Chapter Forty Six.
A Recreant Sportsman.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Vernon,” said Maynard, coming out from under the hollies.
“For what?” asked the young girl, startled by his sudden appearance, but in an instant becoming calm.
“For having overheard the closing of a conversation between you and your cousin.”
She stood without making rejoinder, as if recalling what had been said.
“It was quite unintentional, I assure you,” added the intruder. “I should have disclosed myself sooner, but I—I can scarce tell what hindered me. The truth is, I—”
“Oh?” interrupted she, as if to relieve him from his evident embarrassment, “it doesn’t in the least signify. Frank was talking some nonsense—that’s all.”
“I’m glad you’re not angry with me. Though I’ve reason to be ashamed of my conduct, I must be candid and tell you, that I scarce deem it a misfortune having overheard you. It is so pleasant to listen to one’s own praises.”
“But who was praising you?”
The question was asked with an air of naïveté that might have been mistaken for coquetry.
Perhaps she had forgotten what she had said.
“Not your cousin,” replied Maynard, with a smile—“he who thinks me old enough to be your grandfather.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Miss Vernon. “You mustn’t mind what Frank says. He’s always offending somebody.”
“I do not mind it. I couldn’t, after hearing how he was contradicted. A thousand thanks to my generous defender!”
“Oh! what I said of you was not meant for praise. I was but speaking the truth. But for you I should have been drowned. I am sure of it.”
“And but for you I should have been shot. Is not that also the truth?”
She did not make immediate reply. There was a blush on her cheek, strangely contrasting with a shadow that came over her face.
“I do not like the thought of any one being in my debt—not even you, Miss Vernon! Confess that we are quits, then. It will give me a contentment you do not dream of.”
“I do not quite understand you, Captain Maynard.”
“I shall be plain, then. Was it not you who sent your father to save me?”
It was a superfluous question, and he knew it. How could he be ignorant of her action under the remembrance of those sweet words, “I’ll come to you! I will come!”
She had not come, as he supposed; but she had done better. She had deputed one who had proved able to protect him.
“It is true,” replied she. “I told papa of your trouble. It wasn’t much for me. I had no danger; and must have shown myself very ungrateful had I not done so. You would have been saved without that. Your other friends would have been in time.”
“My other friends?”
“Surely you know?”
“Oh, you mean the American Minister.”
“And the two American ladies who went with him to your prison.”
“Two ladies! I saw no ladies. I never heard of them. The American Minister came; but he might have been too late. It is to your father—to you—I am indebted for my deliverance. I wish, Miss Vernon, you could understand how truly grateful I feel to you. I shall never be able to show it!”
Maynard spoke with a fervour he was unable to control.
It was not checked by any thought of the two ladies who had accompanied the American Minister to his Parisian prison. He had his surmises as to who they were; and there was a time when it would have gratified him. Now he was only glad to think that their friendly intent had been anticipated!
Standing in that wood, beside a bright creature worthy of being one of its nymphs, he was more contented to believe that she had been the preserver of his life—as he of hers.
It would have turned his contentment to supreme happiness could he have believed her gratitude resembled his own—in kind.
Her soft young heart—how he yearned to read to probe it to its profoundest depths!
It was a task delicate and dangerous; too delicate for a gentleman; too dangerous for one whose own heart was in doubt.
He feared to seek further.
“Miss Vernon,” he said, resuming the ordinary tone of discourse, “your cousin appears to have left you somewhat abruptly. May I have the pleasure of conducting you to the house? I think I can find the way after hearing Master Scudamore’s very particular directions.”
Master Scudamore! Had this young gentleman been present, he might have felt inclined to repudiate the juvenile appellation.
“Oh, no!” said the baronet’s daughter, scarce longer to be called a child. “I know the way well enough. You mustn’t leave your shooting, Captain Maynard?”
“I cannot continue it; I have no dogs. The very zealous pair of sportsmen to whom I was allotted soon outstripped me, leaving me alone, as you see. If I am not permitted to accompany you, I must—I suppose—I must remain so.”
“Oh, if you’re not going to shoot, you may as well go with me. It may be very lonely for you at the house; but I suppose we’ll find some of the others who have returned.”
“Not lonely,” replied the recreant sportsmen. “Not lonely for me, if you, Miss Vernon, will condescend to give me your company.”
Correctly interpreted, it was a bold speech; and the moment it was made, Maynard regretted it.
He was glad to perceive that it was taken only in the sense of politeness; and, the young girl consenting, he walked with her along the wood-road in the direction of the dwelling.
They were alone, but not unwatched.
Skulking behind them, with gun in hand, and spaniel at his heels, went young Scudamore. He did not attempt to overtake, but only watched them through the wood and along the park path, till they had joined a group of returned ladies, who chanced to be strolling through the lawn.