Cricket matches of the first magnitude are played of a Saturday in
Nether-Applewhite. At ten punctually, an aged and yellow bus, drawn by
two stout horses, rolled through the lodge gates of Pomfret Court and
drew up at the marquee. A young, fresh-faced man, sitting by the driver,
tootled a tandem horn. Fishpingle said to the Squire:
“His lordship is with them.”
Long-Baddeley formed part of Lord Fordingbridge’s property.
The Squire and Lionel advanced to greet their visitors. They shook hands
with Fordingbridge, Joel Tibber, and those members of XI whom they knew
personally. Mild chaff was exchanged. The Squire inquired after the
twins.
“Two big bouncing boys,” proclaimed the father. “It would do your heart
good to see them, Sir Geoffrey.”
“The more the merrier. Never expected to see you.”
“I’m not playing, but I had to come. Lionel looks as fit as a fiddle.”
“Yes, yes; India’s made a strong man of him.”
Lionel bandied pleasantries with Mr. Tibber, the captain of
Long-Baddeley—
“I’ve put on chain armour under my flannels, Joel.”
“Ah-h-h! Pitch won’t be so nice an’ bumpy, seemin’ly, after them there
rains.”
He spoke with sincere regret. A hard, bumpy pitch meant many wickets for
Mr. Tibber. He preferred village greens for his deadly work. The
Parsons, wearing his Cambridge “blue,” joined the group. In the cricket
field he looked ten years younger. Lionel couldn’t see either Moxon or
Joyce. But the onlookers had not yet arrived. Margot and Lady Pomfret
were expected at noon.
Joel won the toss and elected to bat. Hamlin and his merry men took the
field. Fordingbridge and the Squire served as umpires. The two elder
Mucklows went on to bowl. George, the youngest of the brethren,
approached his captain.
“I can bowl a wicked ball,” he said. He pronounced “bowl” as if it
rhymed with “jowl.”
“No, you can’t,” replied the Parson, decisively.
“I thinks I can,” urged George. “God A’mighty made us Mucklows bowlers,
He did.”
“You stand in the deep field, George. If you miss a catch, you can go to
Canada and never return.”
He patted him pleasantly on the shoulder. George retired, grumbling. One
of the Long-Baddeley batsmen asked for a trial ball. After heated
discussion this was conceded as a favour, not a right. Fishpingle quoted
the law, upholding the rigour of the game, like Mrs. Battle. Another
discussion followed the first delivery, “no-balled” by his lordship.
Fishpingle sustained the decision.
Lionel was fielding at square leg, and between the overs and
opportunities of chatting with Fordingbridge, who, matrimonially, as
deemed by the county to have gone a “mucker.” Lionel, however, noticed
that he seemed the better for it.
“You must come and see my missis, Lionel. She’s a topper. We’re farmers.
Rise with the lark, my boy. I feel another man. It came to this—I had
to take hold or let go. Now I save all the money which I used to spend
away from home. And I’m on the spot to check wastage.”
“The simple life, Johnnie, agrees with you.”
“Lord love you, I was slidin’ downhill when you went to India. Couldn’t
look an egg in the face at breakfast, and bored with everything and
everybody.”
The game went on with varying fortune. The star batsman ran himself out,
and hotly disputed the Squire’s decision, daring to affirm that his
lordship would have rendered another verdict. The Squire treated such
incidents humourously, as not the least amusing part of village cricket.
Fordingbridge rebuked the misdemeanant, saying in a loud voice:
“Don’t be a damned fool, Dave Misselbrook! I’m ashamed of you.”
Dave retreated. The batsman at the other end observed apologetically:
“Dave ain’t hisself. His young ’ooman give him the chuck las’ week.”
Fordingbridge took this bit of gossip seriously—
“Did she? I must have a talk with the baggage.”
Lionel laughed, but he was much impressed. Fordingbridge, as he recalled
him, a man who raced, and hunted from Melton, and kept late hours and
loose company, had indeed changed. Curiosity consumed him to see the
“topper,” surely a worker of miracles. Then his thoughts wandered to
Joyce. Was she sitting upon the Vicarage lawn with Moxon? Why had Moxon
returned so quickly? Had she whistled? _Confound it!_ Thinking of Joyce,
an easy catch was missed. Loud cheers from Long-Baddeley. “You duffer!”
growled the Squire. Fishpingle shook his head sorrowfully.
* * * * *
At midday the spectators began to arrive. Margot and Lady Pomfret
wandered round the ground, talking to the village fathers and mothers,
who sat placidly beneath the oaks and beeches. Lady Pomfret anticipated
diversion where it was likely to be met.
