It was a gloriously fine week—the Trotbury cricket week (so said the Trotbury weekly); and there was grand company on the Trotbury cricket ground every one of the days, especially on the grand day.
"All the élite of the neighbourhood for miles round" were there, according to the above mentioned weekly. And if this report was almost too comprehensive and unlimited, I myself can bear witness (for was not I, the humble chronicler of these passages in real life, there also?) that a more brilliant circle of fair ladies and gallant gentlemen, as they were seated on the green gross outside the bounds, eagerly watching the wonderful batting of the brothers G—, the tremendous bowling of the champion of the North, and the superb fielding of the two elevens in general throughout the day; or, as these same spectators walked about the privileged ground during the brief cessations of play—while their "magnificent and lovely equipages" (Trotbury weekly again) were drawn up on the broad sward behind—I say that a more brilliant circle, and so forth, can rarely be seen.
A sober holiday it was and is, and I hope ever will be, as long as it lasts; and if old Oxford and Cambridge men, who knew once how to handle a bat, but have since had their innings and winnings in a higher sphere of toil and duty, chose (as they did and do choose) for once in a year to unbend and do honour to the good old English game of cricket (if John Tincroft will pardon my saying so) with their presence, and to throw over it a halo of protection, I respect and admire them all the more. For I also am—am?—alas! No; but I have been—a cricketer.
And on that ground, on that especial day, there was not a pleasanter sight than a group of three ladies and one gentleman, who, retiring a little behind the crowd, made believe to be watching the game with wonderful interest (which they were not doing at all), and fancied they were deceiving all the world as to the true intent of their being there.
Well, to tell the truth, Tom's wound was not so deep as to be mortal. He had been very loyal (as his friend Tincroft had exhorted him to be) to his elected spouse. He had tried very hard to love her very much; and if he had not quite succeeded, I honestly believe he would eventually have accomplished the feat. At any rate, he would have made his cousin Blanche a good husband, while there was nothing that could be alleged against him inconsistent with the bearing of a faithful and true-hearted fiancé. More than this, Tom had felt greatly pained by the heartless treatment to which he had been subjected; for, in addition to the letter already spoken of, he had himself received one from Blanche, in which she pleaded parental authority for breaking off her connection with her cousin; and, after begging that he would not disturb her peace of mind by attempting to change the decision she had come to—which would be useless—she concluded with best wishes for his future happiness.
All this, I say, was very bitter to Tom—who hadn't deserved it. But he had philosophy to bear the blow with becoming fortitude; and it was when he had partly succeeded in getting the better of his mortification that he received the invitation to Tincroft House. To Tincroft House he went then, and was received with open arms by John and Sarah, to say nothing of his sister, who knew very well what she was about when, in pathetic and moving terms, she enlarged to Mrs. Tincroft—no one else being by—on the wrongs her poor brother had suffered.
"Wouldn't it do him good to have a little holiday?" said pitiful Sarah.
And thus it came to pass that, the former impediment being removed, Tom was pressed to visit Tincroft House during the Trotbury cricket week, as I have said.
And so they made up their little party, leaving John to the solitude of his own study; and if there were other things besides "the manly, noble game of cricket" talked of—as—
Ah, well! They looked very happy as I remember them, just as Sarah and Catherine came up to poor solitary me, and made me their excuse for staying behind—wanting a little chat—while Tom and Helen passed on, and did not so much as turn their faces towards your humble servant.