Chapter III: The Picnic

AS bright a day as could be desired opened upon Richard Grigson's picnic. Determined that for one day at least his recluse guest should be drawn out of his shell, the hospitable master of the Manor House declared himself unequal to the task of making preparation for his visitors without John Tincroft's help. So the morning was occupied in setting out tables, forms, and chairs on the lawn, in daintily dressing up bowers, and, finally, in drawing up a programme for the evening's entertainment.

"Are you much of a cricketer, Tincroft?" demanded the squire.

"I detest the game," said John, heartily, remembering a stunning blow he had received from a cricket-ball on Bullingdon Green.

"That's capital. Then, while Tom and I are at it with the young fellows, you will have to take care of the ladies."

"Worse and worse!" exclaimed the guest, in sore dismay. "Your brother knows I am not a ladies' man."

"The more's the pity," said the remorseless squire; "and the more reason why you should begin to be."

"But, my dear friend—"

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Tincroft," put in Tom, who rather enjoyed the perplexity of his college friend. "There will be only a score or two of old women and a few pretty girls. And if you don't succeed in amusing them, they will amuse you, and themselves too, I daresay."

"If they can't do that, they will fare badly, I am afraid," said John, disconsolately, wishing himself for the time safe back in his Oxford rooms.

"We shall have the parson here to help you out," continued Mr. Grigson.

"And to keep you out of mischief," added Tom, laughing.

With a heavy heart John Tincroft at length took refuge in the library, anathematising all picnics in general, and this one in particular; by the time the dinner-bell sounded, he was deep in his Oriental studies.

It was an early dinner; but before it was well over, the invited guests began to arrive, and were spreading themselves over the lawn in detached groups, or were wandering in the gardens, that day thrown open to them. An hour later, they were clustering round the tables. An hour later still, the wickets were pitched in an adjoining meadow to which the host and his brother and the young tenant-farmers had adjourned; while the fair sex, with a sprinkling of the older men, were devising other means of employing the next two or three hours of the evening.

Among these, in company with Mr. Rubric, the grey-headed clergyman of the parish, John Tincroft walked about uneasily. Under the protection of the reverend gentleman, however, he managed not only to keep down his natural shyness, and to conceal his awkwardness, but to make mental notes of the, to him, strange society into which he found himself thrown.

Especially his attention was drawn towards a remarkably pretty young woman (so he thought her), who, seated at one of the tables a little apart from the rest, was pouring out tea—for the tea-things had not yet been removed—for an elderly couple, the only other remaining occupants of the half-dozen or more seats at that particular table. The young person was rather smartly dressed; and under her bonnet, which was redundant of pink satin bows, shone out, as John believed, the brightest pair of blue eyes it had ever been his fate to encounter. Perhaps it was the previous exercise in the open air, or it might have been the exertion of tea-making and tea-drinking, or it might even have been the consciousness of having attracted the attention of the gentleman from Oxford; but, from whatever cause, a bewitching blush overspread her cheek, and mantling there, took refuge under the fair, glossy hair which hung low down so as half to conceal an alabaster neck in delicious curls, for so John apostrophised both neck and curls in his foolish thoughts.

It is not to be supposed that the Oxonian had more than a hasty glance, for this first time, of the rustic beauty. His natural shyness indeed would have cut still shorter even this brief observation, if the clergyman by his side had not halted at the table to make two or three commonplace remarks to the elderly pair, who seemed not particularly gracious in their replies.

Accordingly he, still accompanied by his friend from Oxford, passed on to another group some distance off; at another table. Here the pair were more pleasantly received, and an invitation was given to them to take seats which, as in the other instance, had been vacated. The invitation was accepted.

"There's a cup of tea or two left in the bottom of the pot," said an oldish lady who had officiated; "and there's clean cups and saucers, and there's lots of cake."

"The boys were in such a hurry to get away to the cricketing," added a farmerly man at her elbow, "that they forgot what they came here for, I think."