“This,” she murmured to Margot, “is a character.” They were approaching
an old woman, who had been wheeled on to the ground in a bath-chair. She
sat erect, tremendously interested in a game she did not understand. A
grandson was fielding hard by.
“How are you, Mrs. Parish? Isn’t this a little venturesome?”
“I’m the same as usual, my lady. My pore heart goes on a-flutterin’ like
an old hen tryin’ for to fly. Doctor says ’twill stop sudden-like any
minute, night or day. I ain’t afeard. Maybe ’tis presumption to say
that. I’d like to go—quick, wi’out givin’ too much trouble. What fair
worrits me is the fear o’ poppin’ off in public. If I dropped dead, so
to speak, in village street, ’twould scare the little ’uns.”
“I see your grandson is playing.”
“That he be, an’ proud as King Garge on his throne. Scared too, the gert
silly! I told ’un to carry a stiff tail, I did. It mads me, yas, it do,
when I see boys an’ girls meetin’ trouble halfway. Nice, religious lad,
too. This very marning he makes me promise to pray so be as he bain’t
bowled out fust ball.”
“And did you?” asked Margot.
The old woman looked keenly at her. Village gossip had spread far and
wide the Squire’s plans.
“This is Lady Margot Maltravers, Mrs. Parish.”
“Ah-h-h! I guessed that. Did I pray, my lady? Yas—I did.”
“I am quite sure your prayer will be answered,” said Margot.
“I baint so sure,” retorted the dame, sharply. “God A’mighty’s ways be
past findin’ out. I mind me prayin’ as never so for a second husband,
bein’ lucky with Job Parish, but that prayer went on t’ muck-heap.”
After a few more words, they passed on.
“A gallant old soul!” Margot observed.
Lady Pomfret nodded, saying reflectively—
“I think I must pray for young Charley Parish.”
Margot considered this.
“If you do,” she predicted, “he will carry out his bat.”
By the time they had circled the field, Joyce and Moxon had arrived. The
Professor was duly presented to her little ladyship, who engaged him
forthwith in talk, strolling on with him, whilst Joyce sat by Lady
Pomfret. Moxon’s face and figure pleased Margot. He looked that happy
combination, a man of thought and action. His grey eyes were clear as
his complexion; the nose was delicately modelled; his chin indicated
resolution. When he smiled, he showed white even teeth. Margot said
easily—
“Lionel Pomfret has talked to me about you. He is rather absorbent. I
managed to squeeze your ideas out of him. They interested me, although
they conflict with my own.”
Moxon showed some surprise.
“Ideas, Lady Margot? What do you conceive to be my ideas?”
“The regeneration of the land, the amelioration of rural conditions, a
clean sweep of—us.”
She laughed, exhibiting no trace of malice. Moxon perceived, none the
less, that he was challenged. He answered her quietly—
“I never said that to Pomfret.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am positive.”
“I have it. You talked to Miss Hamlin and her father.”
“Oh yes.”
“Miss Hamlin repeated what she heard to Mr. Pomfret. Perhaps she failed
to report to you quite accurately.”
Moxon hastened to defend Joyce. Inaccuracy was not her weakness. His
views were public property. He repudiated warmly any desire upon his
part to sweep away anything of value. Margot was constrained to withdraw
the last indictment.
“All the same, Mr. Moxon—ought I to call you ‘Professor’?”
“Most certainly not.”
“All the same,” she continued, “that underlies your programme. I am well
aware that we rule, to-day, on sufferance. As yet, the country people,
particularly the people in such counties as this, are singularly free
from disaffection. You and your friends are stirring them up.”
“To help themselves,” he interrupted; “to make them realise that they
are practically parasites, living for you and on you.”
“I dare say. These good fellows,” she indicated the Nether-Applewhite
XI, “don’t look like parasites.”
“This parish is exceptional. Even here—I hesitate to offend.”
“Pray go on!”
“Even here the condition is that of stagnant dependence. The labourers
are at the mercy of farmer and landowner. Power is not abused on this
state, but it might be. At Ocknell Manor the conditions are atrocious.
Everything is left to an ignorant agent, who skins ’em alive.”
Margot shrugged her slender shoulders.
“I repeat, if you stir them up, if you transfer the power to them—we
go. I leave it to you to say whether you are honestly convinced that the
masses will succeed where the classes have failed.”
By this time they had strolled back to the marquee, and joined the
others. Margot had no wish to prolong a futile discussion. As Moxon had
said, his views were public property. She had listened to them, at first
hand, from the more radical statesman who preached them in and out of
season. Her particular object had been accomplished. Moxon, as she had
guessed, was a man of parts. No girl would dismiss such a lover lightly.
