A FEW CLOSING CONFESSIONS
On my arrival in London I lost no time in presenting myself to Mr.
Harding's bankers. I also presented a letter of introduction from that
gentleman's private secretary, and I presume these London financiers
called a meeting of the board of directors to consider this weighty
matter. I waited for hours, and was finally ushered into a private
office. It was as dingy and inadequate as are most London offices, and I
was properly impressed with its age, traditions and smells.
An old gentleman looked at me for a minute or two, and then took my
letter of introduction from his desk. He read it carefully again, wiped
his glasses and asked me if I were John Henry Smith. I assured him that
to the best of my knowledge and belief I was.
He looked doubtfully at me, hesitated as if determined to make no
mistake, sighed and then informed me that Mr. Harding had not left his
address in their care. I was tempted to express the opinion that Mr.
Harding showed rare judgment in declining to leave it with them, since
it doubtless would require an action at law to recover it in the event
he should have use for it, but I thanked the aged man for all that they
had done for me, and emerged from this gloomy den into the street.
[Illustration: "He looked doubtfully at me"]
This reed had broken. I never had much faith in it.
I had more confidence in a plan I then set in motion. I have a friend in
London of the name of Flynn. He is an American newspaper man. Flynn says
he would like to be a "journalist," but needs the money; therefore he
continues to be a newspaper man, and he is a good one.
Flynn is connected with one of the big news associations and after
drifting with the tide of cab and omnibus traffic which gorges on Fleet
Street, I finally located him in an office in New Bridge Street. I had
not seen him in five years.
"Hello, Smith!" he exclaimed, placidly as if we had spent the preceding
evening together. "When did you strike town?"
"Last night," I said, heartily shaking hands.
"I see that you recently put a crimp in that Wall Street gang," he
observed, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his chair. "You were
in with Harding on that deal, weren't you?"
"Yes," I said, "and I'm looking for him."
I briefly told him of the death of my uncle, and explained that Harding
had left suddenly and that it was necessary I should locate him without
delay.
"He was in London stopping at the Savoy a week ago," said Flynn, after
consulting a record book. "I sent a man to see him and he wouldn't be
seen. No use for you to go there; they won't tell you where he went."
"But can you help me locate him?" I eagerly asked.
"Certainly I can, provided you stand the tolls," he said. "Electricity
is as rapid here as in the United States, and if this magnate is on one
of these islands we can get his address in four or five hours, if we
have any kind of luck. Suppose we wire the twenty larger cities and
towns, about the same number of summer resorts, and the leading golf
centres?"
"Great scheme, Flynn!" I declared, "you're a natural detective."
"Natural nothing," growled that clever individual, "it's a part of the
regular grind. It should be no great trick to find a man worth thirty
millions in an area not much bigger than Illinois."
He wrote a telegram, dictated the list of places to his stenographer and
turned to me.
"Any engagement for dinner?" he asked, and when I said I had none he
suggested we go to the Savage Club. We did so, and that dinner was the
first enjoyable episode in many dismal weeks. The quiet charm of the old
club, together with its famous ale, had a soothing effect on my nerves,
and after several pleasant hours we took a cab back to his office.
Flynn disappeared for a minute and when he returned he handed me a stack
of telegrams.
"There are some reports already in," he said. "Look them over while I
attend to the work for which I'm supposed to draw salary."
I read them hurriedly. There was no news of the Hardings from
Birmingham, Manchester, Nottingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Brighton,
Blackpool, and a score of other places. Then I opened one from Glasgow.
They had been in Glasgow, but had left. I was on the trail, and
announced the news to Flynn. He smiled and again bent over his work.
In a few minutes a boy came in with more telegrams. They had been in
Edinburgh on the day following their visit to Glasgow, but were not
there now.
"They were in Edinburgh four days ago," I declared.
"Probably headed for St. Andrews," said Flynn, stopping in the middle
of a sentence he was dictating. "Don't bother me, Smith, I'm busy."
I spent the next half hour studying a map of Great Britain on which I
mentally traced Her course from London to Glasgow and from there to
Edinburgh. Another batch of telegrams from Plymouth, Hull, Dublin,
Southampton, Newcastle, York, Hastings, and lesser places was silent
concerning the missing Hardings.
