4
_Sundered Hearts_
In the smoking-room of the club-house a cheerful fire was burning, andthe Oldest Member glanced from time to time out of the window into thegathering dusk. Snow was falling lightly on the links. From where hesat, the Oldest Member had a good view of the ninth green; andpresently, out of the greyness of the December evening, there appearedover the brow of the hill a golf-ball. It trickled across the green,and stopped within a yard of the hole. The Oldest Member noddedapprovingly. A good approach-shot.
A young man in a tweed suit clambered on to the green, holed out witheasy confidence, and, shouldering his bag, made his way to theclub-house. A few moments later he entered the smoking-room, anduttered an exclamation of rapture at the sight of the fire.
"I'm frozen stiff!"
He rang for a waiter and ordered a hot drink. The Oldest Member gave agracious assent to the suggestion that he should join him.
"I like playing in winter," said the young man. "You get the course toyourself, for the world is full of slackers who only turn out when theweather suits them. I cannot understand where they get the nerve tocall themselves golfers."
"Not everyone is as keen as you are, my boy," said the Sage, dippinggratefully into his hot drink. "If they were, the world would be abetter place, and we should hear less of all this modern unrest."
"I _am_ pretty keen," admitted the young man.
"I have only encountered one man whom I could describe as keener. Iallude to Mortimer Sturgis."
"The fellow who took up golf at thirty-eight and let the girl he wasengaged to marry go off with someone else because he hadn't the time tocombine golf with courtship? I remember. You were telling me about himthe other day."
"There is a sequel to that story, if you would care to hear it," saidthe Oldest Member.
"You have the honour," said the young man. "Go ahead!"
* * * * *
Some people (began the Oldest Member) considered that Mortimer Sturgiswas too wrapped up in golf, and blamed him for it. I could never seeeye to eye with them. In the days of King Arthur nobody thought theworse of a young knight if he suspended all his social and businessengagements in favour of a search for the Holy Grail. In the MiddleAges a man could devote his whole life to the Crusades, and the publicfawned upon him. Why, then, blame the man of today for a zealousattention to the modern equivalent, the Quest of Scratch! MortimerSturgis never became a scratch player, but he did eventually get hishandicap down to nine, and I honour him for it.
The story which I am about to tell begins in what might be called themiddle period of Sturgis's career. He had reached the stage when hishandicap was a wobbly twelve; and, as you are no doubt aware, it isthen that a man really begins to golf in the true sense of the word.Mortimer's fondness for the game until then had been merely tepidcompared with what it became now. He had played a little before, butnow he really buckled to and got down to it. It was at this point, too,that he began once more to entertain thoughts of marriage. A profoundstatistician in this one department, he had discovered that practicallyall the finest exponents of the art are married men; and the thoughtthat there might be something in the holy state which improved a man'sgame, and that he was missing a good thing, troubled him a great deal.Moreover, the paternal instinct had awakened in him. As he justlypointed out, whether marriage improved your game or not, it was to OldTom Morris's marriage that the existence of young Tommy Morris, winnerof the British Open Championship four times in succession, could bedirectly traced. In fact, at the age of forty-two, Mortimer Sturgis wasin just the frame of mind to take some nice girl aside and ask her tobecome a step-mother to his eleven drivers, his baffy, his twenty-eightputters, and the rest of the ninety-four clubs which he had accumulatedin the course of his golfing career. The sole stipulation, of course,which he made when dreaming his daydreams was that the future Mrs.Sturgis must be a golfer. I can still recall the horror in his facewhen one girl, admirable in other respects, said that she had neverheard of Harry Vardon, and didn't he mean Dolly Vardon? She has sinceproved an excellent wife and mother, but Mortimer Sturgis never spoketo her again.
With the coming of January, it was Mortimer's practice to leave Englandand go to the South of France, where there was sunshine and crisp dryturf. He pursued his usual custom this year. With his suit-case and hisninety-four clubs he went off to Saint Brule, staying as he always didat the Hotel Superbe, where they knew him, and treated with an amiabletolerance his habit of practising chip-shots in his bedroom. On thefirst evening, after breaking a statuette of the Infant Samuel inPrayer, he dressed and went down to dinner. And the first thing he sawwas Her.
