The Clicking of Cuthbert

half-mashie to reach the green for a snappy seven. Mary, there have

been times when, going round by myself, I have allowed myself ten-foot

putts on three holes in succession, simply in order to be able to say I

had done the course in under a hundred. Ah! you shrink from me! You are

disgusted!"

"I'm not disgusted! And I don't shrink! I only shivered because it is

rather 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. That

is, 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 at

that. There are days when I play my second from the fairway of the next

hole 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 have

dreamed of some day marrying a really first-class golfer! Yes, that was

my vision--of walking up the aisle with some sweet plus two girl on my

arm. 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 in

a comfortable chair with a nice cup of coffee, and then I think I

really must come out again and tramp about and think how perfectly

splendid everything is."

       *       *       *       *       *

They were married a few weeks later, very quietly, in the little

village church of Saint Brule. The secretary of the local golf-club

acted as best man for Mortimer, and a girl from the hotel was the only

bridesmaid. The whole business was rather a disappointment to Mortimer,

who had planned out a somewhat florid ceremony at St. George's, Hanover

Square, with the Vicar of Tooting (a scratch player excellent at short

approach shots) officiating, and "The Voice That Breathed O'er St.

Andrews" boomed from the organ. He had even had the idea of copying the

military wedding and escorting his bride out of the church under an

arch of crossed cleeks. But she would have none of this pomp. She

insisted on a quiet wedding, and for the honeymoon trip preferred a

tour through Italy. Mortimer, who had wanted to go to Scotland to visit

the birthplace of James Braid, yielded amiably, for he loved her

dearly. But he did not think much of Italy. In Rome, the great

monuments of the past left him cold. Of the Temple of Vespasian, all he

thought 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 he

speculated 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 merely

a nasty bit of rough which would take a deal of getting out if.

And so, in the fullness of time, they came home to Mortimer's cosy

little house adjoining the links.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mortimer was so busy polishing his ninety-four clubs on the evening of

their arrival that he failed to notice that his wife was preoccupied. A

less busy man would have perceived at a glance that she was distinctly

nervous. She started at sudden noises, and once, when he tried the

newest of his mashie-niblicks and broke one of the drawing-room

windows, she screamed sharply. In short her manner was strange, and, if

Edgar Allen Poe had put her into "The Fall Of the House of Usher", she

would have fitted it like the paper on the wall. She had the air of one

waiting tensely for the approach of some imminent doom. Mortimer,

humming gaily to himself as he sand-papered the blade of his

twenty-second putter, observed none of this. He was thinking of the

morrow's play.

"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-past

seven--and then we'll be able to get in a couple of rounds before

lunch. A couple more in the afternoon will about see us through. One

doesn't want to over-golf oneself the first day." He swung the putter

joyfully. "How had we better play do you think? We might start with you

giving me a half."

She did not speak. She was very pale. She clutched the arm of her chair

tightly till the knuckles showed white under the skin.

To anybody but Mortimer her nervousness would have been even more

obvious on the following morning, as they reached the first tee. Her

eyes were dull and heavy, and she started when a grasshopper chirruped.

But Mortimer was too occupied with thinking how jolly it was having the

course 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 dozen

balls, and a full set of the most expensive clubs, all born in

Scotland.

"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."