Quite a good number had taken advantage of the hospitable offer to ladies, and Mr. Amherst, in spite of his recent declaration, showed relief on encountering the wife of another director, willing and ready to take charge of his daughter. Silk hat at back of head, he hurried off. “Highly important business!” he explained. Mrs. Burnham, a matronly person, confessed that she knew nothing and cared nothing for the game, but had to affect an interest in order to make opportunity of keeping an eye on her husband. Husbands required a lot of watching. Husbands were kittle cattle, if the truth was known. Husbands being what they were, the wonder was that any married lady remained in possession of her senses; she herself foresaw clearly the time when she would be taken away to the County Asylum. Having said all this, and having mentioned that she counted herself among the few who could respect and keep a secret, Mrs. Burnham lowered her voice that folk around might not hear, and urged it was high time Miss Amherst thought of getting married. Mrs. Burnham’s advice was that Miss Amherst should pick out some desirable young gentleman of good birth and excellent prospects.
“And then go for him,” recommended the matronly lady, with earnestness. “Go for him, for all you know. Takes a bit of doing, of course, but it’s worth while.”
The commencement of the game did not interrupt Mrs. Burnham’s counsel, but it interfered with the girl’s power of giving attention. Standing on a chair she watched eagerly, describing the progress in brief ejaculatory sentences to her chaperon; joined in the appeals of a few members of the crowd addressed to the visiting team; refrained from giving assistance to the majority in cheering and encouraging the home side. Privately, she criticised James McWinter, who, a large young man, appeared to be doing as little as possible, the while the rest scurried about on the slightly frosted turfed ground, doing everything in a strenuous manner with no result. What a football crowd likes is the scoring of goals, and when at half-time it proved that not one had been recorded on either side, the two teams, exhausted and limp (with the exception of James McWinter) were followed by regretful looks; men described what they themselves would have done, if they were but a few years younger or older, and less occupied with other affairs. Mr. Amherst bustled around, fanning himself with his silk hat, and looking greatly perturbed. He mentioned to his daughter that they (meaning Pangbourne’s directors) had the cheek to ask so much—quoting the large figure—that he would see them further before planking down that amount; he went so far as to hint at the well-warmed direction they could select.
The teams took up their new positions. The whistle sounded. Before Miss Amherst had disengaged herself from her companion’s inquiries and counsel, the outside left, amidst erroneous cries of “Off-side!” centred across to the inside right, who centred again, and James McWinter trapped the ball, dodged the two backs and shot hard; the goalkeeper fumbled it, and even supporters of the home side could scarce restrain a cheer. The other team prepared for a change of tactics, and in exactly four minutes precisely the same thing happened, and the goalkeeper dealt with the ball in almost the same manner; tears stood in his eyes; he glanced with reproach at his gloves, and bowed his head penitently to the observations of colleagues. Miss Amherst had to apologise more than once when crying “Shoot!” for kicking the back of a stout gentleman standing just in front of her. When at the end of the ninety minutes’ traffic the visiting side had scored five to none, and four of these goals were to be credited to James McWinter, she turned to her companion. Her father was in a kind of scrum not far off; she recognised the light in his eyes of one to whom money was of no consequence, and into her eyes came the light of one resolved to act promptly. Under cover of the cheering, she made an enthusiastic and apparently genuine declaration.
“Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Burnham alarmedly, “you mustn’t talk like this. This is dreadful. When I said what I did just now, I never meant you should go and throw yourself away on a great clumsy hulk like that, earning not more than £4 a week. Besides, his people are meat salesmen.”
Mr. Amherst, scarlet, almost blue with eagerness, was hurrying by.
“Not a word, please,” begged the girl, with extravagant signs of distress, “not a syllable to my father. Promise me you won’t tell him. My mind’s made up; but I don’t want him to know.”
Mrs. Burnham put out the hooked handle of her umbrella and caught Mr. Amherst neatly.
“Very sorry,” he panted, “can’t spare a moment.”