Chapter II: Part 2

“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.

“If I were the hunted fox,” he said to himself, “I think I should have circled over Crumpelow Hill, and then bent south with the idea of getting to ground in Normanhurst Wood. I’ll take a try at it.”

He rode off down the lane to the eastward, riding slowly, for there was no hurry. If he was right, he would be ahead of the fox. If he was wrong, he was so far behind that it made no difference what he did. So he jogged on up and down hill, and smoked. He rode thus for about two miles when his hope began to wither. On every side stretched the winter-green, rolling country fenced into a patchwork of great pastures. In the distance, to the south, lay the brown-gray mass of Normanhurst Wood. The landscape was innocent of any gleam of scarlet coat or black figure of horseman on hilltop against the sky.

“I’m wrong,” he said half aloud. “I guess I could think better as a codfish than as a fox.”

A moment later he saw fresh hoof-prints crossing the lane in front of him, and it burst upon him that his theory was right, but that he was too late. A dozen people must have crossed. They had come into the lane through a hand gate, and had jumped out over some rails that mended a gap in the tall, bushy hedge. Beside the hoof-prints was the evidence of a rail that was freshly broken. He contemplated the situation judicially.

“How far behind I am,” he said to himself, “I do not know; whether these people are following hounds or Lady Martingale I do not know: but anything is better than going down this interminable lane.” So he put his horse at the place where the rail was broken. The next instant, the horse, which was overfed and under-exercised, jumped high over the low rail, and jammed his hat against an overhanging bough, and, on landing, ran away. When Mr. Carteret got him in hand, they were well out into the field, and he began to look along the farther fence for a place to jump out.

In doing this he noticed at the end of the long pasture a horse grazing, and it looked to him as if the horse were saddled. He glanced around, expecting to see an unhappy man stalking a lost mount, but there was no one in sight. So he rode toward the horse. As he came nearer he saw that the saddle was a woman’s. The horse made no attempt to run away, and Mr. Carteret caught it. One glance showed him that there was mud on its ears, mud on its rump, and that one of the pommels was broken. Immediately, although he had never seen horse or saddle before, a strange and unreasonable apprehension seized him. He felt that it was Miss Rivers’s horse; and yet his common sense told him that the idea was absurd. She was probably not out hunting, and if she were, the chances were a thousand to one against it being she. Nevertheless, he opened the sandwich-box strapped to the saddle and took out the silver case. It bore the inscription S. R. from C. C. If he could believe his eyes, the thousand-to-one chance had come off.

He looked about him dazed. There was no one in sight.

“It must have happened back a way,” he said half aloud, “and the horse followed the hunt.”

Mounting, he led it by its bridle-reins, and began to gallop toward the place where the fence had been broken. Approaching the broken rail, he began to pull up when his eye caught something dark upon the grass close to the hedge.

One look, and he saw that it was a woman and that it was Sally Rivers. She was lying on her back, motionless, her white face looking up, her arms at her side, almost as if she were asleep. The apprehensive intuition that had come to him at the sight of the broken saddle came again and told him that she was dead. It must be so. That afternoon they were in the grasp of one of those terrible pranks of fate that are told as strange “true stories.”

But she was not dead. He realized it when he bent over her and took her pulse. It was reasonably strong. The injury was obviously a concussion, for her hat lay beside her, crushed and torn off by the fall. Her breathing, though hardly normal, was not alarming, and it seemed to be growing deeper and more peaceful even as he watched. There were indications that she would come to presently. After all, it was only such an accident as claims its daily victim in the hunting countries. It was nothing to be alarmed about. As the strain relaxed, he became aware of its tensity. He was limp now, and shaking like a leaf, and then the question put itself to him, Was this because he had found a woman that he believed dead or because that woman was Sally Rivers? There was only one honest answer. He made it, and in his inner heart he was glad.