Mortimer Sturgis, as you know, had been engaged before, but BettyWeston had never inspired the tumultuous rush of emotion which the meresight of this girl had set loose in him. He told me later that just towatch her holing out her soup gave him a sort of feeling you get whenyour drive collides with a rock in the middle of a tangle of rough andkicks back into the middle of the fairway. If golf had come late inlife to Mortimer Sturgis, love came later still, and just as the golf,attacking him in middle life, had been some golf, so was the loveconsiderable love. Mortimer finished his dinner in a trance, which isthe best way to do it at some hotels, and then scoured the place forsomeone who would introduce him. He found such a person eventually andthe meeting took place.
* * * * *
She was a small and rather fragile-looking girl, with big blue eyes anda cloud of golden hair. She had a sweet expression, and her left wristwas in a sling. She looked up at Mortimer as if she had at last foundsomething that amounted to something. I am inclined to think it was acase of love at first sight on both sides.
"Fine weather we're having," said Mortimer, who was a capitalconversationalist.
"Yes," said the girl.
"I like fine weather."
"So do I."
"There's something about fine weather!"
"Yes."
"It's--it's--well, fine weather's so much finer than weather that isn'tfine," said Mortimer.
He looked at the girl a little anxiously, fearing he might be takingher out of her depth, but she seemed to have followed his train ofthought perfectly.
"Yes, isn't it?" she said. "It's so--so fine."
"That's just what I meant," said Mortimer. "So fine. You've just hitit."
He was charmed. The combination of beauty with intelligence is so rare.
"I see you've hurt your wrist," he went on, pointing to the sling.
"Yes. I strained it a little playing in the championship."
"The championship?" Mortimer was interested. "It's awfully rude of me,"he said, apologetically, "but I didn't catch your name just now."
"My name is Somerset."
Mortimer had been bending forward solicitously. He overbalanced andnearly fell off his chair. The shock had been stunning. Even before hehad met and spoken to her, he had told himself that he loved this girlwith the stored-up love of a lifetime. And she was Mary Somerset! Thehotel lobby danced before Mortimer's eyes.
The name will, of course, be familiar to you. In the early rounds ofthe Ladies' Open Golf Championship of that year nobody had paid muchattention to Mary Somerset. She had survived her first two matches, buther opponents had been nonentities like herself. And then, in the thirdround, she had met and defeated the champion. From that point on, hername was on everybody's lips. She became favourite. And she justifiedthe public confidence by sailing into the final and winning easily. Andhere she was, talking to him like an ordinary person, and, if he couldread the message in her eyes, not altogether indifferent to his charms,if you could call them that.
"Golly!" said Mortimer, awed.
* * * * *
Their friendship ripened rapidly, as friendships do in the South ofFrance. In that favoured clime, you find the girl and Nature does therest. On the second morning of their acquaintance Mortimer invited herto walk
round the links with him and watch him play. He did it a littlediffidently, for his golf was not of the calibre that would be likelyto extort admiration from a champion. On the other hand, one shouldnever let slip the opportunity of acquiring wrinkles on the game, andhe thought that Miss Somerset, if she watched one or two of his shots,might tell him just what he ought to do. And sure enough, the openingarrived on the fourth hole, where Mortimer, after a drive whichsurprised even himself, found his ball in a nasty cuppy lie.
He turned to the girl.
"What ought I to do here?" he asked.
Miss Somerset looked at the ball. She seemed to be weighing the matterin her mind.
"Give it a good hard knock," she said.
Mortimer knew what she meant. She was advocating a full iron. The onlytrouble was that, when he tried anything more ambitious than ahalf-swing, except off the tee, he almost invariably topped. However,he could not fail this wonderful girl, so he swung well back and took achance. His enterprise was rewarded. The ball flew out of theindentation in the turf as cleanly as though John Henry Taylor had beenbehind it, and rolled, looking neither to left nor to right, straightfor the pin. A few moments later Mortimer Sturgis had holed out oneunder bogey, and it was only the fear that, having known him for soshort a time, she might be startled and refuse him that kept him fromproposing then and there. This exhibition of golfing generalship on herpart had removed his last doubts. He knew that, if he lived for ever,there could be no other girl in the world for him. With her at hisside, what might he not do? He might get his handicap down to six--tothree--to scratch--to plus something! Good heavens, why, even theAmateur Championship was not outside the range of possibility. MortimerSturgis shook his putter solemnly in the air, and vowed a silent vowthat he would win this pearl among women.
