Chapter Forty Four.
At the Meet.
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.