It is not to be inferred that Lord Lynborough answers these questions. He is, like a wise man, content to propound them. If, however, he had answered them, it might have been worth while to transcribe the diary.
“Can we as gentlemen – ?” – Roger had put the question. It waited unanswered till Lynborough had taken his book and returned to record its utterance – together with the speculations to which that utterance gave rise. Stabb weighed it carefully, rubbing his bald head, according to the habit which his friend had animadverted upon.
“If such a glorious creature – ” cried Roger.
“If a thoroughly intelligent and most sympathetic woman – ” said Stabb.
“Thinks that she has a right, why, she probably has one!”
“At any rate her view is entitled to respect – to a courteous hearing.”
“Lynborough does appear to have been a shade – er – ”
“Ambrose is a spoilt child, bless him! She took a wonderful interest in my brasses. I don’t know what brought her to the church.”
“She waited herself to let me through that beastly gate again!”
“She drove me round herself to our gates. Wouldn’t come through Scarsmoor!”
They both sighed. They both thought of telling the other something – but on second thoughts refrained.
“I suppose we’d better go to bed. Shall you bathe to-morrow morning?”
“With Ambrose? No, I sha’n’t, Wilbraham.”
“No more shall I. Good-night, Stabb. You’ll – think it over?”
Stabb grunted inarticulately. Roger drew the blind aside for a moment, looked down on Nab Grange, saw a light in one window – and went to bed. The window was, in objective fact (if there be such a thing), Colonel Wenman’s. No matter. There nothing is but thinking makes it so. The Colonel was sitting up, writing a persuasive letter to his tailor. He served emotions that he did not feel; it is a not uncommon lot.
Lynborough’s passing and repassing to and from his bathing were uninterrupted next morning. Nab Grange seemed wrapped in slumber; only Goodenough saw him, and Goodenough did not think it advisable to interrupt his ordinary avocations. But an air of constraint – even of mystery – marked both Stabb and Roger at breakfast. The cricket match was naturally the topic – though Stabb declared that he took little interest in it and should probably not be there.
“There’ll be some lunch, I suppose,” said Lynborough carelessly. “You’d better have lunch there – it’d be dull for you all by yourself here, Cromlech.”
After apparent consideration Stabb conceded that he might take luncheon on the cricket ground; Roger, as a member of the Fillby team, would, of course, do likewise.
The game was played in a large field, pleasantly surrounded by a belt of trees, and lying behind the Lynborough Arms. Besides Roger and Lynborough, Stillford and Irons represented Fillby. Easthorpe Polytechnic came in full force, save for an umpire. Colonel Wenman, who had walked up with his friends, was pressed into this honourable and responsible service, landlord Dawson officiating at the other end. Lynborough’s second gardener, a noted fast bowler, was Fillby’s captain; Easthorpe was under the command of a curate who had played several times for his University, although he had not actually achieved his “blue.” Easthorpe won the toss and took first innings.
The second gardener, aware of his employer’s turn of speed, sent Lord Lynborough to field “in the country.” That gentleman was well content; few balls came his way and he was at leisure to contemplate the exterior of the luncheon tent – he had already inspected the interior thereof with sedulous care and high contentment – and to speculate on the probable happenings of the luncheon hour. So engrossed was he that only a rapturous cheer, which rang out from the field and the spectators, apprised him of the fact that the second gardener had yorked the redoubtable curate with the first ball of his second over! Young Woodwell came in; he was known as a mighty hitter; Lynborough was signalled to take his position yet deeper in the field. Young Woodwell immediately got to business – but he kept the ball low. Lynborough had, however, the satisfaction of saving several “boundaries.” Roger, keeping wicket, observed his chief’s exertions with some satisfaction. 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