-By David Gray
Barclay slowly guided his horse through the mounted throng to the spot where Mr. Carteret was sitting on a chestnut thoroughbred horse watching hounds as they came straggling out of the spinney. They had drawn blank. The fox was not at home. When Barclay reached his friend he pulled up casually as if he had come for no express purpose, and said nothing. After a few moments he began, as if an idea had just come to him:
“It has occurred to me, Carty,” he said, “that if we brought American horses to England, we could make a lot of money.”
“That idea has occurred to others,” replied Mr. Carteret, without turning his head. He was absorbed in the enjoyable discovery that the scene before him was like a hunting-print. The browns of the wood and bracken, the winter green of the hill pastures, the scarlet coats, the gray sky of the English winter, were all happily true to art. “As I say,” he went on, “the idea has occurred to others, but I have never heard that any one made money.”
“That is because they haven’t sent over good horses,” said Barclay. “Suppose we brought over only such thoroughbred horses as we raise on the Wyoming ranch.”
“I don’t think it would make any difference,” said Mr. Carteret. “There is a prejudice against American horses.”
“Exactly,” said Barclay; “and the way to meet it would be to have them ridden and handled by a well-known Englishman. In fact, I have the man in mind.”
“Who?”
“Young Granvil,” was the answer.
Why Barclay should be interested in making money out of a horse business or in any other way had perplexed Mr. Carteret, for it was not according to his habits of mind. Now it became clear to him, and he suppressed a cynical smile. “I don’t suppose Lady Withers has discussed this matter with you,” he observed.
“In a general way, yes,” replied Barclay; “but it was my suggestion.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Carteret.
Barclay paused awkwardly for a moment, then he said: “Why shouldn’t I talk it over with Lady Withers? She is a very intelligent woman, and a good judge of a horse.”
“An excellent judge of almost everything,” said his friend, “and especially of young men. My son,” he continued (Barclay was five years his junior), “it is commendable of Lady Withers to provide for the Hon. Cecil James Montague Granvil. He is her nephew and flat broke, and he needs people to look after him because he is almost less than half-witted. But that is no reason why you should be the person to look after him.”
“You are unjust to Cecil,” said Barclay, “and most unkind in your insinuations as to Lady Withers. This was my own idea entirely, and I think it would be profitable for both of us. You know you are always complaining because I don’t take more interest in the ranches.”
“If I have been unkind to Lady Withers,” said Mr. Carteret, “I am going to be much more so.”
Barclay looked challengingly. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Lady Withers,” said Mr. Carteret, “is a widow, aged forty-four,—you can verify that in Burke,—a man-eater by temperament and habit. You are twelve years younger than she, with a great deal more money than is good for you. Whether she intends to marry you I don’t pretend to know, but it is not unlikely. At any rate, you are unquestionably on the list as a source of income and supply.”
Somewhat to Mr. Carteret’s surprise, Barclay listened calmly.
“Do you really think Lady Withers considers me eligible?” he asked.
“She does, if she has any true conception of your securities.”
Barclay smiled a pleased smile. “I shall not stop to discuss Lady Withers’s age,” he said. “Have you any objections to her aside from that?”
Mr. Carteret looked at him with outward calm, but inwardly he was filled with horror. “Are you engaged to her?” he asked.
“I am not,” said Barclay.
“Then I shall tell you,” he went on, “that I have objections. Their nature I have no time to disclose at present further than to say that any woman who puts a nice girl like her niece upon the horse she is riding to-day is a bad lot.”
Barclay’s expression changed. “What is the matter with the horse?” he demanded.
“I’m not sure that I know all that is the matter with him,” said Carty, “but I wouldn’t ride him over a fence for the Bank of England.”
“Do you know that, or are you just talking?” said Barclay.
“I ought to know,” said the other. “I owned him. After what he did to me, I ought to have shot him. We’d better jog along,” he added, “or we shall get pocketed and never get through the gate.”
The huntsman had called his hounds and was carrying them to the next cover, and Mr. Carteret set his horse to a trot and struggled for a place in the vast scarlet-coated throng that surged toward the gate leading out of the meadow. At the same time Barclay disappeared.
“I hope he tells Lady Withers about the horse,” said Mr. Carteret to himself. “If she doesn’t keep her hands off him, I shall tell her several things myself.”
