Then again ensued the farce of Jerrold’s efforts, the faltering shaft falling far short of the mark,—with such wide divergence, indeed, even from the line of aim, that Captain Howard’s disposition of the target in so remote a spot was amply justified. As once more the joyous laughter rang forth in which Jerrold, himself, readily bore a sonorous part, Mervyn suddenly joined the group. He had gained nothing by his absence, and indeed he could no longer nurse his anger in secret to keep it warm.
“What is all this?” he asked curtly, glancing about him with an air of disparagement.
“Can’t you see?” returned Jerrold. “It is archery practice.”
“Will you shoot?” Raymond suggested, civilly offering him the bow which he had used himself.
Mervyn hesitated. He thought himself a fair bowman, but he fancied from the state of the target and what he had heard of the acclaim of success that Raymond had made some very close hits. He feared lest he might come off a poor second. He was not willing to be at a disadvantage in Arabella’s presence even in so small a matter. He resented, too, the sight of her use of Raymond’s gift,—the beautiful bow in her hand, the decorated quiver, with its crystal-tipped arrows, hanging from its embroidered strap over her dainty shoulder. He could not refrain from a word that might serve to disparage them.
“No,” he refused, “I don’t care for archery. It is a childish pastime.”
“I am beholden to you, sir!” exclaimed Arabella, exceedingly stiffly.
She really was so expert as to render her proficiency almost an accomplishment, and she was of a spirit to resent the contemptuous disparagement of a pastime which she so ardently affected.
“I mean, of course, for men and soldiers,” Mervyn qualified, with a deep flush, for her tone had brought him suddenly to book.
“The bow-men of Old England?” she said, with her chin in the air.