Now, when a man feels like that, it is impossible to restrain him long.For a week Mortimer Sturgis's soul sizzled within him: then he couldcontain himself no longer. One night, at one of the informal dances atthe hotel, he drew the girl out on to the moonlit terrace.
"Miss Somerset----" he began, stuttering with emotion like animperfectly-corked bottle of ginger-beer. "Miss Somerset--may I callyou Mary?"
The girl looked at him with eyes that shone softly in the dim light.
"Mary?" she repeated. "Why, of course, if you like----"
"If I like!" cried Mortimer. "Don't you know that it is my dearestwish? Don't you know that I would rather be permitted to call you Marythan do the first hole at Muirfield in two? Oh, Mary, how I have longedfor this moment! I love you! I love you! Ever since I met you I haveknown that you were the one girl in this vast world whom I would die towin! Mary, will you be mine? Shall we go round together? Will you fixup a match with me on the links of life which shall end only when theGrim Reaper lays us both a stymie?"
She drooped towards him.
"Mortimer!" she murmured.
He held out his arms, then drew back. His face had grown suddenlytense, and there were lines of pain about his mouth.
"Wait!" he said, in a strained voice. "Mary, I love you dearly, andbecause I love you so dearly I cannot let you trust your sweet life tome blindly. I have a confession to make, I am not--I have not alwaysbeen"--he paused--"a good man," he said, in a low voice.
She started indignantly.
"How can you say that? You are the best, the kindest, the bravest man Ihave ever met! Who but a good man would have risked his life to save mefrom drowning?"
"Drowning?" Mortimer's voice seemed perplexed. "You? What do you mean?"
"Have you forgotten the time when I fell in the sea last week, and youjumped in with all your clothes on----"
"Of course, yes," said Mortimer. "I remember now. It was the day I didthe long seventh in five. I got off a good tee-shot straight down thefairway, took a baffy for my second, and---- But that is not the point.It is sweet and generous of you to think so highly of what was themerest commonplace act of ordinary politeness, but I must repeat, thatjudged by the standards of your snowy purity, I am not a good man. I donot come to you clean and spotless as a young girl should expect herhusband to come to her. Once, playing in a foursome, my ball fell insome long grass. Nobody was near me. We had no caddies, and the otherswere on the fairway. God knows----" His voice shook. "God knows Istruggled against the temptation. But I fell. I kicked the ball on to alittle bare mound, from which it was an easy task with a nicehalf-mashie to reach the green for a snappy seven. Mary, there havebeen times when, going round by myself, I have allowed myself ten-footputts on three holes in succession, simply in order to be able to say Ihad done the course in under a hundred. Ah! you shrink from me! You aredisgusted!"
"I'm not disgusted! And I don't shrink! I only shivered because it israther cold."
"Then you can love me in spite of my past?"
"Mortimer!"
She fell into his arms.
"My dearest," he said presently, "what a happy life ours will be. Thatis, if you do not find that you have made a mistake."
"A mistake!" she cried, scornfully.
"Well, my handicap is twelve, you know, and not so darned twelve atthat. There are days when I play my second from the fairway of the nexthole but one, days when I couldn't putt into a coal-hole with'Welcome!' written over it. And you are a Ladies' Open Champion. Still,if you think it's all right----. Oh, Mary, you little know how I havedreamed of some day marrying a really first-class golfer! Yes, that wasmy vision--of walking up the aisle with some sweet plus two girl on myarm. You shivered again. You are catching cold."
"It is a little cold," said the girl. She spoke in a small voice.
"Let me take you in, sweetheart," said Mortimer. "I'll just put you ina comfortable chair with a nice cup of coffee, and then I think Ireally must come out again and tramp about and think how perfectlysplendid everything is."