Just at that moment the eddying currents of the human maelstrom brought him alongside a slender little figure in a weather-beaten habit and a bowler hat jammed down to her ears over a mass of golden hair. Although the knot of hair was twisted cruelly tight, and although the hat did its best to cover it, even a man’s eye could see that it was profuse and wonderful. It was unnecessary for him to look at the horse. He knew that he was beside Lady Mary Granvil, Lady Withers’s niece. “Good afternoon,” he said and she turned toward him. It was a sad rather than a pretty face, but one’s attention never rested long upon it, for a pair of gray eyes shone from under the brows, and after the first glance one looked at the eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he said again. The eyes rather disconcerted him. “Do you happen to know anything about that horse you’re riding?”
“It’s one that my aunt bought quite recently,” said the girl. “She and Cecil wished me to try it.”
“I hope you won’t think me rude,” said Mr. Carteret, “but I once owned him, and I think you’ll find this horse of mine a much pleasanter beast to ride. I’ll have the saddles changed.”
Lady Mary looked at him, and a light flashed in her gray eyes. “You are very good,” she said, “but this is my aunt’s horse, and my brother told me to ride it.” She forged ahead, and disappeared in the currents of the crowd.
“I did that very badly,” Mr. Carteret said to himself, and fell into the line and waited for his turn at the gate.
He and Barclay, Lady Withers, and many other people were stopping the week-end at Mrs. Ascott-Smith’s, who had Chilliecote Abbey, and when he got home that afternoon he went at once to the great library, where the ceremony of tea was celebrated. The daylight was fading from the mullioned windows as it had faded on winter afternoons for three hundred years. Candles burned on the vacant card-tables, while the occupants of the room gathered in the glow of the great Elizabethan fireplace and conversed and ate. As he approached the circle, Lady Withers put down her tea cup.
“Did you have another run after we pulled out?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret; “rather a good one.”
Suddenly her eyes began to beam. There was a display of red lips and white teeth, and a sort of general facial radiation. It was an effort usually fatal to guardsmen, but it affected Mr. Carteret like the turning on of an electric heater, and he backed away as if he felt the room were warm enough. “I am so glad,” she said.
“Tell me,” she went on in her soft, delightfully modulated voice, “aren’t you interested with Mr. Barclay in some farms?”
“We own two ranches together,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Yes, that was it,” said Lady Withers; “and you raise horses on them?”
Mr. Carteret apprehended what was coming. “Yes; ranch horses,” he said dryly.
“And such good ones, as Mr. Barclay was telling me,” said Lady Withers. “He made me quite enthusiastic with his account of it all, and he is so anxious to have dear Cecil manage them in England; but before Cecil decides one way or the other I want your advice.”
Mr. Carteret looked at her and stroked his mustache. His opportunity to save Barclay had come. “My advice would be worth very little,” he said; “but I can give you all the facts, and of course Barclay—well, he can’t.”
A shade of apprehension crossed Lady Withers’s face. “And why not?” she demanded.
“I should rather not go into that,” said Mr. Carteret. “Of course the great objection to the scheme is that it would be unprofitable for Mr. Granvil, because no one would buy our horses.”
“But wouldn’t they,” said Lady Withers, “if they were good ones?”
“Major Hammerslea can answer that question better than I,” said Mr. Carteret. He looked toward that great man and smiled. The Major was the author of “Schooling and Riding British Hunters,” and Mr. Carteret knew his views.
“No one,” said the Major, impressively, “would buy an American horse if he desired to make or possess a really good hunter.”
“But why advertise that they were American?” observed Lady Withers, blandly.
“How could you hide it?” said the Major.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Furthermore,” observed the Major, his interest in the controversy growing, “the output of a single breeding institution would scarcely make it worth Cecil’s while to manage an agency for their distribution.”
“I think you don’t understand,” said Lady Withers, “that Mr. Carteret has a large place.”
“My friend the Duke of Westchester,” began the Major, “has in his breeding farm eight thousand acres—”
“But I’ve no doubt that Mr. Carteret’s is very nearly as large,” interrupted Lady Withers.
“I don’t think size has anything to do with it,” said Mr. Carteret, uneasily. “The fact is, we don’t raise the kind of horse that English dealers would buy.”
“I think size has much to do with it,” replied the Major.
“I wish,” said Lady Withers, “that you would tell Major Hammerslea exactly how large your farms are.”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Mr. Carteret, uneasily.
“But, about how large?” insisted Lady Withers.
“There is something over a million acres in the Texas piece,” said Mr. Carteret, with some embarrassment, “and something under six hundred thousand in Wyoming.”
Lady Withers and the Major both looked at him with eyes of amazement. But Lady Withers’s amazement was admiring.
“I thought so,” said she, calmly. The Major in silence walked over to the table and took a cigar. “Looking at it from all points of view,” she continued, “it would be just the thing for Cecil. He is intelligent with regard to horses.”
