native heath. They are playing a game which my memory tells me is cricket. Everyone seems very hot and very excited.”
Wilhelmina beckoned to the footman to come round to the side of the carriage.
“James,” she said, “do you know what all this means?”
She waved her hand towards the cricket pitch, the umpires with their white coats, the tent and the crowd of spectators. The man touched his hat.
“It is a cricket match, madam,” he answered, “between Thorpe and Nesborough.”
Wilhelmina looked once more towards the field, and recognized Mr. Hurd upon his stout little cob.
“Go and tell Mr. Hurd to come and speak to me,” she ordered.
The man hastened off. Mr. Hurd had not once turned his head. His eyes were riveted upon the game. The groom found it necessary to touch him on the arm before he could attract his attention. Even when he had delivered his message, the agent waited until the finish of the over before he moved. Then he cantered his pony up to the waiting carriage. Wilhelmina greeted him graciously.
“I want to know about the cricket match, Mr. Hurd,” she asked, smiling.
Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round so that he could still watch the game.
“I am afraid that we are going to be beaten, madam,” he said dolefully. “Nesborough made a hundred and ninety-eight, and we have six wickets down for fifty.”
Wilhelmina seemed scarcely to realize the tragedy which his words unfolded.
“I suppose they are the stronger team, aren’t they?” she remarked. “They ought to be. Nesborough is quite a large town.”
“We have beaten them regularly until the last two years,” Mr. Hurd answered. “We should beat them now but for their fast bowler, Mills. I don’t know how it is, but our men will not stand up to him.”
“Perhaps they are afraid of being hurt,” Wilhelmina suggested innocently. “If that is he bowling now, I’m sure I don’t wonder at it.”
Mr. Hurd frowned.
“We don’t have men in the eleven who are afraid of getting hurt,” he remarked stiffly.
A shout of dismay from the onlookers, a smothered exclamation from Mr. Hurd, and a man was seen on his way to the pavilion. His wickets were spreadeagled, and the ball was being tossed about the field.
“Another wicket!” the agent exclaimed testily. “Crooks played all round that ball!”
“Isn’t that your son going in, Mr. Hurd?” Wilhelmina asked.
“Yes! Stephen is in now,” his father answered. “If he gets out, the match is over.”
“Who is the other batsman?” Deyes asked.
“Antill, the second bailiff,” Mr. Hurd answered. “He’s captain, and he can stay in all day, but he can’t make runs.”
They all leaned forward to witness the continuation of the match. Stephen Hurd’s career was brief and inglorious. He took guard and looked carefully round the field with the air of a man who is going to give trouble. Then he saw the victoria, with its vision of parasols and fluttering laces, and the sight was fatal to him. He slogged wildly at the first ball, missed it, and paid the penalty. The lady in the carriage frowned, and Mr. Hurd muttered something under his breath as he watched his son on the way back to the tent.
“I’m afraid it’s all up with us now,” he remarked. “We have only three more men to go in.”
“Then we are going to be beaten,” Wilhelmina remarked.
“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Hurd assented gloomily.
The next batsman had issued from the tent and was on his way to the wicket. Wilhelmina, who had been about to give an order to the footman, watched him curiously.
“Who is that going in?” she asked abruptly.
Mr. Hurd was looking not altogether comfortable.
“It is the young man who wanted to preach,” he answered.
Wilhelmina frowned.
“Why is he playing?” she asked. “He has nothing to do with Thorpe.”
“He came down to see them practise a few evenings ago, and Antill asked him,” the agent answered. “If I had known earlier I would have stopped it.”
Wilhelmina did not immediately reply. She was watching the young man who stood now at the wicket, bat in hand. In his flannels, he seemed a very different person from the missioner whose request a few days ago had so much offended her. Nevertheless, her lip curled as she saw the terrible Mills prepare to deliver his first ball.
“That sort of person,” she remarked, “is scarcely likely to be much good at games. Oh!”
Her exclamation was repeated in various forms from all over the field. Macheson had hit his first ball high over their heads, and a storm of applause broke from the bystanders. The batsman made no attempt to run.
“What is that?” Wilhelmina asked.
“A boundary—magnificent drive,” Mr. Hurd answered excitedly. “By Jove, another!”
The agent dropped his reins and led the applause. Along the ground this time the ball had come at such a pace that the fieldsman made a very half-hearted attempt to stop it. It passed the horses’ feet by only a few yards. The coachman turned round and touched his hat.
“Shall I move farther back, madam?” he asked.
“Stay where you are,” Wilhelmina answered shortly. Her eyes were fixed upon the tall, lithe figure once more facing the bowler. The next ball was the last of the over. Macheson played it carefully for a single, and stood prepared for the bowling at the other end. He began by a graceful cut for two, and followed it up by a square leg hit clean out of the ground. For the next half an hour, the Thorpe villagers thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Never since the days of one Foulds, a former blacksmith, had they seen such an exhibition of hurricane hitting. The fast bowler, knocked clean off his length, became wild and erratic. Once he only missed Macheson’s head by an inch, but his next ball was driven fair and square out of the ground for six. The applause became frantic.
Wilhelmina was leaning back amongst the cushions of her carriage, watching the game through half closed eyes, and with some apparent return of her usual graceful languor. Nevertheless, she remained there, and her eyes seldom wandered for a moment from the scene of play. Beneath her apparent indifference, she was watching this young man with an interest for which she would have found it hard to account, and which instinct alone prompted her to conceal. It was a very ordinary scene, after all, of which he was the dominant figure. She had seen so much of life on a larger scale—of men playing heroic parts in the limelight of a stage as mighty as this was insignificant. Yet, without stopping to reason about it, she was conscious of a curious sense of pleasure in watching the doings of this forceful young giant. With an easy good-humoured smile, replaced
