FLOOD AND FIELD
A FAMILY PARTY--A HUNTING MORNING!--HAND-AND-GLOVE--GONE
AWAY!--NEVER MORE--FOLLOW-MY-LEADER
It was the last day of the Old Year, and he seemed to have resolved on
making a peaceful ending, such as the thirty-first of December seldom
vouchsafes in any climate but our own. Thoroughly English, too, was
the party assembled round the breakfast-table at Newton-Hollows, from
the red face of the old butler struggling in with the hissing urn, to
the corresponding colour of Frank Hardingstone’s coat, betokening that
he meant to enjoy our national sport of fox-hunting. Blanche was
already down, looking charming in a riding-habit, as all pretty women
do; and Mary’s quiet face showed more animation than usual, perhaps in
consequence of an arrangement which was broached, apparently not for
the first time.
“I am _so_ glad we persuaded him not to ride,” observed Blanche,
appealing as usual to Mr. Hardingstone; “he will _not_ take care of
that cough--men are such bad patients! Now with Mary to drive him in
the pony-carriage, he can keep himself well wrapped up, and the air
will do him good.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Frank, “Mrs. Delaval must take good care of her
patient” (Mary looked as if she _rather_ thought she would); “and I
shall be completely at your service, Miss Kettering; you know I am
_not_ an enthusiast about hunting, like Charlie.”
“Oh, I shall do very well with old Thomas and Uncle Baldwin, if he can
only keep up with me,” replied Blanche; “so I won’t ask you to stay
with _me_.”
Frank seemed to think this would be no great sacrifice; but, as she
spoke, the subject of their conversation entered the breakfast-room,
and took his place as usual at Mrs. Delaval’s side. Poor Charlie! he
looked thinner than ever, and the cough, though not so violent, was
every day more and more frequent. To be sure his eye was bright, and
his colour at times brilliant; everybody seemed to think he was
better, save the Bubbleton doctors, and they never would give an
opinion one way or the other.
“So Haphazard is to be disappointed of his gallop again,” complained
Charlie, as he stretched his wasted hand for his tea-cup. “I have had
quite enough of being nursed, Blanche, even by you. I really think I
might ride him, just to see them find. I could get off if I felt
tired, you know.”
“Get off when the hounds are running!” replied Blanche, “not you. Now
be a good boy just this once, Charlie. Mary has promised to drive you
in my pony-carriage with Scrub: she says you shall see everything if
you’ll only trust yourself with her; and nobody will take such care of
you as Mary, I know,” added she, rather mischievously. Charlie made no
further objections, and Mrs. Delaval kept her eyes immovably fixed on
the pattern of her tea-cup.
“Late, of course--servants always are late, except for dinner.
Charlie, my boy, how are ye this morning? You’ve got no breakfast.
Zounds! why is everything cold? Blanche, my sweet girl, ring all the
bells, and kick that old fool into next week, if he don’t bring hot
mutton-chops instanter. I can’t stay a moment. I must be off to
Snaffles, or he’ll make some cursed mistake. It’s very singular that
nobody ever understands my directions,” said the General, bustling
into the room in a state of more than usual ferment, as is generally
the case with occasional sportsmen on a hunting-morning. The General
had been up since daybreak, but had not yet succeeded in snatching a
quiet five minutes for his own breakfast; and even now, as he fussed
about in a short green coat and high Napoleon boots, it seemed
doubtful whether he would settle down to his meal, or be off on
another visit to the stables, for the further confusion of the
unfortunate Snaffles. Hunger carried it for the moment, but the
trampling of hoofs and grinding of wheels on the sweep at the
front-door soon drew our party to the window, from which Blanche’s
eyes were delighted by the appearance of her favourite Water King, his
fine coat glistening in the morning sun, his long thin tail whisking
about as usual, and his rounded form seen in all its beauty under the
unmounted side-saddle. “Isn’t he a darling?” exclaimed Blanche from
the window, as the horse stepped proudly round to the door, pointing
his small ears and glancing in every direction as though looking for
his mistress. Old Thomas on a steady brown; Frank’s two hunters,
well-bred, weight-carrying animals; the General’s black cob, and the
little pony-carriage, completed the cavalcade, which was at length got
into marching order, not without much difficulty and the issue of
several contradictory orders from Uncle Baldwin, who, what with his
anxiety about Blanche’s mounting and his care that Charlie should be
properly wrapped up, to say nothing of his directions to every one
concerning that undiscoverable passage, “the shortest way,” was
already in a white heat, and altogether in a state quite the reverse
of what we should suppose anticipatory of a day’s _pleasure_.
