As they were going home, all round by the road, when they were near the top of the hill, before they came to the “Fox and Hounds,” the postilion first shouted and then came to a sudden stop. The captain, putting his head out at the window, saw by the faint light of a young moon, going down in the remains of sunset, that he was jumping off his horse, growling and swearing, but under his breath, when the captain sprang out. A woman was lying across the road, and had barely escaped being run over. Mary and Dora were both out in a moment.
“Poor thing, poor thing! Is it a fit? She is quite insensible.”
“A fit of a certain kind,” said the captain, who was dragging her into the hedge, while the post-boy held the horses. “Go back, Mary, Dora!”
“It is Nanny Barton!” said Dora in horror.
Mary took down one of the carriage lamps and held it to the face. “Yes, it is!” said she. “Can’t we take her home, or do anything?”
“No, no; nonsense!” said Edmund. “Don’t come near, don’t touch her. Don’t you see, she is simply dead drunk.”
“But we can’t leave her here.”
“The best thing to do! Yes, it is; but we will stop at the ‘Fox and Hounds,’ if that will satisfy you, and send some one out to see after her.”
They were obliged to be satisfied, for the tones were authoritative, and they had to accept his assurance that the woman was in no state for them to meddle with. She would come to no harm, he said, when he had put her on the bank, and it was only to pacify them that he caused the postilion to stop at the public-house, whence roaring, singing, and shouts proceeded. The landlord came out, supposing it was some new arrival, and when Captain Carbonel jumped out, and, speaking severely, desired that some one would go to look after the woman, who was lying in the road, and whom the horses had almost run over, he answered as if he had been doing the most natural and correct thing in the world.
“Yes, sir; I had just sent her home. They had been treating of her, and she had had a drop too much. She wasn’t in a proper state.”