The Golf Omnibus

  “Why?”

  “I have reason to believe that Jane would respond more readily to your wooing were it conducted in some vast sandy waste. And there is another thing,” I proceeded, earnestly, “which I must impress upon you. See that there is nothing tame or tepid about your behaviour when you propose. You must show zip and romance. In fact, I strongly recommend you, before you even say a word to her, to seize her and clasp her in your arms and let your hot breath sear her face.”

  “Who, me?” said William.

  “Believe me, it is what will appeal to her most.”

  “But, I say! Hot breath, I mean! Dash it all, you know, what?”

  “I assure you it is indispensable.”

  “Seize her?” said William blankly.

  “Precisely.”

  “Clasp her in my arms?”

  “Just so.”

  William plunged into silent thought once more.

  “Well, you know, I suppose,” he said at length. “You’ve had experience, I take it. Still⎯ Oh, all right, I’ll have a stab at it.”

  “There spoke the true William Bates!” I said. “Go to it, lad, and Heaven speed your wooing!”

  In all human schemes—and it is this that so often brings failure to the subtlest strategists—there is always the chance of the Unknown Factor popping up, that unforeseen X for which we have made no allowance and which throws our whole plan of campaign out of gear. I had not anticipated anything of the kind coming along to mar the arrangements on the present occasion; but when I reached the first tee on the Wednesday afternoon to give William Bates that last word of encouragement, which means so much, I saw that I had been too sanguine. William had not yet arrived, but Jane was there, and with her a tall, slim, dark-haired, sickeningly romantic-looking youth in faultlessly fitting serge. A stranger to me. He was talking to her in a musical undertone, and she seemed to be hanging on his words. Her beautiful eyes were fixed on his face, and her lips slightly parted. So absorbed was she that it was not until I spoke that she became aware of my presence.

  “William not arrived yet?”

  She turned with a start.

  “William? Hasn’t he? Oh! No, not yet. I don’t suppose he will be long. I want to introduce you to Mr. Spelvin. He has come to stay with the Wyndhams for a few weeks. He is going to walk round with us.”

  Naturally this information came as a shock to me, but I masked my feelings and greeted the young man with a well-assumed cordiality.

  “Mr. George Spelvin, the actor?” I asked, shaking hands.

  “My cousin,” he said. “My name is Rodney Spelvin. I do not share George’s histrionic ambitions. If I have any claim to—may I say renown?—it is as a maker of harmonies.”

  “A composer, eh?”

  “Verbal harmonies,” explained Mr. Spelvin. “I am, in my humble fashion, a poet.”

  “He writes the most beautiful poetry,” said Jane, warmly. “He has just been reciting some of it to me.”

  “Oh, that little thing?” said Mr. Spelvin, deprecatingly. “A mere morceau. One of my juvenilia.”

  “It was too beautiful for words,” persisted Jane.

  “Ah, you,” said Mr. Spelvin, “have the soul to appreciate it. I could wish that there were more like you, Miss Packard. We singers have much to put up with in a crass and materialistic world. Only last week, a man, a coarse editor, asked me what my sonnet, ‘Wine of Desire’, meant.” He laughed indulgently. “I gave him answer, ’twas a sonnet, not a mining prospectus.”

  “It would have served him right,” said Jane, heatedly, “if you had pasted him one on the nose!”

  At this point a low whistle behind me attracted my attention, and I turned to perceive William Bates towering against the skyline.

  “Hoy!” said William.

  I walked to where he stood, leaving Jane and Mr. Spelvin in earnest conversation with their heads close together.

  “I say,” said William, in a rumbling undertone, “who’s the bird with Jane?”

  “A man named Spelvin. He is visiting the Wyndhams. I suppose Mrs. Wyndham made them acquainted.”

  “Looks a bit of a Gawd-help-us,” said William critically.

  “He is going to walk round with you.”

  It was impossible for a man of William Bates’s temperament to start, but his face took on a look of faint concern.

  “Walk round with us?”

