LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH
“Something has happened!” (So Lynborough records the same evening.) “I
don’t know precisely what--but I think that the enemy is at last in
motion. I’m glad. I was being too successful. I had begun to laugh at
her--and that only. I prefer the admixture of another element of
emotion. All that ostensibly appears is that I have lost five shillings
to Roger. ‘You did it?’ I asked. ‘Certainly,’ said Roger. ‘I went at my
ease and came back at my ease, and----.’ I interrupted, ‘Nobody stopped
you?’ ‘Nobody made any objection,’ said Roger. ‘You took your time,’
says I. ‘You were away three hours!’ ‘The water was very pleasant this
afternoon,’ says Roger. Hum! I hand over my two half-crowns, which Roger
pockets with a most peculiar sort of smile. There that incident appears
to end--with a comment from me that the Marchesa’s garrison is not very
alert. Another smile--not less peculiar--from Roger! _Hum!_
“Then Cromlech! I trust Cromlech as myself--that is, as far as I can see
him. He has no secrets from me--that I know of; I have none from
him--which would be at all likely to interest him. Yet, soon after
Roger’s return, Cromlech goes out! And they had been alone together for
some minutes, as I happen to have observed. Cromlech is away an hour and
a half! If I were not a man of honour, I would have trained the
telescope on to him. I refrained. Where was Cromlech? At the church, he
told me. I accept his word--but the church has had a curious effect upon
him. Sometimes he is silent, sulky, reflective, embarrassed--constantly
rubbing the place where his hair ought to be--not altogether too civil
to me either. Anon, sits with a fat happy smile on his face! Has he
found a new tomb? No; he’d tell me about a new tomb. What has happened
to Cromlech?
“At first sight Violet--the insinuating one--would account for the
phenomena. Or Norah’s eyes and lashes? Yet I hesitate. Woman, of course,
it is, with both of them. Violet might make men pleased with themselves;
Norah could make them merry and happy. Yet these two are not so much
pleased with themselves--rather they are pleased with events; they are
not merry--they are thoughtful. And I think they are resentful. I
believe the hostile squadron has weighed anchor. In these great results,
achieved so quickly, demanding on my part such an effort in reply, I see
the Marchesa’s touch! I have my own opinion as to what has happened to
Roger and to Cromlech. Well, we shall see--to-morrow is the cricket
match!”
“_Later._ I had closed this record; I was preparing to go to bed
(wishing to bathe early to-morrow) when I found that I had forgotten to
bring up my book. Coltson had gone to bed--or out--anyhow, away. I went
down myself. The library door stood ajar; I had on my slippers; a light
burnt still; Cromlech and Roger were up. As I approached--with an
involuntary noiselessness (I really couldn’t be expected to think of
coughing, in my own house and with no ladies about)--I overheard this
remarkable, most significant, most important conversation:--
“_Cromlech_: ‘On my soul, there were tears in her eyes!’
“_Roger_: ‘Stabb, can we as gentlemen----?’
“Then, as I presume, the shuffle of my slippers became audible. I went
in; both drank whisky-and-soda in a hurried fashion. I took my book from
the table. Naught said I. Their confusion was obvious. I cast on them
one of my looks; Roger blushed, Stabb shuffled his feet. I left them.
“‘Tears in her eyes!’ ‘Can we as gentlemen?’
“The Marchesa moves slowly, but she moves in force!”
It is unnecessary to pursue the diary further; for his
lordship--forgetful apparently of the bourne of bed, to which he had
originally destined himself--launches into a variety of speculations as
to the Nature of Love. Among other questions, he puts to himself the
following concerning Love:--(1) Is it Inevitable? (2) Is it Agreeable?
(3) Is it Universal? (4) Is it Wise? (5) Is it Remunerative? (6) Is it
Momentary? (7) Is it Sempiternal? (8) Is it Voluntary? (9) Is it
Conditioned? (10) Is it Remediable? (11) Is it Religious? (There’s a
note here--“Consult Cromlech”)--(12) May it be expected to survive the
Advance of Civilisation? (13) Why does it exist at all? (14) Is it
Ridiculous?
