No wonder that, in the contemplation of such a prospect, he took no heed of the partridges straying through the stubble, or the pheasants skulking along the edge of their cover!
It was nigh two years since he had first looked upon her. She would now be fifteen, or near to it. In that quick, constrained glance given to the balcony above, he saw that she had grown taller and bigger.
So much the better, thought he, as bringing nearer the time when he should be able to test the truth of his presentiment.
Though sanguine, he was not confident. How could he? A nameless, almost homeless adventurer, a wide gulf lay between him and this daughter of an English baronet, noted in name as for riches, What hope had he of being able to bridge it?
None, save that springing from hope itself: perhaps only the wish father to the thought.
It might be all an illusion. In addition to the one great obstacle of unequal wealth—the rank he had no reason to consider—there might be many others.
Blanche Vernon was an only child, too precious to be lightly bestowed—too beautiful to go long before having her heart besieged. Already it may have been stormed and taken.
And by one nearer her own age—perhaps some one her father had designed for the assault.
While thus cogitating, the cloud that flung its shadow over Maynard’s face told how slight was his faith in fatalism.
It commenced clearing away, as the fly was driven up to the entrance of Vernon Park, and the gates were flung open to receive him.