However, Blanche was in the saddle at last, and pacing quietly on with
Frank by her side. The General, too, was mounted, but by no means as
yet under way--so much had to be impressed on the butler in case of
the Field stopping to luncheon; so much on Snaffles, who remained at
home, about sundry brood mares in the paddocks, all in an interesting
situation; so much on the keepers, who neglected the earth-stopping
generally; and so _very_ much on the bailiff, who invariably appeared
at the last moment, that had it not been for the determination evinced
by the black cob, his master would have remained at the front-door
till dinner-time; that animal, however, a resolute Roman-nosed
conveyance, seeing his stable companions rapidly deserting him, and
rejoicing moreover in a stiff neck and perfectly callous mouth, made
no more ado, but took the bit between his teeth, and lowering his head
to the well-known angle of insubordination, rushed doggedly to the
front, bearing the General rapidly past the pony-carriage in a manner
more ludicrous than dignified. Charlie was in fits. Even quiet Mrs.
Delaval laughed outright; and this simple incident, perhaps, made
their drive far more lively--we will not say more agreeable--than it
would otherwise have been, inasmuch as they had started in solemn
silence; and, like all couples who feel that they are more to each
other than either dares to confess, they might have remained
unwillingly mute during the precious hours, from sheer inability to
talk upon any topic but one, and a nervous dread of entering on that
one lest an explanation should at once dispel the dream that had been
the happiness of their lives. Now, however, they chatted gaily enough;
and certainly if ever there was a situation calculated to raise the
spirits of mortals, it was that in which our young lancer and his
lady-love found themselves, on their way to Crop Hill, that
thirty-first of December--a drive never afterwards to be effaced from
the memory of the gentle charioteer. It was one of those beautiful
balmy mornings that (when we get them) make an English winter more
delightful than that of any other country in the world. It can only be
described by the expression which it brought to every one’s lips,
“What a hunting morning!” There had been heavy rain in the night, and
the freshened pastures seemed actually to smile in the sun, as ever
and anon he shone out with chastened beams over copse and meadow and
upland; the very hedges, leafless though they were, seemed to breathe
the fragrance of spring; mid-winter as it was, Nature seemed to be not
dead, but sweetly sleeping; the robin hopped merrily from twig to
twig; the magpie jerked and chattered, and flew before the
pony-carriage, lighting now on this side of the lane, now on that, now
disturbing its mate, now soaring away over the high thick hedge
towards the distant wood. As they emerged into a line of fair open
pastures from which their view, unchecked by fence on either side,
swept over a rich green vale, dotted with cattle and clothed with
hedge-row trees, they caught sight of their mounted friends cantering
merrily along the grass ahead of them, Blanche’s habit fluttering in
the soft, light breeze, her cavalier’s red coat and shining
stirrup-irons glistening in the sun, and the General bumping steadily
behind them on the high-stepping black cob, who, albeit usually an
animal of imperturbable sobriety, had contracted a fatal passion for
the chase, which on occasions like the present put him into a state of
rebellious excitement that lasted throughout the day, and produced a
sad reaction in the stable on the morrow.
“That’s the best fellow in England,” said Charlie, as he pointed out
his friend to his companion. “I shall be glad when it’s settled, Mrs.
Delaval, as _I_ know it soon will be.” Mary thought they were on
tender ground, and applied herself diligently to her driving without
producing any great increase of pace on the part of philosophical
Scrub. “Ah!” said Charlie, and his voice trembled as he spoke, “I’ve
envied Frank all my life, and I envy him more than ever now.”
“You _do_?” replied Mary, glancing quickly at him, while her heart for
the moment seemed to stand still.
“Not his bride, Mrs. Delaval,” replied Charlie, “for his bride you’ll
see she will be. No, no; I’m very fond of Blanche, but not in that
way.” Mary was blushing crimson, and it was surprising what a deal of
driving that little pony required as Charlie proceeded. “But I envy
him all he has that I can never have again--health, strength, all that
makes life enjoyable--all that was once mine, but that I feel I have
now lost for ever.”