Nevertheless, he still protested that it was absurd, that the affair was over. Even if there were no Wynford, he knew that she would never change her mind; and, then, there was Wynford. Even now he was sitting beside her only because her eyes were sightless, because she herself was away. When she came back, it would be trespass to remain. He was in another’s place. It was Wynford who ought to have found her.

If he could have stolen away he would have done so. But that being impossible, he fell to watching her as if she were not herself, but a room that she had once lived in--a room that he too had known, that was delightful with associations and fragrant with faint memory-stirring perfumes. And yet, though the tenant seemed to be away, was it not after all her very self that was before him? There was the treasure of her brown hair, with the gold light in it, tumbled in heaps about her head; there was the face that had been for him the loveliness of early morning in gardens, that had haunted him in the summer perfume of clover-fields and in the fragrance of night-wrapped lawns. There was the slim, rounded figure that once had brought the blood into his face as it brushed against him. There were the hands whose touch was so smooth and cool and strong. Presently he found himself wiping the mud from her cheek as if he were enacting a ritual over some holy thing. He looked around. No human being was in sight. The afternoon sun shone mildly. In the hedgerow some little birds twittered pleasantly, and sang their private little songs.

Suddenly she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, knew him, and smiled.

“Hello, Carty,” she said in her low, vibrant tones. A thrill ran through him. It was the way it used to be.

“You’ve had a bad fall,” he said. “How do you feel?”

A little laugh came into her eyes. “How do I look?” she murmured.

“You’re coming out all right,” he said; “but you mustn’t talk just yet.”

“If I want to,” she said slowly. Her eyes laughed again. “If I want to, I’ll talk.”

“No,” said Mr. Carteret.

“Hear him boss!” she murmured. She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes closed. But it was not the same. The lashes lay more lightly, and a tinge of color had come into her cheeks. He sat and watched her, his mind a confusion, a great gladness in his heart.

In a little while she opened her eyes as before. “Hello, Carty,” she began, but Mr. Carteret’s attention was attracted by the sound of wheels in the lane. He saw an old phaëton, driven by a farmer, coming toward them.

The man saw him, and stopped. “Is this the place where a lady was hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret. “How did you know?”

“A boy told me,” said the farmer.

“I see,” said Mr. Carteret.

At first she was independent and persisted in walking to the trap by herself. But as they drove off, she began to sway, and caught herself on his arm. After a moment she looked at him helplessly; a little smile shone in her eyes and curved the corners of her mouth. At the next jolt her head settled peacefully upon his shoulder. Her eyes closed. She seemed to be asleep.

They drove on at a walk, the led horses following. The shadows lengthened, the gold light of the afternoon grew more golden. They passed through the ancient village of Tibberton and heard the rooks calling in the parsonage trees. They passed through Normanhurst Park, under oaks that may have sheltered Robin Hood, and the rooks were calling there. In the silent stretches of the road they heard the first thrushes and the evening singing of the warblers. And every living thing, bird, tree, and grass, bore witness that it was spring.

For two hours Mr. Carteret hardly breathed. He was riding in the silver bubble of a dream; a breath, and it might be gone. At the Abbey, perforce, there was an end of it. He roused her quietly, and she responded. She was able to walk up the steps on his arm, and stood till the bell was answered. When he left her in the confusion inside she gave him her hand. It had the same cool, smooth touch as of old, but its strength was gone. It lay in his hand passive till he released it. “Good night,” he said, and hurrying out, he mounted his horse and rode away. He passed some people coming back from hunting, and they seemed vague and unreal. He seemed unreal himself. He almost doubted if the whole thing were not illusion; but on the shoulder of his scarlet coat clung a thread that glistened as the evening sun fell upon it, and a fragrance that went into his blood like some celestial essence.

When he got home, the afterglow was dying in the west. The rooks were hushed, the night was already falling, and the lamps were lit. As he passed through his hallway, there came the touch of a cold nose and the one little lick upon his hand. “Get down, Penwiper,” he said unthinkingly, and went on.

