Fate Cannot Harm Me (17 page)

“Consult the other umpire, Sir,” the butler whispered in his ear.

“Ah, yes,” George breathed a sigh of relief. “Merton, are you able to give a decision?”

“Yes, Sir. Colonel Murcher-Pringle is out, Sir.” Like a wounded boar, struck by another spear from a fresh angle, the Colonel turned savagely to face his new enemy.

“What the devil do you mean, Merton, and what business is it of yours? Keep to your end of the ground. Out, how the devil do you mean, out?”

“Run out, Sir,” replied Merton with icy composure. Supported by his butler's firmness George Appleby made up his mind at last.

“I'm sorry, Colonel, you must go,” he said. “You've been given out.”

No more could be said. Purple with rage and indignation the Colonel abandoned the struggle, and commenced his route march to the pavilion, pursued by the comments of his successful adversary, whose good humour had been wholly restored.

“Have a long whisky and soda ready for me at the end of my innings, Colonel,” he shouted. “I shall get pretty hot out here.”

But the Colonel for once had no retort ready.

“I shall waive the two minutes rule, Appleby,” said Sir Anstruther with ponderous humour, as Basil Paraday-Royne walked out from the pavilion.

Basil was a beautiful bat to watch, especially on a hard wicket, and he was desperately keen to impress Cynthia. He met the bowling with the middle of the bat, and contrived, not only to score three beautifully-timed fours but also to keep the bowling to himself for the next two or three overs. It was not, therefore, until the last over before tea that the Admiral took his first ball. To the onlookers it was soon clear that he was a batsman of one shot, and one shot only. Heaving himself up, and advancing his left foot towards mid-on, he struck a
mighty blow at each successive ball, irrespective of its length. The exertion was immense, the result incommensurate with the exertion. Three times he made his flail-like movement, three times he smote the air, and three times the ball missed the wicket and was taken by the wicket-keeper. Breathing more and more stertorously the Admiral smote for the fourth time and this time with better success, for the ball went first bounce over the leg boundary. A very short-lived triumph. At the fifth ball the Admiral slogged with even crookeder bat and even more mighty effort; he missed it, and all three stumps were spreadeagled.

“The glorious uncertainty of the game,” said the Admiral, entirely content with his four runs, though in point of fact nothing could have been more certain than his downfall. Together with the fielding side he hobbled in to tea. The score was 86 for 5, and Basil had made 17 not out.

During the cricket week George Appleby always issued invitations broadcast throughout the neighbouring countryside, and there were in consequence sixty or seventy people gathered round the tea tent as the players came in. Among them Monty noticed Lady Dormansland, who had driven over with her party from Critton Park; somewhat to his surprise Robin Hedley was with her.

“That's new, isn't it?” he said to Cynthia, who was sitting by him. “I didn't know that Robin was a friend of Lady D.'s.”

“Don't be silly, Monty; can you think of any really successful author who has not become a friend of hers? Don't you know that
Pertinacity
was the best of bestsellers this year? Be sensible and tell me about the game. Have we any chance of winning?”

“Just a hope, but hardly that. We're a hundred and ninety behind and there'll be just two hours' play after
tea; that's not impossible by any means but it's quick. It really all depends on the next wicket; Basil is as likely to make a quick hundred as anyone in England, and Rawstone's a really good player—they might do it. After them any of the rest are good for twenty or thirty, but not much more. It's a thin chance.”

Lady Dormansland approached them—even as a guest she seemed the perfect hostess.

“Cynthia dear, how delightful to see you, and how nice to think that you are coming to Critton next week. And Monty too. Remember I'm expecting you.”

“As if I should forget. Your invitations are always commands, and I've been looking forward to my August visit for weeks. In fact the thought of it is the only thing that has made London bearable through July.”

Lady Dormansland purred.

“For a modern young man, Monty, you have very nice manners,” she remarked archly, and then turned to greet Basil.

“Oh, Basil. I did hope that I should meet you to-day. I want to persuade you to join my little party next week at Critton. All sorts of delightful people, and if you can come it will be quite perfect. Now you really must not disappoint me.”

Basil did not really like Lady Dormansland, whose kindness of heart impressed him much less than her vulgarity. He had, too, a shrewd suspicion that he was asked to Critton less because of his social gifts than because his father sat in the House of Lords. But he enjoyed comfort, and Lady Dormansland was a born hostess—so he hesitated between acceptance and a refusal.

“Cynthia and Monty are both coming,” she continued, “and …”

Basil's mind was made up at once.

“How too kind of you, Lady Dormansland, I should like it above all things. I'll be driving down from town, so perhaps I could give Cynthia a lift.”

“You kind man—do. Oh! and that charming man whom you like so much, Robin Hedley—the man whose book you wrote, you know—(how nice and self-sacrificing of you, Basil!) he's coming again. He's with me now, and I like him so much that I made him promise to come again next week. That'll be another inducement, I know.”

