The day after the hunt it was pheasant-shooting.
The morning was one of the finest known to the climate of England: a
bright blue sky, with a warm October sun.
"The ladies are going to accompany us to the cover," said Sir George,
making glad the hearts of his sportsmen guests. "So, gentlemen," he
added, "you must have a care how you shoot."
The expedition was not a distant one. The pheasant preserves of Vernon
Park lay contiguous to the house, between the pleasure grounds and the
"home farm." They consisted of a scrub wood, with here and there a
large tree overshadowing the undergrowth of hazel, holly, white birch,
gone, dogwood, and briar. They extended over a square mile of hilly
land, interspersed with deep dells and soft shaded vales, through which
meandered many a crystal rivulet.
It was a noted cover for woodcock; but too early for these, and
pheasant-killing was to be the pastime of the day.
After breakfast the shooting party set forth. The ladies were, many of
them, staying at the house; the wives, sisters, and daughters of Sir
George's gentlemen guests. But there were others invited to the sport--
the _elite_ of the neighbourhood.
All went out together--guided by the head gamekeeper, and followed by
spaniels and retrievers.
Once clear of the grounds, the business of the day began; and the
banging of double-barrelled guns soon put a period to the conversation
that had continued in a general way up to the edge of the woodland.
Once inside the cover, the shooting party soon became dismembered.
Small groups, each consisting of two or three ladies and the same number
of gentlemen, strayed off through the thicket, as chance, the ground, or
the gamekeepers, conducted them.
With one of these went Maynard, though not the one he would have elected
to accompany. A stranger, he had no choice, but was thrown along with
the first set that offered--a couple of country squires, who cared far
more for the pheasants than the fair creatures who had come to see them
slaughtered.
With this trio of shooters there was not a single lady. One or two had
started along with them. But the squires, being keen sportsmen, soon
left their long-skirted companions following in the distance; and
Maynard was compelled either to keep up with them and their dogs, or
abandon the shooting altogether.
Treading on with the sportsmen he soon lost sight of the ladies, who
fell far behind. He had no great regret at their defection. None of
them chanced to be either very young or very attractive, and they were
luckily attended by a servant. He had bidden adieu to them by
exhibiting a pretended zeal in pheasant-shooting far from being felt,
and which he would scarce have done had Sir George Vernon's daughter
been one of their number.
He was far from feeling cheerful as he strode through the preserves. He
was troubled with an unpleasant reflection--arising from an incident
observed. He had seen the baronet's daughter pair off with the party in
which shot young Scudamore. As she had done so unsolicited, she must
have preferred this party to any other.
The ex-officer was not so expert in his shooting as he had shown himself
at the hunt.
Several times he missed altogether; and once or twice the strong-winged
gallinaceae rose whirring before him, without his attempting to pull
trigger or even elevate his gun!
The squires, who on the day before had witnessed his dexterity in the
saddle, rather wondered at his being such a poor shot.
They little dreamt of what was disqualifying him. They only observed
that he was abstracted, but guessed not the cause.
After a time he and they became separated; they thinking only of the
pheasants, he of that far brighter bird, in some distant quarter of the
cover, gleaming amidst the foliage, and radiating delight all around.
Perhaps alone, in some silent dell, with young Scudamore by her side--
authorised to keep apart through their cousinly relationship--he,
perhaps, pouring into her ear the soft, confident whisperings of a
cousin's love!
The thought rendered Maynard sad.
It might hive excited him to anger; but he knew he had no pretext.
Between him and the daughter of Sir George Vernon, as yet, only a few
speeches had been exchanged; these only commonplace expressions of
civility, amidst a surrounding of people, her friends and relatives. He
had not even found opportunity to talk over those incidents that had led
to the present relationship between them.
He longed for, and yet dreaded it! That presentiment, at first so
confidently felt, had proved a deception.
The very opposite was the impression now upon him as he stood alone in
the silent thicket, with the words falling mechanically from his lips:
"She can never be mine!"
"You will, Blanche? You will?" were other words not spoken by himself,
but heard by him, as he stood within a holly copse, screened by its
evergreen frondage.
It was young Scudamore who was talking, and in a tone of appealing
tenderness.
There was no reply, and the same words, with a slight addition, were
repeated: "You will promise it, Blanche? You will?"
Stilling his breath, and the wild beating of his heart, Maynard listened
for the answer. From the tone of the questioner's voice he knew it to
be a dialogue, and that the cousins were alone.
He soon saw that they were. Walking side by side along a wood-road,
they came opposite to the spot where he was standing.
They stopped. He could not see them. Their persons were concealed by
the prickly fascicles of the holly hanging low. These did not hinder
him from hearing every word exchanged between the two.
How sweet to his ears was the answer given by the girl.
"I won't, Frank! I won't!"
He knew not its full significance, nor the nature of the promise
appealed for.
But the _eclaircissement_ was near, and this gave him a still greater
gratification.
"Indeed," said Scudamore, reproachfully, "I know why you won't promise
me. Yes, I know it."
"What do you know, Frank?"
"Only, what everybody can see: that you've taken a liking to this
Captain Maynard, who's old enough to be your father, or grandfather!
Ah! and if your father finds it out--well, I shan't say what--"
"And if it were so," daringly retorted the daughter of the baronet, "who
could blame me? You forget that the gentleman saved my life! I'm sure
I'd have been drowned but for his noble behaviour. Courageous, too.
You should have seen the big waves wanting to swallow me. And there
wasn't any one else to run the risk of stretching forth a hand to me!
He _did_ save my life. Is it any wonder I should feel grateful to him?"
"You're more than grateful, Blanche! You're _in love_ with him!"
"In love with him! Ha! ha! ha! What do you mean by that, cousin?"
"Oh! you needn't make light of it. You know well enough!"
"I know that you're very disagreeable, Frank; you've been so all the
morning."
"Have I? I shan't be so any longer--in your company. Since you don't
seem to care for mine, no doubt you'll be pleased at my taking leave of
you. I presume you can find the way home without me? You've only to
keep up this wood-road. It'll bring you to the park-gate."
"You needn't concern yourself about me," haughtily rejoined the daughter
of Sir George. "I fancy I can find my way home without any assistance
from my gallant cousin Scudamore."
The provoking irony of this last speech brought the dialogue to an end.
Irritated by it, the young sportsman turned his back upon his pretty
partner, and whistling to his spaniel, broke abruptly away, soon
disappearing behind a clump of copse wood.