“Now, I know what you want to ask me, Aunt Shorne. Isn’t it about my papa? He’s not come, and he won’t be able to come for a week.—Glad to be with Cousin Rosey? I should think I am! She’s the nicest girl I ever could suppose. She isn’t a bit spoiled by Portugal; only browned; and she doesn’t care for that; no more do I. I rather like the sun when it doesn’t freckle you. I can’t bear freckles, and I don’t believe in milk for them. People who have them are such a figure. Drummond Forth has them, but he’s a man, and it doesn’t matter for a man to have freckles.—How’s my uncle Mel? Oh, he’s quite well. I mean, he has the gout in one of his fingers, and it’s swollen so, it’s just like a great fat fir-cone! He can’t write a bit, and rests his hand on a table. He wants to have me made to write with my left hand as well as my right. As if I was ever going to have the gout in one of my fingers!”
Sir George Lowton observed to Hamilton Jocelyn, that Melville must take to his tongue now.
“I fancy he will,” said Hamilton. “My father won’t give up his nominee; so I fancy he’ll try Fallowfield. Of course, we go in for the agricultural interest; but there’s a cantankerous old ruffian down here—a brewer, or something—he’s got half the votes at his bidding. We shall see.”
“Dorothy, my dear child, are you not tired?” said Lady Roseley. “You are very hot.”
“Yes, that’s because Rose would tear along the road to get here in time, after we had left those tiresome Copping people, where she had to make a call. ‘What a slow little beast your pony is, Dorry!’—she said that at least twenty times.”
“Oh, you naughty puss!” cried Rose. “Wasn’t it, ‘Rosey, Rosey, I’m sure we shall be too late, and shan’t see a thing: do come along as hard as you can?’”
“I’m sure it was not,” Miss Dorothy retorted, with the large eyes of innocence. “You said you wanted to see Nick Frim keeping the wicket, and Ferdinand Laxley bowl. And, oh! you know something you said about Drummond Forth.”
“Now, shall I tell upon you?” said Rose.
“No, don’t!” hastily replied the little woman, blushing. And the cavaliers laughed out, and the ladies smiled, and Dorothy added: “It isn’t much, after all.”
“Then, come; let’s have it, or I shall be jealous,” said the squire.
“Shall I tell?” Rose asked slily.
“It’s unfair to betray one of your sex, Rose,” remarked the sweetly-smiling lady.
“Yes, Lady Roseley—mayn’t a woman have secrets?” Dorothy put it with great natural earnestness, and they all laughed aloud. “But I know a secret of Rosey’s,” continued Miss Dorothy, “and if she tells upon me, I shall tell upon her.”
“They’re out!” cried Rose, pointing her whip at the wickets. “Good night to Beckley! Tom Copping’s run out.”
Questions as to how it was done passed from mouth to mouth. Questions as to whether it was fair sprang from Tom’s friends, and that a doubt existed was certain: the whole field was seen converging towards the two umpires: Farmer Broadmead for Fallowfield, Master Nat Hodges for Beckley.
“It really is a mercy there’s some change in the game,” said Mrs. Shorne, waving her parasol. “It’s a charming game, but it wants variety—a little. When do you return, Rose?”
“Not for some time,” said Rose, primly. “I like variety very well, but I don’t seek it by running away the moment I’ve come.”
“No, but, my dear,” Mrs. Shorne negligently fanned her face, “you will have to come with us, I fear, when we go. Your uncle accompanies us. I really think the squire will, too; and Mr. Forth is no chaperon. Even you understand that.”
“Oh, I can get an old man—don’t be afraid,” said Rose. “Or must I have an old woman, aunt?”
The lady raised her eyelids slowly on Rose, and thought: “If you were soundly whipped, my little madam, what a good thing it would be for you.” And that good thing Mrs. Shorne was willing to do for Rose. She turned aside, and received the salute of an unmistakeable curate on foot.
“Ah, Mr. Parsley, you lend your countenance to the game, then!”
The curate observed, that sound Churchmen unanimously supported the game.
“Bravo!” cried Rose. “How I like to hear you talk like that, Mr. Parsley. I didn’t think you had so much sense. You and I will have a game together—single-wicket. We must play for something—what shall it be?”
“Oh—for nothing,” the curate vacuously remarked.
“That’s for love, you rogue!” exclaimed the squire. “Come, come, none o’ that, sir!—ha! ha!”
“Oh, very well; we’ll play for love,” said Rose.
“And I’ll hold the stakes, my dear—eh?”
“You dear old naughty squire!—what do you mean?” Rose laughed. But she had all the men surrounding her, and Mrs. Shorne talked of departing.
Why did not Evan bravely march away? Why, he asked himself, had he come on this cricket-field to be made thus miserable? What right had such as he to look on Rose? Consider, however, the young man’s excuses. He could not possibly imagine that a damsel who rode one day to a match, would return on the following day to see it finished: or absolutely know that unseen damsel to be Rose Jocelyn. And if he waited, it was only to hear her sweet voice once again, and go for ever. As far as he could fathom his hopes, they were that Rose would not see him; but the hopes of youth are deep.
Just then a toddling small rustic stopped in front of Evan, and set up a howl for his “fayther.” Evan lifted him high to look over people’s heads, and discover his wandering parent. The urchin, when he had settled to his novel position, surveyed the field, and shouting, “Fayther, fayther! here I bes on top of a gentleman!” made lusty signs, which attracted not his father alone. Rose sang out, “Who can lend me a penny?” Instantly the curate and the squire had a race in their pockets. The curate was first, but Rose favoured the squire, took his money with a nod and a