"Great heaven!" exclaimed Reginald, "how happy these peasants are--
these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!"
He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the
humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was
only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape.
He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better
than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.
He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A
man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.
"What is the name of this place?" he asked.
"Frimley, sir--Frimley Common it's called by rights. But folks call it
Frimley for short."
"How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?"
"A good six miles, sir."
"Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart
of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour."
"Sharp work, sir," answered the ostler. "Your horse seems to have done
plenty already."
"That is my business," said Sir Reginald, haughtily.
He went into the inn.
"Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?" he asked at the bar.
He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had been
falling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat.
"Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?" asked the landlord.
Pages:
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474