“But I don’t wish to go to Texas,” said the Hon. Cecil, who had joined the group. “They say the shootin’ ’s most moderate.”
“It isn’t necessary yet for you to go to Texas,” said Lady Withers, coldly. “Mr. Carteret and I are arranging to employ your talents in England.”
“Of course another objection,” said Mr. Carteret, “is that Granvil is too good a man to waste on such an occupation. The horse business is very confining. It’s an awful bore to be tied down.”
“You are absolutely right about that,” said the Hon. Cecil, with a burst of frankness. “You don’t know what a relief it is to be out of the Guards. Awfully confining life, the Guards.”
“I think,” said Lady Withers, apparently oblivious to the views of her nephew, “that Mr. Barclay takes rather the more businesslike view of these matters. It is he, I fancy, who looks after the affairs of your estates; and I should judge,” she continued, “that, after all, his advice to a young man like Cecil with a very moderate income would be wiser. I believe very much in an occupation for young men.”
Mr. Carteret saw that his time had come. He looked at Lady Withers and smiled sadly. “Of course I’m very fond of Barclay,” he said in a lower tone, “and of course he is an awfully charming, plausible boy—” Then he stopped, apparently because Major Hammerslea was returning with his cigar.
“What do you mean?” asked Lady Withers.
Mr. Carteret made no direct reply, but moved toward the piano, and Lady Withers followed. “It is best to speak plainly,” he said, “because, after all, business is business, as we say.”
“Exactly,” said Lady Withers. Her teeth had ceased to gleam. The radiance had left her face, though not the bloom upon it. Her large, beaming eyes had contracted. She looked twenty years older.
“The fact is,” said Mr. Carteret, steadily, “that Barclay is not the business manager of our ranches. He is not a business man at all. It is true that he still retains a certain interest in the ranch properties but he has been so unbusinesslike that everything he’s got is in the hands of a trustee. He gets his income monthly, like a remittance-man. He is not in actual want; but—”
“I see,” said Lady Withers, coldly. “I had misunderstood the situation.” She turned and crossed to one of the card-tables and sat down.
After she had gone, Mr. Carteret lighted a cigarette and went out. It was his intention to go to his room, have his tub, and change. His mind was relieved. He had no fear that Lady Withers would either beam or radiate for a young man whose fortune was in captivity to a trustee. He had saved Barclay, and he was pleased with himself. As he passed through the twilight of the main hallway, the front door opened, and Lady Mary Granvil and Barclay entered side by side. It was the girl’s voice that he heard first.
“Please have it dressed at once,” she was saying.
“But there’s no hurry,” said Barclay.
“Please, at once,” said the girl. There was something in her tone that made Mr. Carteret turn from the stairs and go forward to meet them.
“I’ve snapped my collar-bone,” said Barclay. “It’s nothing.”
The girl drew back a step into the heavy shadow of the corner, but Mr. Carteret did not notice it. “So old True Blue has put you down at last,” he said.
“Yes,” said Barclay evasively; “that is—”
“He was not riding True Blue,” said Lady Mary resolutely. “He was riding my horse. Mr. Barclay changed with me.”
“The horse was all right,” said Barclay, hurriedly. “It was my own fault. I bothered him at a piece of timber. It wasn’t the horse you thought it was,” he added rather anxiously. “It was one they got from Oakly, the dealer.”
Now, Mr. Carteret had sold the horse in question to Oakly, yet he said nothing, but stood and looked from one to the other. Disturbing suspicions were springing up in the depths of his mind.
The girl broke the silence. “You ought to get it set without any more delay,” she said; “you really ought. It will begin to swell. Go up, and I shall have them telephone for the doctor.”
“You are quite right,” said Mr. Carteret; “but I’ll see about the doctor.”
He turned and started toward the end of the long hall, searching for a bell that he might summon a servant. Presently it occurred to him that he had no idea of the doctor’s name, and that there might be several doctors. He stopped, turned, and came back noiselessly upon the heavy rug and all but invisible in the dusk of the unlighted hallway. Suddenly he stopped. The girl had been watching Barclay as he went up the stairs. As he passed out of sight, she turned and dropped into a chair with a little sigh, like one who has been under a strain. On the table beside her lay the silk muffler in which his arm had been tied. She took it up and began folding it. Then she smoothed it with curious little strokings and touches, and then suddenly pressing it to her cheek, put it down and disappeared through the morning-room doorway in a confusion in which she had surprised herself. Mr. Carteret stepped back behind a curtain, and when he was sure that Lady Mary was not coming back, instead of ordering the doctor, he went to Barclay’s room.