But he had come back.
The rival teams lunched very fraternally together, and much shandygaff
was consumed. Just before luncheon, Long-Baddeley was dismissed with
ninety-two runs to their credit. Nether-Applewhite had lost one wicket.
After luncheon, Alfred Rockley covered himself with glory. Joel Tibber
had no terrors for him. Prudence applauded his feats with hands and
voice. When Lionel and he got “set,” runs came swiftly—four after four.
Spectators from Long-Baddeley enlivened the contest. Old gaffers left
the ale-house to prattle together about matches played two score years
ago, but never forgotten. To many an innings kindly Time had added runs.
Finally, Alfred was caught in the deep field, and, as so often happens
when a partnership is dissolved, Lionel playing forward at a
short-pitched ball, was clean bowled. One hundred and fifty-seven for
four wickets.
Lionel, flushed by exercise and triumph, joined Margot. He looked his
best. To his amazement, she fussed over him. He was very hot; he must
put on a coat. A southerly breeze blew fresh from the Solent. He mustn’t
sit down yet. Why not take a turn with her?
Lady Pomfret was much amused.
The pair wandered off, but Lionel insisted upon watching the game.
“You will see Hamlin bat with a stump—a real treat.”
“Not after you.”
“Good Lord! And you are training me to appreciate fine bits. He’s a fine
bit, and I’m a cheap reproduction.”
Under her schooling, he was learning much about Pomfret furniture and
pictures.
“As to that, Lionel, you hold yourself too cheap.”
Hamlin and Fishpingle were now batting. The old Cambridge “blue”
exhibited form in its highest manifestation. Upon a pitch, now none too
good, he stopped or struck every ball with absolute accuracy, timing
them perfectly. Fishpingle presented the village “stone-waller,” intent
only upon keeping up his wicket and letting the Parson score. Runs came
slowly. Lionel told Margot that amateur bowlers lost their length
against a stubborn defence. Then he said abruptly:
“But, of course, you are bored.”
“No, very much the contrary. I have seen nothing like this for years. I
like it—the enthusiasm is infectious. As for the villagers, I wouldn’t
change them for the world. That dear old woman, Mrs. Parish—! The row
of granfers on the bench—! Two of the darlings are wearing smocks. Your
professor would change all that; give him a free hand, and he would
people the countryside with men and women cut to pattern, all aping
their betters, and all discontented.”
“Why do you call him my professor?”
“He nearly got you. I suppose he belongs to Miss Hamlin.”
“Not yet, I fancy.” Lionel replied stiffly.
“Ah, well, she will be foolish, if she lets him slip through her
fingers. Mr. Moxon and I have agreed to disagree, but I like him. He
will make his mark. What are they cheering for?”
“Fishpingle is out. Now we may have some fun. The village slogger takes
his place.”
The slogger rolled out of the marquee, disdaining pads or gloves.
Nether-Applewhite cheered, anticipating much leather-hunting.
“You hit ’un, Joe!”—“Stretch their legs for ’un, lad!”—“Ah-h-h! Now
for a bit o’ sport.”
Encouraged by these remarks, the object of them strode to his wicket and
took block. Lionel explained what was needed:
“We haven’t time to finish the match. Hamlin may declare our innings
closed if we touch the double century. Then our great chance is to get
’em all out before time is called.”
“Where do we stand now?”
“We’ve made about a hundred and ninety.”
The slogger brandished the willow. Joel hurtled forward. A deep groan
came from the bench of granfers as a judicious “yorker” knocked two
stumps out of the ground. The discomfited batsman glared at a mocking
field.
“I warn’t ready,” he shouted. “You hear me?”
“Tut, tut!” said the Squire. “They can hear you in Salisbury, my man.
Better luck next time.”
One of the Mucklow brethren took his place. Joel delivered a terrific
ball, which seemed to whiz straight at the batsman’s head. Mucklow
bobbed; the bails flew. Long-Baddeley howled with joy. Adam Mucklow
scratched his head. He was assured by Point that it was still on his
shoulders. Sadly, sighing deeply, he went his weary way. Lord
Fordingbridge said jovially: “Joel, if you do the hat trick, order one
of the best at my expense.” George Mucklow advanced.
“Don’t ’ee be afeared, Garge!”
“I ain’t afeared,” declared George, valiantly; but he was. His knees
were as wax.
“No flowers at his funeral,” said the wit of Long-Baddeley.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” counselled the Parson.
Joel delivered the third ball. The unhappy George shut both eyes and
flinched. A derisive roar went up, so did the bails. George gazed about
him.
“You be out,” said the wicket-keeper.
