The table sparkled with silver and glass and candles, and was rich with colour from the Alamander and Tacsonia blossoms, and wreaths of Smilax that decorated the cloth. The whole afforded a look of comfort, elegance, and wealth such as is seen nowhere so well as in England.
The rector sat on Joan's right hand. He was an amiable, elderly man, with grey hair and whiskers that were white; a man such as an Established Church can alone produce, and produce to an almost unlimited extent; well-bred, well-educated, harmless in life, and best described by a series of negatives. In an Established Church, patrons, whether public or private, whether crown or mitre, chancellor or squire, seek to promote only such men as are colourless in opinion and deficient of independence of character, who they may be sure will give no offence in anything, that the ministry be not blamed, and that they will, in this one quality, sum up all their characteristics.
Mr. Barker, rector of the parish, was a keen angler, an enthusiastic bee-keeper, and a conscientious parish priest.
The party at table was small, and the table had accordingly not been enlarged.
Colonel Wood had led in Mrs. Barker, but Sibyll sat on his left side, and the colonel paid a good deal more attention to her than he did to his partner. He was one of those old gentlemen whose sole idea of conversation with a young woman is banter, the paying of little compliments, the making of little jokes, the talking of little nonsenses, the production of abundant chaff, and the never letting drop one grain of good sense. He was not an unintelligent man by any means, but in the society of young ladies, which was the society he particularly affected, he aimed at laborious silliness.
Joan saw what was going on between the colonel and Sibyll, to the neglect of the old lady—a gentle, charming person, limited in her range of ideas and sympathies, but purely refined and kindly.
It vexed Joan, and she took occasion repeatedly to make a remark to and draw a few sentences from Mrs. Barker, so as not to allow her to feel that she was being neglected.
"In no summer that I have known since I have been here," droned the rector, "has the fern-web been so abundant; I went out one morning through the brakes of filix mas, and I believe I was able to detach a beetle from every third leaf. You know, of course, that the coccabundi is none other than the fern-web."
On the side opposite to the colonel, Sibyll, and Mrs. Barker, sat young Prendergast and Miss Foljamb. They seemed to be ill-matched. The young man was fidgeting under his chair with a pet dog that belonged to Sibyll, and which was allowed to go where it liked. He had feebly attempted conversation with the young lady, but she belonged to the intellectual order, and promptly snubbed him.
"You have had no experience with the Röntgen ray?" she asked, fixing him with a hard eye.
"N—no—is it anything a chap can eat?"
"Oh, Miss Foljamb," said Joan, "what a privilege—if you know how to use the X ray. I shall have to enlist your services. Poor Goody Brash has swallowed a paper of pins—as Mrs. Barker can tell you, and we have been in such a way about her. We do not know how to work the X ray, even if we get the apparatus, so as to find whereabouts in her system the pins have distributed themselves. Mr. Prendergast, do tell me how Towzer is. Has the stick of brimstone in his drinking-bowl done him good?" Then she turned her head. "Now, my dear rector—what are the characteristics of the coccabundi?"
Spots of colour burnt in Joan's cheek. She was consumed by an internal fever, and in addition to her own cares, she was fretted at Sibyll's conduct and want of consideration for Mrs. Barker.
The dessert was laid, and Joan was sensible of relief at the thought that in ten minutes the ladies would retire, when Matthews, the butler, came to her side, and said in a low tone, "I beg your pardon, miss, but you are wanted immediately in the hall."
"Will it not do presently? We shall all then be leaving."
"No, miss, it is—it is most particular."
The tone of his voice startled her; she looked up, and saw that the man was not only grave, but was a prey to great agitation.
Instantly rising to her feet, she apologised to Mrs. Barker.
"Prithee excuse me—I am summoned from you—for a moment."
"We may as well all rise," said Mrs. Barker.
"Oh no!—no! I shall be back presently. It may be nothing, but Matthews urges me to go. I ask your pardon, gentlemen, for my momentary withdrawal. Some business that requires my immediate attention calls me away." She left the room, and was in the hall. Then the butler shut the door of communication between it and the dining-room.
Joan saw the groom awaiting her. He touched his forehead. The great hall was but partially lighted with one large coloured lamp, and she could not see the man's face distinctly.
"You have something to say to me, Thomas?"
"Beg pardon, miss," said he; "it's Fashion never could abide the smell or sight of a donkey. There's no vice in him, none at all, but he is terrible nervous."
"But what is the matter?"
The groom again saluted.
"You see, miss, there's a bit of a moon, and the miller's old donkey—it's grey, miss, perhaps you know, and I daresay the heavy dew have brought out the smell rank like, and with the winter coat on him thick. And that there stoopid donkey—nothen else would do, but he must stand in the paddock lookin' out into the road over the gate. The squire, miss, he came trottin' 'ome from Lichfield upon Fashion, and comes round a corner right on that there donkey, lookin', miss, and smellin' orful. And whether it were the looks of him in the moon, or the smell of him in the winter coat and all damp, I can't say, miss; maybe it were both!"
"Well?"
"And up like a squirrel goes Fashion, or rather, fust he jumped sideways across the road, and then up the bank, where he never could hold on, miss, and away he rolls with master, and down he comes into the road; or else whether, when he swerved, master fell off, and afore Fashion went runnin' up the bank"—
"My father!" Joan's heart stood still.
"Well, miss, I'm afraid it's terrible bad. They've took him into the miller's house. But there really is no vice in Fashion—it's all nerves—there never was so timid an 'oss."
The butler, who had been standing with his back to the dining-room door, with the handle in his hand, now came forward, and said—
"Miss, I fear the case is serious—very serious—could hardly be worse."
Joan gasped. For a moment she stood as one stunned, with her hand to her heart. Then she rallied, and walked to the dining-room, the door of which Matthews opened for her.
She stood in the entrance, white as a sheet, her eyes lustrous, yet fixed with horror.
"Mrs. Barker, oh!—and rector—all, please to leave us. There has been an accident. My father; my poor father"—She did not finish the sentence; her fortitude gave way, and she burst into tears.
But there was no need for her to say more. All understood what was implied but left unsaid.
Chapter 5
