Part 2

“But I can’t catch ’em,” said Grady, and that was the truth.

Lord Ploversdale, however, had been gaining on the Indians, and by the way in which he clubbed his heavy crop, loaded at the butt, it was apparent that he meant to put an end to the proceedings if he could.

Just then hounds swept over the crest of a green hill and as they went down the other side, they viewed the fox in the field beyond. He was in distress, and it looked as if the pack would kill in the open. They were running wonderfully together, the traditional blanket would have covered them, and in the natural glow of pride which came over the M. F. H., he loosened his grip upon the crop. But as the hounds viewed the fox so did the three sons of the wilderness who were following close behind. From the hilltop fifty of the hardest going men in England saw Hole-in-the-Ground flogging his horse with the heavy quirt which hung from his wrist. The outraged British hunter shot forward scattering hounds to right and left, flew a ditch and hedge and was close on the fox who had stopped to make a last stand. Without drawing rein, the astonished onlookers saw the lean Indian suddenly disappear under the neck of his horse and almost instantly swing back into his seat waving a brown thing above his head. _Hole-in-the-Ground had caught the fox!_

“Most unprecedented!” Mr. Carteret heard the Major exclaim. He pulled up his horse, as the field did theirs, and waited apprehensively. He saw Hole-in-the-Ground circle around, jerk the Major’s five hundred guinea hunter to a standstill close to Lord Ploversdale and address him. He was speaking in his own language.

As the Chief went on, he saw Grady smile.

“He says,” said Grady translating, “that the white chief can eat the fox if he wants him. He’s proud himself bein’ packed with store grub.”

The English onlookers heard and beheld with blank faces. It was beyond them.

The M. F. H. bowed stiffly as Hole-in-the-Ground’s offer was made known to him. He regarded them a moment in thought. A vague light was breaking in upon him. “Aw, thank you,” he said, “thanks awfully. Smith, take the fox. Good afternoon!”

Then he wheeled his horse, called the hounds in with his horn and trotted out to the road that led to the kennels. Lord Ploversdale, though he had never been out of England, was cast in a large mold.

The three Indians sat on their panting horses, motionless, stolidly facing the curious gaze of the crowd; or rather they looked through the crowd, as the lion with the high breeding of the desert looks through and beyond the faces that stare and gape before the bars of his cage.

“Most amazing! Most amazing!” muttered the Major.

“It is,” said Mr. Carteret, “if you have never been away from this.” He made a sweeping gesture over the restricted English scenery, pampered and brought up by hand.

“Been away from this?” repeated the Major. “I don’t understand.”

Mr. Carteret turned to him. How could he explain it?

“With us,” he began, laying an emphasis on the “us.” Then he stopped. “Look into their eyes,” he said hopelessly.

The Major looked at him blankly. How could he, Major Hammerslea of “The Blues,” tell what those inexplicable dark eyes saw beyond the fenced tillage! What did he know of the brown, bare, illimitable range under the noonday sun, the evening light on far, silent mountains, the starlit desert!

HOW MR. CARTERET PROPOSED

II

HOW MR. CARTERET PROPOSED

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 _un_save 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.