Part 16 (2/2)

”Dear me,” said the Vicar; ”I am sorry to hear that. He was wild at Christchurch, but nothing out of the way. Why, I remember at the Aylesbury Grinds--”

Miss Limpenny, who did not know an Aylesbury Grind from a Bampton Lecture, yet detected an unfamiliar ring in the Vicar's voice.

”He fought a welsher,” pursued the Vicar, ”just before riding in a race. 'Rollingstone,' his horse was, and Cheddar's eyes closed before the second fence. 'Tom,' he called to me--I was on a mare called Barmaid--”

I ask you to guess the amazement that fell among us. He--our Vicar-- riding a mare called Barmaid! Miss Limpenny cast her eyes up to meet the descent of the thunderbolt.

”Lord Ballarat was riding too,” the Vicar went on, ”and young Tom Beauchamp, son of the Bishop--”

”Died of D.T. out at Malta with the Ninety-ninth,” interpolated the Honourable Frederic.

”So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him.

I've put him to bed many a time when--”

It was too much.

”In the Great Exhibition of 1851,” began Miss Priscilla severely.

But at this moment a dreadful rumbling shook the room. The chandeliers rattled, the egg-sh.e.l.l china danced upon the what-not, and a jarring sensation suddenly ran up the spine of every person in the company.

”It's an earthquake!” shouted the Honourable Frederic, starting up with an oath.

Miss Limpenny thought an earthquake nothing less than might be expected after such language. Louder and still louder grew the rumbling, until the very walls shook. Everybody turned to a ghastly white. The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his conscience.

”I think it must be thunder,” he gasped.

”Or a landslip,” suggested Sam Buzza.

”Or a paroxysm of Nature,” said Mr. Moggridge (though n.o.body knew what he meant).

”Or the end of the world,” hazarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

”I beg your pardon,” interposed Mrs. Buzza timidly, ”but I think it may be my husband.”

”Is your husband a volcano, madam?” snapped Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, rather sharply.

Mrs. Buzza might have answered ”Yes,” with some colour of truth; but she merely said, ”I think it must be his double-ba.s.s. My husband is apt in hours of depression to seek the consolation of that instrument.”

”But, my dear madam, what is the tune?”

”I think,” she faltered, ”I am not sure, but I rather think, it is the 'Dead March' in _Saul_.”

There was no doubt of it. The notes by this time vibrated piteously through the party-wall, and with their awful solemnity triumphed over all conversation. Tones became hushed, as though in the presence of death; and the Vicar, in his desperate attempts to talk, found his voice chained without mercy to the slow foot of the dirge. He tried to laugh.

”Really, this is too absurd--ha! ha! _Tum-tum-tibby-tum_.” The effort ended in ghastly failure. _Thrum-thrum-tiddy-thrum_ went the Admiral's instrument.

Miss Limpenny grew desperate. ”Sophia,” she pleaded, ”pray sing us one of your cheerful ballads.”

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