“So I be. ’Tis sartin I didn’t know it. I can bowl a bit, but this ain’t
cricket, ’tis murder.”
He vanished.
A few more runs were added to the score before the last wicket fell.
Charles Parish achieved three singles and carried out his bat. The
prayers of two righteous women had availed that much. Total score for
Nether-Applewhite, two hundred and three. Long-Baddeley went in with one
hundred and twelve runs to make in less than two hours. If they failed,
and ten wickets fell, they would suffer ignominious defeat. Strategy
demanded careful play. Fordingbridge congratulated the Squire upon his
pitch, a batsman’s wicket, which accounted for big scores rare in
village cricket.
Margot went back to Lady Pomfret and tea. She sat next to Joyce and
talked to her. Joyce seemed preoccupied—not herself. Her interest in
the game struck Margot as feigned. Her face, too, was paler than usual,
faint shadows encircled her eyes. Was she sorry that Moxon had come
back? It appeared, however, that Moxon’s visit was incidental, almost
accidental. He had to leave on the Monday.
“Have you a headache?” asked Margot.
“Yes.”
Margot, under the same circumstances, would have said “No.” She decided
that Joyce’s sincerity might be reckoned her _cheval de bataille_. She
expressed sympathy, offering to send her maid to fetch some aspirin
tabloids from the Hall. Joyce made light of a petty ailment. The sun was
rather hot. Her headache would pass. As the two girls talked one of the
village mothers passed by, dragging a toddler of her own. The child
caught her foot in the ropes of the marquee, fell heavily, and began to
howl. Joyce jumped up, snatched the child from the ground, crooned over
it, hugged it, made it laugh, whilst the young mother stood sheepishly
looking on.
“Leave her with me for a few minutes,” said Joyce.
The mother moved on, the child cuddled up to Joyce, and then fell
asleep. Margot said in a whisper.
“That was amazing. How do you do it?”
“I am fond of children.”
“And this one is a special favourite?”
“No; I don’t think I know this child. The mother is from Ocknell. She
married a Nether-Applewhite man, but they have only come here lately.”
“It’s magic.”
Presently the mother came back, but the child left Joyce reluctantly.
Margot thought that she had guessed the riddle.
“She must ill-treat the child.”
Joyce smiled.
“Oh no. Village mothers rather spoil their children. Didn’t you know
that?”
Margot confessed that she didn’t. Joyce continued:
“But, of course, there is the reaction, when they are tired and fussed.
That mother was fussed. I saw it at once. To come here this afternoon
means more work to-night.”
“How is your headache?”
“Gone!”
“Really, you know, you’re rather an amazing person. But you hide your
light. I don’t. Yours burns with a steadier beam.”
“A farthing dip,” said Joyce.
* * * * *
Stumps were to be drawn at seven promptly. As the minutes slipped by,
Nether-Applewhite realised sorrowfully that Time had ranged himself with
the enemy. Long ago, they had abandoned the hope of scoring runs. Each
batsman was instructed to block the bowling, to hold the fort
defensively. Five wickets had fallen for some sixty runs, and the best
batsmen were out. Could the tail of the team wag on for twenty minutes?
Hamlin put himself on to bowl lobs, twisting, curling, underhand balls.
At Cambridge, long ago, the head of his College, the illustrious Master
of Trinity, had made a jest upon Hamlin’s bowling. Presenting a prize
set of books, he had remarked blandly, “Hamlin, you are the only
undergraduate I know who has combined underhand practices with stainless
integrity.”
“Sneaks!” said Long-Baddeley.
Hamlin waved his field in nearer. Lionel, at square leg, drew so near
the batsman that Margot trembled for his safety. And Hamlin, delivering
his ball, followed it valiantly halfway up the pitch. Point stationed
himself four yards from the crease. The mighty Tibber fell to these
tactics. Point took the ball almost from the bottom of the bat, and said
politely, “Thank you.” Four wickets to fall and sixteen minutes to go!
The seventh wicket fell five minutes later to a ball that pitched three
feet wide of the stumps on the off side and then nicked off the leg
bail.
Three and eleven!
The granfers had shouted themselves thirsty and hoarse. One patriarch
announced his intentions, “if so be as we win, I’ll carry more good ale
to-night than any man o’ my years in Wiltsheer.”
Excitement gripped Margot and Joyce. Every stroke was cheered and
counter-cheered. Derisive comment winged its way to the pitch from every
point of the compass, and from every mouth, male and female. Lady
Pomfret discovered that she had split a new pair of gloves. Above the
Squire’s white coat glowed a face red as the harvest sun, now declining
through a haze. Fordingbridge exhorted his men to endure patiently to
the end.