“I should like to know,” he began, “how it was that you were riding Mary Granvil’s horse?”
Barclay met his look steadily. “I wanted to try it with a view to purchase,” he answered. “You know Lady Withers had said she wished to sell it.”
“Excuse me for being plain,” said Mr. Carteret, “but my opinion is that no man would have ridden that horse when hounds were running unless he wanted to marry either the woman who owned it or the woman who was riding it.”
“Well?” said Barclay.
“Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “is it Lady Withers?”
“No,” said Barclay decisively; “it isn’t Lady Withers.”
Mr. Carteret looked at his young friend with outward indifference. Inwardly he was experiencing much relief. “When are you going to announce your engagement?” he asked.
Barclay shook his head grimly. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I’m up against it, I fancy.”
“It’s not my business,” said Mr. Carteret, “but I should like to know what you mean.”
“Why, in a word, Carty,” said Barclay, “I’m not it, that’s all, and the situation is such that I don’t see what I can do to make her change her mind.”
Mr. Carteret looked perplexed. What he had seen in the hall gave him a feeling of guilt. “When did she refuse you?” he asked at last.
“She hasn’t refused me,” answered Barclay. “You don’t ask a woman to marry you when you know that she cares for some one else.”
“So she cares for some one else?” observed Mr. Carteret.
“You could guess whom,” said Barclay.
“Supposing she does like Brinton a bit,” said Mr. Carteret, “what’s to prevent you from getting into the race?”
“Can’t you see!” exclaimed Barclay. “If Lady Withers thought I wanted to marry her,—you know what she’d do.”
“Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “if she isn’t forced to marry your money, she’ll have to marry Tappingwell-Sikes’s, and, on the whole, I think she’d prefer your railroads to his beer.”
“What Sikes may do,” said Barclay, “is not my business; but I want no woman to marry me if she doesn’t want to.”
“Your sentiments are not discreditable,” observed his friend; “but, after all, she may want to. You can’t be sure until you ask her.”
“Yes, I can,” said Barclay. “Besides,” he went on, “am I anything wonderful that she should jump at me?”
“That is not an original suggestion,” said Mr. Carteret, thoughtfully, “yet it may be in point. However, it is a great mistake to act upon it when you are making love.”
“In the second place,” Barclay continued, “Captain Brinton has the inside track.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Carteret, decisively; “they’re too much together in public.”
Barclay shook his head dismally. “Over here it means they’re engaged,” he said.
“Well, what do you mean to do about it?” asked Mr. Carteret after a pause.
“What is there to do?” answered Barclay. “Nothing but wait.”
“My boy,” said the older man, “I’m not surprised that you’re in love with Mary Granvil; I am myself, and, what’s more, I’m not going to have her thrown away on a bounder like Tappingwell-Sikes. If you don’t propose to her, I shall. I’ll keep my hands off for three weeks, and then look out.”
Barclay smiled. “You don’t frighten me very much,” he said.
“But I’m in earnest,” said Mr. Carteret. “It’s time for me to get married. I’m not the kind for a grand passion, and that’s all in my favor when it comes to making love. In fact, my indifference to women is what makes me so attractive.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Barclay. “Generally speaking, I’m indifferent to women myself. But—”
“I’m not going to discuss it with you,” said Mr. Carteret interrupting. “I’m going to propose to Mary Granvil.”
He examined the broken collar-bone, sent a servant to telephone for the doctor, and left the room. “Now,” he said to himself, “I’ve got to go to Lady Withers and unsave Barclay.” And he went back to the library where they were still having tea.
It was Lady Withers’s dummy, and the cards being excessively bad, she had risen and was walking about. As Mr. Carteret entered, she glanced at him coldly; but as he continued to approach, she held her ground.
“I have just had an idea,” he began with an air of mystery.
“How very interesting!” observed Lady Withers. She neither beamed nor gleamed nor radiated.
“Yes,” he went on, “it suddenly dawned upon me that what you really wanted was that Cecil should have something to do.”
“Really?” said Lady Withers.
“Exactly,” said Carteret. He was making heavy weather, but he kept on. “You see, my first idea was that you were merely interested in bringing American horses to England, as it were, don’t you see, for the humor of the thing—Haw! haw!”—he laughed painfully,—“and so, you see, I took Cecil’s very natural view of the matter, that it would be a great bore, don’t you see, not realizing in the least that you wished it for his own good. Now I think, if you are serious about it, which of course I never fancied, that Cecil would be just the man to manage an agency and see that the horses were broken and schooled and got ready for the dealers to buy; and more than that, I think he ought to have a large share of the profits, don’t you?”
