“Don’t be depressed,” said Levinger, as he pocketed the half-crown; “the other fellows have done much worse. I don’t believe that young Jones has touched a feather. The fact is that a great many of the birds you fired at were quite impossible. I never remember seeing them fly so high and fast before. But then this wood has not been shot in half a gale of wind for many years. And now I must say good-bye to those gentlemen and be off, or I shall get a chill. You’ll see my daughter home, won’t you?”
As it chanced, Emma had gone to fetch a pheasant which she said had fallen in the edge of the plantation behind them. When she returned with the bird, it was impossible for her to accompany her father, even if she wished to do so, for he had already driven away.
Henry congratulated her upon the skill with which she had marked down the cock, at the same time announcing his intention of reclaiming the half-crown from her father. Then, having given his guns to the loader, they started for the high road, accompanied by the two pupils of the neighbouring clergyman. A few hundred yards farther on these young gentlemen went upon their way rejoicing, bearing with them a leash of pheasants and a hare.
“You must show me the road home, Miss Levinger,” said Henry, by way of making conversation, for they were now alone.
“The shortest path is along the cliff, if you think that we can get over the fence,” she answered.
The hedge did not prove unclimbable, and presently they were walking along the edge of the cliff. Below them foamed an angry sea, for the tide was high, driven shore-ward by the weight of the easterly gale, while to the west the sky was red with the last rays of a wintry sunset.
For a while they walked in silence, which Emma broke, saying, “The sea is very beautiful to-night, is it not?”
“It is always beautiful to me,” he answered.
“I see that you have not got over leaving the Navy yet, Sir Henry.”
“Well, Miss Levinger, to tell you the truth I haven’t had a very pleasant time since I came ashore. One way and another there have been nothing but sorrow and worries and disagreeables, till often and often I have wished myself off the coast of Newfoundland, with ice about and a cotton-wool fog, or anywhere else that is dangerous and unpleasant.”