While these and other compliments were passing, and after being introduced to the hearty speakers, John Tincroft noticed that this group consisted also of three individuals—apparently, as in the former instance, father, mother, and daughter. Singularly enough, also, there was considerable resemblance between the two men at either table. They were both elderly, grizzled, and weather-worn. Their countenances were alike in form and feature, though remarkably different in expression; and even the tones of their voices were similar. The females, however, of this table presented a striking contrast to those of the other: the mother, if she were the mother, being stout and red-checked, whereas the elderly woman in the other instance was thin and pallid; while the daughter, if she were the daughter, was coarse and hard-featured, with hands which might, as John opined, have been accustomed to grasping the stilts of a plough, or wielding a flail upon occasion.

"And your eldest son Walter—you hear from him sometimes, I suppose, Mr. Wilson? I hope he is getting on in his new profession," said the clergyman, when one or two other topics of conversation had been exhausted.

"Oh, bravely, sir. Ralph Burgess and Walter yoke together uncommon. Their business is brisk, and Ralph says as how Walter takes to it like anything."

"He has not been home to see you since he left, a year ago or more, I think?"

"No, he hasn't," said the farmer; "he is a longish way off, you see, sir."

"True."

"And a good thing too," said Mrs. Wilson, sharply.

"Indeed, my good friend; now I should have thought you would have been glad for him to have been nearer you, so that you might—"

"Better away," said the mother, interrupting her pastor.

"Dear me!" he ejaculated, quietly.

"You see, sir," interposed the husband, "we should be glad enough to see Walter; but there's others, leastways there's another, would be glad enough too. And that's what we don't want."

"And don't mean, if we can help it," added the young woman, who had not hitherto spoken; and the natural hue of her cheeks glowed with a deeper, darker colour.

"Ah! I understand," said the clergyman, rather reprovingly, or so it seemed to John. "You mean that you wish to break off his connection with his cousin," he looked towards the other table as he spoke; "but is this quite right, Mrs. Wilson? Do you think it is, friend Matthew?"

"Walter shan't marry Sarah if we can hinder him, right or wrong," exclaimed the young woman, fiercely.

"Fie, fie, Miss Elizabeth!" the meek clergyman interposed.

"I am not wanted here, I think," said the shy Oxford man to himself, when he had heard enough to understand that a family matter was in danger of being discussed. Accordingly, he slipped away from the table, and wandered without his guide to another part of the lawn.

By this time the tables on the lawn were for the most part deserted, and the greater number of the tea-drinkers had strolled into the cricketing meadow—the old farmers to criticise the play of the juniors, and to compare the puny strokes and new-fangled bowling of modern Toms, Dicks, and Bills, with those of former cricketers in the good old times when they themselves also knew how to handle a bat. The young maidens went to watch and admire their lovers and brothers as they increased the score of runs.

The lawn was not altogether left desolate, however, and Tincroft noticed that the first trio of whom we have spoken still lingered at the table where he and the rector had left them. I do not know whether or not his curiosity was quickened by the evident reference he had just heard to the pretty girl at that board, or whether it arose from the strange and unaccustomed sensation his accidental glance had awakened in his breast; but certain it is that before he had been alone many minutes, he was steering his course towards the group. Not a straight course either; but by repeated tacks, and as though he were unaware of his own intention, he presently arrived within eyeshot of the pretty flaxen curls, the alabaster neck, and the bright eyes of the fair object of his admiration—yet not near enough to attract special attention.

If he had not been shy and awkward, nothing of course would have been easier than to have gone boldly up to the table and, under cover of being the friend and guest of the squire, making acquaintance with the elderly couple; and thus have gazed his fill at the beauty by their side. This feat was too daring to be attempted, however; and it answered his purpose quite as well, probably, to gaze at the fair Dulcinea at a safer distance.