* * * * *
They were married a few weeks later, very quietly, in the littlevillage church of Saint Brule. The secretary of the local golf-clubacted as best man for Mortimer, and a girl from the hotel was the onlybridesmaid. The whole business was rather a disappointment to Mortimer,who had planned out a somewhat florid ceremony at St. George's, HanoverSquare, with the Vicar of Tooting (a scratch player excellent at shortapproach shots) officiating, and "The Voice That Breathed O'er St.Andrews" boomed from the organ. He had even had the idea of copying themilitary wedding and escorting his bride out of the church under anarch of crossed cleeks. But she would have none of this pomp. Sheinsisted on a quiet wedding, and for the honeymoon trip preferred atour through Italy. Mortimer, who had wanted to go to Scotland to visitthe birthplace of James Braid, yielded amiably, for he loved herdearly. But he did not think much of Italy. In Rome, the greatmonuments of the past left him cold. Of the Temple of Vespasian, all hethought was that it would be a devil of a place to be bunkered behind.The Colosseum aroused a faint spark of interest in him, as hespeculated whether Abe Mitchell would use a full brassey to carry it.In Florence, the view over the Tuscan Hills from the Torre Rosa,Fiesole, over which his bride waxed enthusiastic, seemed to him merelya nasty bit of rough which would take a deal of getting out of.
And so, in the fullness of time, they came home to Mortimer's cosylittle house adjoining the links.
* * * * *
Mortimer was so busy polishing his ninety-four clubs on the evening oftheir arrival that he failed to notice that his wife was preoccupied. Aless busy man would have perceived at a glance that she was distinctlynervous. She started at sudden noises, and once, when he tried thenewest of his mashie-niblicks and broke one of the drawing-roomwindows, she screamed sharply. In short her manner was strange, and, ifEdgar Allen Poe had put her into "The Fall Of the House of Usher", shewould have fitted it like the paper on the wall. She had the air of onewaiting tensely for the approach of some imminent doom. Mortimer,humming gaily to himself as he sand-papered the blade of histwenty-second putter, observed none of this. He was thinking of themorrow's play.
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"Your wrist's quite well again now, darling, isn't it?" he said.
"Yes. Yes, quite well."
"Fine!" said Mortimer. "We'll breakfast early--say at half-pastseven--and then we'll be able to get in a couple of rounds beforelunch. A couple more in the afternoon will about see us through. Onedoesn't want to over-golf oneself the first day." He swung the putterjoyfully. "How had we better play do you think? We might start with yougiving me a half."
She did not speak. She was very pale. She clutched the arm of her chairtightly till the knuckles showed white under the skin.
To anybody but Mortimer her nervousness would have been even moreobvious on the following morning, as they reached the first tee. Hereyes were dull and heavy, and she started when a grasshopper chirruped.But Mortimer was too occupied with thinking how jolly it was having thecourse to themselves to notice anything.
He scooped some sand out of the box, and took a ball out of her bag.His wedding present to her had been a brand-new golf-bag, six dozenballs, and a full set of the most expensive clubs, all born inScotland.
"Do you like a high tee?" he asked.
"Oh, no," she replied, coming with a start out of her thoughts."Doctors say it's indigestible."
Mortimer laughed merrily.
"Deuced good!" he chuckled. "Is that your own or did you read it in acomic paper? There you are!" He placed the ball on a little hill ofsand, and got up. "Now let's see some of that championship form ofyours!"
She burst into tears.
"My darling!"
Mortimer ran to her and put his arms round her. She tried weakly topush him away.
"My angel! What is it?"
She sobbed brokenly. Then, with an effort, she spoke.
"Mortimer, I have deceived you!"
"Deceived me?"
"I have never played golf in my life! I don't even know how to hold thecaddie!"
Mortimer's heart stood still. This sounded like the gibberings of anunbalanced mind, and no man likes his wife to begin gibberingimmediately after the honeymoon.
"My precious! You are not yourself!"
"I am! That's the whole trouble! I'm myself and not the girl youthought I was!"
Mortimer stared at her, puzzled. He was thinking that it was a littledifficult and that, to work it out properly, he would need a pencil anda bit of paper.
"My name is not Mary!"
"But you said it was."
"I didn't. You asked if you could call me Mary, and I said you might,because I loved you too much to deny your smallest whim. I was going onto say that it wasn't my name, but you interrupted me."
"Not Mary!" The horrid truth was coming home to Mortimer. "You were notMary Somerset?"
"Mary is my cousin. My name is Mabel."
"But you said you had sprained your wrist playing in the championship."
"So I had. The mallet slipped in my hand."
"The mallet!" Mortimer clutched at his forehead. "You didn't say 'themallet'?"