  “So Jane said.”

  “But look here,” said William. “I can’t possibly seize her and clasp her in my arms and do all that hot-breath stuff with this pie-faced exhibit hanging round on the outskirts.”

  “No, I fear not.”

  “Postpone it, then, what?” said William, with unmistakable relief. “Well, as a matter of fact, it’s probably a good thing. There was a most extraordinarily fine steak-and-kidney pudding at lunch, and, between ourselves, I’m not feeling what you might call keyed up to anything in the nature of a romantic scene. Some other time, eh?”

  I looked at Jane and the Spelvin youth, and a nameless apprehension swept over me. There was something in their attitude which I found alarming. I was just about to whisper a warning to William not to treat this new arrival too lightly, when Jane caught sight of him and called him over and a moment later they set out on their round.

  I walked away pensively. This Spelvin’s advent, coming immediately on top of that book of desert love, was undeniably sinister. My heart sank for William, and I waited at the club-house to have a word with him, after his match. He came in two hours later, flushed and jubilant.

  “Played the game of my life!” he said. “We didn’t hole out all the putts, but, making allowances for everything, you can chalk me up an eighty-three. Not so bad, eh? You know the eighth hole? Well, I was a bit short with my drive, and found my ball lying badly for the brassie, so I took my driving-iron and with a nice easy swing let the pill have it so squarely on the seat of the pants that it flew⎯”

  “Where is Jane?” I interrupted.

  “Jane? Oh, the bloke Spelvin has taken her home.”

  “Beware of him, William!” I whispered, tensely. “Have a care, young Bates! If you don’t look out, you’ll have him stealing Jane from you. Don’t laugh. Remember that I saw them together before you arrived. She was gazing into his eyes as a desert maiden might gaze into the eyes of a sheik. You don’t seem to realize, wretched William Bates, that Jane is an extremely romantic girl. A fascinating stranger like this, coming suddenly into her life, may well snatch her away from you before you know where you are.”

  “That’s all right,” said William, lightly. “I don’t mind admitting that the same idea occurred to me. But I made judicious inquiries on the way round, and found out that the fellow’s a poet. You don’t seriously expect me to believe that there’s any chance of Jane falling in love with a poet?”

  He spoke incredulously, for there were three things in the world that he held in the smallest esteem—slugs, poets, and caddies with hiccups.

  “I think it extremely possible, if not probable,” I replied.

  “Nonsense!” said William. “And, besides, the man doesn’t play golf. Never had a club in his hand, and says he never wants to. That’s the sort of fellow he is.”

  At this, I confess, I did experience a distinct feeling of relief. I could imagine Jane Packard, stimulated by exotic literature, committing many follies, but I was compelled to own that I could not conceive of her giving her heart to one who not only did not play golf but had no desire to play it. Such a man, to a girl of her fine nature and correct upbringing, would be beyond the pale. I walked home with William in a calm and happy frame of mind.

  I was to learn but one short week later that Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.

  The week that followed was one of much festivity in our village. There were dances, picnics, bathing-parties, and all the other adjuncts of high summer. In these William Bates played but a minor part. Dancing was not one of his
gifts. He swung, if called upon, an amiable shoe, but the disposition in the neighbourhood was to refrain from calling upon him; for he had an incurable habit of coming down with his full weight upon his partner’s toes, and many a fair girl had had to lie up for a couple of days after collaborating with him in a foxtrot.

  Picnics, again, bored him, and he always preferred a round on the links to the merriest bathing-party. The consequence was that he kept practically aloof from the revels, and all through the week Jane Packard was squired by Rodney Spelvin. With Spelvin she swayed over the waxed floor; with Spelvin she dived and swam; and it was Spelvin who, with zealous hand, brushed ants off her mayonnaise and squashed wasps with a chivalrous teaspoon. The end was inevitable. Apart from anything else, the moon was at its full and many of these picnics were held at night. And you know what that means. It was about ten days later that William Bates came to me in my little garden with an expression on his face like a man who didn’t know it was loaded.

