Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Seed Time/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV.
Do wrong to none, be able for thine enemy,
Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life's key; be checked for silence,
But never taxed for speech."
A new era in my existence has begun. All my life long I have hated petticoats, and longed for trousers as hopelessly as an old maid of sixty sighs for a sweetheart; and now, lo and behold! Providence, who so rarely grants to any human being his heart's desire, drops them at my feet, and any day I may step into them, and enjoy the exquisite satisfaction of not only feeling a boy, but looking one. Upstairs, in my box, lie two simple garments never yet worn, but which I may be called upon to don at any moment. Perhaps this very afternoon the summons may come, and I shall cast my encumbrances to the wind, and for once feel like Jack. If he could only see me! On the whole, though, I am rather glad he cannot, for I know he would laugh, and I have a sneaking conviction that my tout ensemble in my new gear is more likely to provoke derision than admiration. But oh, it is so comfortable! I have put it on behind my drawn curtain over and over again, for no earthly reason than to assure my eyes and touch that I am not dreaming, and that it is my very own, made for me.
We are all at work in the school-room, toiling at "seam, gusset, and band," and envying heartily the blackbird who is free as air, and knows it, singing at his ease as he swings on the apple bough that looks in at the tall narrow window! The sunbeams dance and flicker on the dull school-books impudently, saying, as plain as they can speak, "We can play hide-and-seek all day if we please; we are not answerable to any one, and we have no lessons to learn or work to do."
Steps come down the corridor; no mincing feminine ones this time, but a man's bold decided tread. I lay down my stitching to listen. The door opens, a head is popped in. "Cricket?" says a loud clear voice, the door is shut again, and down go work and thimbles, a Babel of delighted cries bursts forth, and in thirty seconds the room is cleared, and we are all upstairs, pulling off ribbons, gowns, crinolines, all our feminine belongings, and pulling on knickerbockers and blouses? Yes, knickerbockers! Let no one blush or look shocked, for they are long and ample, and tied modestly in at the ankle; and as to the blouse, which descends below the knee, and is trimly belted in at the waist, is as decent and uncompromising as that worn by Dr. Mary Walker; our costume being, in short, nothing more or less than that which is designated by the somewhat opprobrious title of "Bloomer." The knickerbockers bring comfort, the tunic confers respectability. It is a lovely thought that I can kick up my heels to my heart's content, and yet preserve decorum. As to what manner of female I look, I care nothing; my sensations are all I think about, and they are blissful. I feel as light as a feather, and equal to Jack at running, vaulting or hurdle jumping.
On my way downstairs I fall in with the girls—shrunken, insignificant creatures, measured by the standard of half an hour ago, when they boasted a circumference of from four to five yards of petticoat. They even look meek; for it is a fact that a large portion of a woman's assurance lies in her tail. Shear her of that and she is no way superior to man. Out in the cricket field I scan the assembly critically, and nothing but the consciousness of looking a greater guy than any one present prevents me from going off into a fit of convulsive laughter. If only Charles Lovelace, George Tempest, or Jack could see us!
We have roly-poly girls and bean-stalk girls, little girls, big girls, long girls, short girls; girls whose plump proportions fit their garments as closely as a kernel fits a shell; girls whose garments hang upon them loose, as did the armour on Don Quixote's gaunt form; girls who waddle, amble, jig, trot, hurry, and stride—their action plainly shown in the narrow, straight costume. Can an English girl walk? I trow not. It is a pity the time spent in needlework is not used in drilling. Conspicuous, even among this remarkable throng, is the German governess, short, square, stout, not over young, with a large flat face, enormous feet and hands, and that general look of a Dutch doll that usually marks her stolid race. She wears the regulation trousers and blouse; but whether under an impression that she is not sufficiently clad, or whether she wishes to give a full dress air to a somewhat severe costume I know not; at any rate she has over and above arrayed herself in a very large, ample, white muslin jacket, profusely frilled and starched, and tightly belted in at the waist, and these frills set straight out from her sturdy form in a fashion that would bring a smile to the face of a crocodile.
The wickets are pitched; the ball is flying from hand to hand; we are all waiting for Mr. Russell, the man who introduced the game of cricket at Charteris, or rather, made it an institution, for it has flourished many years, and many a pretty young mother makes an excellent long-stop or field to her sons, thanks to the training she received at school. To Mr. Russell, therefore, be our eternal thanks due, in that he has, for a time at least, emancipated us from the slavish thraldom of our petticoats and enabled us to stretch our limbs and use them. He is coming over the grass from the school with Miss Tyburn now; tall, erect, a little grey, his dress showing but little of the clergyman about it (he is one of the committee, and owns "The Charteris," the only big house in the place. He is married and has olive branches.) How my heart leaps as I look at him. Why did he not come home sooner? His daughter is with him. And now sides are being chosen, the game begins, and as my side is in I have no opportunity for making myself look ridiculous as yet, I merely look on.
It is a droll sight to see a girl walk up to the wicket and send her ball in, if not as powerfully as a man, well nigh as straight; and to see another standing, bat in hand, with body slightly bent forward, awaiting it. Mr. Russell is against us, and in the next over his fast, round-arm bowling gives me an uneasy sense of fear, the ball hurtles along so swiftly that surely a slender ankle or arm might snap like sealing-wax at its onslaught; and something of that Frenchman's astonishment comes into my mind who could not conceive the reason of Englishmen being so fond of cricket, for where was the pleasure of standing up in a hot sun for a man to shy a hard ball at you, while a lot of other fellows stood round and looked on? If I do come to grief I hope that any amount of arms and legs will be broken, but not my teeth. I never could stand false ones, and I could not do without any, so it would be awkward.