Basil winced. So he would have to share Cynthia's company with Robin. Well, better so than to leave hex to Robin alone.

“Now, Basil,” said Cynthia, “you simply must make a hundred; Monty says we can't possibly win unless you do. Promise me to play your very best.”

“Of course I will. No efforts shall be spared to give you pleasure. A hundred and fifty if you like.”

“Splendid; I do like confident men, don't you, Monty? And I shall sit with Mr. Hedley and watch you do it. What heaven.” She smiled in a manner a little reminiscent of the Mona Lisa, and followed Lady Dormansland towards the shade of the trees.

“Damn!” said Basil, picking up his gloves and bat.

Monty could riot altogether suppress a smile.

“And I suppose Cynthia had him asked to Critton,” added Basil thoughtfully.

George Appleby came fussing up to Monty as the Besterton side took the field.

“I can't make up my mind,” he said, “what to tell Rawstone to do; it's just possible to win the game still, but only just. He's a fine player, you know, a very fine player, but not really a quick scorer. I've half a mind to tell him to put up the shutters right away, and play for a draw.”

“I'd let him have his head if I were you. Better to have loved and lost, and all that, you know. He's a real good player, and he may strike form quickly. Basil's in pretty good fettle, too, and mad keen to get runs.”

“Well if you think so I daresay you're right. I won't give him any instructions for the present. I can always send out a message later on.”

The message was never sent. The real good player, having taken his guard and having made a careful survey of the disposition of the field, faced the bowler with apparent confidence. It may have been, as George Appleby afterwards suggested, that he was wondering whether attack or defence was expected of him; it may have been more simply, as Monty declared, that he played back at a half-volley. In any case he was bowled neck and crop by the first ball he received, and retired disconsolately to the pavilion.

Then in the very next over came the final catastrophe. Basil appeared to attempt to push a good length ball off his legs; he missed it; there was a rather half-hearted appeal from the wicket-keeper, and Boone, who covered in sticking plaster had returned to duty, held up his finger. Basil accepted the decision with the worst possible grace. At first he affected not to have heard the appeal or to have seen the decision. When the wicket-keeper pointed out to him that he was out, he advanced down the wicket and patted an imaginary spot a foot outside the leg stump. Then, with a face of thunder, he strode from the wicket and flung himself on the ground beside Cynthia and Robin Hedley.

“Bad luck,” said the latter a little maliciously, “we were all looking forward to that hundred of yours, especially Cynthia.”

An almost murderous glance was the only reply he received, as Basil threw first his bat and then his gloves savagely away from him on the ground.

“He
has
got a streak,” thought Monty to himself. Aloud he said:

“Boone in form, what?”

“In form? The man's a damned disgrace; why the devil does George let him come on to the ground? That ball
pitched six inches outside the leg stump, and I left it alone on purpose. And that damned wicket-keeper! why the bloody hell did he appeal when he was obviously unsighted?”

“Really, Basil,” said Cynthia, with a glance towards Lady Dormansland.

But Basil was much too angry to recover his usual smooth courtesy. Success was his
métier
, and to fail just when he wished to impress was more than he could bear. His pads were off now, and he flung them away on the grass as though he never wished to use them again.

“It's simply cheating—and nothing else. I'm damned if I play, in this match again.”

He got up and stalked towards the pavilion, leaving bat and gloves and pads where they had fallen.

“British sportsman, not quite at his best,” remarked Monty with a smile, but Cynthia was too much annoyed to smile in return. She was accustomed to see Basil's best side, to watch him winning with grace and talking with intent to please. Basil in a bad temper, and behaving, as she was compelled to admit to herself, like a very complete cad, was new to her and she did not like it. Nor was she anxious to await his return.

She turned towards Lady Dormansland. “Dear Lady Dormansland, don't you think we might collect your party and drive over to Critton; we should have time for some tennis before dinner, and your courts are so perfect that it's a shame not to use them. And really the cricket is a little dull. I can drive my car over and be back in time for dinner.”

“I was thinking just the same, my dear. Give me my parasol, Mr. Hedley, and we'll go and find the others. Good-bye, Monty, and don't forget that I expect you for next week-end at Critton.”

Over the rest of the Fincham innings a veil should, in charity, be drawn. Merton stood firm against two confident
appeals, but alone he could not stem the tide of disaster. Lees was bowling at his best, and at half past five the last wicket fell, with the score-board showing the meagre total of ninety-seven.

George Appleby was almost in tears as he addressed his humiliated side.

“We've not lost a match by that margin as long as I can remember. A miserable show. Well, out we go to field again.”

In the view of some of his side the worst was still to come, for it was the best-established dogma of George's creed that cricket time should not be wasted, and that play, whatever the state of the game, should continue till seven. Nor did Sir Anstruther, who in the Saturday match neither asked nor expected quarter, show the least disposition to enforce the follow-on.