"Had been sour!" interrupted Cordelia with a ringing laugh.
Meantime the men were having what is called glorious sport. The dogs, now thoroughly warmed with their work, were behaving their best. It was a pleasing thing to see them consciously competing with each other, carefully beating back and forth in front of their masters, allowing no spot of ground to go unexamined, promptly standing or backing or dropping to shot, eagerly watching each other's movements and taking quick advantage of every favoring accident of ground-surface or of cover. Each dog took evident delight in seeing a bird, flushed from his point, killed by his master. A missed quail brought as much chagrin to dog as to sportsman.
Some of the party, in following the flight of the bevies, reached a country cut up by shallow ravines and gulches leading down to the river and filled with a dense tangle of small trees and matted vines. Here the shooting was quite difficult and exciting, and both sportsmen and dogs were taxed to the utmost of their skill; for it was impossible to know where a bird would flush or what direction its flight would take. Mr. Noble was peculiarly suited to this sort of thing. He was in his element where the cover was thickest and the swiftest action required. He displayed his nimbleness and readiness to good effect snap-shooting, as the birds whirred out of the dense cover to turn into it again, showing themselves for the merest point of time. He and Reynolds chanced to get together towards noon in a place where to kill a bird required almost electrical quickness. Reynolds rarely refused a shot and always killed. His movements did not appear surprisingly swift, but the gun always got to his shoulder in time. He did not snap-shoot, as the word goes: his aim was obtained with the promptness, celerity and certainty of a mechanical effect. Only four times during the sport did he fail to bring down his game, and every bird of fifty shot at was hit. But as a true sportsman, he was ready to yield the palm to the highest achievement, and while he felt a secret satisfaction in knowing that he had beaten Beresford, he took even keener pleasure in the victory of his dog. The noble animal had performed a feat in the presence of Beresford, Mr. Noble, Moreton and General DeKay, that proved him a king of dogs.
"I'll give you a thousand dollars cash for him!" exclaimed the banker excitedly.
The entire party broke forth with hearty applause.
It came about as follows: The dog had been sent into some weeds by Moreton to retrieve a dead bird, which he promptly did. It was as he was returning, with the game in his mouth, and leaping clear above the weed-tops, as was his habit, that he suddenly, at the highest point of a bound, turned his head half about, and stiffened himself in mid-air, on the scent of another bird. He struck the ground standing staunchly, his eyes fixed, his feet slightly spread, his back and tail on a line. The sportsmen could hardly believe it a genuine point; but when the bird was flushed and killed, they stood for a moment looking at the sensitive thorough-bred, with that flawless admiration which men reserve for beautiful women and sure-nosed dogs; then they all applauded.
Beresford felt defeated at every point, and in his heart a premonition of failure began to ferment. A few days ago he had met Agnes Ransom at his father's house in Montgomery, and had fallen a prey to her gentle voice and grave, sweet face. Since then she had been constantly in his mind, her influence growing upon him by force of memory, some new grace adding itself to the impression, as each hour recalled a word, a smile or a glance unconsciously treasured by him. Now it all seemed slipping away. It is one of the most natural of mental operations, this swift reaching forward to grasp an evil before it is more than vaguely threatened. We call it foreboding: it may be the last refinement of logic. Beresford kept to himself the rest of the morning, rather gloomily borrowing of the future. Something told him that Agnes Ransom and Reynolds were going to be lovers. His enthusiasm flagged and he shot with less than his usual care. On the contrary, Reynolds seemed to be attended by the god of good luck; every chance seemed to favor him. His self-confidence never once deserted him. He too was borrowing of the future, and what he borrowed was very sweet. Deep in his heart nestled the precious belief that Mrs. Ransom had involuntarily—nay, unconsciously—responded to his interest in her. This gave him nerve and alertness and force. When he would flush a bird, the loud hum of its wings and the bullet-like rapidity of its flight did not disturb his thought or his vision. He threw up his gun with a promptness and self-possession that insured a perfect aim. When he fired the result was a thoroughly fine, clean shot, stopping the game dead in mid-air, so that it fell without a flutter. Yet all the time his dream went on.
At about half-past twelve the horn blew loud and long from the place where the ladies had been stationed with the luncheon. Most of the shooters were loth to leave off the exciting sport, even though the stirrings of hunger began to be importunate. The mellow notes of invitation fancifully executed by the negro "bugler" had nothing very insistent in them. It was a long while before the party began to straggle back. Reynolds was first to reach the little grove above the spring near where the ladies had been waiting and watching. He strode swiftly along with his gun across his shoulder, his dogs following at his heels. A small, fancifully twisted tuft of mistletoe that he bore in his left hand was heavy with milk-white berries and waxen green leaves. His broad-brimmed hat was far back on his head, leaving his swarthy face unshaded. He had almost touched Mrs. Ransom before he saw her where she sat under a little pine tree with her hands listlessly crossed in her lap, her head uncovered and her dark hair gleaming in strong contrast with the almost colorless fairness of her face. He started perceptibly on discovering her, but a smile came over his face, as he bowed and said:
"A charmingly airy place you have: may I join you? I am really quite tired."
"Certainly, there's ample room," she half-hesitatingly replied, a little color slowly warming her cheeks, "but I believe the luncheon is spread and you must be hungry."