It was evident that Bertie Pemberton had something particular to say to Beatrix. His horse fidgeted and he made tentative efforts to get her to follow him in a walk. But Beatrix's mare was of the lazy sort, quite contented to stand still as long as it should be permitted her, and she refused to put her in motion, though she was not altogether incurious as to what the young man wished to disclose. She thought it probable, however, that he would make his attempt later on, if there should be any period of hanging about the covert side, and under those less conspicuous circumstances she should not refuse to listen to him.
Among the few hardy spirits who had come prepared to follow the hounds on foot was Maurice Bradby. Worthing had driven him over in his dog-cart and after a few cheery words with Caroline and Beatrix had gone inside. Bradby had not followed him, but as the girls were just then surrounded by a little group of people he had hung about on its skirts, evidently wishing to talk to them, but being too shy to do so.
This young man's diffidence had begun to arouse comment at the Abbey. They all liked him, and had shown him that they did. There were times when he seemed thoroughly at home with them, and showed qualities which endeared him to the active laughter-loving family. Young George frankly adored him, finding in him all he wanted for companionship, and with him he was at his ease, and even took the undisputed lead. But on the other hand Grafton found him hang heavy, on the few occasions when they had to be alone together. He was deferential, not in any way that showed lack of manly spirit, but so as to throw all the burden of conversation on his host. Grafton found it rather tiresome to sit with him alone after dinner. It was only when they were occupied together, in the garden or elsewhere, that Bradby seemed to take up exactly the right attitude towards him.
The girls came between their father and their brother. Barbara had altered her first opinion of him. There was still something of the boy in her; she shared as far as she was permitted in the pursuits of Bradby and Bunting, and all three got on well together. The two other girls found his diffidence something of a brake on the frank friendship they were ready to accord to their companions among young men. Beatrix was most outspoken about it. Of course he was not, in his upbringing or experience, like other young men whom they had known. In London, perhaps, they would not have wanted to make a particular friend of him. But here in the country he fitted in. Why couldn't he take the place they were ready to accord him, and not be always behaving as if he feared to be in the way?
Caroline was softer. She agreed that his shyness was rather tiresome, but thought it would wear off in time. It was better, after all, to have a young man who did not think too much of himself than one who would always have to be kept in his place. She found his love for nature refreshing and interesting, and something fine and genuine in him that made it worth while to cultivate him, and have patience. Beatrix would say, in answer to this, that she hadn't got enough patience, and doubted whether the results would make it worth while to exercise it. But Beatrix was a little oversharp in these days, and what she said needed not to be taken too seriously.
She saw Maurice Bradby standing at a little distance off, casting shy glances at them as if he wanted to make one of the group around them, but lacked the boldness to introduce himself into it, and felt a spurt of irritation against him. Caroline saw him too, and presently, when the group had thinned, walked her horse to where he was standing. He received her with a grateful smile, and they talked about the day's prospects and his chances of seeing the sport on foot, and hers of a good run.
The people who had been refreshing themselves indoors came out, mounted their horses or took to their carriages, cars and carts, while the huntsman led his bunched and trotting hounds down the drive, and the gay cavalcade followed them to the scene of their sport. The soft grey winter sky breathed mild moisture, the tree twigs were purple against it, and seemed already to be giving promise of spring, though the year was only just on the turn. No one there would have exchanged this mood of England's much abused climate for the flowery deceptions of the South, or even for the frosty sparkle of Alpine winters. It was a fine hunting morning, and they were all out to enjoy themselves, in the way that their forbears had enjoyed themselves for generations.