SCATTERING THE GLOOM. 285 



SCATTERING THE GLOOM. 



If light is to be found in darkness, brightness in obscurity, 

 gladness in gloom, it was surely with the Pytchley on Wednes- 

 day, in their gallop through the fog. They had met at Cold 

 Ashbv, sauntered for an hour or two in semi-darkness at Win- 

 wick, then seized upon a passing interlude — while blue sky and 

 bright sunshine beamed on them for a few treacherous minutes 

 — to cast hounds, and fortune, into the spinnies of Thornby. 

 Two plantations were drawn blank : and a third (it may have been 

 Firetail) — but it matters not — the fog shall be answerable for all 

 inaccuracies, of place, people, and surroundings. All that I 

 pledge myself to is that we ran for two and thirty minutes, and 

 brushed him. He found himself, just as the mist came again 

 looming over us. Hounds broke out in music along the tiny 

 dell. Before we fairly knew why, we were away — pouring 

 greedily forth through a gateway where the copse ends, and 

 hurrying in a dazed fashion down to the streamlet that flows from 

 the gully. The first whip was gone. Hounds were barely to be 

 seen but plainly to be heard. We all wanted to go, and there 

 was room for a couple at a time — always supposing these two 

 did not jostle each other in the air. 



As I write I feel the fog on me — I must be forrard, or be 

 unsighted, lost and miserable. Let me pose as your pilot. I'll 

 hide our mishaps, and I'll carry you through — let whose coat- 

 tails you like be the real beacon to guide us. You and I 

 scrambled and doubled this first brook and hedge (we'll pick out 

 the thorns to-morrow — also those from the dead hedge in the 

 next near valley). Get off your horse at this loosely chained 

 gate. Now open your ears for the tinkle ! Up wind, at your 

 hardest — riding to sound, riding to hope now faint now furious. 

 Here is the Guilsborough turnpike, and all those who have 

 ridden — more sensibly than you and I — are on the left flank of 

 the pack. Two wheat fields, then a grassy dip — the little com- 

 pany as yet pretty compact and plain, though the haze is wrap- 

 ping their figures more closely each moment. Mr. Gordon 



