Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/326

 7, 1860.] Miss Wheedle, who apparently had plenty of answers for them, and answers of a kind that encouraged her sheepish natural courtiers (whom the pair of youthful gentlemen entirely overlooked) to snigger and seem at their ease.

“Will you go over and show?” said Evan.

Mr. Raikes glanced from a corner of his eye, and returned, with tragic emphasis and brevity:

“We’re watched. I shall bolt.”

“Very well,” said Evan. “Go to the inn. I’ll come to you in an hour or so, and then we’ll walk on to London, if you like.”

“Bailiffs do take fellows in the country,” murmured Jack. “They’ve an extraordinary scent. I fancied them among my audience when I appeared on the boards. That’s what upset me, I think. Is it much past twelve o’clock?”

Evan drew forth his watch.

“Just on the stroke.”

“Then I shall just be in time to stick up something to the old gentleman’s birthday. Perhaps I may meet him! I rather think he noticed me favourably. Who knows? A sprightly half-hour’s conversation might induce him to do odd things. He shall certainly have my address.”

Mr. Raikes, lingering, caught sight of an object, cried “Here he comes: I’m off,” edged through the crowd, over whose heads he tried—standing on tip-toe—to gain a glimpse of his imaginary persecutor, and dodged away.

Evan strolled on. A long success is better when seen at a distance of time, and Nick Frim was beginning to suffer from the monotony of his luck. Fallowfield could do nothing with him. He no longer blocked. He lashed out at every ball, and far flew every ball that was bowled. The critics saw in this return to his old practices, promise of Nick’s approaching extinction. The ladies were growing hot and weary. The little boys gasped on the grass, but like cunning circulators of excitement, spread a report to keep it up, that Nick, on going to his wickets the previous day, had sworn an oath that he would not lay down his bat till he had scored a hundred. So they had still matter to agitate their youthful breasts, and Nick’s gradual building up of tens, and prophecies and speculations as to his chances of completing the hundred, were still vehemently confided to the field, amid a general mopping of faces.

Evan did become aware that a man was following him. The man had not the look of a dreaded official. His countenance was sun-burnt and open, and he was dressed in a countryman’s holiday suit. When Evan met his eyes they showed perplexity. Evan felt he was being examined from head to heel, but by one unaccustomed to his part, and without the courage to decide what he ought consequently to do while a doubt remained, though his inspection was verging towards a certainty in his mind.

At last, somewhat annoyed that the man should continue to dog him wherever he moved, he turned on him and asked him what he wanted?

“Be you a Muster Evv’n Harrington, Esquire?” the man drawled out in the rustic music of inquiry.

“That is my name,” said Evan.

“Ay,” returned the man, “it’s somebody lookin’ like a lord, and has a small friend wi’ shockin’ old hat, and I see ye come out o’ the Green Drag’n this mornin’—I don’t reck’n there’s ere a mistaak, but I likes to make cock sure. Be you been to Poortigal, sir?”

“Yes,” answered Evan, “I have been to Portugal.”

“What’s the name o’ the capital o’ Poortigal, sir?” The man looked immensely shrewd, and nodding his consent at the laughing reply, added:

“And there you was born, sir? You’ll excuse my boldness, but I only does what’s necessary.”

Evan said he was not born there.

“No, not born there. That’s good. Now, sir, did you happen to be born anywheres within smell o’ salt water?”

“Yes,” answered Evan, “I was born by the sea.”

“Not far beyond fifty mile from Fall’field here, sir?”

“Something less.”

“All right. Now I’m cock sure,” said the man. “Now, if you’ll have the kindness just to oblige me by” he sped the words and the instrument jointly at Evan, “takin’ that there letter, I’ll say good-bye, sir, and my work’s done for the day.”

Saying which he left Evan with the letter in his hands.

Evan turned it over curiously. It was addressed to “Evan Harrington, Esquire, T of Lymport.”

A voice paralysed his fingers: the clear ringing voice of a young horsewoman, accompanied by a little maid on a pony, who galloped up to the carriage upon which Squire Uploft, Sir George Lowton, Hamilton Jocelyn, and other cavaliers, were in attendance.

“Here I am at last, and Beckley’s in still! How d’ ye do, Lady Roseley. How d’ ye do, Sir George. How d’ ye do, everybody. Your servant, squire! We shall beat you. Harry says we shall soon be a hundred a-head of you. Fancy those boys! they would sleep at Fallowfield last night. How I wish you had made a bet with me, squire.”

“Well, my lass, it’s not too late,” said the squire, detaining her hand.

“Oh, but it wouldn’t be fair now. And I’m not going to be kissed on the field, if you please, squire. Here, Dorry will do instead. Dorry! come and be kissed by the Squire.”

It was Rose, living and glowing; Rose, who was the brilliant young Amazon, smoothing the neck of a mettlesome gray cob. Evan’s heart bounded up to her, but his limbs were motionless.

The squire caught her smaller companion in his arms, and sounded a kiss upon both her cheeks; then settled her in the saddle, and she went to answer some questions of the ladies. She had the same lively eyes as Rose; quick saucy lips, red, and open for prattle. Rolls of auburn hair fell down her back, for being a child she was allowed privileges. To talk as her thoughts came, as well as to wear her hair as it grew, was a special privilege of this young person, on horseback or elsewhere.