Breakfast passed joyously and gaily, no
more allusions were made to the bets,
Spencer carefully avoiding the subject, as
if he thought that he might give offence
by continuing it; but St. Maur and Harbottle
continued to expatiate upon the
charms of Rose Castleton, the felicity of
the man who should have the luck to
gain her, and the certainty of its giving
him the greatest eclat of any one in London,
to produce her in the parks, or at
the theatre, as a part of his menage.

As soon as breakfast was over, while
St. Maur and Spencer excused themselves
for the purpose of writing a few letters,
Edward with Percy Harbottle walked
round the grounds, and visited the stalls,
and the kennels, and the mews of the falcons;
and finally set to amusing themselves
by making the grooms ride the
hunters in succession backward and forward
over a high leaping bar.

While thus employed they were joined
by the others, and the question was put,
how the day was to be spent, until dinner
time.

“Oh! confound dinner!” replied Spencer;
“I hate your regular two o'clock
dinner, it so thoroughly breaks up the
day. Let us go out and hawk or shoot, if
Sir Edward likes my plan, all day; taking
some ale and cold meat with us, and
come home to a good early supper, and
we will have another bout at the Burgundy.
What say you, worthy host of mine?”

“That is a bright thought, and a right
good plan,” answered Hale. “I am like
you; I hate your ceremonious dinner so
early in the day, and I love your extemporaneous
sylvan meal on the green turf,
under the shady trees, or beside some
clear and bubbling runnel.”

“Yes,” answered St. Maur, “or in some
jolly farmer's house, with his pretty
daughter to pour out the ale, and kiss you
behind the door, when the father is looking
the other way.”

A loud laugh followed this characteristic
speech; and then they began to inquire
what should be the order of the day,
and it was speedily decided that they
would shoot rabbits in the park, in preference
to hawking in the meadows, or
fishing in the stream—and Eversley being
called in to name a farm-house situated
conveniently for taking the mid-day meal,
suggested, not altogether unexpectedly to
Edward Hale, nor without having
pocketed beforehand a handsome fee for
his advice, suggested farmer Castleton's.

“Ha! ha! Then we shall see the pretty
Rose again—hey, Ned?” said St. Maur.

“And Percy Harbottle will have a
chance of entering the lists, if he will,”
said Spencer.

“No, no!” replied Harbottle, “every
lad to his own lass. I stick to my promise;
he gave me a good chance with a
pretty girl yesterday, and hang me if I
cross him to-day.”

In a few moments they were all equipped,
and ready for the sport, accompanied
by servants with hunting-poles to
beat the bushes, and spaniels to start the
game, and boys with spare ammunition,
and all means and appliances for a blithe
day's sport.

Taking their way across the trout
stream, and through the dense oak grove,
they crossed the tall castle hill, and going
out by a postern in the brick wall of the
park, entered a deep and hollow road, between
high banks of sand, crested on
either hand by the walls of the home park
and the deer-park—and overshadowed by
the rich foliage of the huge oaks, which
almost crossed their branches overhead,
and made the lane at noonday almost as,
dark as midnight. A second postern, at
a short distance up the lane, gave access
to the deer-park—a wild tract of barren
broken land, with many gulleys and ravines,
each watered by its gushing streamlet,
each clothed with feathery brushwood
and tall fern, among which the
grey burrowers they came in pursuit of
squatted by hundreds.

At a short distance from the double portions,
they caught a glimpse, as they
crossed the road, of a large rambling brick
farm-house, with tall fantastic pinnacles,
and the twisted chimneys of the Elizabethan
style, peering from out the shade
of the dark oaks, and abutting on the deer-park
wall.

“There is the home farm,” said the
keeper—“old Castleton's, you know, Sir

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Edward; I sent the boys up with the
wine, and word we would be there at
two hours past noon; and he says, if you
please, Sir Edward, he will be very blithe
to see you, and they will have the goose
pie ready.”

“A capital thing, too, is a good goose
pie,” said Hale, “and we will find appetites
conformable, I'll warrant it. Now,
give me my gun, for here we are upon
the ground, and so let loose the spaniels.
Are they steady, Mark?”