As Mr. Carteret talked on Lady Withers had obviously melted, though she had not yet begun to beam. “I must say,” she said frankly, “that I do think he ought to have a large share of the profits.”
“And I think,” he continued, “that he ought to have a salary besides.”
“It seems only reasonable,” she replied, “when you think of Cecil’s influence and that sort of thing, to say nothing of his experience with horses. I happen to know that Lord Glen Rossmuir got five thousand pounds merely for going upon the board of the United Marmalade and Jam Company, and he gets a salary besides.”
“And Cecil is far abler than Glen Rossmuir,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Far,” said Lady Withers.
“And one more thing,” said Mr. Carteret; “what I said about Barclay’s trustee was somewhat misleading, because, don’t you see, the trust comes to an end in six weeks.”
“And then,” said Lady Withers, “do I understand that he will have control of his own fortune?”
“Unconditionally,” said Mr. Carteret. “And I may say that he is so awfully rich that to avoid beggars and anarchists he keeps his name out of the telephone-book, which in New York is something like the equivalent of being a duke in England.”
“When will the first ship-load of the horses arrive?” asked Lady Withers.
Mr. Carteret was taken aback, but an idea came to him. “It has just occurred to me,” he said, “that a neighbor of ours in Wyoming is sending over some horses in the course of the next few days. I could wire him and have him bring over two or three for samples—patterns, you call them; and then, if they are what you approve of, we shall have a ship-load come over.”
“Excellent!” said Lady Withers. “Wire him at once, and you also had better wire your manager, so that there may be no delay.”
“I will,” said Mr. Carteret. “And, by the way,” he added, “if Cecil should need an assistant, do you think Captain Brinton would do?”
Lady Withers thought a moment, and looked doubtful. “He’s a nice boy,” she said, “and without a penny; but he’s so mad about Christina Dalrymple that he would be good for nothing in the way of an assistant to lighten Cecil’s duties. He bores poor dear Mary nearly to death confiding his love-affairs to her.”
“Then we can leave the position of assistant manager open,” said Mr. Carteret.
“It would be better,” said Lady Withers. She began to beam again. “In fact, I have another nephew; but I must play,” she added, and went back to the card-table. “Cecil,” she observed, before the hand began, “there will be some of Mr. Barclay’s horses delivered at the Hall in a fortnight from now. Will you make your plans to be there for a few days?”
The Hon. Cecil was dealing, but he stopped. “I tell you it’s all rubbish, these American horses,” he said petulantly. “And besides, they buck like devils. It’s an awful bore.”
“Not any more than any young thoroughbred horses might buck,” said Mr. Carteret. “They may kick and play, but it’s nothing.”
“Cecil is only joking about the bucking,” said a soft voice from the chimney-corner. It was Lady Mary. “Cecil can ride anything that was ever saddled,” she added.
“Still, it is a bore,” said the Hon. Cecil, only partly mollified by the sisterly compliment.
“One word,” said Mr. Carteret in an undertone to Cecil. “Please tell Lady Withers that I’m going to buy that horse your sister was riding.”
“Good horse,” said the Hon. Cecil, and he went on with his dealing.
Mr. Carteret did not add that he was going to have him shot and fed to the hounds. Instead, he went back to the fireplace, where the gray eyes were gleaming in the firelight.
“You mustn’t keep Mr. Carteret from cabling,” Lady Withers called from the bridge-table; “and while I think of it,” she added, “won’t you and Mr. Barclay come to Crumpeton for a week as soon as the horses arrive? I shall write you. Do you think that Mr. Barclay will be able to come?”
“I think it probable,” said Mr. Carteret.
The firelight suddenly ceased to gleam upon the gray eyes. They were turned toward the floor.
“That is very nice,” said Lady Withers, arranging her cards; “but you mustn’t let me detain you. You know they might just miss a steamer.”
“I’m off,” said Mr. Carteret, and he left the room.
The party at Mrs. Ascott-Smith’s dispersed next day. Mr. Carteret went back to his own house, which he had done over in the American manner, to get warm, and to have a bath in a porcelain tub. Barclay returned with him to nurse his collar-bone. As he was unable to hunt, he went to the meets in a motor, and watched for the slim little figure in the weather-beaten habit. What he saw neither cheered nor reassured him.
“It is very natural,” he said gloomily to Mr. Carteret, “but there are at least a dozen men after her. Besides Sikes, there were four guardsmen who rode to cover with her, and then old Lord Watermere butted in. He’s looking for a third wife. You know yourself that when a man pays any attention to a woman out hunting it’s because he likes her.”