“Don’t say so,” replied Mary, though her rising tears almost choked
her utterance, “don’t say so. With care and good advice, and all of
_us_ to nurse you, oh, you must, you _shall_ get well;” but even as
she spoke she felt a sad foreboding at her heart. Charlie caught her
glance, though it was almost instantly averted, and he proceeded as if
half to himself--
“I could bear it well enough if I was like Frank in one respect, if I
knew my life was bound to another’s, and that other the one I cared
most for in the world. I could struggle on for _her_ sake; but no, I
shall leave none such behind _me_, and perhaps it is better.”
“Do you think we are so heartless?” she burst forth; “do you think we
can part with you without a murmur? With _you_, for whom we have
watched and prayed and longed all those dreary months; dreary indeed
whilst you were----” Mary stopped short. She felt she had said too
much, but it was Charlie’s turn to blush now. His breath came quick
and short; the boy dared not look the woman in the face, but he put
his hand into his bosom and drew out a glove--a white kid glove it was
formerly, now sadly soiled and discoloured, for a gallant heart had
been beating against it many a long month--but with a rim of velvet
round the wrist; there was no doubt of its identity, nor of the fair
hand it once had fitted. Charlie drew it out and pressed it to his
lips. She turned on him one swimming glance. They understood each
other; the moment had at length arrived when--
“_Gently_, Ravager! back, hounds, back!”--and the loud crack of a
hunting-whip disturbed their romantic _tête-à-tête_ at this critical
moment, and announced the proximity of that well-known pack
denominated the Hark-holloa Hounds, trotting gently on towards the
place of meeting, and rapidly overtaking the pony-carriage and its
pre-occupied inmates. The noble impulse of equine emulation, usually
dormant in the shaggy form of Scrub, was now aroused by the inspiring
influence of the passing pageant, and the clean, dainty-looking,
motley-coloured pack; the neat, well-appointed servants in their
bright scarlet coats and glossy velvet caps; the well-bred,
well-groomed, hunting-looking horses they bestrode stepping airily
along, jingling their bits, and snorting to the morning breeze. All
these objects raised the mettle of Blanche’s quiet pony, and Mary had
now enough to do in earnest, as he tugged at the reins and drew them
rapidly on in rear of the pack towards a slight elevation in the
distance crowned by a windmill, and rejoicing in the dignified title
of Crop Hill. A renewal of the tender subject was impossible, for as
they neared the trysting-place the plot thickened rapidly, and
sportsman after sportsman cantering by on his covert-hack had a bow
for Mrs. Delaval, and a word to exchange with Charlie; now
congratulating him on his return, now condoling with him for his
inability to ride, now cordially hoping that he will soon be in the
saddle, with an inquiry after the welfare of the celebrated Haphazard.
Charlie’s spirits rose as they proceeded, and ere they reached the
windmill he was a boy again.
“Yoi, over there!” holloaed the huntsman, standing in his stirrups and
waving the willing pack into the cover, a patch of sunny gorse lying
on the south side of the hill, and commanding a vale of large green
pastures that to contemplate alone brought the light into Charlie’s
eye.
“This way,” said the General, sidling and piaffing and coming tail
first towards the pony-carriage, for the double purpose of placing it
in a favourable position for viewing the proceedings, and of
exhibiting his own horsemanship before the eyes of Mrs. Delaval. The
General was under the impression that if there was one thing in which
more than another he excelled, it was the art of _manège_ equitation,
and perhaps on an animal less self-willed than the black cob he might
have been a very Bellerophon, but certainly at the present juncture he
jerked, and fumed, and kicked, and wiped his brows in anything but a
graceful mode of progression.
“This way,” said he, after a violent effort which brought the cob
broadside on across Scrub, whose recognition, however, his excited
friend disdained to acknowledge.
