THE MATCH OF FALLOW FIELD AGAINST BECKLEY
The dramatic proportions to which ale will exalt the sentiments within
us, and our delivery of them, are apt to dwindle and shrink even below
the natural elevation when we look back on them from the hither shore
of the river of sleep—in other words, wake in the morning: and it was
with no very self-satisfied emotions that Evan, dressing by the full
light of day, reviewed his share in the events of the preceding night.
Why, since he had accepted his fate, should he pretend to judge the
conduct of people his superiors in rank? And where was the necessity
for him to thrust the fact of his being that abhorred social pariah
down the throats of an assembly of worthy good fellows? The answer was,
that he had not accepted his fate: that he considered himself as good a
gentleman as any man living, and was in absolute hostility with the
prejudices of society. That was the state of the case: but the
evaporation of ale in his brain caused him to view his actions from the
humble extreme of that delightful liquor, of which the spirit had flown
and the corpse remained.
Having revived his system with soda-water, and finding no sign of his
antagonist below, Mr. Raikes, to disperse the sceptical dimples on his
friend’s face, alluded during breakfast to a determination he had
formed to go forth and show on the cricket-field.
“For, you know,” he observed, “they can’t have any objection to fight
one.”
Evan, slightly colouring, answered: “Why, you said up-stairs, you
thought fighting duels disgraceful folly.”
“So it is, so it is; everybody knows that,” returned Jack; “but what
can a gentleman do?”
“Be a disgraceful fool, I suppose,” said Evan: and Raikes went on with
his breakfast, as if to be such occasionally was the distinguished fate
of a gentleman, of which others, not so happy in their birth, might
well be envious.
He could not help betraying that he bore in mind the main incidents of
the festival over-night; for when he had inquired who it might be that
had reduced his friend to wear mourning, and heard that it was his
father (spoken by Evan with a quiet sigh), Mr. Raikes tapped an egg,
and his flexible brows exhibited a whole Bar of contending arguments
within. More than for the love of pleasure, he had spent his money to
be taken for a gentleman. He naturally thought highly of the position,
having bought it. But Raikes appreciated a capital fellow, and felt
warmly to Evan, who, moreover, was feeding him.
If not born a gentleman, this Harrington had the look of one, and was
pleasing in female eyes, as the landlady, now present, bore witness,
wishing them good morning, and hoping they had slept well. She handed
to Evan his purse, telling him she had taken it last night, thinking it
safer for the time being in her pocket; and that the chairman of the
feast paid for all in the Green Dragon up to twelve that day, he having
been born between the hours, and liking to make certain: and that every
year he did the same; and was a seemingly rough old gentleman, but as
soft-hearted as a chicken. His name must positively not be inquired,
she said; to be thankful to him was to depart, asking no questions.
“And with a dart in the bosom from those eyes—those eyes!” cried Jack,
shaking his head at the landlady’s resistless charms.
“I hope you was not one of the gentlemen who came and disturbed us last
night, Sir?” she turned on him sharply.
Jack dallied with the imputation, but denied his guilt.
“No; it wasn’t your voice,” continued the landlady. “A parcel of young
puppies calling themselves gentlemen! I know him. It’s that young Mr.
Laxley: and he the nephew of a Bishop, and one of the Honourables! and
then the poor gals get the blame. I call it a shame, I do. There’s that
poor young creature up-stairs—somebody’s victim she is: and nobody’s to
suffer but herself, the little fool!”
“Yes,” said Raikes. “Ah! we regret these things in after life!” and he
looked as if he had many gentlemanly burdens of the kind on his
conscience.
“It’s a wonder, to my mind,” remarked the landlady, when she had
placidly surveyed Mr. Raikes, “how young gals can let some of you
men-folk mislead ’em.”
She turned from him huffily, and addressed Evan:
“The old gentleman is gone, sir. He slept on a chair, breakfasted, and
was off before eight. He left word, as the child was born on his
birthright, he’d provide for it, and pay the mother’s bill, unless you
claimed the right. I’m afraid he suspected—what I never, never-no! but
by what I’ve seen of you—never will believe. For you, I’d say, must be
a gentleman, whatever your company. She asks one favour of you,
sir:—for you to go and let her speak to you once before you go away for
good. She’s asleep now, and mustn’t be disturbed. Will you do it,
by-and-by? Please to comfort the poor creature, sir.”
Evan consented. I am afraid also it was the landlady’s flattering
speech made him, without reckoning his means, add that the young mother
and her child must be considered under his care, and their expenses
charged to him. The landlady was obliged to think him a wealthy as well
as a noble youth, and admiringly curtsied.