"Yes, Mortimer! The mallet!"
A faint blush of shame mantled her cheek, and into her blue eyes therecame a look of pain, but she faced him bravely.
"I am the Ladies' Open Croquet Champion!" she whispered.
Mortimer Sturgis cried aloud, a cry that was like the shriek of somewounded animal.
"Croquet!" He gulped, and stared at her with unseeing eyes. He was noprude, but he had those decent prejudices of which no self-respectingman can wholly rid himself, however broad-minded he may try to be."Croquet!"
There was a long silence. The light breeze sang in the pines abovethem. The grasshoppers chirrupped at their feet.
She began to speak again in a low, monotonous voice.
"I blame myself! I should have told you before, while there was yettime for you to withdraw. I should have confessed this to you thatnight on the terrace in the moonlight. But you swept me off my feet,and I was in your arms before I realized what you would think of me. Itwas only then that I understood what my supposed skill at golf meant toyou, and then it was too late. I loved you too much to let you go! Icould not bear the thought of you recoiling from me. Oh, I wasmad--mad! I knew that I could not keep up the deception for ever, thatyou must find me out in time. But I had a wild hope that by then weshould be so close to one another that you might find it in your heartto forgive. But I was wrong. I see it now. There are some things thatno man can forgive. Some things," she repeated, dully, "which no mancan forgive."
She turned away. Mortimer awoke from his trance.
"Stop!" he cried. "Don't go!"
"I must go."
"I want to talk this over."
She shook her head sadly and started to walk slowly across the sunlitgrass. Mortimer watched her, his brain in a whirl of chaotic thoughts.She disappeared through the trees.
Mortimer sat down on the tee-box, and buried his face in his hands. Fora time he could think of nothing but the cruel blow he had received.This was the end of those rainbow visions of himself and her goingthrough life side by side, she lovingly criticizing his stance and hisback-swing, he learning wisdom from her. A croquet-player! He wasmarried to a woman who hit coloured balls through hoops. MortimerSturgis writhed in torment. A strong man's agony.
The mood passed. How long it had lasted, he did not know. But suddenly,as he sat there, he became once more aware of the glow of the sunshineand the singing of the birds. It was as if a shadow had lifted. Hopeand optimism crept into his heart.
He loved her. He loved her still. She was part of him, and nothing thatshe could do had power to alter that. She had deceived him, yes. Butwhy had she deceived him? Because she loved him so much that she couldnot bear to lose him. Dash it all, it was a bit of a compliment.
And, after all, poor girl, was it her fault? Was it not rather thefault of her upbringing? Probably she had been taught to play croquetwhen a mere child, hardly able to distinguish right from wrong. Nosteps had been taken to eradicate the virus from her system, and thething had become chronic. Could she be blamed? Was she not more to bepitied than censured?
Mortimer rose to his feet, his heart swelling with generousforgiveness. The black horror had passed from him. The future seemedonce more bright. It was not too late. She was still young, many yearsyounger than he himself had been when he took up golf, and surely, ifshe put herself into the hands of a good specialist and practised everyday, she might still hope to become a fair player. He reached the houseand ran in, calling her name.
No answer came. He sped from room to room, but all were empty.
She had gone. The house was there. The furniture was there. The canarysang in its cage, the cook in the kitchen. The pictures still hung onthe walls. But she had gone. Everything was at home except his wife.
Finally, propped up against the cup he had once won in a handicapcompetition, he saw a letter. With a sinking heart he tore open theenvelope.
It was a pathetic, a tragic letter, the letter of a woman endeavouringto express all the anguish of a torn heart with one of thosefountain-pens which suspend the flow of ink about twice in every threewords. The gist of it was that she felt she had wronged him; that,though he might forgive, he could never forget; and that she was goingaway, away out into the world alone.
Mortimer sank into a chair, and stared blankly before him. She hadscratched the match.
* * * * *
I am not a married man myself, so have had no experience of how itfeels to have one's wife whizz off silently into the unknown; but Ishould imagine that it must be something like taking a full swing witha brassey and missing the ball. Something, I take it, of the same senseof mingled shock, chagrin, and the feeling that nobody loves one, whichattacks a man in such circumstances, must come to the bereaved husband.And one can readily understand how terribly the incident must haveshaken Mortimer Sturgis. I was away at the time, but I am told by thosewho saw him that his game went all to pieces.
