Chapter XX: Banty's Accident

"MISS JOAN, have you heard the news?"

Sophia burst into the dining-room one morning about eleven o'clock. Joan was busy dressmaking. She was not a very good hand at it, but she was now, with knitted brows, cutting out a serge skirt for herself, and she looked up just a little impatiently at the interruption.

"Is it another baby, or has one of the villagers come in for a fortune?"

"Miss Gascoigne at the Hall has been killed by a horse she was riding!"

Joan dropped her scissors on the table with a clatter.

"Sophia! What do you mean? It can't be true!"

"It is, then. The butcher's boy brought the news, and he has come straight from the Hall. They were carrying her in before he left."

Joan's face was absolutely colourless. She stood staring at Sophia in horror.

"Banty? She was only here yesterday, and she asked me to have tea in the pine wood with her to-morrow! Oh, Sophia, it must be a mistake."

Sophia shook her head gloomily.

"She was exercising a young horse in the paddock, the boy said, and he bucked and threw her against the stone wall."

"I don't believe it," said Joan.

"Don't believe what?"

Cecil asked the question as she sauntered into the room. She had only just left her bedroom.

Joan blurted out Sophia's news, and Cecil was stricken dumb for a moment. Then she recovered herself.

"It's only a report. She is, most likely, stunned for the time. Is Father in?"

"No. I shall go and inquire at once."

Joan dashed out of the room, seized her garden hat, which was hanging up in the hall, and set off at a quick run down the village.

Bad news travels fast. There were knots of women at their doors; two men she met both assured her it was a terrible accident, but knew no more; everybody was conjecturing and discussing the event. It was long since the quiet village had been thrown into such a ferment.

"I seed two magpies only this morning; I knowed somethin' were comin'."

"'Twas strange her passin' the remark to me only yesterday when she saw gran'ma: 'Well,' she says, 'I only hope,' she says, 'I shan't live till I can do nothing but sit and smile in a chair,' she says. She be always so blunt in her way, but she had a good heart, that she had!"

Scraps of conversation like this came to Joan's ears as she passed by. She was determined to get at the truth, and would not even stop at the lodge, but pressed on up the drive as fast as her breath and feet could carry her. She saw the old family butler.

"She's alive, miss," he said in answer to her question, "but we don't know how long she will be. There is complications, they say. We've wired for two nurses and a London doctor, and Dr. Blount is upstairs now."

"I will call again," said Joan. "Will you tell Lady Gascoigne that I am ready to do anything for her if she wants help in any way?"

Then she went home with lingering steps. It seemed so impossible for Banty to be ill: Banty, who had always boasted of her superb health, and had never stayed indoors in the roughest weather! Joan longed to know details.

Later in the day her father called at the Hall, and Lady Gascoigne saw him. She told him as much as she knew herself: how Banty was exercising a young hunter, and was thrown against a stone wall as she cantered round the field. She was picked up unconscious; her head was badly bruised, her right wrist broken, but the most serious injury was to her right leg and thigh. They hoped now there were no internal injuries. The London doctor was hopeful of her recovery, but feared she might have to lose her leg.

When Joan heard this, her heart sank within her. If Banty lost her leg, she would never be able to ride and hunt again; and that was her life.

As the days went on, it seemed very doubtful whether poor Banty would pull through; and when her leg was finally amputated above the knee, she turned her face, like Ahab, to the wall, and refused to eat. "Let me die! I want to die!" was her cry.

At last, in despair, her parents sent for Joan. She obeyed the summons promptly, but was shocked at the change in Lady Gascoigne, who was bent and feeble and seemed ten years older. Tears were in her eyes as she greeted Joan.

"Oh, Joan, you must help us! She is our only child. She won't try to live. She seems as if she is stricken dumb. She will not answer us or take the slightest notice of anything we say to her. But this morning I said, 'I must get Joan Adair to come and persuade you,' and she turned her poor eyes round and looked at me.

"'Get her,' she said; and those are the first words she has spoken for two days.

"She was so fond of you. Perhaps you may be able to influence her."

"May I see her alone?" Joan asked.

"Of course you may if you wish it. But she seems quite oblivious as to whether there are few or many in the room."

"I would rather be alone with her," Joan persisted.

She was led upstairs to Banty's bedroom. A nurse opened the door.

"I think she is sleeping," she said softly. "I want her to take some beef tea, but it is difficult."

"Will you let me be alone with her for a little?" Joan asked.

