The Clicking of Cuthbert

Mortimer laughed merrily.

"Deuced good!" he chuckled. "Is that your own or did you read it in a

comic paper? There you are!" He placed the ball on a little hill of

sand, and got up. "Now let's see some of that championship form of

yours!"

She burst into tears.

"My darling!"

Mortimer ran to her and put his arms round her. She tried weakly to

push 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 the

caddie!"

Mortimer's heart stood still. This sounded like the gibberings of an

unbalanced mind, and no man likes his wife to begin gibbering

immediately after the honeymoon.

"My precious! You are not yourself!"

"I am! That's the whole trouble! I'm myself and not the girl you

thought I was!"

Mortimer stared at her, puzzled. He was thinking that it was a little

difficult and that, to work it out properly, he would need a pencil and

a 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 on

to say that it wasn't my name, but you interrupted me."

"Not Mary!" The horrid truth was coming home to Mortimer. "You were not

Mary 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 'the

mallet'?"

"Yes, Mortimer! The mallet!"

A faint blush of shame mantled her cheek, and into her blue eyes there

came 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 some

wounded animal.

"Croquet!" He gulped, and stared at her with unseeing eyes. He was no

prude, but he had those decent prejudices of which no self-respecting

man 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 above

them. 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 yet

time for you to withdraw. I should have confessed this to you that

night 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. It

was only then that I understood what my supposed skill at golf meant to

you, and then it was too late. I loved you too much to let you go! I

could not bear the thought of you recoiling from me. Oh, I was

mad--mad! I knew that I could not keep up the deception for ever, that

you must find me out in time. But I had a wild hope that by then we

should be so close to one another that you might find it in your heart

to forgive. But I was wrong. I see it now. There are some things that

no man can forgive. Some things," she repeated, dully, "which no man

can 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 sunlit

grass. 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. For

a 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 going

through life side by side, she lovingly criticizing his stance and his

back-swing, he learning wisdom from her. A croquet-player! He was

married to a woman who hit coloured balls through hoops. Mortimer

Sturgis 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 sunshine

and the singing of the birds. It was as if a shadow had lifted. Hope

and optimism crept into his heart.

He loved her. He loved her still. She was part of him, and nothing that

she could do had power to alter that. She had deceived him, yes. But

why had she deceived him? Because she loved him so much that she could

not 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 the

fault of her upbringing? Probably she had been taught to play croquet

when a mere child, hardly able to distinguish right from wrong. No

steps had been taken to eradicate the virus from her system, and the

thing had become chronic. Could she be blamed? Was she not more to be

pitied than censured?

Mortimer rose to his feet, his heart swelling with generous

forgiveness. The black horror had passed from him. The future seemed

once more bright. It was not too late. She was still young, many years

younger than he himself had been when he took up golf, and surely, if

she put herself into the hands of a good specialist and practised every