“The ladies are going to accompany us to the cover,” said Sir George, making glad the hearts of his sportsmen guests. “So, gentlemen,” he added, “you must have a care how you shoot.”
The expedition was not a distant one. The pheasant preserves of Vernon Park lay contiguous to the house, between the pleasure grounds and the “home farm.” They consisted of a scrub wood, with here and there a large tree overshadowing the undergrowth of hazel, holly, white birch, gone, dogwood, and briar. They extended over a square mile of hilly land, interspersed with deep dells and soft shaded vales, through which meandered many a crystal rivulet.
It was a noted cover for woodcock; but too early for these, and pheasant-killing was to be the pastime of the day.
After breakfast the shooting party set forth. The ladies were, many of them, staying at the house; the wives, sisters, and daughters of Sir George’s gentlemen guests. But there were others invited to the sport—the élite of the neighbourhood.
All went out together—guided by the head gamekeeper, and followed by spaniels and retrievers.
Once clear of the grounds, the business of the day began; and the banging of double-barrelled guns soon put a period to the conversation that had continued in a general way up to the edge of the woodland.
Once inside the cover, the shooting party soon became dismembered. Small groups, each consisting of two or three ladies and the same number of gentlemen, strayed off through the thicket, as chance, the ground, or the gamekeepers, conducted them.
With one of these went Maynard, though not the one he would have elected to accompany. A stranger, he had no choice, but was thrown along with the first set that offered—a couple of country squires, who cared far more for the pheasants than the fair creatures who had come to see them slaughtered.
With this trio of shooters there was not a single lady. One or two had started along with them. But the squires, being keen sportsmen, soon left their long-skirted companions following in the distance; and Maynard was compelled either to keep up with them and their dogs, or abandon the shooting altogether.
Treading on with the sportsmen he soon lost sight of the ladies, who fell far behind. He had no great regret at their defection. None of them chanced to be either very young or very attractive, and they were luckily attended by a servant. He had bidden adieu to them by exhibiting a pretended zeal in pheasant-shooting far from being felt, and which he would scarce have done had Sir George Vernon’s daughter been one of their number.