“Oh, mamma,” Arabella said to her mother that evening, “I do so wish I could break my arm tomorrow.”

“Break your arm, my dear!”

“Or my leg would be better.  I wish I could have the courage to chuck myself off going over some gate.  If I could be laid up here now with a broken limb I really think I could do it.”

CHAPTER XXII

Jemima

As the meet on the next morning was in the park the party at Rufford Hall was able to enjoy the luxury of an easy morning together with the pleasures of the field.  There was no getting up at eight o’clock, no hurry and scurry to do twenty miles and yet be in time, no necessity for the tardy dressers to swallow their breakfasts while their more energetic companions were raving at them for compromising the chances of the day by their delay.  There was a public breakfast down-stairs, at which all the hunting farmers of the country were to be seen, and some who, only pretended to be hunting farmers on such occasions.  But up-stairs there was a private breakfast for the ladies and such of the gentlemen as preferred tea to champagne and cherry brandy.  Lord Rufford was in and out of both rooms, making himself generally agreeable.  In the public room there was a great deal said about Goarly, to all of which the Senator listened with eager ears,—­for the Senator preferred the public breakfast as offering another institution to his notice.  “He’ll swing on a gallows afore he’s dead,” said one energetic farmer who was sitting next to Mr. Gotobed,—­a fat man with a round head, and a bullock’s neck, dressed in a black coat with breeches and top-boots.  John Runce was not a riding man.  He was too heavy and short-winded;—­too fond of his beer and port wine; but he was a hunting man all over, one who always had a fox in the springs at the bottom of his big meadows, one to whom it was the very breath of his nostrils to shake hands with the hunting gentry and to be known as a staunch friend to the U.R.U.  A man did not live in the county more respected than John Runce, or who was better able to pay his way.  To his thinking an animal more injurious than Goarly to the best interests of civilisation could not have been produced by all the evil influences of the world combined.  “Do you really think,” said the Senator calmly, “that a man should be hanged for killing a fox?” John Runce, who was not very ready, turned round and stared at him.  “I haven’t heard of any other harm that he has done, and perhaps he had some provocation for that.”  Words were wanting to Mr. Runce, but not indignation.  He collected together his plate and knife and fork and his two glasses and his lump of bread, and, looking the Senator full in the face, slowly pushed back his chair and, carrying his provisions with him, toddled off to the other end of the room.  When he reached a spot where place was made for him he had hardly breath left to speak.  “Well,” he said, “I never—!” He sat a minute in silence shaking his head, and continued to shake his head and look round upon his neighbours as he devoured his food.