“I don’t know what their intentions are,” said Mr. Carteret; “but as far as I am concerned, you have three weeks less one day in which to propose to her. I want to do the fair thing,” he continued, “and I advise you that the psychological moment would be while the collar-bone is a novelty. There is an American buggy in the stable, and an American trotting horse that drives with one hand. Verb sap.”
“But it isn’t done in England,” said Barclay.
“Buggy-riding,” said Mr. Carteret, “or its equivalent, is done wherever there is a man of spirit and a young lady with intuitions. The trouble with you,” he went on, “is that you are too modest on the one hand and too self-important on the other. If you are not good enough for the girl, you needn’t fear that Lady Withers will give you the preference over Sikes. This is the last advice I’m going to give. Henceforth I act on my own account.”
Barclay smiled doubtfully, but said nothing.
“I mean it,” said Mr. Carteret.
That afternoon at tea a telegram arrived from which Barclay gathered that his mother was in Paris, afflicted with a maid with chicken-pox, and that she was frantic with the sanitary regulations of the French government.
“Couldn’t I go?” said Mr. Carteret.
“No,” said Barclay, “there are twenty-eight words in this dispatch. It is a hurry-call for me.” He took the night train.
Three weeks later he came back. He arrived late in the afternoon and found his host before the fire looking thoughtfully at a note which he held in his hand. “I’m glad to see you back,” said Mr. Carteret. “Have you proposed to Mary Granvil?”
“I?” said Barclay. “No. How could I in Paris? Why?” There was an anxiety in his manner which suggested that he was not as resigned as he said he was.
“If you haven’t been bungling,” said Mr. Carteret, “blessed if I know what has happened.”
“Is it announced?” asked Barclay. “Is it Sikes?”
“Read Lady Withers’s note,” said Mr. Carteret.
Barclay took the note and read:
DEAR MR. CARTERET:
You will doubtless not be surprised at my request that you remove your horses at once from my stables. It is a disappointment to me that an unforeseen change in my plans makes it impossible for me to have you and Mr. Barclay at Crumpeton this week.
Sincerely yours,
CONSTANTİA GRANVİL WİTHERS.
“It’s Sikes,” said Barclay.
“It may be,” said Mr. Carteret. “I ought to have taken the matter into my own hands a week ago.”
“You don’t mean you are in earnest?” said Barclay.
“You will very soon find out,” said Mr. Carteret. “I have no false delicacy about proposing to a lady merely because I’m not sure she’s in love with me.”
At ten o’clock the next morning he and Barclay were sitting in the motor in front of Crumpeton, while a footman explained that the ladies were at the stables and Major Hammerslea was with them. Mr. Carteret told the chauffeur to go to the stables, and there they got out. Standing saddled on the floor of an open box-stall was a showy-looking chestnut thoroughbred horse. As was only natural, the occupants of the motor stopped to examine him, and Mr. Carteret gave an exclamation of surprise. “If I am not mistaken,” he said, “that is one of our Prince Royal colts.” He looked carefully at the inside of the foreleg just below the armpit, and found a small brand. “It is,” he announced. “By Jove! he is a good-looker!”
While he was doing this, Lady Withers’s stud groom, Tripp, came out and touched his cap. “’E’s a nice one, sir,” said Tripp.
“He is,” said Mr. Carteret. “Is the other one as good?”
“Other one, sir?” said Tripp. “Wot other?”
“The other American horse that came with him,” said Mr. Carteret.
“This one only come ’alf an hour ago,” said Tripp. “’E’s Major Hammerslea’s ’oss. ’E bought ’im last week at Tattersalls.”
“You must be mistaken, Tripp,” said Barclay; “this is one of the horses that we had sent out to Mr. Cecil.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Tripp; “this is not one of the ’osses sent out to Mr. Cecil; this is Major Hammerslea’s ’oss. The hanimals that arrived from America are in the lower stables.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Carteret; and they passed on in the direction indicated by Tripp. “There is no use wasting breath on that blockhead,” he said to Barclay.
In the court of the lower stables they came upon Lady Withers and the Major inspecting some two-year-olds.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Carteret. “I gathered from your note that you are dissatisfied with the horses. Would it be too much to tell me why?”
“It was my idea,” said Lady Withers coldly, “that Cecil should undertake the management of a horse agency, not a zoo.”
“I am still in the dark,” said Mr. Carteret, “but you speak as if they had given you some trouble.”
“My dear fellow,” said the Major, “it has turned out precisely as I said it would.”