“No steadier in England, your honor,”
answered the keeper, “than the two black
King Charles! they are worth fifty guineas
any day, of any gentleman's gold!
I'll be judged by these gentlemen if they
be not—although I say it who should not,
seeing it was I who broke them.”

The game was abundant, the day
prosperous, the young marksmen in
good cue; the dogs behaved well, the
shooting was extremely good, and the
sport undeniable, for above a hundred
rabbits had been bagged by the three guns
before the hour indicated for their rustic
dinner was announced, by the long keen
blast of a bugle, strongly and scientifically
winded, from the porch of the neighboring
farm-house.

“There goes old Castleton,” cried Hale,
“he was the huntsman to my father's
pack, many years since! That says that
the goose pie is ready.”

Leaving the brakes wherein they had
been shooting, a short walk brought them
to the well stocked and hospitable farm-house,
where blunt old fashioned English
hospitality received them, with its cheery
and unceremonious welcome. The goose
pie was pronounced excellent, and such
justice done to it as showed the praise
was sincere; the home-brewed ale as
clear as amber, as mild as milk, and almost
as strong as brandy, was duly honored;
and, above all, as Edward expected,
lovely Rose Castleton was there—looking,
he thought even lovelier than before, in
her tight fitting russet jacket, and short
blue petticoat, with her beautiful round
arms bare nearly to the shoulder, and her
trim shapely ankles, displayed by her
brief draperies.

There was, however, something in
Rose's manner that Hale did not understand;
she would not talk much to him,
nor jest at all; yet many a stolen glance
met his—now dwelling boldly, now as
coquettishly averted; still he could not
exactly make it out, until, as her father
turned aside to speak to St. Maur, she
cast her eye quickly towards the old
man, and laid her finger on her lips.

Frank Hunter, with the wonted indiscretion
of men and lovers, under such
circumstances, had been to see her that
morning; and, like a fool as he was, instead
of coaxing, had reproached and
harassed her; and, concluding by calling
for her father's interposition, had procured
her a sound seolding, in set terms,
for her flirtiness and vanity in fancying
that a gentleman like Sir Edward would
demean himself so much as to look at her.

In truth, between the fascinations of the
young lord of the manor, the sulky and
unflattering resentment of her lover, and
the most injudicious violence of her
father, who really had not the least suspicion
that Hale was thinking about his
daughter, and fancied that it was merely
an absurd whim of the girl's, to tease
Frank Hunter—in truth, Rose Castleton
was in dread peril of going irretrievably
astray.

Nothing of any moment passed; nor
could Sir Edward find any opportunity of
speaking to the poor girl alone until when
the dinner was finished, and they were
returning to their sports; after they had
all quitted the house with the old farmer,
he made a plea of having left his shot
pouch, and ran back himself, before any
one could anticipate him, to fetch it. He
found, as he expected, Rose Castleton
alone, looking out of the window after
them. As he entered the garden gate she
looked round, and seeing the shot bag,
guessed, with a woman's rapid wit, what
it meant—caught it up, and stepped out
into the porch to meet him.

There were two servant girls removing
the dinner things in the hall, and, as if
accidentally, she pulled the heavy door
to after her. The porch was deep and
projecting, and, as Hale entered it, he
cast a quick glance round to see if he was
observed, but all was safe!

The very air of Rose, her heighteued
color, the quickened motion of her bosom,
and the trembling of her small hand,
showed that she was not all unconscious.

“I thank you, Rose,” he said quite
aloud, in order to be overheard; “that is
just what I came back for.”

But, with the words, he caught her
round the waist with both his arms, and
pressed her soft and panting bosom to
his own—took one long kiss from her unreluctant
lips, and whispered, “You will
come, Rose, you will come, dearest Rose,
to-night?”

“Be sure I will,” she replied—“if they
will let me—if I can slip away; but—
but,” she added, with an arch smile, “you

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must promise that you will not harm
me.”