Mr. John Raikes and Mr. Evan Harrington then strolled into the air, and
through a long courtyard, with brewhouse and dairy on each side, and a
pleasant smell of baking bread, and dogs winking in the sun, cats at
the corners of doors, satisfied with life, and turkeys parading, and
fowls, strutting cocks, that overset the dignity of Mr. Raikes by
awakening his imitative propensities. Certain white-capped women, who
were washing in a tub, laughed, and one observed: “He’s for all the
world like the little bantam cock stickin’ ’self up in a crow against
the Spaniar’.” And this, and the landlady’s marked deference to Evan,
induced Mr. Raikes contemptuously to glance at our national blindness
to the true diamond, and worship of the mere plumes in which a person
is dressed.
They passed a pretty flower-garden, and entering a smooth-shorn meadow,
beheld the downs beautifully clear under sunlight and slowly-sailing
images of cloud. At the foot of the downs, on a plain of grass, stood a
white booth topped by a flag, which signalled that on that spot
Fallowfield and Beckley were contending.
“A singular old gentleman! A very singular old gentleman, that!” Raikes
observed, following an idea that had been occupying him. “We did wrong
to miss him. We ought to have waylaid him in the morning. Never miss a
chance, Harrington.”
“What chance?” Evan inquired.
“Those old gentlemen are very odd,” Jack pursued, “very strange. He
wouldn’t have judged me by my attire. Admetus’ flocks I guard, yet am a
God! Dress is nothing to those old cocks. He’s an eccentric. I know it;
I can see it. He’s a corrective of Cudford, who is abhorrent to my
soul. To give you an instance, now, of what those old boys will do—I
remember my father taking me, when I was quite a youngster, to a tavern
he frequented, and we met one night just such an old fellow as this;
and the waiter told us afterwards that he noticed me particularly. He
thought me a very remarkable boy—predicted great things. For some
reason or other my father never took me there again. I remember our
having a Welsh rarebit there for supper, and when the waiter last night
mentioned a rarebit, ’gad he started up before me. I gave chase into my
early youth. However, my father never took me to meet the old fellow
again. I believe it lost me a fortune.”
Evan’s thoughts were leaping to the cricket-field, or he would have
condoled with Mr. Raikes for a loss that evidently afflicted him still.
Now, it must be told that the lady’s-maid of Mrs. Andrew Cogglesby,
borrowed temporarily by the Countess de Saldar for service at Beckley
Court, had slept in charge of the Countess’s boxes at the Green Dragon:
the Countess having told her, with the candour of high-born dames to
their attendants, that it would save expense; and that, besides,
Admiral Combleman, whom she was going to see, or Sir Perkins Ripley
(her father’s old friend), whom she should visit if Admiral Combleman
was not at his mansion—both were likely to have full houses, and she
could not take them by storm. An arrangement which left her upwards of
twelve hours’ liberty, seemed highly proper to Maria Conning, this
lady’s-maid, a very demure young person. She was at her bed-room
window, as Evan passed up the courtyard of the inn, and recognized him
immediately. “Can it be him they mean that’s the low tradesman?” was
Maria’s mysterious exclamation. She examined the pair, and added: “Oh,
no. It must be the tall one they mistook for the small one. But Mr.
Harrington ought not to demean himself by keeping company with such,
and my lady should know of it.”
My lady, alighting from the Lymport coach, did know of it, within a few
minutes after Evan had quitted the Green Dragon, and turned pale, as
high-born dames naturally do when they hear of a relative’s disregard
of the company he keeps.
“A tailor, my lady!” said scornful Maria; and the Countess jumped and
complained of a pin.
“How did you hear of this, Conning?” she presently asked with
composure.
“Oh, my lady, he was tipsy last night, and kept swearing out loud he
was a gentleman.”
“Tipsy!” the Countess murmured in terror. She had heard of inaccessible
truths brought to light by the magic wand of alcohol. Was Evan
intoxicated, and his dreadful secret unlocked last night?
“And who may have told you of this, Conning?” she asked.
Maria plunged into one of the boxes, and was understood to say that
nobody in particular had told her, but that among other flying matters
it had come to her ears.
“My brother is Charity itself,” sighed the Countess. “He welcomes high
or low.”
“Yes, but, my lady, a tailor!” Maria repeated, and the Countess,
agreeing with her scorn as she did, could have killed her. At least she
would have liked to run a bodkin into her, and make her scream. In her
position she could not always be Charity itself: nor is this the
required character for a high-born dame: so she rarely affected it.
