The Clicking of Cuthbert

day, she might still hope to become a fair player. He reached the house

and 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 canary

sang in its cage, the cook in the kitchen. The pictures still hung on

the walls. But she had gone. Everything was at home except his wife.

Finally, propped up against the cup he had once won in a handicap

competition, he saw a letter. With a sinking heart he tore open the

envelope.

It was a pathetic, a tragic letter, the letter of a woman endeavouring

to express all the anguish of a torn heart with one of those

fountain-pens which suspend the flow of ink about twice in every three

words. 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 going

away, away out into the world alone.

Mortimer sank into a chair, and stared blankly before him. She had

scratched the match.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am not a married man myself, so have had no experience of how it

feels to have one's wife whizz off silently into the unknown; but I

should imagine that it must be something like taking a full swing with

a brassey and missing the ball. Something, I take it, of the same sense

of mingled shock, chagrin, and the feeling that nobody loves one, which

attacks a man in such circumstances, must come to the bereaved husband.

And one can readily understand how terribly the incident must have

shaken Mortimer Sturgis. I was away at the time, but I am told by those

who saw him that his game went all to pieces.

He had never shown much indication of becoming anything in the nature

of a first-class golfer, but he had managed to acquire one or two

decent shots. His work with the light iron was not at all bad, and he

was 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 a

pitiful sight to see this gaunt, haggard man with the look of dumb

anguish behind his spectacles taking as many as three shots sometimes

to get past the ladies' tee. His slice, of which he had almost cured

himself, returned with such virulence that in the list of ordinary

hazards he had now to include the tee-box. And, when he was not

slicing, he was pulling. I have heard that he was known, when driving

at the sixth, to get bunkered in his own caddie, who had taken up his

position directly behind him. As for the deep sand-trap in front of the

seventh green, he spent so much of his time in it that there was some

informal talk among the members of the committee of charging him a

small weekly rent.

A man of comfortable independent means, he lived during these days on

next to nothing. Golf-balls cost him a certain amount, but the bulk of

his income he spent in efforts to discover his wife's whereabouts. He

advertised in all the papers. He employed private detectives. He even,

much as it revolted his finer instincts, took to travelling about the

country, 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 it

seemed to show that, whatever his wife might be and whatever she might

be doing, she had not gone right under.

Summer passed. Autumn came and went. Winter arrived. The days grew

bleak and chill, and an early fall of snow, heavier than had been known

at that time of the year for a long while, put an end to golf. Mortimer

spent his days indoors, staring gloomily through the window at the

white mantle that covered the earth.

It was Christmas Eve.

       *       *       *       *       *

The young man shifted uneasily on his seat. His face was long and

sombre.

"All this is very depressing," he said.

"These soul tragedies," agreed the Oldest Member, "are never very

cheery."

"Look here," said the young man, firmly, "tell me one thing frankly, as

man to man. Did Mortimer find her dead in the snow, covered except for

her face, on which still lingered that faint, sweet smile which he

remembered 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 that

made me suspicious."

The Sage resumed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was Christmas Eve. All day the snow had been falling, and now it lay

thick and deep over the countryside. Mortimer Sturgis, his frugal

dinner concluded--what with losing his wife and not being able to get

any golf, he had little appetite these days--was sitting in his

drawing-room, moodily polishing the blade of his jigger. Soon wearying

of this once congenial task, he laid down the club and went to the

front door to see if there was any chance of a thaw. But no. It was

freezing. The snow, as he tested it with his shoe, crackled crisply.

The sky above was black and full of cold stars. It seemed to Mortimer