  “I say,” said William, “you busy?”

  I emptied the remainder of the water-can on the lobelias, and was at his disposal.

  “I say,” said William, “rather a rotton thing has happened. You know Jane?”

  I said I knew Jane.

  “You know Spelvin?”

  I said I knew Spelvin.

  “Well, Jane’s gone and got engaged to him,” said William, aggrieved.

  “What?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  “Already?”

  “Absolutely. She told me this morning. And what I want to know,” said the stricken boy, sitting down thoroughly unnerved on a basket of strawberries, “is, where do I get off?”

  My heart bled for him, but I could not help reminding him that I had anticipated this.

  “You should not have left them so much alone together,” I said. “You must have known that there is nothing more conducive to love than the moon in June. Why, songs have been written about it. In fact, I cannot at the moment recall a song that has not been written about it.”

  “Yes, but how was I to guess that anything like this would happen?” cried William, rising and scraping strawberries off his person. “Who would ever have supposed Jane Packard would leap off the dock with a fellow who doesn’t play golf?”

  “Certainly, as you say, it seems almost incredible. You are sure you heard her correctly? When she told you about the engagement, I mean. There was no chance that you could have misunderstood?”

  “Not a bit of it. As a matter of fact, what led up to the thing, if you know what I mean, was me proposing to her myself. I’d been thinking a lot during the last ten days over what you said to me about that, and the more I thought of it the more of a sound egg the notion seemed. So I got her alone up at the club-house and said, ‘I say, old girl, what about it?’ and she said, ‘What about what?’ and I said, ‘What about marrying me? Don’t if you don’t want to, of course,’ I said, ‘but I’m bound to say it looks pretty good to me.’ And then she said she loved another—this bloke Spelvin, to wit. A nasty jar, I can tell you, it was. I was just starting off on a round, and it made me hook my putts on every green.”

  “But did she say specifically that she was engaged to Spelvin?”

  “She said she loved him.”

  “There may be hope. If she is not irrevocably engaged the fancy may pass. I think I will go and see Jane and make tactful inquiries.”

  “I wish you would,” said William. “And, I say, you haven’t any stuff that’ll take strawberry-juice off a fellow’s trousers, have you?”

  My interview with Jane that evening served only to confirm the bad news. Yes, she was definitely engaged to the man Spelvin. In a burst of girlish confidence she told me some of the details of the affair.

  “The moon was shining and a soft breeze played in the trees,” she said. “And suddenly he took me in his arms, gazed deep into my eyes, and cried, ‘I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You are the tree on which the fruit of my life hangs; my mate; my woman; predestined to me since the first star shone up in yonder sky!’”

  “Nothing,” I agreed, “could be fairer than that. And then?” I said, thinking how different it all must have been from William Bates’s miserable, limping proposal.

  “Then we fixed it up that we would get married in September.”

  “You are sure you are doing wisely?” I ventured.

  Her eyes opened.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you know, whatever his other merits—and no doubt they are numerous—Rodney Spelvin does not play golf.”

  “No, but he’s very broad-minded about it.”

  I shuddered. Women say these things so lightly.

  “Broad-minded?”

  “Yes. He has no objection to my going on playing. He says he likes my pretty enthusiasms.”

  There seemed nothing more to say on that subject.

  “Well,” I said, “I am sure I wish you every happiness. I had hoped, of course—but never mind that.”

  “What?”

  “I had hoped, as you insist on my saying it, that you and William Bates⎯”

  A shadow passed over her face. Her eyes grew sad.

  “Poor William! I’m awfully sorry about that. He’s a dear.”

  “A splendid fellow,” I agreed.

  “He has been so wonderful about the whole thing. So many men would have gone off and shot grizzly bears or something. But William just said ‘Right-o!’ in a quiet voice, and he’s going to caddie for me at Mossy Heath next week.”

  “There is good stuff in the boy.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “If it wasn’t for Rodney⎯ Oh, well!”

  I thought it would be tactful to change the subject.