“Order a fly: discover the direction Mr. Harrington has taken; spare me
further remarks,” she said; and Maria humbly flitted from her presence.
When she was gone, the Countess covered her face with her hands. “Even
this creature would despise us!” she exclaimed.
The young lady encountered by Mr. Raikes on the road to Fallowfield,
was wrong in saying that Beckley would be seen out before the shades of
evening caught up the ball. Not one, but two men of Beckley—the last
two—carried out their bats, cheered handsomely by both parties. The
wickets pitched in the morning, they carried them in again, and
plaudits renewed proved that their fame had not slumbered. To stand
before a field, thoroughly aware that every successful stroke you make
is adding to the hoards of applause in store for you is a joy to your
friends, an exasperation to your foes; I call this an exciting
situation, and one as proud as a man may desire. Then, again, the two
last men of an eleven are twins: they hold one life between them; so
that he who dies extinguishes the other. Your faculties are stirred to
their depths. You become engaged in the noblest of rivalries: in
defending your own, you fight for your comrade’s existence. You are
assured that the dread of shame, if not emulation, is making him
equally wary and alert.
Behold, then, the two bold men of Beckley fighting to preserve one
life. Under the shadow of the downs they stand, beneath a glorious day,
and before a gallant company. For there are ladies in carriages here,
there are cavaliers; good county names may be pointed out. The sons of
first-rate families are in the two elevens, mingled with the yeomen and
whoever can best do the business. Fallowfield and Beckley, without
regard to rank, have drawn upon their muscle and science. One of the
bold men of Beckley at the wickets is Nick Frim, son of the gamekeeper
at Beckley Court; the other is young Tom Copping, son of Squire
Copping, of Dox Hall, in the parish of Beckley. Last year, you must
know, Fallowfield beat. That is why Nick Frim, a renowned out-hitter,
good to finish a score brilliantly with a pair of threes, has taken to
blocking, and Mr. Tom cuts with caution, though he loves to steal his
runs, and is usually dismissed by his remarkable cunning.
The field was ringing at a stroke of Nick Frim’s, who had lashed out in
his old familiar style at last, and the heavens heard of it, when Evan
came into the circle of spectators. Nick and Tom were stretching from
post to post, might and main. A splendid four was scored. The field
took breath with the heroes; and presume not to doubt that heroes they
are. It is good to win glory for your country; it is also good to win
glory for your village. A Member of Parliament, Sir George Lowton,
notes this emphatically, from the statesman’s eminence, to a group of
gentlemen on horseback round a carriage wherein a couple of fair ladies
reclined.
“They didn’t shout more at the news of the Battle of Waterloo. Now this
is our peculiarity, this absence of extreme centralization. It must be
encouraged. Local jealousies, local rivalries, local triumphs—these are
the strength of the kingdom.”
“If you mean to say that cricket’s a ——” the old squire speaking
(Squire Uplift of Fallowfield) remembered the saving presences, and
coughed—“good thing, I’m one with ye, Sir George. Encouraged, egad!
They don’t want much of that here. Give some of your lean London straws
a strip o’ clean grass and a bit o’ liberty, and you’ll do ’em a
service.”
“What a beautiful hit!” exclaimed one of the ladies, languidly watching
the ascent of the ball.
“Beautiful, d’ ye call it?” muttered the squire.
The ball, indeed, was dropping straight into the hands of the
long-hit-off. Instantly a thunder rolled. But it was Beckley that took
the joyful treble—Fallowfield the deeply-cursing bass. The
long-hit-off, he who never was known to miss a catch—butter-fingered
beast!—he has let the ball slip through his fingers.
Are there Gods in the air? Fred Linnington, the unfortunate of
Fallowfield, with a whole year of unhappy recollection haunting him in
prospect, ere he can retrieve his character—Fred, if he does not accuse
the powers of the sky, protests that he cannot understand it, which
means the same.
Fallowfield’s defeat—should such be the result of the contest—he knows
now will be laid at his door. Five men who have bowled at the
indomitable Beckleyans think the same. Albeit they are Britons, it
abashes them. They are not the men they were. Their bowling is as the
bowling of babies; and see! Nick, who gave the catch, and pretends he
did it out of commiseration for Fallowfield, the ball has flown from
his bat sheer over the booth. If they don’t add six to the score, it
will be the fault of their legs. But no: they rest content with a fiver
and cherish their wind.
Yet more they mean to do, Success does not turn the heads of these
Britons, as it would of your frivolous foreigners.
