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,
CONSTANTIA GRANVIL WITHERS.
“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.
REILLY.
“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.
MR. CARTERET’S ADVENTURE WITH A LOCKET
III
MR. CARTERET’S ADVENTURE WITH A LOCKET
Mrs. Ascott-Smith knew that Mr. Carteret had been attentive to Miss
Rivers, but she had never known how attentive. She never suspected that
the affair had reached the point of an engagement, subsequently broken
by Miss Rivers. If she had known the facts, she would not have invited
Mr. Carteret to Chilliecote Abbey when Miss Rivers and Captain Wynford
were there.
Yet the presence of Miss Rivers and Wynford was not the reason that Mr.
Carteret gave himself for declining the invitation. He did not dread
meeting Miss Rivers; she was nothing to him but a mistake and an old
friend. Whether she married Wynford or some other man, it was the same
to him. The affair was over. He even had it in mind to get married
before very long, if only to prove it.
He was in such a mood as he walked down the passage to the smoking-room
with Mrs. Ascott-Smith’s note crumpled in his hand. His eyes looked
straight before him and saw nothing. Behind him there followed the
soft, whispering tread of cushioned feet, and that he did not hear.
Perhaps it was not because he was absorbed that he did not hear it,
for it was always following him, and he had ceased to note it, as one
ceases to note the clock ticking. But as he sat down, he felt the touch
of a cold nose on his hand and one little lick. He glanced down, and
looked into the sad, wistful eyes of the wire-haired fox terrier. With
this, Penwiper dropped gravely upon the floor, gazing up adoring and
mournful, yet content. Mr. Carteret was used to this idolatry, as he
was used to the patter of the following footsteps, but on this occasion
it provoked speculation. It occurred to him to wonder how in a just
universe a devotion like Penwiper’s would be repaid. Then he wondered
if, after all, it was a just universe. If so, why should Penwiper have
that look chronically in his eyes?
Presently Mr. Carteret got up and took the newspapers. He was annoyed
with himself and annoyed with Penwiper. It was the dog that called up
these disquieting ideas. The dog was irrevocably associated with Miss
Rivers. He had given her Penwiper as an engagement present, and when
the affair ended, she had sent him back. He ought not to have taken him
back. He felt that it had been a great mistake to become interested
again in Penwiper, as it had been a great mistake to become interested
at all in Miss Rivers. He continued to peruse the newspapers till he
found that he was reading a paragraph for the third time. Then he got
up and went out to the stables.
March was drawing to a close, and with it the hunting season, when
there dawned one of those celestial mornings that are appropriate to
May, but in England sometimes appear earlier. It brought to the meet
five hundred English ladies and gentlemen, complaining that it was
too hot to hunt. In this great assemblage Mr. Carteret found himself
riding about, saying “good morning,” automatically inquiring of Lady
Martingale about the chestnut mare’s leg, parrying Mrs. Cutcliffe’s
willingness to let him a house, and avoiding Captain Coper’s anxiety
to sell him a horse. He was not aware that he was restless or that he
threaded his way through one group after another, acting as usually he
did not act, until Major Hammerslea asked him if he was looking for his
second horseman. Then he rode off by himself, and stood still. He had
seen pretty much everybody that was out, yet he had come upon none of
the Chilliecote party. However, as he asked himself twice, “What was
that to him?”
A few minutes later they jogged on to covert and began to draw. A fox
went away, the hounds followed him for two fields, then flashed over
and checked. After that they could make nothing of it. The fox-hunting
authorities said that there was no scent.
At two o’clock they were pottering about Tunbarton Wood, having had a
disappointing morning. The second horsemen came up with sandwich-boxes,
and, scattered in groups among the broad rides, people ate lunch,
smoked, enjoyed the sunshine, and grumbled at the weather, which
made sport impossible. And then the unexpected happened, as in
fox-hunting it usually does. Hounds found in a far corner of the
wood, and disappeared on a burning scent before any one could get to
them. Instantly the world seemed to be filled with people galloping
in all directions, inquiring where hounds had gone, and receiving no
satisfactory answer. Experience had taught Mr. Carteret that under
such conditions the most unfortunate thing to do is to follow others
who know as little as one’s self. Accordingly he opened a hand gate,
withdrew a few yards into a secluded lane, pulled up, and tried to
think like a fox. This idea had been suggested by Mr. Kipling’s
Gloucester fisherman who could think like a cod. While he was thinking,
he saw a great many people gallop by in the highway in both directions.
He noted Major Hammerslea, who was apt to be conspicuous when there
was hard riding on the road, leading a detachment of people north. He
noted Lady Martingale, who liked fences better than roads, leading a
charge south. And following Lady Martingale he noted Captain Wynford.
Apparently, then, the Abbey people were out, after all. “Perhaps
Mrs. Ascott-Smith will turn up,” he said to himself, and he followed
Wynford with his eyes until he was out of sight, but saw neither Mrs.
Ascott-Smith nor any one else who might have been under his escort.
After a while there were no more people going by in either direction.
Something like a sigh escaped him; then he lit a cigarette.