“But it can’t be anything very serious,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Oh, no—it is nothing serious,” said Lady Withers, “to have two grooms in the hospital with fractured limbs, and to have no insurance upon them, to have Cecil bitten in the shoulder, to have my breaking harness torn to pieces and Tripp giving me notice. No one would consider that serious.”
“There must be some mistake about this,” said Mr. Carteret blankly. “As I told you, these horses were apt to buck playfully, but, if properly handled, would cause no trouble.”
“It may be playfulness,” said Lady Withers; “I saw one of them buck the saddle over his forelegs and head.”
“That is a fact,” said the Major. “I had read of such a thing, but had never believed it possible.”
“It is possible,” said Mr. Carteret, “but not with our horses.”
“My dear sir,” said the Major, “as I was saying to Lady Withers, your horses may be very good horses in their own place in America, but they are not at all according to English ideas.”
“At the same time,” observed Mr. Carteret with some heat, “I noticed that you are riding one of them.”
The Major looked at him in amazement. “I ride an American horse! What do you mean, sir?” he demanded.
“The chestnut horse,” began Mr. Carteret, with a gesture toward the upper stable.
“The chestnut horse,” said the Major, “I bought at Tattersalls three days ago. I know nothing about him except that he was quite the image of Prince Royal, a great sire that I once owned.”
“That is hardly surprising,” said Mr. Carteret; “Prince Royal is his father. I’m certain about it because he’s marked with our Prince Royal brand.”
The Major and Lady Withers looked at Mr. Carteret, and then at each other. Their eyes seemed to say, “We must humor this person until attendants from the madhouse can be brought to secure him.”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Withers, “you would care to see your horses.”
“I should like to see the other one,” he answered stubbornly, and they went into the stable.
Lady Withers paused before a box-stall which was boarded up to the ceiling. She cautiously opened the upper half of the door, and peered through the grating. Inside was a strange, thick-shouldered, goose-rumped, lop-eared brown creature covered with shaggy wool. It stood on three legs, and carried its head low like a member of the cat family.
“To me,” said Lady Withers, “it looks like a bear; but I am assured that it is a horse. I would advise you not to go near it. This is the one that bit dear Cecil.”
The two Americans gazed in amazement.
“A charming type of hunter!” observed Lady Withers.
Mr. Carteret made no reply. He was trying to think it out, but was making no headway. While thus engaged his eyes wandered down the stable passage, and he saw one of his own grooms approaching. Almost anything was pleasanter than contemplating the creature in the box-stall, so he watched the man approach. “I beg pardon, sir,” said the man, “but the butler sent me to find you, sir, with a telegram that came just after you had left.”
Mr. Carteret tore open the envelop and read the message, which was a long one. As he finished a slight sigh escaped him. “This may interest the Major,” he observed, “and possibly explain various things.” He handed the despatch to Lady Withers, who opened her lorgnette and began to read it to the Major.
Police have Jim Siddons, one of our horse foremen. Has been drunk for week. Confesses he sold your horses at auction, but don’t know where. Believes he shipped you two outlaws. “Smallpox,” brand, “arrow V,” and “Hospital,” brand, “bar O.” Hospital dangerous horse. Killed three men. Look out. Very sorry.
REİLLY.
“Who is Reilly?” asked Lady Withers.
“Reilly,” said Mr. Carteret, “is the horse superintendent of Buffalo Bill’s show. You see Buffalo Bill is the neighbor to whom I cabled.”
“Then—” began Lady Withers, but the Major interrupted her.
“Does this mean,” he demanded, “that I have bought a stolen horse?”
“It means,” said Mr. Carteret, “that if you will accept an American horse from Mr. Barclay and myself, we shall be very much flattered.”
“Really,—” said the Major. He began to enter upon one of his discourses, but stopped as he saw that neither Mr. Carteret nor Barclay was listening. Instead, they were trying to make out the brand on the creature in the box-stall.
“I can see the end of the arrow,” said Mr. Carteret. “This is Smallpox. Where is the bad one—Hospital?”
“Where is the other one?” asked Lady Withers of a stable-boy.
“In the back stable yard, your Ladyship,” said the boy. “Lady Mary is riding him.”
Each one of the four looked at the other speechless with horror.
“Lady Mary!” gasped the Major.
Mr. Carteret and Barclay started for the back stable yard, but Barclay got there first. As he was opening the gate, Mr. Carteret caught up. “Keep your head,” he observed. There were sounds of hoof-beats, exclamations from grooms and other indications of battle. They went in and saw Lady Mary sitting on the back of a creature rather more hairy and unpleasant-looking than Smallpox. Her face was pink with exertion, but otherwise she looked as neat, unruffled, and slim as she always did in the saddle. Hospital had paused, panting, and was trying to look at her out of the back of his eyes in sour wonder. He was not defeated. He was merely surprised that his preliminary exhibition had not left him alone with the saddle. When there was only the saddle to get rid of he usually got down to business and “bucked some,” as they say in Western regions.
