The hostile
fleet was destroyed; brave France would never more come out of harbour
to contend with England; the foggy fear of invasion was like a morning
fog dispersed; and yet the funds (the pulse of England) fell at the loss
of that one defender.
It was a gloomy evening, and come time for good people to be in-doors,
when the big news reached Springhaven. Since the Admiral slept in the
green churchyard, with no despatch to receive or send, the importance of
Springhaven had declined in all opinion except its own, and even Captain
Stubbard could not keep it up. When the Squire was shot, and Master Erle
as well, and Carne Castle went higher than a lark could soar, and folk
were fools enough to believe that Boney would dare put his foot down
there, John Prater had done a most wonderful trade, and never a man who
could lay his tongue justly with the pens that came spluttering from
London had any call for a fortnight together to go to bed sober at his
own expense. But this bright season ended quite as suddenly as it had
begun; and when these great "hungers"--as those veterans were entitled
who dealt most freely with the marvellous--had laid their heads together
to produce and confirm another guinea's worth of fiction, the London
press would have none of it. Public interest had rushed into another
channel; and the men who had thriven for a fortnight on their tongues
were driven to employ them on their hands again.
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