That week, before they let her see people, Mr. Carteret lived in a world that had only its outward circumstances in the world where others lived. He made no attempt to explain it or to justify it or yet to leave it. Several of his friends noticed the change in him, and ascribed it to the vague abstraction of biliousness.

It was a raw Sunday afternoon and he was standing before the fire in the Abbey library, when Miss Rivers came noiselessly, unexpectedly, in. Mrs. Ascott-Smith, who was playing piquet with the Major, started up in surprise. Miss Rivers had been ordered not to leave her room till the next day.

“But I’m perfectly well,” said the girl; “I couldn’t stand it any longer. They wouldn’t so much as tell me the day of the month.” Then for the first time she saw Mr. Carteret. “Why, Carty!” she exclaimed. “How nice it is to see you!”

“Thank you,” he answered. Their eyes met, and he felt his heart beating. As for Miss Rivers, she flushed, dropped her eyes, and turned to Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“My dear young lady,” said the Major, impressively, as he glanced through his cards, “it is highly imprudent of you to disobey the doctor. Always obey the doctor. I once knew a charming young lady--”

“I hope I’m not rude,” she interrupted, “but I might as well die of concussion as die of being bored.”

“But you had such a very bad toss, my dear,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“What one doesn’t remember, doesn’t trouble one,” observed the girl. “In a sense it hasn’t happened.” She paused and then went on with a carelessness that was a little overdone: “What did happen, anyway? The usual things, I fancy? I suppose somebody picked me up and brought me home.”

Mr. Carteret’s face was a mask.

“But you remember that!” exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“I don’t remember anything,” said Miss Rivers, “until one evening I woke up in bed and heard the rooks calling in the park.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith, “you said good-by to him in the hallway, and thanked him, and then you walked up-stairs with a footman at your elbow.”

“That is very strange,” said Miss Rivers. “I _don’t_ remember. Who was it that I said good-by to? Whom did I thank?”

Mr. Carteret walked toward the window as if he were watching the pheasant that was strutting across the lawn.

Mrs. Ascott-Smith folded her cards in her hand and looked at the girl in amazement. “Mr. Carteret found you in a field,” she said, “not far from Crumpelow Hill and brought you home. You said good-by to him.”

At the mention of Mr. Carteret’s name the girl’s hand felt for the back of a chair, as if to steady herself. Then, as the color rushed into her face, aware of it, she stepped back into the shadow. Mrs. Ascott-Smith continued to gaze. Presently Miss Rivers turned to Mr. Carteret. “This is a surprise to me,” she said in a voice like ice. “How much I am in your debt, you better than any one can understand.”

He turned as if a blow had struck him, and looked at her. Her eyes met his unflinchingly, colder than her words, withering with resentment and contempt. Mrs. Ascott-Smith opened her cards again and began to count: “Tierce to the king and a point of five,” she muttered vaguely. Her mind and the side glance of her eyes were upon the girl and the young man. What did it mean? “A point of five,” she repeated.

Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment; he feared to trust his voice. Then he gathered himself and bowed to Mrs. Ascott-Smith. “I have people coming to tea; I must be off. Good night.” His impulse was to pass the girl with the formality of a bow, but he checked it. With an effort he stopped. “Good night,” he said and put out his hand. Her eyes met his without a glimmer of expression. She was looking through him into nothing. His hand dropped to his side. His face grew white. He went on and out. As the door closed behind him he heard Mrs. Ascott-Smith counting for the third time, “Tierce to the king, and a point of five.”

He reached his house. In his own hallway he was giving orders that he was not at home when he felt the cold nose and the one little lick, and looking down, he saw the sad eyes fixed upon his. He went down the passageway to the smoking-room, and the patter of following feet was at his heels. He closed the door, dropped into a chair, gave a nod of assent, and Penwiper jumped into his arms.

