Among the Arrows.
The invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making for as many targets.
Only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having a little coterie of acquaintances at her back.
Gwen Wynn herself is in this opening contest. Good with the bow, as at the oar—indeed with county celebrity as an archer—carrying the champion badge of her club—it is almost a foregone conclusion she will come off victorious.
Soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. She is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. Instead, negligently, and to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. The gathering is large—nearly a hundred people present—and one might come or go without attracting observation. She evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. There is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance.
It is not unobserved. A gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause—a suspicion that pains him. It is George Shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows—in short, acting as her aide-de-camp. Neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. His glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction—to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up.
They are both “prospecting” for the selfsame individual, but with very different ideas—one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. For the expected one is a gentleman—no other than Vivian Ryecroft.
Shenstone knows the Hussar officer has been invited; and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. Were it himself no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds.
As time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, Shenstone begins to think he will this day have Miss Wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. There are others present who seek her smiles—some aspiring to her hand—but none he fears so much as the one still absent.
Just as he is becoming calm, and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman of the genus “swell,” who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory:—