Not long
since a gentleman shot a fox running across a woodland ride in a
hunting country. He had mistaken it for a hare, and had done the deed
in the presence of keepers, owner, and friends. His feelings were so
acute and his remorse so great that, in their pity, they had resolved
to spare him; and then, on the spot, entered into a solemn compact
that no one should be told. Encouraged by the forbearing tenderness,
the unfortunate one ventured to return to the house of his friend,
the owner of the wood, hoping that, in spite of the sacrilege
committed, he might be able to face a world that would be ignorant
of his crime. As the vulpicide, on the afternoon of the day of the
deed, went along the corridor to his room, one maid-servant whispered
to another, and the poor victim of an imperfect sight heard the
words--"That's he as shot the fox!" The gentleman did not appear at
dinner, nor was he ever again seen in those parts.
Mr. Fothergill had become angry. Lord Chiltern, as we know, had been
very angry. And even the Duke was angry.
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