Lady Mary nodded as they entered, and her lips parted in a little smile.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Carteret. He saw that the situation was serious and fraught with difficulties. And there was no time to be lost. “I’ve something extremely important to tell you,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Will you be good enough to get your leg well clear of the pommel and slip off that horse?”
“Well, really,” said the girl, laughing, “it is so unpleasant getting on that I should rather you told me as I am.”
“I will explain afterward,” said Mr. Carteret, “but you would oblige me very much by slipping off that horse immediately.”
The girl looked at him. “I see through you,” she said, “you are afraid I’ll get bucked off.”
“It would be no disgrace,” he answered; “you are not sitting on a horse, but on an explosion.”
“It would be a disgrace to get off because you were afraid,” said the girl. “Besides,” she continued in a lower voice, “I’m very sorry for the way in which my aunt and Cecil have acted in this matter. You warned them that the horses might buck playfully. You know the Granvils are supposed to ride.” She broke off and spoke to the horse, for Hospital had satisfied his curiosity as to the newcomers, and was walking sidewise, deciding whether he would buck some more or roll over.
Barclay started for the brute’s head, but his good arm was seized and he was thrust back. “My dear girl,” said Mr. Carteret, going a step closer, “if you have any feelings of humanity,”—he looked very grave, but there was a smile in his eyes, and he spoke in a low voice, which nevertheless was plainly audible to Barclay,—“I say, if you have any feelings of humanity,” he repeated, “or any sense of the fitness of things, get off that horse at once. Here is a young man with a bad arm and something extremely important on his mind that is for your ear alone, and he’ll unquestionably get killed if he goes near enough that horse to tell you about it. Be a good girl,” he added in a whisper, “and be kind to him. Perhaps he’s worth it.” A quick flush came into the girl’s face. And Mr. Carteret, without glancing back, hurried out of the paddock.
Just outside the gate he ran into Lady Withers, the Major, and Mr. Tappingwell-Sikes, who had just arrived. They had been following as fast as they could.
“What has happened?” demanded the Major, much out of breath.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Carteret; “but we’ll all know in a few minutes.”
Lady Withers looked at him in amazement, and tried to brush past; but he barred the way. “There is nothing you can do,” he said. “If she chooses to stay on Hospital, it’s too late to get her off without a breeches-buoy. If she got down, these are moments when she mustn’t be interrupted.”
“Are you mad?” said Lady Withers, “or am I?”
“Neither of us is mad,” said Mr. Carteret, “but I have just proposed to Lady Mary, and I am anxious to see what she is going to do about it.”
Lady Withers’s mouth half opened in astonishment.
“You have proposed!” she exclaimed, but that was all. She looked at Mr. Tappingwell-Sikes, and then again at Mr. Carteret.
“Perhaps,” said the Major, “it would be well for Mr. Sikes and me to withdraw.”
“Your presence is very agreeable at all times,” said Mr. Carteret; “but really there is nothing that you can do.” The Major and Mr. Tappingwell-Sikes withdrew.
“But I didn’t know that you were interested in Mary,” said Lady Withers, coming to her senses. “Perhaps I had better have a word with her. The dear child is so young that she may not know her own mind.”
“I think she does by this time,” he replied. The gate opened, and Barclay and Mary Granvil stood in the gateway. “I’m rather sure of it,” he added. “You can see for yourself.”
“But—” said Lady Withers, looking accusingly at Mr. Carteret. She was fairly dumfounded.
“It was I that proposed,” said Mr. Carteret, “but the beneficiary is apparently Barclay.”
“It is,” said Barclay.
All Lady Withers could do was to gasp hysterically, “How very American!”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Carteret. “The vicarious proposal is essentially European. I think,” he added, “all that remains for you to do is to confer your blessing.”
As Lady Withers gazed at her niece she saw in those gray Granvil eyes the magical light that is so sad to those that are without it, and she saw in her face the loveliness and other consequences of being sweet. The ghosts of what she herself might have had and what she herself might have been thronged back to her. Her hard, world-scarred heart trembled; tears stood in her eyes, and without speaking and without a single false beam or sparkle she took the girl to her breast and kissed her.
Mr. Carteret turned away and followed the Major and Tappingwell-Sikes. There was something in his throat that he felt would make it difficult for him to contribute anything illuminating to the situation.
