In such places even a Hindoo prince, in the costume of Tippoo Sahib, not unfrequently makes appearance.
The day was as it should be for a hunt. There was a clear sky, an atmosphere favourable to the scent, and cool enough for for putting a horse to his speed. Moreover, the hounds had been well rested.
The gentlemen were jocund, the ladies wreathed in smiles, the smock-frocks staring at them with a pleased expression upon their stolid faces.
All appeared happy, as they waited for the huntsman’s horn to signal the array.
There was one in that gathering who shared not its gaiety; a man mounted upon a chestnut hunter, and halted alongside the barouche that carried Blanche Vernon.
This man was Maynard.
Why did he not participate in the general joy?
The reason might have been discovered on the opposite side of the barouche, in the shape of an individual on horseback also, who called Blanche Vernon his cousin.
Like Maynard too, he was staying at Vernon Park—a guest admitted to a still closer intimacy than himself.
By name Scudamore—Frank Scudamore—he was a youth still boyish and beardless. All the more, on this account, was the man of mature age uneasy at his presence.