It is not to be inferred that Lord Lynborough answers these questions.
He is, like a wise man, content to propound them. If, however, he had
answered them, it might have been worth while to transcribe the diary.
“Can we as gentlemen----?”--Roger had put the question. It waited
unanswered till Lynborough had taken his book and returned to record its
utterance--together with the speculations to which that utterance gave
rise. Stabb weighed it carefully, rubbing his bald head, according to
the habit which his friend had animadverted upon.
“If such a glorious creature----” cried Roger.
“If a thoroughly intelligent and most sympathetic woman----” said Stabb.
“Thinks that she has a right, why, she probably has one!”
“At any rate her view is entitled to respect--to a courteous hearing.”
“Lynborough does appear to have been a shade--er----”
“Ambrose is a spoilt child, bless him! She took a wonderful interest in
my brasses. I don’t know what brought her to the church.”
“She waited herself to let me through that beastly gate again!”
“She drove me round herself to our gates. Wouldn’t come through
Scarsmoor!”
They both sighed. They both thought of telling the other something--but
on second thoughts refrained.
“I suppose we’d better go to bed. Shall you bathe to-morrow morning?”
“With Ambrose? No, I sha’n’t, Wilbraham.”
“No more shall I. Good-night, Stabb. You’ll--think it over?”
Stabb grunted inarticulately. Roger drew the blind aside for a moment,
looked down on Nab Grange, saw a light in one window--and went to bed.
The window was, in objective fact (if there be such a thing), Colonel
Wenman’s. No matter. There nothing is but thinking makes it so. The
Colonel was sitting up, writing a persuasive letter to his tailor. He
served emotions that he did not feel; it is a not uncommon lot.
Lynborough’s passing and repassing to and from his bathing were
uninterrupted next morning. Nab Grange seemed wrapped in slumber; only
Goodenough saw him, and Goodenough did not think it advisable to
interrupt his ordinary avocations. But an air of constraint--even of
mystery--marked both Stabb and Roger at breakfast. The cricket match was
naturally the topic--though Stabb declared that he took little interest
in it and should probably not be there.
“There’ll be some lunch, I suppose,” said Lynborough carelessly. “You’d
better have lunch there--it’d be dull for you all by yourself here,
Cromlech.”
After apparent consideration Stabb conceded that he might take luncheon
on the cricket ground; Roger, as a member of the Fillby team, would, of
course, do likewise.
The game was played in a large field, pleasantly surrounded by a belt of
trees, and lying behind the Lynborough Arms. Besides Roger and
Lynborough, Stillford and Irons represented Fillby. Easthorpe
Polytechnic came in full force, save for an umpire. Colonel Wenman, who
had walked up with his friends, was pressed into this honourable and
responsible service, landlord Dawson officiating at the other end.
Lynborough’s second gardener, a noted fast bowler, was Fillby’s captain;
Easthorpe was under the command of a curate who had played several times
for his University, although he had not actually achieved his “blue.”
Easthorpe won the toss and took first innings.
The second gardener, aware of his employer’s turn of speed, sent Lord
Lynborough to field “in the country.” That gentleman was well content;
few balls came his way and he was at leisure to contemplate the exterior
of the luncheon tent--he had already inspected the interior thereof with
sedulous care and high contentment--and to speculate on the probable
happenings of the luncheon hour. So engrossed was he that only a
rapturous cheer, which rang out from the field and the spectators,
apprised him of the fact that the second gardener had yorked the
redoubtable curate with the first ball of his second over! Young
Woodwell came in; he was known as a mighty hitter; Lynborough was
signalled to take his position yet deeper in the field. Young Woodwell
immediately got to business--but he kept the ball low. Lynborough had,
however, the satisfaction of saving several “boundaries.” Roger, keeping
wicket, observed his chief’s exertions with some satisfaction. Other
wickets fell rapidly--but young Woodwell’s score rapidly mounted up. If
he could stay in, they would make a hundred--and Fillby looked with just
apprehension on a score like that. The second gardener, who had given
himself a brief rest, took the ball again with an air of determination.