And now small boys (who represent the Press here) spread out from the
marking-booth, announcing foremost, and in larger type, as it were,
quite in Press style, their opinion—which is, that Fallowfield will get
a jolly good hiding; and vociferating that Beckley is seventy-nine
ahead, and that Nick Frim, the favourite of the field, has scored
fifty-one to his own cheek. The boys are boys of both villages: but
they are British boys—they adore prowess. The Fallowfield boys wish
that Nick Frim would come and live on their side; the boys of Beckley
rejoice in possessing him. Nick is the wicketkeeper of the Beckley
eleven; long-limbed, wiry, keen of eye. His fault as a batsman is, that
he will be a slashing hitter. He is too sensible of the joys of a grand
spanking hit. A short life and a merry one, has hitherto been his
motto.
But there were reasons for Nick’s rare display of skill. That woman may
have the credit due to her (and, as there never was a contest of which
she did not sit at the springs, so is she the source of all superhuman
efforts exhibited by men), be it told that Polly Wheedle is on the
field; Polly, one of the upper housemaids of Beckley Court; Polly,
eagerly courted by Fred Linnington, humbly desired by Nick Frim—a pert
and blooming maiden—who, while her suitors combat hotly for an
undivided smile, improves her holiday by instilling similar unselfish
aspirations into the breasts of others.
Between his enjoyment of society and the melancholy it engendered in
his mind by reflecting on him the age and decrepitude of his hat, Mr.
John Raikes was doubtful of his happiness for some time. But as his
taste for happiness was sharp, he, with a great instinct amounting
almost to genius in its pursuit, resolved to extinguish his suspicion
by acting the perfectly happy man. To do this, it was necessary that he
should have listeners: Evan was not enough, and was besides
unsympathetic; he had not responded to Jack’s cordial assurances of his
friendship “in spite of anything,” uttered before they came into the
field.
Heat and lustre were now poured from the sky, on whose soft blue a
fleet of clouds sailed heavily. Nick Frim was very wonderful, no doubt.
He deserved that the Gods should recline on those gold-edged cushions
above, and lean over to observe him. Nevertheless, the ladies were
beginning to ask when Nick Frim would be out. The small boys alone
preserved their enthusiasm for Nick. As usual, the men took a middle
position. Theirs was the pleasure of critics, which, being founded on
the judgement, lasts long, and is without disappointment at the close.
It was sufficient that the ladies should lend the inspiration of their
bonnets to this fine match. Their presence on the field is another
beautiful instance of the generous yielding of the sex simply to grace
our amusement, and their acute perception of the part they have to
play.
Mr. Raikes was rather shy of them at first. But his acting rarely
failing to deceive himself, he began to feel himself the perfectly
happy man he impersonated, and where there were ladies he went, and
talked of days when he had creditably handled a bat, and of a renown in
the annals of Cricket cut short by mysterious calamity. The foolish
fellow did not know that they care not a straw for cricketing fame. His
gaiety presently forsook him as quickly as it had come. Instead of
remonstrating at Evan’s restlessness, it was he who now dragged Evan
from spot to spot. He spoke low and nervously.
“We’re watched!”
There was indeed a man lurking near and moving as they moved, with a
speculative air. Writs were out against Raikes. He slipped from his
friend, saying:
“Never mind me. That old amphitryon’s birthday hangs on till the
meridian; you understand. His table invites. He is not unlikely to
enjoy my conversation. What mayn’t that lead to? Seek me there.”
Evan strolled on, relieved by the voluntary departure of the weariful
funny friend he would not shake off, but could not well link with.
A long success is better when seen at a distance of time, and Nick Frim
was beginning to suffer from the monotony of his luck. Fallowfield
could do nothing with him. He no longer blocked. He lashed out at every
ball, and far flew every ball that was bowled. The critics saw, in this
return to his old practices, promise of Nick’s approaching extinction.
The ladies were growing hot and weary. The little boys gasped on the
grass, but like cunning circulators of excitement, spread a report to
keep it up, that Nick, on going to his wickets the previous day, had
sworn an oath that he would not lay down his bat till he had scored a
hundred.
So they had still matter to agitate their youthful breasts, and Nick’s
gradual building up of tens, and prophecies and speculations as to his
chances of completing the hundred, were still vehemently confided to
the field, amid a general mopping of faces.
Evan did become aware that a man was following him. The man had not the
look of a dreaded official. His countenance was sun-burnt and open, and
he was dressed in a countryman’s holiday suit. When Evan met his eyes,
they showed perplexity. Evan felt he was being examined from head to
heel, but by one unaccustomed to his part, and without the courage to
decide what he ought consequently to do while a doubt remained, though
his inspection was verging towards a certainty in his mind.