Three wickets to fall and seven minutes to go!
At this crisis Lionel distinguished himself and wiped out the grievous
memory of a dropped catch in the first innings. A stalwart son of
Long-Baddeley smote hard at a ball pitched too short, pulling it
savagely to leg. Lionel held it convulsively.
“Good boy,” said the Squire, wiping his forehead.
Even the ranks of Tuscany cheered.
Two and five!
Could it be done? Candour compels us to state that Fabian tactics might
have succeeded, had not Fordingbridge been present. He, good sportsman,
suffered no exasperating delays. Batsmen dared not tarry, drawing on
their gloves.
One and three!
George Mucklow took heart of grace. Funk exuded from every pore of the
tenth batsman’s skin as he, like George, tremblingly asked the umpire
for block.
“Block be damned!” shouted his lordship. “Hit the next ball to the
boundary, and I’ll give you a fiver.”
This counsel of perfection undid the unhappy youth. Hamlin bowled
straight and true for the middle stump. The youth smote and missed.
“Bif!” yelled Lionel.
All out and one minute to spare. As the Nether-Applewhite team carried
the Parson shoulder high to the marquee, the stable clock tolled
solemnly the defeat of Long-Baddeley. Fishpingle and Alfred hurried to
the house, but the Squire’s voice roared after them—
“Ben!”
“Sir Geoffrey?”
“Champagne to-night.”
“Yes, Sir Geoffrey.”
* * * * *
Margot inquired tenderly after Lionel’s hands. He had anticipated “first
aid”; it was his, even to the sacrifice of a tiny handkerchief. Lionel
demanded nothing more romantic than a tankard of shandygaff. Margot
fetched it, for the moment his obedient slave. Joyce ministered as
faithfully to her father with ginger beer.
When the yellow ’bus was full, inside and out, the Squire made a short
speech to which Fordingbridge responded. How pleasant it is to hear such
simple rhetoric! How invidious the task of setting it down! The better
team had won. A jolly day was over.
Three cheers for Sir Geoffrey Pomfret!
And three cheers for his “lardship”!
Lionel said to Margot—
“This is the sort of thing we dream of on the Plains. The whole scene
rises out of the desert, like a mirage.”
“I wonder if it is a mirage?”
“Eh?”
“_Tout passe._” She sighed.
Lionel looked at her uneasily, wondering if a vein of cynicism, seldom
displayed, was merely superficial. At any rate Joyce and she had forced
him to think, to analyse his thoughts, to draw inferences from them. He
said slowly:
“I took it all for granted before I went to India. It never occurred to
me then that I was fortunate in my home or in anything else. I remember
‘grousing’ if a cog in the machinery slipped. Machinery! That’s the
word. I reckoned this to be machinery. By George! I hadn’t wit enough to
reflect that machinery doesn’t last for ever and ever.”
She made no reply.
Her sprightly brain was busy, applying what he had said to herself. For
her the past fortnight had been a fresh experience, and perfectly
delightful. The peaceful atmosphere, the rest to her own over-stimulated
nerves, her courteous hosts, her ever-increasing interest in the young
man beside her, so different from the strivers and pushers of the
metropolitan market-place—these had sufficed. Would they suffice if she
held them in perpetuity?
Frankly, she didn’t know; an odd misgiving assailed her. Was she a
creature of change, incapable of finding happiness in stable conditions?
She heard Lionel’s voice coming back to her, as if from a distance. He
was talking of Fishpingle.
“The dear old boy kept wicket jolly well, and he looked so ripping on
his flannels.”
“Yes. The moment I saw him—I knew. The mystery was solved.”
“What did you know?”
“He is a gentleman—all through. His story—the little I have heard of
it—confirms that. Lady Alicia had a pretty maid, who went about with
her. _Une petite faute._ We can guess the rest.”
“You are very sharp, Margot. That is mother’s opinion.”
“Is it? Then the thing is settled. Your dear mother is sharper than I
am.”
Lionel was astounded.
“Mother—sharp?”
“As a Damascus blade, and as finely tempered. I must look up the
directories. I never heard of a gentle family with the
name—Fishpingle.”
“Nor I.”
“It sounds like the name of a place.”
“So it does.”
They joined the others on the lawn. Joyce, Moxon, the Parson, and Lady
Pomfret were listening to the Squire as he dwelt at length upon the
vicissitudes of the day. Alfred stood high in his favour. He gazed
affectionately at the Parson. Lionel was welcomed with winged words;
even so Nestor may have acclaimed Achilles.
“Is it a mirage?” thought Margot, as she went up to her pretty room.
* * * * *