Priscilla watched him with a considerable amount of interest, for
she was far enough away from the crowds at the courts to allow of her
watching him without feeling that she was being watched. She saw how he
was walking--swiftly--eagerly--a foot or two ahead of the man who had
found him--his head slightly bent forward, his fingers clutching the
grip of his racket as though he were ready to return with fury the ball
that had been served to him with a smash--as if he had made up his mind
that the man who sowed the wind (within an indiarubber sphere) should
reap the whirlwind--if he could.
He never looked back--that she noticed with the greatest amount of
interest. If he had looked back she would have felt that she had not
succeeded in her endeavour to force him to take every ounce out of
himself. But now she saw that she had been successful.
Was she just too successful? That was a dreadful question which
suggested itself to her. Was that the proper spirit in which he should
approach his task of getting one step near to the holder of the cup?
Would he not have a better chance if he had gone to the court in the
tranquil spirit that was usually his--the spirit of Horatio--the man
that Fortune’s buffets and awards had ta’en with equal thanks? She knew
that the race is not always to the swift, nor the set to the smasher.
The eager man with the racket is apt to become racketty and not precise;
and she had sent him from her as full of enthusiasm as a schoolboy
arriving in London with a sovereign in one pocket and in the other a
ticket for the pavilion at the Oval for Surrey v, Sussex, and Ranji 75
not out the previous evening.
For a while she had a grave misgiving. She felt that after all she had
misjudged the man. She had never believed that he would be capable of
anything like this within half an hour of her beginning to speak to him.
She had never believed in sudden conversions--the _tours de force_ of
the brilliant evangelist; and she had fancied that it would take her
several days, extending over the whole summer, to convince that man
that there was something in him. And yet there he was, profane--actually
profane in his enthusiasm in less than half an hour!
And the worst of it was that she had been foolish enough to allow her
action in this matter to suggest that she was staking her reputation as
a prophetess upon the event. That was very foolish on her part. No sibil
worthy of the name would have done this. The sibil made her book with
wisdom and caution, a safe hedging and an ambiguous phrase being the
note of her advice.
Priscilla felt that by laying so much emphasis upon the necessity for
his throwing his whole soul into his game of tennis she had jeopardized
the success of her counsel to him in the matters that mattered.
She felt angry with herself when this reflection came to her; but a
few minutes later she felt far angrier at the thought that she had been
angry over something that was no business of hers. What did it matter to
her if Jack Wingfield made a fool of himself over his tennis or anything
else or everything else? How could his success affect her one way or
another?
She really could make no satisfactory reply to this question that
suggested itself to her; for clever and all as she was, she was as
imperfectly acquainted with her own character as most other women are
of theirs. The eagerness with which she had carried out her scheme of
adopting the _role_ of a retributory Providence in respect of Mr. Kelton
had not given her a hint as to what was the dominant impulse of her
nature; nor had her enthusiasm in regard to the working of her father’s
farm and the reform of the dairy revealed it to her; though she had
been on the brink of a discovery of the truth when she had had her
conversation with her friend Rosa going a-primrosing, and had said that
if a man sometimes was the means of a girl’s sudden development into a
woman, she was equally sure that it was a woman who made a man of a man.
She did not know that in herself was so strongly developed the instinct
of woman to be a maker of men--to put forth her strength in order that
they may be strong. To be the mother of a man child, to give him of the
sustenance of her body, to have him by her side and to have command over
him until he breaks away, as she thinks, from her control, leaving her
in tears, but always ready to advise him in the taking of a wife and to
advise the wife, when she is chosen, how to conduct her household--that
is the best part of the nature of a woman. But the exercise of the power
to influence a man, to make herself necessary to the happiness and the
prosperity of a man, is the most irresistible joy that a woman can know,
though she does not know it.
Priscilla Wadhurst had felt a certain satisfaction in the thought that
she had the destiny of Mr. Kelton under her fingers, so far as Framsby’s
concerts were concerned; and she had been greatly gratified when her
father had admitted that her reform of the dairy was a step in the
right direction. But what were these triumphs compared to those that she
longed to effect, though she might not have part or lot in the supreme
tableaux in the procession of events?
And yet, in spite of the consciousness that she had exercised her
influence upon another man for his benefit, she sat there asking herself
why she should feel it as a personal matter whether Jack Wingfield made
a fool of himself over his tennis or in any other way?