At last, somewhat annoyed that the man should continue to dog him
wherever he moved, he turned on him and asked him what he wanted?
“Be you a Muster Eav’n Harrington, Esquire?” the man drawled out in the
rustic music of inquiry.
“That is my name,” said Evan.
“Ay,” returned the man, “it’s somebody lookin’ like a lord, and has a
small friend wi’ shockin’ old hat, and I see ye come out o’ the Green
Drag’n this mornin’—I don’t reck’n there’s e’er a mistaak, but I likes
to make cock sure. Be you been to Poortigal, sir?”
“Yes,” answered Evan, “I have been to Poortigal.”
“What’s the name o’ the capital o’ Portugal, sir?” The man looked
immensely shrewd, and nodding his consent at the laughing reply, added:
“And there you was born, sir? You’ll excuse my boldness, but I only
does what’s necessary.”
Evan said he was not born there.
“No, not born there. That’s good. Now, sir, did you happen to be born
anywheres within smell o’ salt water?”
“Yes,” answered Evan, “I was born by the sea.”
“Not far beyond fifty mile from Fall’field here, sir?”
“Something less.”
“All right. Now I’m cock sure,” said the man. “Now, if you’ll have the
kindness just to oblige me by—” he sped the words and the instrument
jointly at Evan, “—takin’ that there letter, I’ll say good-bye, sir,
and my work’s done for the day.”
Saying which, he left Evan with the letter in his hands. Evan turned it
over curiously. It was addressed to “Evan Harrington, Esquire, T—— of
Lymport.”
A voice paralyzed his fingers: the clear ringing voice of a young
horsewoman, accompanied by a little maid on a pony, who galloped up to
the carriage upon which Squire Uplift, Sir George Lowton, Hamilton
Jocelyn, and other cavaliers, were in attendance.
“Here I am at last, and Beckley’s in still! How d’ ye do, Lady Racial?
How d’ ye do, Sir George. How d’ ye do, everybody. Your servant,
Squire! We shall beat you. Harry says we shall soon be a hundred a-head
of you. Fancy those boys! they would sleep at Fallowfield last night.
How I wish you had made a bet with me, Squire.”
“Well, my lass, it’s not too late,” said the Squire, detaining her
hand.
“Oh, but it wouldn’t be fair now. And I’m not going to be kissed on the
field, if you please, Squire. Here, Dorry will do instead. Dorry! come
and be kissed by the Squire.”
It was Rose, living and glowing; Rose, who was the brilliant young
Amazon, smoothing the neck of a mettlesome gray cob. Evan’s heart
bounded up to her, but his limbs were motionless.
The Squire caught her smaller companion in his arms, and sounded a kiss
upon both her cheeks; then settled her in the saddle, and she went to
answer some questions of the ladies. She had the same lively eyes as
Rose; quick saucy lips, red, and open for prattle. Rolls of auburn hair
fell down her back, for being a child she was allowed privileges. To
talk as her thoughts came, as well as to wear her hair as it grew, was
a special privilege of this young person, on horseback or elsewhere.
“Now, I know what you want to ask me, Aunt Shorne. Isn’t it about my
Papa? He’s not come, and he won’t be able to come for a week.—Glad to
be with Cousin Rosey? I should think I am! She’s the nicest girl I ever
could suppose. She isn’t a bit spoiled by Portugal; only browned; and
she doesn’t care for that; no more do I. I rather like the sun when it
doesn’t freckle you. I can’t bear freckles, and I don’t believe in milk
for them. People who have them are such a figure. Drummond Forth has
them, but he’s a man, and it doesn’t matter for a man to have freckles.
How’s my uncle Mel? Oh, he’s quite well. I mean he has the gout in one
of his fingers, and it’s swollen so, it’s just like a great fat fir
cone! He can’t write a bit, and rests his hand on a table. He wants to
have me made to write with my left hand as well as my right. As if I
was ever going to have the gout in one of my fingers!”
Sir George Lowton observed to Hamilton Jocelyn, that Melville must take
to his tongue now.
“I fancy he will,” said Hamilton. “My father won’t give up his nominee;
so I fancy he’ll try Fallowfield. Of course, we go in for the
agricultural interest; but there’s a cantankerous old ruffian down
here—a brewer, or something—he’s got half the votes at his bidding. We
shall see.”
“Dorothy, my dear child, are you not tired?” said Lady Racial. “You are
very hot.”