“Peters doesn’t seem to remember that I also bowl,” reflected Lord
Lynborough.
The next moment he was glad of this omission. Young Woodwell was playing
for safety now--his fifty loomed ahead! Lynborough had time for a glance
round. He saw Stabb saunter on to the field; then--just behind where he
stood when the second gardener was bowling from the Lynborough Arms end
of the field--a waggonette drove up. Four ladies descended. A bench was
placed at their disposal, and the two men-servants at once began to make
preparations for lunch, aided therein by the ostler from the Lynborough
Arms, who rigged up a table on trestles under a spreading tree.
Lord Lynborough’s reputation as a sportsman inevitably suffers from this
portion of the narrative. Yet extenuating circumstances may fairly be
pleaded. He was deeply interested in the four ladies who sat behind him
on the bench; he was vitally concerned in the question of the lunch. As
he walked back, between the overs, to his position, he could see that
places were being set for some half-dozen people. Would there be
half-a-dozen there? As he stood, watching, or trying to watch, young
Woodwell’s dangerous bat, he overheard fragments of conversation wafted
from the bench. The ladies were too far from him to allow of their
faces being clearly seen, but it was not hard to recognise their
figures.
The last man in had joined young Woodwell. That hero’s score was
forty-eight, the total ninety-three. The second gardener was tempting
the Easthorpe champion with an occasional slow ball; up to now young
Woodwell had declined to hit at these deceivers.
Suddenly Lynborough heard the ladies’ voices quite plainly. They--or
some of them--had left the bench and come nearer to the boundary.
Irresistibly drawn by curiosity, for an instant he turned his head. At
the same instant the second gardener delivered a slow ball--a specious
ball. This time young Woodwell fell into the snare. He jumped out and
opened his shoulders to it. He hit it--but he hit it into the air. It
soared over the bowler’s head and came travelling through high heaven
towards Lord Lynborough.
“Look out!” cried the second gardener. Lynborough’s head spun round
again--but his nerves were shaken. His eyes seemed rather in the back of
his head, trying to see the Marchesa’s face, than fixed on the ball that
was coming towards him. He was in no mood for bringing off a safe catch!
Silence reigned, the ball began to drop. Lynborough had an instant to
wait for it. He tried to think of the ball and the ball only.
It fell--it fell into his hands; he caught it--fumbled it--caught
it--fumbled it again--and at last dropped it on the grass! “Oh!” went in
a long-drawn expostulation round the field; and Lynborough heard a voice
say plainly:
“Who is that stupid clumsy man?” The voice was the Marchesa’s.
He wheeled round sharply--but her back was turned. He had not seen her
face after all!
“Over!” was called. Lynborough apologised abjectly to the second
gardener.
“The sun was in my eyes, Peters, and dazzled me,” he pleaded.
“Looks to _me_ as if the sun was shining the other way, my lord,” said
Peters drily. And so, in physical fact, it was.
In Peters’ next over Lynborough atoned--for young Woodwell had got his
fifty and grown reckless. A one-handed catch, wide on his left side,
made the welkin ring with applause. The luncheon bell rang too--for the
innings was finished. Score 101. Last man out 52. Jim (office boy at
Polytechnic) not out 0. Young Woodwell received a merited ovation--and
Lord Lynborough hurried to the luncheon tent. The Marchesa, with an
exceedingly dignified mien, repaired to her table under the spreading
oak.
Mr Dawson had done himself more than justice; the repast was
magnificent. When Stillford and Irons saw it, they became more sure than
ever what their duty was, more convinced still that the Marchesa would
understand. Colonel Wenman became less sure what his duty
was--previously it had appeared to him that it was to lunch with the
Marchesa. But the Marchesa had spoken of a few sandwiches and perhaps a
bottle of claret. Stillford told him that, as umpire, he ought to lunch
with the teams. Irons declared it would look “deuced standoffish” if he
didn’t. Lynborough, who appeared to act as deputy-landlord to Mr Dawson,
pressed him into a chair with a friendly hand.
