“Oh, if you are going to moralize, I’ll be off!” cried Vibert. “I have not tried my new gun yet, and I expect capital sport. I warrant you that I will bring home a brace of pheasants to mend our fare!”
Mr. Trevor came down to Wiltshire by an early train, and was gladly welcomed at Myst Court. His presence greatly added to the harmony of the family circle; for his sons seldom exchanged bitter words when their father’s eye was upon them. Emmie’s spirits rose. When the family were gathered together at the luncheon-table, the young lady playfully rallied Vibert on his “capital sport,” for she had seen him return with an empty bag from his shooting.
Vibert laughed good-humouredly at his own want of success. “I thought that pheasants and partridges would be plentiful as blackberries in the brushwood,” said he; “but I lighted on no bird more aristocratic than a crow. I think that there must be poachers abroad, or perhaps four-footed poachers, in the shape of those starved, disreputable-looking cats which come prowling about the place.”
“I suppose some of those left by my aunt as a legacy to her maid,” observed Mr. Trevor.
“The legatee does not value the keepsakes,” said Vibert, “to judge by the looks of the cats that crossed my path to-day, sneaking back to their old quarters as if in search for scraps.”
“Does Mrs. Jessel live far from here?” inquired Emmie.
“About a mile from Myst Court by the road, but not half that distance by the path through the wood,” answered Bruce. “The house left to her by Mrs. Myers is a two-storied, shallow building, standing very near the high-road, and looking like a Cockney villa that had somehow strayed into the country, and could not find its way back.”
“So the cats have the good taste to prefer the antique beauties of Myst Court embowered in woods,” said Vibert; “and their new mistress has no objection to their living here at free quarters. I fired at one of the miserable creatures, out of pure benevolence, but unhappily missed my mark.”
“Your shooting is on a par with your driving,” remarked Bruce satirically; “but Emmie’s pony came off worse than the cat.”
“That was not my fault!” exclaimed Vibert. “I managed the pony famously, in the dark too, and over a road expressly contrived to break the springs of a carriage. I was turning a sharp corner with consummate skill, when Emmie took it into her head to scream and catch hold of my arm. Of course, chaise and all went into the ditch, and how long they might have stayed there I know not, had not those two men come to our help.”