“From the brow of this hill you can see for miles. If we don’t find
here--how d’ye mean, _don’t_ find here? If there’s no fox in the gorse
I’ll eat this hunting-whip!” eyeing his own iron-handled one as he
spoke. “If you keep along the--(Stand _still_, you brute!)--if you
keep along the brow, Mrs. Delaval--(Zounds! _will_ you stand
still?)--you’ll be able to--Tally-ho! he’s away, d’ye see him, yonder
by the oak! now they have it. Forward! forward!!” Charlie could not
resist a prolonged screech of delight, though he coughed for five
minutes afterwards, and the General went off at score, as eager for a
start as if he had been riding the best horse in England, and bumped,
and thumped, and scuttled, and slid down the hill, towards a friendly
hand-gate, as only an elderly gentleman can, who has survived all his
passions save this one alone! What a scurry there was over the vale
below! Immediately in the foreground a group of foot-people, a keeper
in velveteen, and a labourer with a terrier in his arms, laughed and
gazed and vociferated, and made sundry uncomplimentary remarks on the
sportsmen whose prowess they could so effectually overlook. Lower
down careful grooms on second horses, a steady-going dark-coated
array, had diverged nearly at right angles to the line of chase, and
keeping studiously together, seemed to be holding perseveringly for
some point of their own, well down-wind. At the bottom of the hill, a
horse-breaker, on a four-year-old rearing straight on end, was
endeavouring to make the passage of a white gate that had slammed to,
unpropitiously, just in front of him. As the man had dropped his whip
and did not dare get off, he was likely to remain there some little
time longer. Just in front of him again came the Field, a motley mass
of colours, red predominating--streaming like a flight of wild-fowl,
as they crossed the enclosures, but huddling confusedly together as
often as they reached the fence, under the mistaken notion that there
is safety in numbers.
Amongst them were men of all sorts and ages, ranks, weights, and
sizes--some plying elbows and legs as they shot occasionally to the
front, only to drop back to their native obscurity when the fatal
necessity of jumping should arrive---some holding steadily on,
satisfied to be in good company, with no more idea of where the hounds
were than if they had been in the next county--discreet spirits
breaking the hearts of valorous horses by keeping them back--eager
enthusiasts rapidly finishing their too sorry steeds by urging them
forward--but still one and all convinced that they were distinguishing
themselves by their prowess, and prepared to swear over their wine
that they had been all day in the front rank. To the right of these
might be seen the General in a line of his own, leading him through a
deep ridge and furrow field, in which he laboured like a boat in a
heavy sea--already its inequalities had brought him to a slack rein,
and even at that distance the rider’s heels could be plainly
distinguished in convulsive persuasion.
Five minutes more at that pace would unquestionably reduce the black
cob to a walk. A field farther forward than these, and released from
the turmoil and confusion in their rear, struggled a devoted band, the
forlorn hope of the chase--those adventurous spirits who “mean
riding,” but “don’t know how”--though small in number, great in
hairbreadth ’scapes and thrilling casualties. There a rood and a half
of fence was seen tumbling into a field with a crash like the falling
of a house, followed by a headlong biped describing a parabola in the
air, and closely attended by a huge dark object which resolved itself
into a rolling steed. Farther on again a crashing of rails was heard,
and a reckless pair seen balanced across a strong piece of
field-upholstery, only to subside dully into a fatal ditch gaping to
receive them, not in vain--
“_Rider and horse in one red burial blent._”
A wisp of scarlet lying motionless on the greensward, and a loose
horse galloping furiously to the front, completed this ill-fated
portion of the panorama, and carried the eye forward to where some
half-dozen detached cavaliers were gradually diminishing till they
looked like red balls bouncing over a billiard-table, as independent
and nearly abreast each sped his own line across the distant fields.
These were indeed the “chosen few”--the deacons of the craft, quick,
quiet, wary, and resolute--they had surmounted all the obstacles of
the commencement, all the struggle for a start, and were now enjoying
their reward. Each man as he took his horse well by the head settled
himself in his saddle, and scanning his ground with keen and practised
eye, crashed through the impervious bullfinch or faced the
uncompromising timber, enjoying a deep thrilling ecstasy totally
incomprehensible to the rational portion of mankind. A Frenchman once
remarked to us, anent this particular form of lunacy, “Monsieur, nous
ne cherchons pas nos émotions, nous Français, à nous casser le cou.”
But deep and stirring were the _émotions_ of our English enthusiasts
as they strained after the fleeting pack, now diminished to a few
white, scattered dots, glancing over the green surface a field ahead
even of these.
“Happy fellows!” exclaimed Charlie, watching the first flight, where
his own place should have been, with straining eyes. “It looks
uncommonly like a run!--but where’s Frank? he ought to be forward with
the hounds. Oh! he’s philandering there on the right with Blanche;”
and Charlie’s mouth drew itself down into an expression of intense
disgust--although in love himself, he could not understand Venus being
allowed to interfere with Diana. “If we keep down this lane,”
exclaimed he, still bending his gaze on the disappearing pack, “we
shall come in upon them again, to a certainty, with this wind.
