But when ‘All England’ went in, the game seemed to be more equally balanced. Aubrey May, in spite of devoted practice under Tom’s instructions, was, from nervous eagerness, out almost as soon as in, and in his misery of shame and despair felt like the betrayer of his cause. But in due time, with the sun declining, and the score still low, Tom May came forward, as the last hope of ‘All England,’ lissom, active, and skilled, walking up to his wicket with the easy confidence of one not greatly caring, but willing to show the natives what play might be.
And his play was admirable; the fortunes of the day began to tremble in the balance; every one, spectators and all, were in a state of eager excitement; and Aubrey, out of tone and unable to watch for the crisis, fairly fled from the sight, rushed through the cloister door, and threw himself with his face down upon the grass, shivering with suspense. There he lay till a sudden burst of voices and cheers showed that the battle was over.
The result? He could not believe eyes or ears as he opened the door, to behold the triumphant gestures of Stoneborough, and the crestfallen air of his own side, and heard the words, ‘Folliot missed two chances of long-leg—Ward—tremendous rush—caught him out—with only one run to tie.’
Dr. May was shaking hands with Leonard in congratulation, not solely generous, for let his sons be where they would, Stoneborough triumphs were always the Doctor’s, and he was not devoid of gratitude to any one who would defeat Tom. Noting, however, the flitting colour, fluttering breath, and trembling limbs, that showed the effect of the day’s fatigue and of the final exertion, he signed back the boys, and thrust Leonard within the cloister door, bidding Aubrey fetch his coat, and Ethel keep guard over him, and when he was rested and cooled, to take him home to the High Street, where his sisters would meet him.
‘But—sir—the—supper!’ gasped Leonard, leaning against the door-post, unable to stand alone.
‘I dare say. Keep him safe, Ethel.’
And the Doctor shut the door, and offered himself to appease the lads who were clamouring for the hero of their cause; while Leonard sank back on the bench, past words or looks for some moments.
‘You have redeemed your pennon with your last gasp,’ said Ethel, half reproachfully.
‘I was determined,’ panted the boy. ‘I don’t know how I did it. I couldn’t fail with you looking on. You did it by coming.’
Reply was spared by Aubrey’s return, with the coat in one hand, and a glass of ale in the other. ‘You are to go home with Ethel at once,’ he pronounced with the utmost zest, ‘that is, as soon as you are rested. My father says you must not think of the supper, unless you particularly wish to be in bed for a week; but we’ll all drink your health, and I’ll return thanks—the worst player for the best.’
This was the first time Aubrey had been considered in condition for such festivities, and the gratification of being superior to somebody might account for his glee in invaliding his friend.
Cricket suppers were no novelties to Leonard; and either this or his exhaustion must have made him resign himself to his fate, and walk back with Ethel as happily as at Coombe.
The sisters soon followed, and were detained to drink tea. The cricketers’ mirth must have been fast and furious if it exceeded that at home, for the Doctor thought himself bound to make up for the loss to Leonard, put forth all his powers of entertainment, and was comically confidential about ‘these Etonians that think so much of themselves.’
Averil was lively and at ease, showing herself the pleasant well-informed girl whom Ethel had hitherto only taken on trust, and acting in a pretty motherly way towards the little sisters. She was more visibly triumphant than was Leonard, and had been much gratified by a request from the Bankside curate that she would entirely undertake the harmonium at the chapel. She had been playing on it during the absence of the schoolmaster, and with so much better effect than he could produce, that it had been agreed that he would be best in his place among the boys.
‘Ah!’ said the Doctor, ‘two things in one are apt to be like Aubrey’s compromise between walking-stick and camp-stool—a little of neither.’
‘I don’t mean it to be a little of neither with me, Dr. May,’ said Averil. ‘I shall have nothing to do with my choir on week-days, till I have sent these pupils of mine to bed.’
‘Are you going to train the choir too?’ asked Leonard.
‘I must practise with them, or we shall not understand one another; besides, they have such a horrid set of tunes, Mr. Scudamour gave me leave to change them. He is going to have hymnals, and get rid of Tate and Brady at once.’
‘Ah! poor Nahum!’ sighed the Doctor with such a genuine sigh, that Averil turned round on him in amazement.
‘Yes,’ said Ethel, ‘I’m the only one conservative enough to sympathize with you, papa.’
‘But does any one approve of the New Version?’ cried Averil, recovering from her speechless wonder.
‘Don’t come down on me,’ said the Doctor, holding up his hands. ‘I know it all; but the singing psalms are the singing psalms to me—and I can’t help my bad taste—I’m too old to change.’
‘Oh! but, papa, you do like those beautiful hymns that we have now?’ cried Gertrude.
‘Oh! yes, yes, Gertrude, I acquiesce. They are a great improvement; but then, wasn’t it a treat when I got over to Woodside Church the other day, and found them singing, “No change of times shall ever shock”!’ and he began to hum it.
‘That is the Sicilian Mariners’ hymn,’ said Averil. ‘I can sing you that whenever you please.’
‘Thank you; on condition you sing the old Tate and Brady, not your “O Sanctissma, O Purissima,”’ said the Doctor, a little mischievously.
‘Which is eldest, I wonder?’ said Ave, smiling, pleased to comply with any whim of his; though too young to understand the associations that entwine closely around all that has assisted or embodied devotion.
The music went from the sacred to the secular; and Ethel owned that the perfectly pronounced words and admirable taste made her singing very different from that which adorned most dinner-parties. Dr. May intensely enjoyed, and was between tears and bravos at the charge of the Six Hundred, when the two brothers entered, and stood silently listening.
That return brought a change. Aubrey was indeed open and bright, bursting out with eager communications the moment the song ceased, then turning round with winning apologies, and hopes that he was not interrupting; but Tom looked so stiff and polite as to chill every one, and Averil began to talk of the children’s bed-time.
The Doctor and Aubrey pressed for another song so earnestly that she consented; but the spirit and animation were gone, and she had no sooner finished than she made a decided move to depart, and Dr. May accompanied the party home.
‘Is my father going to put that fellow to bed?’ said Tom, yawning, as if injured by the delay of bed-time thus occasioned.
‘Your courtesy does not equal his,’ said Ethel.
‘Nor ever will,’ said Tom.
‘Never,’ said Ethel, so emphatically that she nettled him into adding,
‘He is a standing warning against spoiling one’s patients. I wouldn’t have them and their whole tag-rag and bobtail about my house for something!’
‘O, Tom, for shame!’ cried Mary, bursting out in the wrath he had intended to excite.
‘Ask him which is tag, which rag, and which bobtail,’ suggested Ethel.