And then she saw once again the look that had appeared on his face for
more than a moment when his eyes were upon her. It had startled her, and
the recollection of it gave her a little fright. But her fright
quickly subsided, and she sat there losing herself and all sense of her
surroundings in the thoughts that came down upon her, not like a riotous
throng of fantastic things, but like a silver mist shot through with a
gleam of golden light here and there, but making everything about her
seem blurred--indefinite as the future seems to any one landing on the
shore of a strange land.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet--almost as suddenly as he had risen when
in the midst of their little chat together; only the exclamation that
she gave was not the same as his. Hers was derisive, contemptuous,
impatient, and there was certainly something of impatience in her walk
round the courts where play was going on. She had, however, recovered
herself--she had walked herself outside the atmosphere, so to speak, of
whatever thoughts had irritated her--before she had come opposite
the court where Jack Wingfield was playing off the second set of the
“Gentlemen’s Singles”; but even if she had not done so, a few minutes of
watching the game that was in progress would certainly have cleared away
any wisp of mist that might have remained with her on emerging from that
atmosphere of conjecture into which she had allowed herself to stray.
She slipped into the only unoccupied chair at this court. It was at the
end of the third row of the seats at the side from which Jack Wingfield
was serving. An elderly visitor, wearing a velvet hat built up like a
pagoda, sat immediately in front of her, so that she ran no chance of
being seen by him. This was what, she thought when she took the seat;
but before being in it many seconds she could not help smiling at the
thought of how ridiculous it was to fancy that her coming might divert
his attention for a single moment from the game, to the detriment of his
play. The scheme of Oriental architecture in front of her effectually
hid every inch of the court and the players from her, but her seat being
at the end of the row, she had only to move a few inches to one side to
command a complete and perfect view of the whole; and she perceived in
a moment that the man who was serving with his back to her and to the
whole world and all that is therein, had become compressed into the
spheroid which he held in his left hand preparatory to launching it
like a thunderbolt with a twist over the net. She smiled. If the German
Emperor or Mr. Roosevelt or some other commanding personality had
suddenly appeared on the court, Jack Wingfield would have seen nothing
of him. He had eyes only for the ball.
But for the ball he surpassed Shelley’s night in the number of eyes that
he had. He was playing against a very good man--a man who, according to
some newspapers, had a very good chance of winning the cup that carried
with it the title of Champion of South Saxony--but Priscilla saw in
a moment how things were going. It seemed to her that it was not Jack
Wingfield who was serving, but quite a different person. She could not
imagine that desperately alert young man who served as if his whole
future were dependent upon his placing the ball on the exact inch of
ground at which he aimed--she could not imagine that this was the Jack
Wingfield of the shrug--the Jack Wingfield who half an hour ago had
been ready to scratch to the man whom he was now playing as if he had no
object in life but his defeat.
He was playing with an enthusiasm which surprised every one who was
acquainted with his form, and no one more than his antagonist and
himself. Glenister was his antagonist--a brilliant man, not perhaps
quite so brilliant as he believed himself to be, but still as far above
the average in this respect as the sapphire excels the lapis lazuli. He
was a man of resource and imagination, and these qualities often stood
him in good stead; but it was to his brilliancy he trusted to win his
games for him. Priscilla heard the remarks that were being made by
competent critics sitting just behind her; and knowing what Glenister’s
play was, and seeing what Wingfield’s was, she appreciated the accuracy
of the criticisms.
“Glenny as usual underrated his man,” some one remarked. “That was how
he lost the first two.”
“He could beat half a dozen Wingfields any day,” was the counter. “How
the mischief could he tell that Wingfield was going to play as he is
now? How the----hallo! Did you see that?”
“No, what was it? (In a whisper) Confound that hat! What was it?”
“My aunt! Wingfield played the ball over his shoulder from the line, and
placed it too.”
“Luck!”
“I suppose so. No one could have a ghost of a chance of doing more than
getting it over. Is that Wingfield’s third?”
“His third. He won the first and Glenister pulled off the second. Now
we’ll see what Glenny’s service is worth?”
And they did. They saw that its brilliancy was simply thrown away upon
Wingfield. He declined to be intimidated by it. He made an attempt to
return every ball, and succeeded in getting the third over; with the
first and second that were served to him Glenister made fifteen and
thirty. But he seemed so greatly surprised by Wingfield’s success with
the third as to be quite satisfied to send it back over the net right
opposite to where Wingfield was standing. Wingfield took a long aim,
and Glenister, watching his eye, ran to the extreme right of the line to
meet the ball; but Wingfield changed his mind and sent it to the extreme
left, making his first score. The next service no human being could have
returned. Forty--fifteen. The next was an easy one, and there was some
splendid play before Glenister got a downward smash which he planted
obliquely not two feet from the net on the left side and got his game.