“Yes, that’s because Rose would tear along the road to get here in
time, after we had left those tiresome Copping people, where she had to
make a call. ‘What a slow little beast your pony is, Dorry!’—she said
that at least twenty times.”
“Oh, you naughty puss!” cried Rose. “Wasn’t it, ‘Rosey, Rosey, I’m sure
we shall be too late, and shan’t see a thing: do come along as hard as
you can’?”
“I’m sure it was not,” Miss Dorothy retorted, with the large eyes of
innocence. “You said you wanted to see Nick Frim keeping the wicket,
and Ferdinand Laxley bowl. And, oh! you know something you said about
Drummond Forth.”
“Now, shall I tell upon you?” said Rose.
“No, don’t!” hastily replied the little woman, blushing. And the
cavaliers laughed out, and the ladies smiled, and Dorothy added: “It
isn’t much, after all.”
“Then, come; let’s have it, or I shall be jealous,” said the Squire.
“Shall I tell?” Rose asked slily.
“It’s unfair to betray one of your sex, Rose,” remarked the
sweetly-smiling lady.
“Yes, Lady Racial—mayn’t a woman have secrets?” Dorothy put it with
great natural earnestness, and they all laughed aloud. “But I know a
secret of Rosey’s,” continued Miss Dorothy, “and if she tells upon me,
I shall tell upon her.”
“They’re out!” cried Rose, pointing her whip at the wickets. “Good
night to Beckley! Tom Copping’s run out.”
Questions as to how it was done passed from mouth to mouth. Questions
as to whether it was fair sprang from Tom’s friends, and that a doubt
existed was certain: the whole field was seen converging toward the two
umpires.
Farmer Broadmead for Fallowfield, Master Nat Hodges for Beckley.
It really is a mercy there’s some change in the game,” said Mrs.
Shorne, waving her parasol. “It’s a charming game, but it wants variety
a little. When do you return, Rose?”
“Not for some time,” said Rose, primly. “I like variety very well, but
I don’t seek it by running away the moment I’ve come.”
“No, but, my dear,” Mrs. Shorne negligently fanned her face, “you will
have to come with us, I fear, when we go. Your uncle accompanies us. I
really think the Squire will, too; and Mr. Forth is no chaperon. Even
you understand that.”
“Oh, I can get an old man—don’t be afraid, said Rose. “Or must I have
an old woman, aunt?”
The lady raised her eyelids slowly on Rose, and thought: “If you were
soundly whipped, my little madam, what a good thing it would be for
you.” And that good thing Mrs. Shorne was willing to do for Rose. She
turned aside, and received the salute of an unmistakable curate on
foot.
“Ah, Mr. Parsley, you lend your countenance to the game, then?”
The curate observed that sound Churchmen unanimously supported the
game.
“Bravo!” cried Rose. “How I like to hear you talk like that, Mr.
Parsley. I didn’t think you had so much sense. You and I will have a
game together—single wicket. We must play for something—what shall it
be?”
“Oh—for nothing,” the curate vacuously remarked.
“That’s for love, you rogue!” exclaimed the Squire. “Come, come, none
o’ that, sir—ha! ha!”
“Oh, very well; we’ll play for love,” said Rose.
“And I’ll hold the stakes, my dear—eh?”
“You dear old naughty Squire!—what do you mean?”
Rose laughed. But she had all the men surrounding her, and Mrs. Shorne
talked of departing.
Why did not Evan bravely march away? Why, he asked himself, had he come
on this cricket-field to be made thus miserable? What right had such as
he to look on Rose? Consider, however, the young man’s excuses. He
could not possibly imagine that a damsel who rode one day to a match,
would return on the following day to see it finished: or absolutely
know that unseen damsel to be Rose Jocelyn. And if he waited, it was
only to hear her sweet voice once again, and go for ever. As far as he
could fathom his hopes, they were that Rose would not see him: but the
hopes of youth are deep.
Just then a toddling small rustic stopped in front of Evan, and set up
a howl for his “fayther.” Evan lifted him high to look over people’s
heads, and discover his wandering parent. The urchin, when he had
settled to his novel position, surveyed the field, and shouting,
“Fayther, fayther! here I bes on top of a gentleman!” made lusty signs,
which attracted not his father alone. Rose sang out, “Who can lend me a
penny?” Instantly the curate and the squire had a race in their
pockets. The curate was first, but Rose favoured the squire, took his
money with a nod and a smile, and rode at the little lad, to whom she
was saying: “Here, bonny boy, this will buy you—”
She stopped and coloured.
“Evan!”