  “So you have decided to go to Mossy Heath again?”

  “Yes. And I’m really going to qualify this year.”

  The annual Invitation Tournament at Mossy Heath was one of the most important fixtures of our local female golfing year. As is usual with these affairs, it began with a medal-play qualifying round, the thirty-two players with the lowest net scores then proceeding to fight it out during the remainder of the week by match-play. It gratified me to hear Jane speak so confidently of her chances, for this was the fourth year she had entered, and each time, though she had started out with the brightest prospects, she had failed to survive the qualifying round. Like so many golfers, she was fifty per cent. better at match-play than at medal-play. Mossy Heath, being a championship course, is full of nasty pitfalls, and on each of the three occasions on which she had tackled it one very bad hole had undone all her steady work on the other seventeen and ruined her card. I was delighted to find her so undismayed by failure.

  “I am sure you will,” I said. “Just play your usual careful game.”

  “It doesn’t matter what sort of a game I play this time,” said Jane, jubilantly. “I’ve just heard that there are only thirty-two entries this year, so that everybody who finishes is bound to qualify. I have simply got to get round somehow, and there I am.”

  “It would seem somewhat superfluous in these circumstances to play a qualifying round at all.”

  “Oh, but they must. You see, there are prizes for the best three scores, so they nave to play it. But isn’t it a relief to know that, even if I come to grief on that beastly seventh, as I did last year, I shall still be all right?”

  “It is, indeed. I have a feeling that once it becomes a matter of match-play you will be irresistible.”

  “I do hope so. It would be lovely to win with Rodney looking on.”

  “Will he be looking on?”

  “Yes. He’s going to walk round with me. Isn’t it sweet of him?”

  Her fiancé’s name having slid into the conversation again, she seemed inclined to become eloquent about him. I left her, however, before she could begin. To one so strongly pro-William as myself, eulogistic prattle about Rodney Spelvin was repugnant. I disapproved entirely of this infatuation of hers. I am not a narrow-minded
man; I quite appreciate the fact that non-golfers are entitled to marry; but I could not countenance their marrying potential winners of the Ladies’ Invitation Tournament at Mossy Heath.

  The Greens Committee, as greens committees are so apt to do in order to justify their existence, have altered the Mossy Heath course considerably since the time of which I am speaking, but they have left the three most poisonous holes untouched. I refer to the fourth, the seventh, and the fifteenth. Even a soulless Greens Committee seems to have realized that golfers, long-suffering though they are, can be pushed too far, and that the addition of even a single extra bunker to any of these dreadful places would probably lead to armed riots in the club-house.

  Jane Packard had done well on the first three holes, but as she stood on the fourth tee she was conscious, despite the fact that this seemed to be one of her good days, of a certain nervousness; and oddly enough, great as was her love for Rodney Spelvin. it was not his presence that gave her courage, but the sight of William Bates’s large friendly face and the sound of his pleasant voice urging her to keep her bean down and refrain from pressing.

  As a matter of fact, to be perfectly truthful, there was beginning already to germinate within her by this time a faint but definite regret that Rodney Spelvin had decided to accompany her on this qualifying round. It was sweet of him to bother to come, no doubt, but still there was something about Rodney that did not seem to blend with the holy atmosphere of a championship course. He was the one romance ot her life and their souls were bound together for all eternity, but the fact remained that he did not appear to be able to keep still while she was making her shots, and his light humming, musical though it was, militated against accuracy on the green. He was humming now as she addressed her ball, and for an instant a spasm of irritation shot through her. She fought it down bravely and concentrated on her drive, and when the ball soared over the cross-bunker she forgot her annoyance. There is nothing so mellowing, so conducive to sweet and genial thoughts, as a real juicy one straight down the middle, and this was a pipterino.

  “Nice work,” said William Bates, approvingly.

  Jane gave him a grateful smile and turned to Rodney. It was his appreciation that she wanted. He was not a golfer, but even he must be able to see that her drive had been something out of the common.