When he could think, he constructed many explanations for the mystery of her behavior, and dismissed them successively because they did not explain. Why she should resent so bitterly his having brought her home was inexplicable on any other ground than that she was still out of her head. He would insist upon an explanation, but, after all, what difference could it make? Whatever reason there might be, the important fact was that she had acted as she had. That was the only fact which mattered. Her greeting of him when she first opened her eyes, the drive home, the parting in the hallway, were all things that had never happened for her. For him they were only dreams. He must force them out into the dim region of forgotten things.

On the next Tuesday he saw her at the meet--came upon her squarely, so that there was no escaping. She was pale and sick-looking, and was driving herself in a pony trap. He lifted his hat, but she turned away. After he had ridden by, he turned back and, stopping just behind her, slipped off his horse. “Sally,” he said, “I want to speak to you.”

She looked around with a start. “I should prefer not,” she answered.

“You must,” he said. “I have a right--”

“Do you talk to me about your right?” she said. Her gray eyes flashed.

He met her anger steadily. “I do,” he replied. “You can’t treat me in this way.”

“How else do you deserve to be treated?” she demanded fiercely.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You know what I mean,” she retorted. “You know what you did.”

“What I did!” he exclaimed. “What have I done?”

“Why do you act this way, Carty?” she said wearily. “Why do you make matters worse?”

He looked at her in perplexity. “Don’t you believe me,” he said, “when I tell you that I don’t know what you mean?”

“How can I believe you,” she answered, “when I have the proof that you do?”

“The proof?” he echoed. “What proof?”

His blank surprise shook her confidence for an instant. “You know well enough,” she said. “You forgot to put back the violet.”

“The violet?” he repeated. “In Heaven’s name what are you talking about?”

She studied his face. Again her conviction was shaken, and she trembled in spite of herself. But she saw no other way. “I can’t believe you,” she said sadly.

He made no answer, but a change came over his face. His patience had gone. His anger was kindling. It began to frighten her. She summoned her will and made an effort to hold her ground. “Will you swear,” she said--“will you swear you didn’t open the locket?”

Still he made no reply.

“Nor shut it?” she went on. She was pleading now.

“Sally,” he said in a strange voice, “I neither opened nor closed nor saw a locket. What has a locket to do with this?”

She looked at him blankly in terror, for suddenly she knew that he was speaking the truth. “Then what has happened?” she murmured.

“You must tell that,” he said.

“I only know this,” she began: “I wore a locket the day of the accident. There was a pressed flower in it.” The color began to rise in her cheeks again. “When I came to, the flower was gone, so I knew the locket had been opened.”

For a moment he was speechless. “And you treat me as you have,” he cried, “on the suspicion of my opening this locket!”

She made no answer.

He laughed harshly. “You think of me as a man who would open your locket!”

Still she made no answer.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “O Sally! Sally!” he exclaimed.

“There are things on my side!” she said protestingly at last. “You can’t understand because you don’t know what was in the locket.”

“I could guess,” he said.

She went on, ignoring his remark: “And you have no explanation as to how it was opened and closed again. What am I to think?”

“Sally,” he said more gently, “isn’t it possible that the locket was shaken open when you fell and that the people who put you to bed closed it?”

“My maid put me to bed,” said the girl; “she says the locket when she saw it was closed.”

“Then perhaps the flower was lost before, and you had forgotten,” he suggested.

She shook her head. “No,” she answered, “the maid found the flower when she undressed me. She gave it to me when I came to. That is how my attention was called to it.”

“Then strange as it seems,” he said calmly, “the thing must have jarred open, the flower dropped out, and the locket shut again of itself. There is no other way.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Perhaps!” he repeated. “What other way could there have been?”

“There couldn’t have been any other way,” she assented, “if you say you didn’t see it when you loosened my habit.”

He looked at her in amazement. “Loosened your habit?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said; “you loosened my habit when I was hurt.”

“No,” he answered.

“Do you mean to say,” she demanded, “that you didn’t loosen and cut things?”