The child descended rapidly to the ground.
A bow and a few murmured words replied to her.
“Isn’t this just like you, my dear Evan? Shouldn’t I know that whenever
I met you, you would be doing something kind? How did you come here?
You were on your way to Beckley!”
“To London,” said Evan.
“To London! and not coming over to see me—us?”
Here the little fellow’s father intervened to claim his offspring, and
thank the lady and the gentleman: and, with his penny firmly grasped,
he who had brought the lady and the gentleman together, was borne off a
wealthy human creature.
Before much further could be said between them, the Countess de Saldar
drove up.
“My dearest Rose!” and “My dear Countess!” and “Not Louisa, then?” and,
“I am very glad to see you!” without attempting the endearing
“Louisa”—passed.
The Countess de Saldar then admitted the presence of her brother.
“Think!” said Rose. “He talks of going on straight from here to
London.”
“That pretty pout will alone suffice to make him deviate, then,” said
the Countess, with her sweetest open slyness. “I am now on the point of
accepting your most kind invitation. Our foreign habits allow us to
visit thus early! He will come with me.”
Evan tried to look firm, and speak as he was trying to look. Rose fell
to entreaty, and from entreaty rose to command; and in both was utterly
fascinating to the poor youth. Luxuriously—while he hesitated and dwelt
on this and that faint objection—his spirit drank the delicious changes
of her face. To have her face before him but one day seemed so rich a
boon to deny himself, that he was beginning to wonder at his constancy
in refusal; and now that she spoke to him so pressingly, devoting her
guileless eyes to him alone, he forgot a certain envious feeling that
had possessed him while she was rattling among the other males—a doubt
whether she ever cast a thought on Mr. Evan Harrington.
“Yes; he will come,” cried Rose; “and he shall ride home with me and my
friend Drummond; and he shall have my groom’s horse, if he doesn’t
mind. Bob can ride home in the cart with Polly, my maid; and he’ll like
that, because Polly’s always good fun—when they’re not in love with
her. Then, of course, she torments them.”
“Naturally,” said the Countess.
Mr. Evan Harrington’s final objection, based on his not having clothes,
and so forth, was met by his foreseeing sister.
“I have your portmanteau packed, in with me, my dear brother; Conning
has her feet on it. I divined that I should overtake you.”
Evan felt he was in the toils. After a struggle or two he yielded; and,
having yielded, did it with grace. In a moment, and with a power of
self-compression equal to that of the adept Countess, he threw off his
moodiness as easily as if it had been his Spanish mantle, and assumed a
gaiety that made the Countess’s eyes beam rapturously upon him, and was
pleasing to Rose, apart from the lead in admiration the Countess had
given her—not for the first time. We mortals, the best of us, may be
silly sheep in our likes and dislikes: where there is no premeditated
or instinctive antagonism, we can be led into warm acknowledgement of
merits we have not sounded. This the Countess de Saldar knew right
well.
Rose now intimated her wish to perform the ceremony of introduction
between her aunt and uncle present, and the visitors to Beckley Court.
The Countess smiled, and in the few paces that separated the two
groups, whispered to her brother: “Miss Jocelyn, my dear.”
The eye-glasses of the Beckley group were dropped with one accord. The
ceremony was gone through. The softly-shadowed differences of a grand
manner addressed to ladies, and to males, were exquisitely accomplished
by the Countess de Saldar.
“Harrington? Harrington?” her quick ear caught on the mouth of Squire
Uplift, scanning Evan.
Her accent was very foreign, as she said aloud: “We are entirely
strangers to your game—your creecket. My brother and myself are
scarcely English. Nothing save diplomacy are we adepts in!”
“You must be excessively dangerous, madam,” said Sir George, hat in
air.
“Even in that, I fear, we are babes and sucklings, and might take many
a lesson from you. Will you instruct me in your creecket? What are they
doing now? It seems very unintelligible—indistinct—is it not?”
Inasmuch as Farmer Broadmead and Master Nat Hodges were surrounded by a
clamorous mob, shouting both sides of the case, as if the loudest and
longest-winded were sure to wrest a favourable judgement from those two
infallible authorities on the laws of cricket, the noble game was
certainly in a state of indistinctness.
The squire came forward to explain, piteously entreated not to expect
too much from a woman’s inapprehensive wits, which he plainly promised
(under eyes that had melted harder men) he would not. His forbearance
and bucolic gallantry were needed, for he had the Countess’s radiant
full visage alone. Her senses were dancing in her right ear, which had
heard the name of Lady Racial pronounced, and a voice respond to it
from the carriage.
