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.
