'What the deuce can he find to say to her?' thought Shafto; but Hammersley was only finding the links—the threads of a dear old story begun in London months ago.
So passed the first day of Hammersley's arrival at Craigengowan, and Finella laid her head on her pillow full of bright and happy thoughts, in which 'Cousin Shafto' bore no share.
But while these emotions and events were in progress, where, in the meantime, was Florian? Ay, Shafto Gyle, where?
CHAPTER XIII.
AMONG THE GROUSE.
Nathless the vengeful thoughts of the unamiable Shafto and his threats muttered in secret, the shooting next day passed off without any peril being encountered by the unconscious Hammersley—unconscious at least of the enmity his presence was inspiring. However, it was not so the second; and Finella and her fair friends agreed that if he looked so well and handsome in his heather-coloured knickerbocker shooting-dress, with ribbed stockings of Alloa yarn, his gun under his arm, and shot-belt over his shoulder, how gallant must he look when in full uniform.
In the field the vicinity of Shafto was avoided as much as possible, as he shot wildly indeed. By the gamekeepers, servants, and people generally on the estate he was simply detested for the severity of his manner, his tyranny, his disposition to bully, and meanness in every way; though at first, when he came to Craigengowan, they had laboured in vain, and vied with each other in their attempts to initiate him into those field-sports so dear to Britons generally, and to the Scots in particular; but when shooting grouse especially, the beaters or 'drivers' had genuine dread of him, and, when fog was on, sometimes refused to attend him, and he was, as they said among themselves, 'a new experience i' the Howe o' the Mearns.'
'I've seen as fu' a haggis toomed on a midden,' said the old head-gamekeeper wrathfully, as he drew his bonnet over his beetling brows, 'but I'll keep my mind to mysel', and tell my tale to the wind that blaws o'er Craigengowan.'
Though well past sixty now, Lord Fettercairn, hale and hearty, was in the field with his central-fire gun with fine Damascus barrels. Shafto, Hammersley, young Kippilaw, and four others made up the party.
The morning was a lovely one, and lovely too was the scenery, for August is a month richly tinted with the last touches of summer, blended with the russet tones of autumn; the pleasant meadows are yet green, and over the ripened harvest the breeze murmurs like the ocean when nearly asleep.