Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/273

. 29, 1863.] have done at some time of our lives, that it is not the outward world only that is lighted up by sunshine. He was almost inclined to wonder how it was that he had “given in,” as he expressed it to himself, over night. A letter from the late Inspector of Police lay on the table, informing him that Mr. George Nugent, after landing at 8 a.m. on the previous day, had transacted business at an agent’s and an outfitter’s, and had proceeded to Chanleigh, from whence intelligence of his proceedings would be forwarded to Tom in due course. As it was unnecessary to have Nugent’s visit to himself chronicled, he wrote to his active informant to put a stop to further proceedings. By noon the guests, bidden and unbidden, began to make their appearance. It was impossible for Tom, naturally sanguine as he was, not to feel his spirits rise at the sight of the troops of children pouring in, all prepared for enjoyment of his contriving, and half crazy in the anticipation of it. The little pony carriages, laden with the clergymen of the surrounding parishes, their wives and their children in fabulous numbers, came slowly along the road. Mrs. Wortleby and her seven daughters arrived from Chanleigh, as happy in their rare holiday as the smallest child in the village. Doctors brought the female members of their family, and looked on good-naturedly themselves for half-an-hour or so. The distinguished-looking daughters of the Squire considered it as a good opportunity of doing what was necessary in the way of civility to the clergymen’s wives in the neighbourhood, patronising some and snubbing others; while more than one individual who had been honoured by the Squire’s notice, could say with Macaulay,

Always in the midst of a group of children, kind and happy and helpful, was Miss Letitia. Tom had glanced anxiously at her on her arrival. If he had had a mother or sister to warn her to look her best, he thought he should have been more at ease. He had a vague idea that she was not dressed like the girls who used to assist at the school fêtes of his curate life, when they all seemed to him in a flutter of muslin and blue ribbons; but for all that she wore a dull grey gown,—surely George Nugent would relent when he saw her, and read her whole history in her face. It was no wonder that he started at the sight of every new comer, and hastened restlessly from one group to another. Various rewards and prizes had been given away. The school children had eaten roast-beef and plum-pudding till they had placed their digestions in jeopardy for life. The cricketers were preparing for their share in the programme of the day. If Tom had not been so preoccupied, he would have seen with satisfaction that an old school-fellow named Thorpe, who had a good living in the neighbourhood, and wanted a wife, and whom he had introduced to Mrs. Wortleby and her daughters, was talking eagerly to kind-hearted Jane Wortleby: she rarely found a cavalier on such occasions—the prospect of so numerous a body of sisters-in-law serving as a scarecrow to all matrimonial intentions, to say nothing of the ordinary civilities of life.

A golden age of childhood! Modern writers may say what they will of the acuteness of sorrow and even remorse in early years: we shall never know the delight of the little ones,—five-and-twenty, at least,—who were dancing round the green to the old song of “Here we go round the Mulberry Bush.” O happy vigorous age of youth! with all its shyness and grievous self-consciousness, we shall never feel again the elasticity of muscle and spirit with which the cricketers fought for fame,—and an electro-plated drinking cup. Many of us, like Tom’s older parishioners, must content ourselves with a tranquil pipe, and a seat on the distant bench, willing to witness the exertions of others, and to rejoice in their success. The mirth was at its height. Six plough-boys in sacks had started for a very distant goal amidst loud peals of laughter, in which the gravest of the bystanders joined. With immense difficulty they were advancing towards the side of the field nearest the entrance, where the little children were keeping up their dance round the green. Suddenly Tom’s eye fell on George Nugent, dressed as he had been over-night, with a broad-brimmed white hat, with a piece of crape round it, pulled down over his eyes; his knotty stick still in his hand. He seemed to be watching the proceedings with some interest. Close by was Miss Letitia, busily engaged in the intricacies of the “Mulberry Bush,” and helping the children to keep clear of the green, which was fast becoming obstreperous. She was so near him, that her garments touched him, and recognition on her part seemed inevitable. As George Nugent’s eyes turned moodily upon her, Tom’s heart beat fast. His first impulse was to rush away into the house, anywhere that he might not witness their meeting; but he checked himself, wondering whether he ought not to go up and help them through the awkwardness of it. In a miserable state of indecision, his eyes wandering from the cricket-match to the sack-race, and from the sack-race to Miss Letitia and the little children, several minutes passed on, which seemed almost hours to him. Suddenly he heard George Nugent cry out in a loud voice, “Out of the way, you little idiot!” and saw him put his hand roughly on Jemmy Bates’s shoulder to enforce his order. Down rattled the little crutches as they had done on the day when Tom had first entered Beauchamp. The competitors in the race were close upon him, when Miss Letitia, with more indignation in her face than Tom had ever seen there before, once more ran to the boy’s rescue, and carried him away to a more secure spot. The public attention was concentrated on the race, and very few had observed the occurrence. A few minutes afterwards, George Nugent left the field.

The die was cast, and there was nothing left now but to wait with patience till nightfall. Tom having decided on the merits of the sack-race, proceeded to the dining-room, where his guests were actively employed. He did not observe Mr. Thorpe helping Jane Wortleby to pigeon-pie, nor her mother’s eyes glistening at the sight of the girl’s face, all animation as they talked, and ate, and talked again. Mrs. Wortleby, in her simple-hearted way, had already got so far in her