He was far from feeling cheerful as he strode through the preserves. He was troubled with an unpleasant reflection—arising from an incident observed. He had seen the baronet’s daughter pair off with the party in which shot young Scudamore. As she had done so unsolicited, she must have preferred this party to any other.
The ex-officer was not so expert in his shooting as he had shown himself at the hunt.
Several times he missed altogether; and once or twice the strong-winged gallinaceae rose whirring before him, without his attempting to pull trigger or even elevate his gun!
The squires, who on the day before had witnessed his dexterity in the saddle, rather wondered at his being such a poor shot.
They little dreamt of what was disqualifying him. They only observed that he was abstracted, but guessed not the cause.
After a time he and they became separated; they thinking only of the pheasants, he of that far brighter bird, in some distant quarter of the cover, gleaming amidst the foliage, and radiating delight all around.
Perhaps alone, in some silent dell, with young Scudamore by her side—authorised to keep apart through their cousinly relationship—he, perhaps, pouring into her ear the soft, confident whisperings of a cousin’s love!
The thought rendered Maynard sad.
It might hive excited him to anger; but he knew he had no pretext. Between him and the daughter of Sir George Vernon, as yet, only a few speeches had been exchanged; these only commonplace expressions of civility, amidst a surrounding of people, her friends and relatives. He had not even found opportunity to talk over those incidents that had led to the present relationship between them.
He longed for, and yet dreaded it! That presentiment, at first so confidently felt, had proved a deception.