The Prince, on his way back from his usual before-breakfast stroll, lingered for a short time amongst the beds of hyacinths and yellow crocuses. Somehow or other, these spring flowers, stiffly set out and with shrivelled edges--a little reminiscent of the last east wind--still seemed to him, in their perfume at any rate, to being him memories of his own country. Pink and blue and yellow, in all manner of sizes and shapes, the beds spread away along the great front below the terrace of the castle. This morning the wind was coming from the west. The sun, indeed, seemed already to have gained some strength. The Prince sat for a moment or two upon the gray stone balustrade, looking to where the level country took a sudden ascent and ended in a thick belt of pine trees. Beyond lay the sea. As he sat there with folded arms, he was surely a fatalist. The question as to whether or not he should ever reach it, should ever find himself really bound for home, was one which seemed to trouble him slightly enough. He thought with a faint, wistful interest of the various ports of call, of the days which might pass, each one bringing him nearer the end. He suffered himself, even, to think of that faint blur upon the horizon, the breath of the spicy winds, the strange home perfumes of the bay, as he drew nearer and nearer to the outstretched arms of his country. Well, if not he, another! It was something to have done one's best.
The rustle of a woman's garment disturbed him, and he turned his head. Penelope stood there in her trim riding habit,--a garb in which he had never seen her. She held her skirts in her hand and looked at him with a curious little smile.
"It is too early in the morning, Prince," she said, "for you to sit there dreaming so long and so earnestly. Come in to breakfast. Every one is down, for a wonder.""Breakfast, by all means," he answered, coming blithely up the broad steps. "You are going to ride this morning?""I suppose we all are, more or less," she answered. "It is our hunt steeplechases, you know. Poor Grace is in there nearly sobbing her eyes out. Captain Chalmers has thrown her over. Lady Barbarity--that's Grace's favorite mare, and her entry for the cup--turned awkward with him yesterday, and he won't have anything more to do with her.""From your tone," he remarked, pushing open the French windows, "I gather that this is a tragedy. I, unfortunately, do not understand.""You should ask Grace herself," Penelope said. "There she is."Lady Grace looked round from her place at the head of the breakfast table.
"Come and sympathize with me, Prince," she cried. "For weeks Ihave been fancying myself the proud possessor of the hunt cup.
Now that horrid man, Captain Chalmers, has thrown me over at the last moment. He refuses to ride my mare because she was a little fractious yesterday.""It is a great misfortune," the Prince said in a tone of polite regret, "but surely it is not irreparable? There must be others--why not your own groom?"A smile went round the table. The Duke hastened to explain.
"The race is for gentlemen riders only," he said. "The horses have to be the property of members of the hunt. There would be no difficulty, of course, in finding a substitute for Captain Chalmers, but the race takes place this morning, and I am afraid, with all due respect to my daughter, that her mare hasn't the best of reputations.""I won't have a word said against Lady Barbarity," Lady Grace declared. "Captain Chalmers is a good horseman, of course but for a lightweight he has the worst hands I ever knew.""But surely amongst your immediate friends there must be many others," the Prince said. "Sir Charles, for instance?""Charlie is riding his own horse," Lady Grace answered. "He hasn't the ghost of a chance, but, of course, he won't give it up.""Not I!" Somerfield answered, gorgeous in pink coat and riding breeches. "My old horse may not be fast, but he can go the course, and I'm none too certain of the others. Some of those hurdles'll take a bit of doing.""It is a shame," the Prince remarked, "that you should be disappointed, Lady Grace. Would they let me ride for you?"Nothing the Prince could have said would have astonished the little company more. Somerfield came to a standstill in the middle of the room, with a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of ham in the other.
"You!" Lady Grace exclaimed.
"Do you really mean it, Prince?" Penelope cried.
"Well, why not?" he asked, himself, in turn, somewhat surprised.
"If I am eligible, and Lady Grace chooses, it seems to me very simple.""But," the Duke intervened, "I did not know--we did not know that you were a sportsman, Prince.""A sportsman?" the Prince repeated a little doubtfully. "Perhaps I am not that according to your point of view, but when it comes to a question or riding, why, that is easy enough.""Have you ever ridden in a steeplechase?" Somerfield asked him.
"Never in my life," the Prince declared. "Frankly, I do not know what it is.""There are jumps, for one thing," Somerfield continued,--"pretty stiff affairs, too.""If Lady Grace's mare is a hunter," the Prince remarked, "she can probably jump them.""The question is whether--" Somerfield began, and stopped short.
The Prince looked up.
"Yes?" he asked.
Somerfield hesitated to complete his sentence, and the Duke once more intervened.
"What Somerfield was thinking, my dear Prince," he said, "was that a steeplechase course, as they ride in this country, needs some knowing. You have never been on my daughter's mare before."The Prince smiled.
"So far as I am concerned," he said, "that is of no account.