“Well, she’ll have the ladies with her, won’t she?” said the Colonel,
his last scruple vanishing before a large jug of hock-cup, artfully
iced. The Nab Grange contingent fell to.
Just then--when they were irrevocably committed to this feast--the flap
of the tent was drawn back, and Lady Norah’s face appeared. Behind her
stood Violet and Miss Gilletson. Lynborough ran forward to meet them.
“Here we are, Lord Lynborough,” said Norah. “The Marchesa was so kind,
she told us to do just as we liked, and we thought it would be such fun
to lunch with the cricketers.”
“The cricketers are immensely honoured. Let me introduce you to our
captain, Mr Peters. You must sit by him, you know. And, Miss Dufaure,
will you sit by Mr Jeffreys?--he’s their captain--Miss Dufaure--Mr
Jeffreys. You, Miss Gilletson, must sit between Mr Dawson and me. Now
we’re right--What, Colonel Wenman?--What’s the matter?”
Wenman had risen from his place. “The--the Marchesa!” he said. “We--we
can’t leave her to lunch alone!”
Lady Norah broke in again. “Oh, Helena expressly said that she didn’t
expect the gentlemen. She knows what the custom is, you see.”
The Marchesa had, no doubt, made all these speeches. It may, however, be
doubted whether Norah reproduced exactly the manner, and the spirit, in
which she made them. But the iced hock-cup settled the Colonel. With a
relieved sigh he resumed his place. The business of the moment went on
briskly for a quarter of an hour.
Mr Dawson rose, glass in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “I’m no
hand at a speech, but I give you the health of our kind neighbour and
good host to-day--Lord Lynborough. Here’s to his lordship!”
“I--I didn’t know he was giving the lunch!” whispered Colonel Wenman.
“Is it his lunch?” said Irons, nudging Stillford.
Stillford laughed. “It looks like it. And we can hardly throw him over
the hedge after this!”
“Well, he seems to be a jolly good chap,” said Captain Irons.
Lynborough bowed his acknowledgments, and flirted with Miss Gilletson;
his face wore a contented smile. Here they all were--and the Marchesa
lunched alone on the other side of the field! Here indeed was a new
wedge! Here was the isolation at which his diabolical schemes had
aimed. He had captured Nab Grange! Bag and baggage they had come
over--and left their chieftainess deserted.
Then suddenly--in the midst of his triumph--in the midst too of a
certain not ungenerous commiseration which he felt that he could extend
to a defeated enemy and to beauty in distress--he became vaguely aware
of a gap in his company. Stabb was not there! Yet Stabb had come upon
the ground. He searched the company again. No, Stabb was not there.
Moreover--a fact the second search revealed--Roger Wilbraham was not
there. Roger was certainly not there; yet, whatever Stabb might do,
Roger would never miss lunch!
Lynborough’s eyes grew thoughtful; he pursed up his lips. Miss Gilletson
noticed that he became silent.
He could bear the suspense no longer. On a pretext of looking for more
bottled beer, he rose and walked to the door of the tent.
Under the spreading tree the Marchesa lunched--not in isolation, not in
gloom. She had company--and, even as he appeared, a merry peal of
laughter was wafted by a favouring breeze across the field of battle.
Stabb’s ponderous figure, Roger Wilbraham’s highly recognisable
“blazer,” told the truth plainly.
Lord Lynborough was not the only expert in the art of driving wedges!
“Well played, Helena!” he said under his breath.
The rest of the cricket match interested him very little. Successful
beyond their expectations, Fillby won by five runs (Wilbraham not out
thirty-seven)--but Lynborough’s score did not swell the victorious
total. In Easthorpe’s second innings--which could not affect the
result--Peters let him bowl, and he got young Woodwell’s wicket. That
was a distinction; yet, looking at the day as a whole, he had scored
less than he expected.