the recipient of those
sentiments, seemingly lavished on young Scudamore, and spoken in
half-whisper into his ear.
As the ex-captain sate chafing in his saddle, the reflection passed
through his mind:
"There is too much hair upon my face. She prefers the cheek that is
beardless."
The jealous thought must have descended to his heels; since, striking
them against the flanks of his horse, he rode wide away from the
carriage!
And it must have continued to excite him throughout the chase, for,
plying the spur, he kept close to the pack; and was first in at the
death.
That day a steed was returned to the stables of Sir George Vernon with
panting reins and bleeding ribs.
A guest sat down to his dinner-table--a stranger among the
scarlet-coated hunters around him, who had won their respect by having
ridden well up to the hounds.