He had never shown much indication of becoming anything in the natureof a fir
st-class golfer, but he had managed to acquire one or twodecent shots. His work with the light iron was not at all bad, and hewas a fairly steady putter. But now, under the shadow of this tragedy,he dropped right back to the form of his earliest period. It was apitiful sight to see this gaunt, haggard man with the look of dumbanguish behind his spectacles taking as many as three shots sometimesto get past the ladies' tee. His slice, of which he had almost curedhimself, returned with such virulence that in the list of ordinaryhazards he had now to include the tee-box. And, when he was notslicing, he was pulling. I have heard that he was known, when drivingat the sixth, to get bunkered in his own caddie, who had taken up hisposition directly behind him. As for the deep sand-trap in front of theseventh green, he spent so much of his time in it that there was someinformal talk among the members of the committee of charging him asmall weekly rent.
A man of comfortable independent means, he lived during these days onnext to nothing. Golf-balls cost him a certain amount, but the bulk ofhis income he spent in efforts to discover his wife's whereabouts. Headvertised in all the papers. He employed private detectives. He even,much as it revolted his finer instincts, took to travelling about thecountry, watching croquet matches. But she was never among the players.I am not sure that he did not find a melancholy comfort in this, for itseemed to show that, whatever his wife might be and whatever she mightbe doing, she had not gone right under.
Summer passed. Autumn came and went. Winter arrived. The days grewbleak and chill, and an early fall of snow, heavier than had been knownat that time of the year for a long while, put an end to golf. Mortimerspent his days indoors, staring gloomily through the window at thewhite mantle that covered the earth.
It was Christmas Eve.
* * * * *
The young man shifted uneasily on his seat. His face was long andsombre.
"All this is very depressing," he said.
"These soul tragedies," agreed the Oldest Member, "are never verycheery."
"Look here," said the young man, firmly, "tell me one thing frankly, asman to man. Did Mortimer find her dead in the snow, covered except forher face, on which still lingered that faint, sweet smile which heremembered so well? Because, if he did, I'm going home."
"No, no," protested the Oldest Member. "Nothing of that kind."
"You're sure? You aren't going to spring it on me suddenly?"
"No, no!"
The young man breathed a relieved sigh.
"It was your saying that about the white mantle covering the earth thatmade me suspicious."
The Sage resumed.
* * * * *
It was Christmas Eve. All day the snow had been falling, and now it laythick and deep over the countryside. Mortimer Sturgis, his frugaldinner concluded--what with losing his wife and not being able to getany golf, he had little appetite these days--was sitting in hisdrawing-room, moodily polishing the blade of his jigger. Soon wearyingof this once congenial task, he laid down the club and went to thefront door to see if there was any chance of a thaw. But no. It wasfreezing. The snow, as he tested it with his shoe, crackled crisply.The sky above was black and full of cold stars. It seemed to Mortimerthat the sooner he packed up and went to the South of France, thebetter. He was just about to close the door, when suddenly he thoughthe heard his own name called.
"Mortimer!"
Had he been mistaken? The voice had sounded faint and far away.
"Mortimer!"
He thrilled from head to foot. This time there could be no mistake. Itwas the voice he knew so well, his wife's voice, and it had come fromsomewhere down near the garden-gate. It is difficult to judge distancewhere sounds are concerned, but Mortimer estimated that the voice hadspoken about a short mashie-niblick and an easy putt from where hestood.
The next moment he was racing down the snow-covered path. And then hisheart stood still. What was that dark something on the ground justinside the gate? He leaped towards it. He passed his hands over it. Itwas a human body. Quivering, he struck a match. It went out. He struckanother. That went out, too. He struck a third, and it burnt with asteady flame; and, stooping, he saw that it was his wife who lay there,cold and stiff. Her eyes were closed, and on her face still lingeredthat faint, sweet smile which he remembered so well.
* * * * *
The young man rose with a set face. He reached for his golf-bag.
"I call that a dirty trick," he said, "after you promised--" The Sagewaved him back to his seat.
"Have no fear! She had only fainted."
"You said she was cold."
"Wouldn't you be cold if you were lying in the snow?"
"And stiff."