How hot it is! We are all sitting and lying about under the trees; a little farther off are Miss Tyburn, and Mr. Frere, who has just come over from the parsonage. In common mercy to our numbers he ought to play, and allow us to enjoy the distinction of having a man on each side; but apparently he is more careful of his shins than ambitious of honour, so sits in the shade at his ease looking on. All too soon comes that terrible moment when "Helen Adair!" is called, and bat in hand, I walk forth to my fate. I begin my illustrious career by hit-wicket, but in consideration of my extreme greenness and inexperience am permitted to take my innings, that is to say, if I can get it. The ground flies up into my face, the sky lies at my feet, as I stand awaiting my first ball, holding with stiff nervous fingers my bat, in what may be called the "first position" of cricketers—bolt upright, with my person carefully curved out, and away from it, like Cupid's bow. In comes the ball, and I swipe wildly at it. Have I hit it or the wickets, or the wicket-keeper, or myself? I am still in doubt and undecided as to whether I ought to walk off to the shade of the friendly tree when another ball comes creeping in, very insidiously this time, and somehow I give it a neat little tip that sends it straight into Fräulein's face; and while I am looking all about, and marvelling where it has got to, she is led away, weeping bitterly, with a bleeding nose. Quite overpowered by this proof of my skill, I send the next ball, which somehow seems to run of its own accord against my bat, a tolerable distance; and being pleased at the circumstance, and engaged in looking round with a modest smirk for admiration, am amazed at being violently hustled by my fellow bats-woman, who wildly exhorts me to run. Ah! I had forgotten all about the runs, I was too much taken up in congratulating myself, but I set out with a will, and am considerably taken aback on arriving at my bourne to find that I am ignominiously run out.
Moral: stick to business. Back to the tree I go, as crestfallen miserable, and ashamed a lass as the world contains. As I am seating myself disconsolately, Miss Tyburn calls me, and I jump up to obey her bidding.
"Mr. Frere knows your father, Helen Adair," she says; "he would like to talk to you," and she rises and sails away towards the house, for which I am thankful. How could I talk to any one before her?
"And so you are Alan Adair's daughter?" says Mr. Frere, stretching out a kind hand: "and I never found it out until to-day."
"I knew you, sir," I say nodding. "I have seen you hanging up in the library, you know."
"Has your father still that old likeness?" he asks, smiling.
"Oh, yes! Were you and papa very great friends, sir?"
"Not very," he says, smiling again; "what made you think so?"
"He does not keep photographs or—or pictures, generally."
"I knew him when we were both young men at Silverbridge."
"At Silverbridge!" I exclaim, my eyes sparkling. “You know my old home, then?"
"Yes, but your father was not married then. I suppose he has several children by this time?"
"A few, sir; twelve."
"Twelve!" he repeats, starting back. "You are joking?"
"No, it is quite true! and goodness knows—for I'm sure we don't—whether there won't be as many more! At home there is always a baby, and they mount up, you know."
"And I have not one!" he says in a voice that is cheerful, and yet has a faint undertone of regret.
"Oh! you need not wish you had any!" I say, shaking my head: "you would never be able to keep them in order—never. Papa often says that if he had his time over again he would not have half so many! And I am sure," I continue, looking at his kindly face, "that you would never have the heart to whip———"
"And does your father?" he asks, laughing.
"Rather! Only ask the fry! Shall you be likely to go to Silverbridge soon?" I ask suddenly and apprehensively.
"Not in the least. Why?"
"You might tell papa I was naughty or—or something."
"I never tell tales," he says. "And now do you think Miss Tyburn would allow you to come over to the parsonage sometimes and make tea for me?"
"Delightful!" I say, clapping my hands. "Oh! it will be so nice to get away from all these girls sometimes! They are all very well, sir, but I prefer boys."
"I expect a nephew in a few days, but he is not a boy, unfortunately."
"Will he play cricket with us?" I ask with interest; "one black coat does look so lost among all these girls!"
"I am afraid Miss Tyburn would object," says Mr. Frere, laughing again (really he is not a bit like most elderly gentlemen); "he is coming for some shooting a friend has placed at his disposal near here. I shall not see much of him."
"Is he nice, sir?"
"I think so."
"Helen Adair! Helen Adair!" echoes on all sides. The time has come for me to field. Surely I cannot distinguish myself as lamentably in that duty as I did in the other? "Good-bye!" I say in a violent hurry. Good-bye! But before I go I want to tell you that I like you very much indeed!"
By-and-by I am able to do my side some small service. Mr. Russell is in, and batting away with a determination and vigour that strikes consternation to our feminine souls, and presently he sends a mighty ball straight over my head (who am standing long field on) straight across the cricket-field, and into the next. "Six!" cry the Russellites; but six it shall not be, if I can help it. Laying my legs to the ground with a will, I have cleared the field and leaped the hedge beyond, before he has got one. I go plump into the midst of a stinging-nettle bed—but that is nothing, I espy the ball, and send it home with all my might. And after all he only gets two. He casts an approving glance on me as I return, evidently he is not used to seeing girls jump; if he only knew how thoroughly Jack has grounded me in that doubtful accomplishment!