The Rider in Khaki. Nat Gould

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СКАЧАТЬ floor of a small house. The dining-room was oak panelled, the ceiling oak, and it was furnished with massive chairs and a huge table. There was a great sideboard, carved by Gibbons, which cost an enormous sum, carvings adorned the wood mantelpiece over the open fireplace. It was a room in which fifty guests might sit down with ease.

      Alan had his favorite rooms, the smallest in the house; his study was a model of comfort, and there was another room opening from it which contained all his sporting paraphernalia. There were guns of various makes, over a dozen; Harry Morby had tested some of them and expressed the opinion that a bad shot might kill birds with such weapons.

      A case of fishing-rods occupied one side of the room. Half a dozen saddles, some racing jackets, bridles, dog collars, boxing gloves, foils, whips, boots, spurs, miscellaneous tools handy for sporting purposes.

      Pictures of racing and hunting scenes hung on the walls; there was a life-like painting of Fred Archer, the beautiful eyes being perfect, also another of Tom Cannon, Mornington Cannon, George Fordham, portraits of Maher, Frank Wotton and several well-known gentleman riders who were friends of Alan's.

      This was the room where guests were wont to congregate and talk over the day's shooting, or discuss the merits of horses and jockeys.

      Alan had breakfast, and came into this room to read the papers before going for his customary ride; he was always ready and fit to accept a mount in a welter race, or ride over the sticks in the hurdle and chasing season.

      He looked carelessly at half a dozen papers but his attention wandered, he could not concentrate his thoughts on anything he saw, he read bits here and there but they were not fixed in his mind. He tossed the papers in a heap on the table, filled his pipe and smoked dreamily.

      There were a dozen servants in the house but he was the only occupant of the owner's quarters. He did not feel exactly lonely, but he liked somebody to talk with, and having been a few days by himself he wished for company.

      Evelyn Berkeley was at The Forest and he thought he would ride over and see her; she was always good company and he liked her, but she was dangerously charming and he acknowledged he felt the influence when in her presence.

      Why not marry her? He was sure she would accept him if he proposed, and there was no woman more fitted to be the mistress of Trent Park.

      More than once he had been on the verge of putting the question to her but something prevented him and he was rather glad he had escaped.

      Over and over again he had asked himself if he loved her and found no satisfactory answer.

      He knew many of his male friends accepted it as a foregone conclusion he would marry Evelyn Berkeley, and he smiled as he thought how they discussed him and his matrimonial prospects.

      It pleased him to think she preferred his society to that of other men, it flattered him when he recalled she might have been a countess had she wished. He asked her why she did not accept the titled suitor and she replied that titles had no attraction for her, that her mind was made up; there was somebody she liked very much, he might ask her to be his wife some day and she would wait.

      He rode several miles at a fast pace in the Park before turning his horse's head in the direction of The Forest.

      As he was passing the monastery ruins he saw Jane Thrush. She looked very sweet and winsome in her plain brown frock which matched the color of her hair; she had no hat, and its luxurious growth added to her rather refined rustic beauty.

      Alan was always courteous to women, and Jane was one of his favorites; so was her father, he had a sincere regard for the sturdy, silent gamekeeper.

      "Beautiful morning, Jane," he said. "You love to be out in the sun?"

      She smiled at him. How handsome he looked on his horse, and how well he sat the animal!

      "I am going to Little Trent to buy a few things for the house. I generally go through the wood," she said.

      "You and your father live quiet lives here. Wouldn't you like to be in the village?" he asked.

      "Oh no. I love the old ruin, and the cottage is so sweet I couldn't bear to leave it, and I'm sure Father would sooner be here than anywhere," said Jane eagerly.

      Alan laughed as he replied:

      "Don't be alarmed, you shall live in the cottage as long as you like.

       Do you ever feel afraid when you are alone at night?"

      "No; why should I? No one ever comes here, and there's Jack always on guard."

      "Wonderful dog, Jack," said Alan smiling.

      "He is. It's three years since you gave him to me. He is my constant companion."

      "He's a well-bred dog anyway; these black retrievers are hard to beat."

      "If anything happened to him I don't know what I'd do," she said.

      "I do," he answered. "I'd give you another in his place."

      "That wouldn't be the same at all," she said.

      "You prefer old friends?"

      "Yes, indeed."

      "Then I hope Jack will live a long time to be your faithful companion," said Alan.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      "HE'S A SPY"

      Evelyn Berkeley was at home, instructions were given that Mr. Chesney was to be admitted when he called. She greeted him cordially; he saw she was pleased to see him.

      "You bring the fresh air in with you. I suppose you have been riding in the Park?" she said, as she gave him her hand and a bright smile.

      "It's the best part of the day for riding. I wonder you do not go out more on horseback, you are a good rider."

      "You really think so?"

      "Yes—really."

      "I have no one to ride with."

      "There's me, won't I do?" he asked laughing.

      "Oh yes, you'll do very well indeed, but I have to be careful; I'm a lone woman and people talk."

      "Let 'em," said Alan.

      "That's all very well from your standpoint; you're a man, that makes all the difference."

      "Not in these days. Women are taking a hand in most things, giving the men a lead. They are independent; probably they are right."

      "Yes, I think they are, but still there are some things they cannot do; women are more likely to be talked about than men, it matters more to them."

      "Why should it?"

      "Because women are women, I can't give you СКАЧАТЬ