But Frank Scudamore, endowed with extraordinary chums, as favoured by chances, had little to fear from their rivalry; and one after another, on shedding their evanescent light, had disappeared from his path.
At length came that black shadow across it; in the person of a man, old enough, as he had spitefully said, to be Blanche Vernon’s father! The grandfather was an expression of hyperbole.
This man was Maynard.
Scudamore, while visiting at Vernon Park, had heard a good deal said in praise of the adventurous stranger; too much to make it possible he should ever take a liking to him—especially as the praise had proceeded from the lips of his pretty cousin. He had met Maynard for the first time at the shooting party, and his anticipated dislike was realised, if not reciprocated.
It was the most intense of antipathies—that of jealousy.
It had shown itself at the hunting meet, in the pheasant preserves, in the archery grounds, in the house at home—in short everywhere.
As already known, he had followed his cousin along the wood-path. He had watched every movement made by her while in the company of her strange escort—angry at himself for having so carelessly abandoned her. He had not heard the conversation passing between them; but saw enough to satisfy him that it savoured of more than a common confidence. He had been smarting with jealousy all the rest of that day, and all the next, which was her birthday; jealous at dinner, as he observed her eyes making vain endeavours to pierce the épergne of flowers; madly jealous in the dance—especially at that time when the “Lancers” were on the floor, and she stood partner to the man “old enough to be her father.”
Notwithstanding the noble blood in his veins, Scudamore was mean enough to keep close to them, and listen!
And he heard some of the speeches, half-compromising, that had passed between them.
Stung to desperation, he determined to report them to his uncle.