Before he could reply, however, the old
man's step was heard without; and putting
her fingers up to her rosy lips, and
blowing him a kiss, she vanished. The
door clapped heavily, and, making as if
it had closed on his own exit, Edward
walked out with the pouch in his hand,
spoke a few words to the old man, and
hurried on to join his comrades.

They returned to their sport,—but the
mind of Edward was too much engrossed
by other matters; his heart beat thick and
fast—his head was unsteady—he missed
four or five fair shots in succession; and
his friends laughed at him; but he bore
all their jeering in good part, and laughed
in his turn, at them, as he told them that
“He laughed the loudest who laughed
last!” “Look out,” he added, “look out
for your thousand, captain!”

“Ha! is it so?” said Spencer, “has she
made an appointment?”

“For nine o'clock to-night!”

“Hurrah!” cried St. Maur. “Hurrah!
we shall do the captain—I knew we
should. Halloa! there goes a rabbit,
right from between my legs!” and he
took a quick sight and fired.

Their shooting was continued until the
shades of evening had begun fairly to set
in; and then, with their shooting ponies
fairly laden with the quantity of game
they had shot, their dogs almost tired out,
and themselves in the highest possible
spirits, they returned homeward to supper,

Just as they came in sight of the house,
the first bell was ringing out clearly and
merrily, so that there was little time to
spare before the social meal should be set
on the board—and this little Captain
Spencer, determined that Edward should
have no more time for quiet consideration,
contrived to make still less, by detaining
him some minutes on the steps of
the hall door, in frivolous conversation.

Then starting suddenly, as if he had
forgotten himself, he said—“Upon my
word! we shall scarce have five minutes
to make our ablutions. Now, pray, lose
no time, my dear Sir Edward, for I am
perilous hungry.”

“Not I, faith,” answered the baronet,
running up stairs in high glee—“I will
be with you in five minutes.”

Then Spencer turned round, with a
quiet smile, to St. Maur, and said—

“The game is won!—that is to say, if
you have not made any blunder in your
letter to Delaval. I wish I had found time
to see it before you sent it off. Mine to
Davenant was a master-piece! Not a
word that could be contradicted; yet not
a word that might not be construed into
anything.”

“I think, for my part, that the game is
lost! Here is this silly wench going to
meet him quietly to-night. He wins her
almost without wooing—wearies of her
as soon as she is won—and there's an
end of the whole thing, and no one the
wiser.”

“That is all you know about it! and,
true enough, that is all that would come
of it, if there were no head wiser than
your own to arrange it.”

“How is it, then? How—”

“Never you mind. It is all well, that
is enough for you. Go away now, and
prepare yourself for supper.”

It was not twenty minutes before to the
light-hearted sports of the day the excitement
of the lighted hall succeeded—the
sumptuous supper—the rich and genial
wines—the frolic mirth—the graceful revelry—
the voluptuous song—the licentious
boasting. Now there was nothing
of the gross and low debauchery which
had rendered the orgies of the past night
disgusting to every refined and gentle
spirit; now there was nothing coarse or
boisterous or obscene; wine flowed, it is
true, liberally, but not to excess; now
there was present everything that could
excite and stimulate, and nothing that
could jar upon or disgust the senses.

So passed the evening, until the hour
drew nigh for the host's appointment, and
then, easily excused, Sir Edward stole
away to the rendezvous in the low Monk's
Coppice.

That night, although they waited for
him, and revelled late, his friends saw nothing
of their host; and when, two hours
past midnight, they adjourned, they were
informed by the house-steward that Sir
Edward, not being well at ease, had been
a-bed these four hours.

“I told you so,” whispered Spencer, “I
told you he would not get her very easily.
Good night! good night! to-morrow will
play out the game.”

The morrow came, and when the party
were assembled at the breakfast table, the
brow of Edward Hale was so dark and
moody, that from this alone it was evident
he must have been disappointed; but
this it did not suit his guests to perceive,
and as soon as he entered the apartment,
St. Maur, who was awaiting him, cried
out, with a merry laugh—

“Why this is the very insolence of conquest,
Ned. They tell me that you were
abed at ten o'clock; was not the lovely
Rose worth one hour's attention?”

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