It was quite gone when the proprietor of that park, meeting him in the vestibule of the mansion, bade him warm welcome to its hospitality.
Chapter Forty Four.
At the Meet.
There is perhaps no more superb sight than the “meet” of an English hunting-field—whether it be staghounds or fox. Even the grand panoply of war, with its serried ranks and braying band, is not more exciting than the tableau of scarlet coats grouped over the green, the hounds bounding impatiently around the gold-laced huntsman; here and there a horse rearing madly, as if determined on dismounting his rider; and at intervals the mellow horn, and sharply-cracked whip keeping the dogs in check.
The picture is not complete without its string of barouches and pony phaetons, filled with their fair occupants, a grand “drag” driven by the duke, and carrying the duchess; beside it the farmer in his market cart; and outside of all the pedestrian circle of smock-frocks, “Hob, Dick, and Hick, with clubs and clouted shoon,” their dim attire contrasting with the scarlet, though each—if it be a stag-hunt—with bright hopes of winning the bounty money by being in at the death of the deer.
At such a meet was Captain Maynard, mounted upon a steed from the stables of Sir George Vernon. Beside him was the baronet himself and near by his daughter, seated in an open barouche, with Sabina for her sole carriage companion.
The tawny-skinned and turbaned attendant—more like what might have been seen at an Oriental tiger hunt—nevertheless added to the picturesqueness of the tableau.
It was a grouping not unknown in those districts of England, where the returned East Indian “nabobs” have settled down to spend the evening of their days.