The Clicking of Cuthbert

that the sooner he packed up and went to the South of France, the

better. He was just about to close the door, when suddenly he thought

he 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. It

was the voice he knew so well, his wife's voice, and it had come from

somewhere down near the garden-gate. It is difficult to judge distance

where sounds are concerned, but Mortimer estimated that the voice had

spoken about a short mashie-niblick and an easy putt from where he

stood.

The next moment he was racing down the snow-covered path. And then his

heart stood still. What was that dark something on the ground just

inside the gate? He leaped towards it. He passed his hands over it. It

was a human body. Quivering, he struck a match. It went out. He struck

another. That went out, too. He struck a third, and it burnt with a

steady 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 lingered

that 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 Sage

waved 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 the

holiday-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 bear

her into the house. Half-way there, his foot slipped on a piece of ice

and he fell heavily, barking his shin and shooting his lovely burden

out 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 checked

himself.

"Are you alive?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Thank God!" said Mortimer, scooping some of the snow out of the back

of his collar.

Together they went into the house, and into the drawing-room. Wife

gazed 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 presently

they were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands, just as if

that 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 like

that!"

"I thought you hated me!"

"Hated you! I love you better than life itself! I would sooner

have 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 going

to suggest that you took lessons from some good professional. And I

found you gone!"

"I wasn't worthy of you, Mortimer!"

"My angel!" He pressed his lips to her hair, and spoke solemnly. "All

this has taught me a lesson, dearest. I knew all along, and I know it

more than ever now, that it is you--you that I want. Just you! I don't

care if you don't play golf. I don't care----" He hesitated, then went on

manfully. "I don't care even if you play croquet, so long as you are

with me!"

For a moment her face showed rapture that made it almost angelic. She

uttered 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. She

took it up. From the bowl of golf-balls on the mantelpiece she selected

a 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 the

glass 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 the

papers, and I longed to answer them, but I was not ready. All this

long, weary while I have been in the village of Auchtermuchtie, in

Scotland, studying under Tamms McMickle."

"Not the Tamms McMickle who finished fourth in the Open Championship of

1911, 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 missed

my mallet, and long to steady the ball with my foot and use the toe of

the club. Wherever there was a direction post I aimed at it

automatically. But I conquered my weakness. I practised steadily. And

now Mr. McMickle says my handicap would be a good twenty-four on any

links." She smiled apologetically. "Of course, that doesn't sound much

to you! You were a twelve when I left you, and now I suppose you are