"Mrs. Sturgis was stiff because the train-service was bad, it being theholiday-season, and she had had to walk all the way from the junction,a distance of eight miles. Sit down and allow me to proceed."
* * * * *
Tenderly, reverently Mortimer Sturgis picked her up and began to bearher into the house. Half-way there, his foot slipped on a piece of iceand he fell heavily, barking his shin and shooting his lovely burdenout on to the snow.
The fall brought her to. She opened her eyes.
"Mortimer, darling!" she said.
Mortimer had just been going to say something else, but he checkedhimself.
"Are you alive?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"Thank God!" said Mortimer, scooping some of the snow out of the backof his collar.
Together they went into the house, and into the drawing-room. Wifegazed at husband, husband at wife. There was a silence.
"Rotten weather!" said Mortimer.
"Yes, isn't it!"
The spell was broken. They fell into each other's arms. And presentlythey were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands, just as ifthat awful parting had been but a dream.
It was Mortimer who made the first reference to it.
"I say, you know," he said, "you oughtn't to have nipped away likethat!"
"I thought you hated me!"
"Hated _you_! I love you better than life itself! I would soonerhave smashed my pet driver than have had you leave me!"
She thrilled at the words.
"Darling!"
Mortimer fondled her hand.
"I was just coming back to tell you that I loved you still. I was goingto suggest that you took lessons from some good professional. And Ifound you gone!"
"I wasn't worthy of you, Mortimer!"
"My angel!" He pressed his lips to her hair, and spoke solemnly. "Allthis has taught me a lesson, dearest. I knew all along, and I know itmore than ever now, that it is you--you that I want. Just you! I don'tcare if you don't play golf. I don't care----" He hesitated, then went onmanfully. "I don't care even if you play croquet, so long as you arewith me!"
For a moment her face showed rapture that made it almost angelic. Sheuttered a low moan of ecstasy. She kissed him. Then she rose.
"Mortimer, look!"
"What at?"
"Me. Just look!"
The jigger which he had been polishing lay on a chair close by. Shetook it up. From the bowl of golf-balls on the mantelpiece she selecteda brand new one. She placed it on the carpet. She addressed it. Then,with a merry cry of "Fore!" she drove it hard and straight through theglass of the china-cupboard.
"Good God!" cried Mortimer, astounded. It had been a bird of a shot.
She turned to him, her whole face alight with that beautiful smile.
"When I left you, Mortie," she said, "I had but one aim in life,somehow to make myself worthy of you. I saw your advertisements in thepapers, and I longed to answer them, but I was not ready. All thislong, weary while I have been in the village of Auchtermuchtie, inScotland, studying under Tamms McMickle."
"Not the Tamms McMickle who finished fourth in the Open Championship of1911, and had the best ball in the foursome in 1912 with Jock McHaggis,Andy McHeather
, and Sandy McHoots!"
"Yes, Mortimer, the very same. Oh, it was difficult at first. I missedmy mallet, and long to steady the ball with my foot and use the toe ofthe club. Wherever there was a direction post I aimed at itautomatically. But I conquered my weakness. I practised steadily. Andnow Mr. McMickle says my handicap would be a good twenty-four on anylinks." She smiled apologetically. "Of course, that doesn't sound muchto you! You were a twelve when I left you, and now I suppose you aredown to eight or something."
Mortimer shook his head.
"Alas, no!" he replied, gravely. "My game went right off for somereason or other, and I'm twenty-four, too."
"For some reason or other!" She uttered a cry. "Oh, I know what thereason was! How can I ever forgive myself! I have ruined your game!"
The brightness came back to Mortimer's eyes. He embraced her fondly.
"Do not reproach yourself, dearest," he murmured. "It is the best thingthat could have happened. From now on, we start level, two hearts thatbeat as one, two drivers that drive as one. I could not wish itotherwise. By George! It's just like that thing of Tennyson's."
He recited the lines softly:
_My bride, My wife, my life. Oh, we will walk the links Yoked in all exercise of noble end, And so thro' those dark bunkers off the course That no man knows. Indeed, I love thee: come, Yield thyself up: our handicaps are one; Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me._
She laid her hands in his.
"And now, Mortie, darling," she said, "I want to tell you all about howI did the long twelfth at Auchtermuchtie in one under bogey."