Into what a pit had she suddenly plunged! You ask why she did not drive
away as fast as the horses would carry her, and fly the veiled head of
Demogorgon obscuring valley and hill and the shining firmament, and
threatening to glare destruction on her? You do not know an intriguer.
She relinquishes the joys of life for the joys of intrigue. This is her
element. The Countess did feel that the heavens were hard on her. She
resolved none the less to fight her way to her object; for where so
much had conspired to favour her—the decease of the generous Sir
Abraham Harrington, of Torquay, and the invitation to Beckley
Court—could she believe the heavens in league against her? Did she not
nightly pray to them, in all humbleness of body, for the safe issue of
her cherished schemes? And in this, how unlike she was to the rest of
mankind! She thought so; she relied on her devout observances; they
gave her sweet confidence, and the sense of being specially shielded
even when specially menaced. Moreover, tell a woman to put back, when
she is once clearly launched! Timid as she may be, her light bark
bounds to meet the tempest. I speak of women who do launch: they are
not numerous, but, to the wise, the minorities are the representatives.
“Indeed, it is an intricate game!” said the Countess, at the conclusion
of the squire’s explanation, and leaned over to Mrs. Shorne to ask her
if she thoroughly understood it.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” was the reply; “it—rather than the amusement
they find in it.” This lady had recovered Mr. Parsley from Rose, but
had only succeeded in making the curate unhappy, without satisfying
herself.
The Countess gave her the shrug of secret sympathy.
“We must not say so,” she observed aloud—most artlessly, and fixed the
squire with a bewitching smile, under which her heart beat thickly. As
her eyes travelled from Mrs. Shorne to the squire, she had marked Lady
Racial looking singularly at Evan, who was mounting the horse of Bob
the groom.
“Fine young fellow, that,” said the squire to Lady Racial, as Evan rode
off with Rose.
“An extremely handsome, well-bred young man,” she answered. Her eyes
met the Countess’s, and the Countess, after resting on their surface
with an ephemeral pause, murmured: “I must not praise my brother,” and
smiled a smile which was meant to mean: “I think with you, and thank
you, and love you for admiring him.”
Had Lady Racial joined the smile and spoken with animation afterwards,
the Countess would have shuddered and had chills of dread. As it was,
she was passably content. Lady Racial slightly dimpled her cheek, for
courtesy’s sake, and then looked gravely on the ground. This was no
promise; it was even an indication (as the Countess read her), of
something beyond suspicion in the lady’s mind; but it was a sign of
delicacy, and a sign that her feelings had been touched, from which a
truce might be reckoned on, and no betrayal feared.
She heard it said that the match was for honour and glory. A match of
two days’ duration under a broiling sun, all for honour and glory! Was
it not enough to make her despise the games of men? For something
better she played. Her game was for one hundred thousand pounds, the
happiness of her brother, and the concealment of a horror. To win a
game like that was worth the trouble. Whether she would have continued
her efforts, had she known that the name of Evan Harrington was then
blazing on a shop-front in Lymport, I cannot tell. The possessor of the
name was in love, and did not reflect.
Smiling adieu to the ladies, bowing to the gentlemen, and apprehending
all the homage they would pour out to her condescending beauty when she
had left them, the Countess’s graceful hand gave the signal for
Beckley.
She stopped the coachman ere the wheels had rolled off the muffling
turf, to enjoy one glimpse of Evan and Rose riding together, with the
little maid on her pony in the rear. How suitable they seemed! how
happy! She had brought them together after many difficulties—might it
not be? It was surely a thing to be hoped for!
Rose, galloping freshly, was saying to Evan: “Why did you cut off your
moustache?”
He, neck and neck with her, replied: “You complained of it in
Portugal.”
And she: “Portugal’s old times now to me—and I always love old times.
I’m sorry! And, oh, Evan! did you really do it for me?”
And really, just then, flying through the air, close to the darling of
his heart, he had not the courage to spoil that delicious question, but
dallying with the lie, he looked in her eyes lingeringly.
This picture the Countess contemplated. Close to her carriage two young
gentlemen-cricketers were strolling, while Fallowfield gained breath to
decide which men to send in first to the wickets.
One of these stood suddenly on tiptoe, and pointing to the pair on
horseback, cried, with the vivacity of astonishment:
“Look there! do you see that? What the deuce is little Rosey doing with
the tailor-fellow?”
The Countess, though her cheeks were blanched, gazed calmly in
Demogorgon’s face, took a mental impression of the speaker, and again
signalled for Beckley.