2--3.
“Getting into his form, hey?” said one of the critics behind Priscilla.
“It’s the way with all of them; but Wingfield takes it out of him, all
the same,” was the reply.
“He does, by George! I didn’t think that Wingfield had it in him; he
always seemed to me a lazy sort of beggar--doesn’t care whether he
wins or loses--doesn’t seem to know which he does. His partners in the
doubles bless him unawares. That was a good serve. My aunt, it was a
good serve! He’s working. Has he something on the game, do you suppose?”
“If he had he wouldn’t worry as he’s doing. Most likely some pal of
his put a shilling on him and told him. But his backer would do well to
hedge. That’s deuce. Glenny will take all the rest.”
But this prediction, like the many prophecies of critics, was not
realized. The play on both sides was quick, firm and commonplace, and
Glenister got his vantage. By two more services Wingfield got deuce and
vantage; Glenister returned the third ball, and Wingfield sent it back
in a tight place; but Glenister managed to get under it; he did the same
with Wingfield’s return, only he placed the ball. Wingfield got at it,
however, with his left, and when the other man was returning it to the
bottom of the court far over his head, Wingfield jumped for it, and just
managed to touch it over. His antagonist never even ran for it.
“Luck!” remarked one of the critics. “That was a lucky win for
Wingfield. It might have gone anywhere.”
Score 4--2.
From that moment Glenister seemed to go all to pieces. The next game
realized “game--love,” and the next “game--fifteen,” and Wingfield
walked out, examining with extraordinary attention what he seemed to
think was a defect in the stringing of his racket. He went straight
past Priscilla without seeing her. She meant to say “Well played!” as he
was passing, but when the moment came she found herself speechless.
She could scarcely rise from her chair. She had no notion that her
excitement could have such an effect upon her; and what was strangest of
all to her was the tears in her eyes. Why on earth had the tears come to
her eyes the moment after he had gone past her?
This was incomprehensible to her. There seemed to her to be no sense in
it. She did not take any exception to the feeling of pride of which
she was conscious, or to the whisper that sounded in her ears: “You
did it--it was you--you--you who made him win, and you have now linked
yourself to his success in life, and you will have to stand by him.”
That was all right; she had no idea of making any attempt to evade her
responsibility. She had the instincts of a mother; was she one who would
set a child on its feet in the middle of the roadway and then run away?
She had talked to him so that his success in that match which he had
just played had become something like the ordeal of drawing lots in
the days when the Powers took care that there was no tomfoolery in the
business; she had taken on her the _rôle_ of the prophetess and had in
effect said to him, “Lo! this shall be a sign unto thee”--and he had
accepted the hazard which she suggested to him, and had won, though the
odds, as he knew, were against him.
Well, the thing having worked out so, would he not follow up the
dictation of the sign? Would he not allow himself to be subjugated by
the logic of the lot and hasten to work out his own emancipation with a
firm hand and in a confident spirit?
Of course he would. And what then?
“Then I shall have made a man of him,” was the clarion sound that rang
in her ears. That was to be her reward; the reflection that she had
accomplished this--the sense of her own influence upon the life of a
man. She felt at that moment that she wanted nothing more. Her woman’s
instinct to be a maker of men was satisfied.
She remained in her seat for several minutes, while the crowd who had
been watching the set melted away, or hung about the chairs with their
comments. She listened while some asked what on earth had come over
Glenister, and others what the mischief had come over Wingfield. How
did it come that Wingfield had just managed to nip his set away from
Paisley, who was practically an outsider, and then had licked Glenister,
who had been runner-up for the cup last year, into blue fits? That was
what they all wanted badly to know; and that was just what the young
woman with the lace sunshade and the beautifully made dress could have
told them.
But they did not address their questions to her; and when the talk about
the match that had just finished melted into talk about the two players
who had just taken possession of the court, she got upon her feet and
walked away--straight away from all the play and from the ground and
from the man.
She drove to the farm, took off her beautiful dress and hung it up, and
laid away the lace sunshade, and, putting on her working overall, spent
the rest of the day in the dairy, among her lactometers and test tubes.
Yes, she found that she had been quite right: the four new Jerseys were
more than justifying the records of the stud book.
She reflected with satisfaction upon the circumstance that her father
had bought them on her advice. His judgment as to the look of the beasts
bore out all that her scientific research had made plain.