“Most certainly not,” he replied.

“But, Carty,” she exclaimed, “some one did! Who was it?”

Just then Lady Martingale rode up to inquire how Miss Rivers was recovering, and Mr. Carteret mounted and rode away. The hounds were starting off to draw Brinkwater gorse, but he rode in the opposite direction toward Crumpelow Hill. There he found the farmer who had brought them home. Through him he found the boy who had summoned the farmer, and from the boy, as he had hoped, he discovered a clew. And then he fell to wondering why he was so bent upon clearing the matter up. At most it could only put him where he was before the day of the accident. It could not make that drive home real or make what she had said that afternoon her utterance. She would acquit him of prying into her affairs, but beyond that there was nothing to hope. Everything that he had recently learned strengthened his conviction that she was going to marry Wynford. It was a certainty. Nevertheless, from Crumpelow Hill he rode toward the Abbey.

It was nearly four o’clock when Miss Rivers came in. He rose and bowed with a playful, exaggerated ceremony. “I have come,” he began, in a studiedly light key, “because I have solved the mystery.”

“I am glad you have come,” she said.

“It is simple,” he went on. “Another man picked you up, and put you where I found you. Your breathing must have been bad, and he loosened your clothes. Probably the locket had flown open and he shut it. Then he went after a trap. Why he did not come back, I don’t know.”

“But I do,” said Miss Rivers.

He looked at her warily, suspecting a trap for the man’s name. He preferred not to mention that.

“I know,” she went on, “because he has told me. He did come back part way--till he saw that you were with me.”

Mr. Carteret looked at her in surprise.

“More than that,” she went on, “the locket had jarred open and he saw what was in it and closed it. Perhaps that was why he went away. Anyway, after thinking about it, he decided that it was best to tell me. If he had only done so before!”

“I see,” said Mr. Carteret. He did not see at all, but it was a matter about which he felt that he could not ask questions.

“You know,” she said, after a pause, “that the man was Captain Wynford.”

“Yes,” he answered shortly. His tone changed. “Wynford is a good man--a good man,” he said awkwardly. “I can congratulate you both honestly.” He paused. “Well, I must go,” he went on. “I’m glad things are right again all round. Good-by.” He crossed to the door, and she stood watching him. She had grown very pale.

“Carty,” she said suddenly, in a dry voice, “I’m not acting well.”

He looked back perplexed, but in a moment he understood. She evidently felt that she ought to tell him outright that she was going to marry Wynford.

“In treating you as I did,” she finished, “in judging you--”

“You were hasty,” he said, “but I can understand.”

She shook her head. “You can’t understand if you think that there was only a flower in the locket.”

“Perhaps I have guessed already that there was a picture,” he said--“a picture that was not for my eyes.”

She looked at him gravely. “No,” she said, “you haven’t guessed. I don’t think you’ve guessed; and when I think how I misjudged you, how harsh I was, I want you to see it. It is almost your right to see it.” Her hand went to her throat, but he shook his head.

“It pleases me,” he said, “to be made a confidant, but I take the will for the deed. If there is anything more you might wish that I should say, imagine that I have said it--congratulations, good wishes, and that sort of thing; you understand.”

He had reached the door, but again she called him back. She paused, with her hand on the piano, and struggled for her words. “Carty,” she said, “once I told you that it was all off, that I never could marry you--that I should never marry any one. You’re glad now, aren’t you? You see it is best?”

“Would it make you happier if I said so?” he replied.

“I want to know the truth,” she said.

“I am afraid the truth would only hurt you,” he answered.

“I want the truth,” she said again.

“It is soon told,” he said; “there is nothing new to tell.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“Isn’t it clear?” he answered. “Do you want to bring up the past?”

“You love me?” she asked. He could hardly hear, her voice trembled so.

He made no answer, but bowed his head.

When she saw, she turned, and, throwing her arms along the piano, hid her face, and in a moment he heard her crying softly.