The tea-drinking was over at that table as elsewhere; and now John Tincroft was sorely troubled to see that the pretty girl was crying. That is, he judged as much, for a handkerchief was repeatedly used as though to wipe away the tears which he was too far-off to discern. He was not too far, however, to hear angry tones from the farmer, either seconded or answered by shrill objurgations on the part of his wife, and apparently directed towards the weeping girl.

"I wish I knew what to do," muttered John to himself; "but there, what have I to do with it? What's come over me, I wonder?"

Leaving this question unanswered, John walked slowly away; but either unable to resist the fascination which had "come over" him, or moved by a chivalric desire to protect the damsel, if need were, he presently retraced his steps, venturing nearer this time, though partially concealed from view under the foliage of an old chestnut tree, at the foot of which was a rustic seat.

"I have a right to be here," quoth John, inwardly; "and if people choose to talk loud enough in other people's grounds to be overheard, it is no fault of mine."

If Mr. John had cared (which he did not) to hear the dispute, he was baulked, for the conversation had by this time subsided. He saw plainly enough, though, that the girl was in some kind of distress, and he partly guessed the reason when he observed that her father's face was flushed, and that he was, with unsteady hand, pouring out into a tea-cup some transparent fluid from a flask he had drawn from his pocket. He had evidently had recourse to this before, and was again raising the cup to his lips when a voice from some distance caused him to hold his hand and look round.

Tincroft looked too in the direction of the voice, and saw his friend the clergyman, with Farmer Wilson and his wife within a dozen yards of the table. It was Wilson who had spoken. He spoke again when he came nearer.

"So you are at it again, Mark," said he, angrily, and looking the other in the face. "If you must be getting drunk," he added, snatching the cup out of the drinker's hand, and dashing out its contents on to the greensward, "you might at least have the decency to do it at home, and not come here making a show of yourself, and disgracing your kith and kin."

"And so I've been telling him, and so has Sarah," cried Mrs. Mark; "but he wouldn't heed us—you know you wouldn't, Mark," said she, deprecatingly.

By this time the unhappy man, whom our readers will before now have recognised, was on his feet, and giving vent to ebullitions of rage against his wife, his daughter, his brother, and all and sundry besides. And it was plain to Tincroft that the poor miserable man had made such bad use of his time and his gin-flask since tea as to be unsteady alike on his legs and in his speech.

The quarrel might have heightened to a disturbance had not the peace-making clergyman interfered, by replying to the thickly-spoken demand of Mark to his brother—"What business is it of yours what I do or don't do, Matthew? What right have you to come prying about like a sneak, as you are?"

"Gently, gently, friend," said the rector; "and you, Mr. Matthew, don't answer your brother, for 'grievous words stir up strife,' you know, and 'a brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city.' It was I, Mr. Mark, who persuaded your brother and sister to come and speak to you and Mrs. Mark here. I told them that it would not look well if it were known that you were all at this pleasant holiday party, and should go away without having passed a word with each other. I am sorry now that I interfered."

"Oh, never mind, sir, never mind," said the sober brother; "Mark knows that I know that there's nothing new in this. As good a fellow as ever lived, sir, till he took to drinking; and now—there, the least said the soonest mended."

And saying this, Matthew Wilson took his wife by the arm and walked slowly away, leaving Mr. Rubric to make what impression he might upon the unhappy brother.

Meanwhile, as John Tincroft had seen from under the chestnut tree, the pretty daughter of Mark had vanished from the scene; and coincidently with this, all his interest in it was over. He noticed only that his friend the clergyman sat down by Mark's side, and seemed to be giving him a quiet lecture, which was listened to, or rather received, in stolid silence; and that afterwards, Mark and his wife retreated through the gate of the Manor House grounds into the high road, so that he saw them no more at that time.

Then, seeing that the rector was walking towards the cricket-field, he followed, and joined company, arriving at the ground just as his college friend Tom Grigson was bowled out, after an innings of an hour, and having made forty runs for his score.