Wilmington Copse is his point, I’ll lay my life. Go along, Scrub!” and
the pony-carriage was again set in motion, not without flagellation of
Blanche’s favourite, bumping and swaying down an extremely bad road at
the best speed it could muster. Ever and anon the drivers cast a look
over the vale at the fast-disappearing chase, but the excitement was
rapidly subsiding. All the reds had by this time vanished, save one
extremely cautious sportsman in a lane; the more sober colours were
gradually fading into the distance. The horse-breaker was gone, the
keeper in velveteen shouldered his gun, the labourer put down his
terrier, and the pedestrians were lounging home to dinner. After two
miles or so of severe exertion the panting Scrub was again pulled up
at Stoney Cross, a place where four byroads met, commanding an
extensive view of the surrounding country. Mary was almost as keen
about the run as her companion, so catching is excitement,
particularly hunting excitement. “Listen,” said she, intently eyeing
the distance, “can you hear anything?”
“Nothing but Scrub blowing,” replied Charlie; “no, they’re having an
_extraordinary_ run--we shall never see them again!”
Both strained their eyes till they watered. Profound silence reigned
over the landscape, save when the wintry wind moaned softly through
the boughs of some leafless poplars overhead. The sun had disappeared;
a dark grey haze was creeping over the distance; even Nature seemed to
be suffering a reaction after the excitement of the last half-hour,
and Charlie too felt despondent and melancholy; the air was moist and
chill, the sky dark and lowering; it was the last day of the
year--would he ever see another? Must he leave this pleasant world,
pleasant even in the subdued melancholy of winter’s russet garb, and
lie in the damp, cold earth, whilst his friends and comrades were full
of life and hope and energy? The last time--was this indeed the _last
time_ for him of the sport he loved so passionately? No more to back
his gallant steeds, and feel his life-blood thrill as they bounded
beneath him in the real ecstasy of motion; no more to join the jovial
scarlet throng, with bit and bridle ringing round him, and laugh and
jest and cordial greeting passing from lip to lip in that merriest of
merry meetings at the covert side; no more to stand in the deep
fragrant woodland and cheer that chiming music to the echo, sweeter to
him than the very symphony of heaven; and when silence, startling from
its suddenness, succeeded to those maddening sounds, and warned him
they were _away_! others would race with the racing pack, and revel in
the whirlwind of _pace_, glancing over pastures like hawks upon the
wing, but his place would be vacant in the front rank, and he--where
would he be? Hard! hard! now that life was so sweet and sparkling, now
that the cup was crowned with that last drop that bid it brim with
happiness--the consciousness of love. And must it be put untasted by?
Hard--hard, yet perhaps better so!
“I hear them, I’m certain,” said Mary, raising her taper hand in the
air; “that must be the horn. We shall see the finish after all!”
“Not yet,” cried Charlie, all his melancholy reflections dispelled on
the instant. “See, they’ve checked on the plough yonder. Now they
acknowledge it. Well hunted, my beauties! Look! look! did you see
him?--there, in the middle of that large field, beyond the spinney!”
Mary looked and looked, and at length made out a dark speck stealing
away in the distance too slowly for a crow, too smoothly for a dog;
had she not been told she never would have suspected that minute
object was the fox.
“He’s not killed YET,” observed Charlie; “there’ll be some _grief_
before HE’S in hand! See, he’s pointing straight for the forest--by
Jove! they’ll have to swim the Gushe. What a capital fox!” And now,
once more, the pageant passed in full view of the pony-carriage; but
oh! how altered! Despite the check there were but two men near the
hounds, and even these were a full field behind them (after dinner
they acknowledged to twenty yards); then came one solitary individual
in a cap, who was indeed the huntsman, and who was now riding in the
combined enjoyment of a horse completely exhausted, and a morbid dread
lest the more fortunate twain in his front should press too much on
his treasures--a needless fear, could he but have seen the mode in
which these treasures were increasing the distance between themselves
and their pursuers. Behind him again was a gentleman (clerical)
standing by his horse, apparently investigating his stirrup-irons with
minute interest. He never could be got to explain clearly why he had
stopped at this exciting moment. Gaining gradually upon the latter
came another red-coat, making the most of an extremely slow canter;
and not a soul besides was to be seen on the line of the hounds. What
had become of them all? Where was the Field? Why, pounding down the
very lane in which the pony-carriage had drawn up, pulling and
hustling, and grinning and clattering--coat-tails flying, neck-cloths
streaming, the leaders’ faces bathed in perspiration, the rearward
horsemen plastered with mud, all riding like grim Death, all frantic
with hurry and excitement--the General and his black cob not the least
furious of the throng. Few noticed the carriage, all were intent on
some object in the extreme distance, possibly the bridge at Deep-ford,
inasmuch as the hounds were now pointing straight for the Gushe.
