“Hem! I don’t know,” Jack replied. “The fact is, my hat is a burden in the staring crowd. A hat like this should counsel solitude. Oh!” he fired up, “if you think I’m afraid, come along. Upon my honour!”
Evan, who had been smiling at him, laughed, and led the way.
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 court-yard of the inn, and recognised 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’ve 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 have run a bodkin into her, and made 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 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 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 centralisation. 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 Uploft of Fallowfield)