The nurse demurred, then gave way, but asked Joan not to stay long and not to excite her.

Then into the sick room Joan went. Banty was lying back on her pillows. Her face was sharpened by suffering, her eyes were closed. Joan bent down softly and kissed her forehead. Then, as Banty's eyes opened slowly, she smiled at her.

"Here I am, Banty."

Banty gazed at her in silence. Joan's fresh, fair face, with her sunshiny, dimpling smile, seemed quite out of place in that room. But Banty found her voice.

"Lock them all out!" she said tersely and sharply.

Without any demur, Joan walked to the door and tuned the key in the lock. Then she drew up a chair to the bedside, and seated herself upon it.

"Now we are alone," she said.

A flicker of a smile passed over Banty's face. "They've never left me, night or day," she said.

Joan put out her hand and took hold of Banty's caressingly.

"And I've been thinking of you night and day," she said quite cheerfully. "But, before we have a chat together, do drink this beef tea, will you, or else the nurse will be back to give it to you."

Banty raised herself a little on the pillows. Joan tucked another pillow behind her, and saw every drop of the beef tea disappear. She was not in a hurry to speak, so she waited in silence till Banty said, slowly and haltingly:

"They talk over me, and cry over me, and bewail my lot till I feel nearly mad. The parents' faces nearly reach to the ground! The nurses put on their nurse's cheeriness and talk to me as if I am just born!"

Joan laughed. She could not help it, though her heart was aching for the girl in bed.

Banty looked up gratefully.

"Laugh again! I'd forgotten there was any laughter left in the world. I've been tied up in this bed at their mercy. I can't—can't get away from them."

A rebellious, untamed soul looked out of her anguished eyes.

Joan pressed her hand sympathetically. Then she spoke:

"Look here, Banty, I've promised not to excite you. I'll talk as much as ever you like, but if I'm to come again, I must not make you worse. I haven't told you yet—"

"Don't you pity me! Don't you say you're sorry for me. I'm fed up with that."

"I won't. It goes without saying."

"Thank goodness you can speak in your natural voice!"

"Well, now, I'm going to be quite natural. You have to get out of this bed as quickly as you can. I can quite imagine the prison it has been to you. I shall expect you very soon to come along to the pine woods in a bath-chair, and then we can spread a rug on the ground, and you shall lie on it and throw cones at the squirrels, whilst I make a fire and boil the tea."

Banty drew a quick breath. She looked up at Joan with wistful longing.

"Will you manage it for me?"

"You will have to do that. Feed yourself up, get strong and cheerful, and send your nurses about their business. As long as you are weak, they must be with you. The remedy is in your own hands."

Banty gazed at Joan without speaking; then she said:

"Do you know what Father did when he was last in my room? Crept to that drawer over there, and took away my pet revolver. He thought I didn't see him. I did. It was my one hope from the time they told me my fate."

"Then I'm glad he took it," said Joan stoutly. "You never have been a coward, Banty, and you won't be one now."

Banty did not reply.

Then came a knock at the door. She scowled.

"Let them knock! This is the first bit of peace I've had. They had me in their power."

Joan crossed the room and unlocked the door. It was one of the nurses.

"I shan't stay much longer, nurse; but the beef tea is taken, and Miss Gascoigne is quite quiet and comfortable."

The nurse glanced suspiciously round. Joan looked at her with one of her irresistible smiles.

"Miss Gascoigne and I are old friends. We wanted to pretend she was not ill, and had no doctors or nurses. She is going to get well as quickly as she can."

The nurse understood, and wisely gave way. "Ten minutes more, then; and you will find me in the little room at the end of the corridor."

Joan nodded; then came over to Banty again.

"It's better to coax than to force," she said. "Oh, Banty, dear, you must get well quickly. I want you, and so do your parents."

"Do you know what my being well means?"

"Yes; we won't shirk it. It means, possibly, an artificial leg, a stick, and a slight limp; but there's the wide world waiting for you outside and wanting you. It will mean no riding or hunting; but the country isn't taken from you. You will drive yourself about, and I believe a new world will dawn for you, a world which you have never entered, and which is very fair indeed."

Banty lay still. Not a word did she say, and very soon Joan took her leave.

"Come again soon," was the request.

"Yes; and soon you will be sitting up by your open window."

In the hall Joan met Lady Gascoigne.

"How did you leave our poor darling? Did you talk to her about resignation and patience? I hoped you would do her good."

Joan shook her head.