He paused uncertainly, then he went to her. “Sally,” he said.

She lifted her head. She was crying still, but with a great light of happiness in her face. “There is no Captain Wynford,” she sobbed. “If you had looked in the locket--” A laugh flashed in her eyes.

And then he understood.

They were standing close together in the mullioned window where three hundred years before a man standing on the lawn outside had scrawled with a diamond on one of the little panes:

If woman seen thro’ crystal did appere
One half so loving as her face is fair

And a woman standing inside had written the answering lines:

Were woman seen thro’, as the crystal pane,
Then some might ask, nor long time ask in ----

The rhyme word was indicated by a dash, but neither the tracings of those dead hands, nor the ancient lawns, nor the oaks that had been witness, did these two see. When many things had been said, she opened the locket.

“You must look now.”

“I will,” he said. As he looked, his eyes grew misty. “Both of us?” he whispered.

“Both of you!” she answered. And it was so, for in the corner of the picture was Penwiper.

THE CASE OF THE EVANSTONS

IV

THE CASE OF THE EVANSTONS

Carty Carteret went into the club one June afternoon with the expectation of finding Braybrooke there, and selling him a horse. Braybrooke was not in the club, but Mr. Carteret came upon three men sitting in the bow-window. They had their backs to the avenue, and were apparently absorbed in discussion. As he approached, Van Cortlandt, who was speaking, glanced up and stopped. At the same moment Mr. Carteret drew back. They were not men with whom he cared to assume the familiarity of intrusion.

“Sit down, Carty,” said Shaw. Mr. Carteret hesitated, and Shaw rose and drew another chair into the circle. “Go on with the story,” he said to Van Cortlandt.

“I dare say Carty has heard it,” observed Van Cortlandt, apologetically, as he was about to resume his narrative; “he’s a pal of Ned’s.”

Mr. Carteret looked at him inquiringly.

“I was telling them about the Evanston affair,” said Van Cortlandt.

Mr. Carteret opened his cigarette-case and took out a cigarette. “What is the Evanston affair?” he said shortly. He was more interested than he cared to show.

“They’ve caught Ned Palfrey,” said Crowninshield, with a laugh. Mr. Carteret turned to Van Cortlandt. “What do you mean?” he said.

“It’s a fact,” said Van Cortlandt. “It seems that last Thursday Frank Evanston came home unexpectedly, and found Ned there. Exactly what happened no one knows, but the story is that the gardener and a footman threw Neddie out of the house and into the fountain.” Mr. Carteret threw away his cigarette, and straightened himself in his chair.

“And they say,” observed Crowninshield, “that his last words were, ‘Come on in, Frank; the water’s fine.’” There was a general laugh in which Mr. Carteret did not join.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“That’s the cream of it,” replied Van Cortlandt. “The rest is purely conventional--separation and divorce proceedings.”

“That’s an interesting story,” said Mr. Carteret, calmly, “but untrue.”

“How do you know?” said Shaw.

“Because,” he answered, “on Thursday, Ned Palfrey was at my house in the country.”

“Dates are immaterial,” said Crowninshield. “Very likely it was Wednesday or Friday.”

“I say,” said Van Cortlandt, “I’ll bet you even, Crowny, it was Friday as against Wednesday.”

“I’ll take that,” said Crowninshield; “but how shall we settle it?”

“Leave it to Ned,” said Van Cortlandt. There was another laugh.

“In the second place,” continued Mr. Carteret, disregarding the interruption, “I know for a fact that last evening the Evanstons were still living together in the country.”

“Well, I know there is going to be a divorce,” said Van Cortlandt. “I got that from a member of Emerson Whittlesea’s firm, and he’s Evanston’s lawyer.”

“A lawyer who would tell a thing like that ought to be disbarred,” said Mr. Carteret. “If I could find out who it is, I should try to have it done.”

“Why?” said Crowninshield.