It was quite a relief to watch Frank Hardingstone’s unmoved face as he
cantered quietly by, and smiled and spoke to them, without, however,
relaxing in his vigilant care of Blanche. That young lady looked
prettier than ever--her violet eyes dancing with excitement, and her
long fair curls floating over her riding-habit.
“He’s going to _have_ it,” screamed Charlie, in a state of tumultuous
excitement, as they watched Frank turn away from his charge, and
leaping the fence out of the lane, take a direct line for the calm,
deep, silent river, and consequently for the hounds, who were already
struggling in the stream, throwing their tongues occasionally as they
were swept along by its force, to land considerably lower down than
they had calculated. One of the foremost sportsmen went gallantly in
with them, but his horse was already exhausted, and, after sinking
twice, rider and steed emerged separately on the hither side, glad to
get off with a ducking.
“Blanche, you foolish girl, stop! I desire you to stop!” exclaimed
the General, foaming with excitement, and himself with difficulty
pulling the black cob across the road. But Blanche either would not or
could not stop: Water King’s mettle was excited; he had been following
Frank Hardingstone’s horse all day, and true to his name, he was not
to be deterred by the perils of a swim. Taking the bit between his
teeth, he bounded out of the lane at the spot where his leader had
jumped the fence, and tore away over the level water-meadows,
regardless of the volley of imprecations which the General sent after
him as of the feeble grasp which strove to check him in vain.
Frank meanwhile, all unconscious, sped steadily down to the stream.
Already his cool resolute eye had marked the safest place at which to
land. “If I can only get _out_,” thought Frank, “there’s never much
difficulty about getting _in_.” Already had he gathered his horse well
up on his haunches, turned his stirrup-irons over his saddle-bow,
knotted the thong of his whip to his rein in case of dissolving
partnership on emergency, and sliding quietly down the bank, was
immersed in deep water, laying his weight as much as possible along
his horse’s neck, when a faint scream, a rushing sound close behind
him, and a tremendous splash by his side, made him turn wildly round
and well-nigh pull his unfortunate steed over him in the water. How
shall we describe his sensations at what he saw? Water King plunging
and rearing himself above the surface; Blanche clinging helplessly to
her horse’s neck, her white face glancing on him for an instant with
an expression of ghastly terror; another furious plunge, a faint,
bubbling scream, and the limp skirt of a riding-habit disappearing
beneath the whirling wave. The horror-stricken sportsmen in the lane
saw a lady’s hat floating on the stream some fifty yards lower down.
But assistance was near at hand; twenty men were soon gathered on the
bank. People never know how these things are done. Frank was away from
his horse in an instant; he believes he dived for her twice; but two
minutes had scarcely elapsed before he was hanging over her exhausted
form on the bank, regardless of the surrounding crowd, regardless of
his usual self-command and reserved demeanour, pouring forth the
torrent of his feelings, so long dammed up, in words that were but
little short of madness.
It was fortunate, indeed, that Scrub’s fatigue had prevented the
pony-carriage from going any farther on the line of the crowd, who
were by this time blocking up the narrow passage of Deep-ford Bridge,
as Blanche, despite her wet clothes, was too much exhausted to attempt
riding home, and was accordingly placed by Mary in her own little
equipage. The pony made small difficulty about retracing his steps
towards his stable, and the cavalcade proceeded rapidly to
Newton-Hollows; Frank riding alongside in his dripping garments, with
an expression of unspeakable joy on his manly features never seen
there before or since; Mary praying inwardly with heart-felt
gratitude, and the General sobbing like a child. As they turned in at
the gates, Charlie was the only one of the party who retained his
composure sufficiently to observe, with an expression of deep
interest, “I wish we knew whether they’ve killed their fox.”