"I've only tried to shake and wake her," she said; "and I think, dear Lady Gascoigne, I should leave her a good deal to herself. Banty has always liked being alone."

"But not now. I assure you we don't leave her a minute for fear she should want something."

"I think she would like to be alone sometimes."

But though Joan had not talked to Banty of the things she loved, she had been silently praying for her the whole time; and, as she walked home, her whole heart went out towards her in sympathy and love.

Joan had accomplished what none of Banty's family had been able to do. She had shaken her out of her despairing lethargy and had given her the desire to live.

Banty's wonderfully healthy and strong constitution stood her in good stead now. When once her will was exercised on the side of recovery, she began to make rapid strides towards convalescence, and, if she made exacting demands on Joan's time, Joan was cheerfully anxious to comply with them. She put in an hour with Banty nearly every day, and they talked of many things; but for a long while Banty would not touch upon her own helplessness, and Joan always fell in with her mood.

As autumn came on, and the days became shorter and colder, Joan felt unutterably sad for the girl who would necessarily be so much shut up in the house this first winter.

She hated needlework of every kind, she rarely read; indoor occupation of any sort was intolerable to her.

"She had much better have been killed outright," said Cecil one day when Joan was talking about her. "When the hunting comes on, she'll be desperate. There is nothing for her to live for."

"Oh, Cecil, think how full life is! Hunting is, after all, a very small matter."

"Hunting was her life."

"It's a good thing we are made up of different parts," said Joan. "Banty has only developed one part of her nature up to now. She has still others lying dormant."

"She has no intellect," said Cecil sharply. "Even your partiality to her cannot own that."

"I believe she has," said Joan. "Time will show."

The day came when Banty could propel herself in a wheel-chair, and after that she was seldom found indoors. Perhaps the worst time to her was the day of the opening meet. At first her father said he would not go, but Banty urged him to do so.

"As I'm making up my mind to live, the sooner you slip into your old ways the better. You go your way and I will go mine. I suppose I shall enjoy hearing about your run by and by!"

The people round were wonderfully sympathetic with poor Banty, but were all so shy of seeing her suffer, that they wrote their condolences and shrank from seeing her personally.

One afternoon, Joan's suggestion was carried out, and Banty drove herself to the pine wood in the low cart that was now set apart for her use.

When she was comfortably settled, Joan produced some needlework.

"Now we'll enjoy ourselves," she said.

"Joan, if you hadn't been here, I should have put an end to myself," Banty said suddenly. "I couldn't have gone through these awful months without you."

Joan shook her head at her.

"Don't try to think of what you might have done in other circumstances. Everything was planned out and arranged for you."

"I believe it was," said Banty in an awed voice. "Joan, I must take up religion. All cripples do, don't they? They always lie on couches, with saintly smiles, and their corner is the haven of peace and refuge for the rest of the house."

Banty spoke so gravely that Joan wondered whether she were in jest or earnest.

"I want you to have the religion that will make your life fuller than it has ever been," said Joan earnestly.

"As full as yours?" queried Banty in a bantering tone. Then with sudden gravity she burst out: "Joan, I tell you honestly, I've envied you ever since you came to live here. You never go about and enjoy yourself; you're half a servant, half a parson, half a teacher, half a housekeeper. You look after everybody, and keep them all in a good temper, and yet you're as happy as a sandboy through and through. It isn't on the surface, for I've watched you closely. How do you manage to do it?"

"It's the realising that you're just doing what you are meant to do," said Joan, "that brings content and happiness to me. I have a motto; have I told you it before? Three words: 'Patience, long-suffering, with joyfulness.' That's what I aim at. And, may I say, Banty, that I think your courage and patience now are wonderful!"

"Oh, stow it!" said Banty, colouring. "Of course, I show my best to you, and, out here in the fresh air, who could be cantankerous?"

Another silence fell on them. Then Joan jumped up and got tea ready.

"What does Cecil do with herself every day?" Banty asked presently.

"She has driven into the town to-day to do some shopping."

"Is she going abroad this winter?"

"I—I don't think so. She wants to go, but I'm afraid it can't be managed."

"I should like to think she would be away. She worries you."

"Oh no, she doesn't. We understand each other perfectly."

Joan led the conversation to other subjects. She never criticised Cecil to others.

They stayed in the woods an hour longer, and then, very reluctantly, Banty allowed herself to be tucked up again in the trap, and her small groom, who had been amusing himself by gathering blackberries, took her home.