LITMIR.BIZ

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cheeks. “I don’t believe I shall shoot very steadily this afternoon,” he said, turning toward the group at luncheon under the trees. “I wish Quarrier well—with the cup.”

      “Nonsense,” said Marion Page curtly; “you are the cleanest shot I ever knew.” And she raised her glass to him, frankly, and emptied it with the precision characteristic of her: “Your cup! With all my heart!”

      “I also drink to your success, Mr. Siward,” said Sylvia in a low voice, lifting her champagne glass in the sunlight. “To the Shotover Cup—if you wish it.” And as other glasses sparkled aloft amid a gay tumult of voices wishing him success, Sylvia dropped her voice, attuning it to his ear alone: “Success for the cup, if you wish it—or, whatever you wish—success!” and she meant it very kindly.

      His hand resting on his glass he sat, smiling silent acknowledgment to the noisy generous toasts; he turned and looked at Sylvia when her low voice caught his ear—looked at her very steadily, unsmiling.

      Then to the others, brightening again, he said a word or two, wittily, with a gay compliment well placed and a phrase to end it in good taste. And, in the little gust of hand-clapping and laughter, he turned again to Sylvia, smilingly, saying under his breath: “As though winning the cup could compensate me now for losing it!”

      She leaned involuntarily nearer: “You mean that you will not try for it?”

      “Yes.”

      “That is not fair—to me!”

      “Why not?”

      “Because—because I do not ask it of you.”

      “You need not, now that I know your wish.”

      “Mr. Siward, I—my wish—”

      But she had no chance to finish; already Rena Bonnesdel was looking at them, and there was a hint of amused surprise in Eileen Shannon’s mischievous eyes, averted instantly, with malicious ostentation.

      Then Marion Page took possession of him so exclusively, so calmly, that something in her cool certainty vaguely irritated Sylvia, who had never liked her. Besides, the girl showed too plainly her indifference to other people; which other people seldom find amusing.

      “Stephen,” called out Alderdene, anxiously counting the web loops in his khaki vest, “what do you call fair shooting at these damnable ruffed grouse? You needn’t be civil about it, you know.”

      “Five shells to a bird is good shooting,” answered Siward. “Don’t you think so, Miss Page?”

      “You have a better score, Mr. Siward,” said Marion Page with a hostile glance at Alderdene, who had not made good.

      “That was chance—and this year’s birds. I’ve taken ten shells to an old drummer in hard wood or short pines.” He smiled to himself, adding: “A drove of six in the open got off scot free a little while ago. Miss Landis saw it.”

      That he was inclined to turn it all to banter relieved her at once. “It was pitiable,” she nodded gravely to Marion; “his nerve left him when they made such a din in the briers.”

      Miss Page glanced at her indifferently.

      “What I need is practice like the chasseurs of Tarascon,” admitted Siward.

      “I willingly offer my hat, monsieur,” said Sylvia.

      Marion Page, impatient to start, had turned her tailor-made back to the company, and was instructing his crestfallen lordship very plainly: “You fire too quickly, Blinky; two seconds is what you must count when a grouse flushes. You must say ‘Mark! Right!’ or ‘Mark! Left! Bang!’”

      “I might as well say ‘Bang!’ for all I’ve done to-day,” he muttered, adjusting his shooting-goggles and snapping his eyes like fury. Then exploding into raucous laughter he moved off southward with Marion Page, who had exchanged a swift handshake with Siward; the twins followed, convoying Eileen and Rena, neither maiden excitedly enthusiastic. And so the luncheon party, lord and lady, twins and maidens, guides and dogs, trailed away across the ridge, distant silhouettes presently against the sky, then gone. And after a little while the far, dry, accentless report of smokeless powder announced that the opening of the season had been resumed and the Lesser Children were dying fast in the glory of a perfect day.

      “Are you ready, Mr. Siward?” She stood waiting for him at the edge of the thicket; Miles resumed his game sack and her fowling-piece; the dog came up, looking him anxiously in the eyes.

      So he walked forward beside her into the dappled light of the thicket.

      Within a few minutes the dog stood twice; and twice the whirring twitter of woodcock startled her, echoed by the futile crack of his gun.

      “Beg pardon, sir—”

      “Yes, Miles,” with a glint of humour.

      “Overshot, sir,—excusin’ the liberty, Mr. Siward. Both marked down forty yard to the left if you wish to start ‘em again.”

      “No,” he said indifferently, “I had my chance at them. They’re exempt.”

      Then Sagamore, tail wildly whipping, came smack on the trail of an old stager of a cock-grouse—on, on over rock, log, wet gully, and dry ridge, twisting, doubling, circling, every wile, every trick employed and met, until the dog crawling noiselessly forward, trembled and froze, and Siward, far to left, wheeled at the muffled and almost noiseless rise. For an instant the slanting barrels wavered, grew motionless; but only a stray sunbeam glinting struck a flash of cold fire from the muzzle, only the feathery whirring whisper broke the silence of suspense. Then far away over sunny tree tops a big grouse sailed up, rocketing into the sky on slanted wings, breasting the height of green; dipped, glided downward with bowed wings stiffened, and was engulfed in the misty barriers of purpling woods.

      “Vale!” said Siward aloud, “I salute you!”

      He came strolling back across the crisp leaves, the dappled sunshine playing over his face like the flicker of a smile.

      “Miles,” he said, “my nerve is gone. Such things happen. I’m all in. Come over here, my friend, and look at the sun with me.”

      The discomfited keeper obeyed.

      “Where ought that refulgent luminary to scintilate when I face Osprey Ledge?”

      “Sir?”

      “The sun. How do I hold it?”

      “On the p’int of your right shoulder, sir.—You ain’t quittin’, Mr. Siward, sir!” anxiously; “that Shotover Cup is easy yours, sir!” eagerly; “Wot’s a miss on a old drummer, Mr. Siward? Wot’s twice over-shootin’ cock, sir, when a blind dropper can see you are the cleanest, fastest, hard-shootin’ shot in the null county!”

      But Siward shook his head with an absent glance at the dog, and motioned the astonished keeper forward.

      “Line the easiest trail for us,” he said; “I think we are already a trifle tired. Twigs will do in short cover; use a hatchet in the big timber.... And go slow till we join you.”

      And when the unwilling and perplexed keeper had started, Siward, unlocking his gun, drew out the smooth yellow cartridges and pocketed them.

      Sylvia looked up as the sharp metallic click of the locked breech rang out in the silence.

      “Why do you do this, Mr. Siward?”

      “I don’t know; really I am honest; I don’t know.”

      “It could not be because I—”

      “No, of course not,” he said, too seriously to reassure her.

      “Mr. Siward,” in quick displeasure.

      “Yes?”

      “What you do for your amusements cannot concern me.”

      “Right as usual,” he said so gaily that a reluctant smile trembled on her lips.

      “Then why have you done this? It is unreasonable—if you don’t feel as I do about killing things

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