It was ten o'clock in the evening when the boy handed me three
envelopes. I read the first two and threw them on the floor. Without
glancing at the date line I read the third one. It ran:
"Robert L. Harding, wife and daughter at the Caledonia.—Jones."
It was dated St. Andrews.
"I've found them!" I declared. Flynn was just closing his desk. His
day's work was ended and he was in better humour.
"Where are they?" he asked, throwing a mass of stuff into a waste
basket.
"St. Andrews."
"Of course. Every American golf crank heads for St. Andrews from the
same fanatical instinct which impels a Mohammedan to steer for Mecca."
A study of the time tables showed that I could take a late night train
which would place me in Edinburgh early in the morning.
"I'm indebted to you for this more than you realise," I said to him.
"Don't mention it."
"How much do I owe your concern for this service?"
"Couldn't tell you," asserted Flynn. "Won't know until the bills come
in, and that will take a month or more. I'll have them tabbed up and
send you a statement, you send a cheque and that will end it."
"If there is anything I can do for you I—"
"Nothing," interrupted Flynn, "unless you should happen to run across
the New York plutocrat who hires me. You might tell him that unless he
tilts my salary he is likely to lose the most valuable man who ever
produced dividends for him."
"I'll do that!" I declared, and I meant it.
Two hours later my train rumbled out of the station and headed for
Scotland. I had been supremely satisfied with my progress during the
day, but when I began to analyse the situation I was unable to discover
any sound basis for self-congratulation.
I merely had ascertained her probable location. That did not improve my
prospects. I had not the slightest reason to believe that she had
changed her attitude toward me, and I had no right to assume that she
would receive, much less listen to me. She might be married, and
probably was. I thought of these things and fell from the fool's heaven
to which I had climbed.
But on I went toward Scotland. I would drink the cup to its lees. I
foil into a troubled sleep, and after a miserable night did not know
whether to be pleased or scared that I had finished the longer stage of
my journey.
The early morning train from out Edinburgh's dingy station carried one
passenger who paid small attention to the scenery between the beautiful
capital of Scotland and its famous university town. My one thought when
we crossed over the great bridge which spans the Firth of Forth was that
it was unconscionably long, and that the train slackened its speed in
taking it.
Then we came to a junction within sight of St. Andrews, and when I was
informed by the railway agent that I would have to wait half an hour for
a connection I told him that I would walk down the track. He informed me
that this was against the law. Having some familiarity with the monotony
with which the laws are enforced in Scotland, I smoked and waited.
The railroad skirts the links of St. Andrews, and from its pictures I
recognised the club house. Disdaining to ask questions or take a
carriage, I ordered my luggage to a hotel and started on a brisk walk,
hoping thus to brace myself for the ordeal ahead of me.
She was here. Somewhere in this picturesque old town she
was living and breathing that very moment. She had passed through
the street which then resounded with my brisk footsteps. Her name had
been Grace Harding. Was it yet Grace Harding?
I ran square into Carter!
"Why, my dear Smith!" he exclaimed, clutching at his monocle which came
as near falling as it well could and remain in place. "Why don't you
call 'Fore!' when you drive ahead like this? You're in Scotland, my dear
fellow!"
I begged his pardon, though of course it was not necessary. We heartily
shook hands—at least he did.
We were on a corner of a crooked and cobblestoned street which twists
around the side of a hill. There is a small store on this corner, and
its neatly pointed red bricks and shining plate glass are sharp in
contrast to the ancient and somewhat dilapidated structures which
surround it. I recall these facts distinctly, and I can see even now
every attitude and expression on the part of Carter.
During our brief interview his eyes frequently wandered from mine to
those plate-glass windows, as if something within were of vast interest
to him.
"You're looking fine, Carter," I said, and he was; "St. Andrews must
agree with you."
He smiled placidly and his eye twinkled merrily through that monocle.
"I'm feeling fine! Congratulate me, old fellow!"
The blow had fallen—but I stood it better than I had dreamed would be
possible!
A swarm of thoughts came to me in that instant, but I maintained my
outward serenity. I knew that he was a clean, honourable man and worthy
in every way of the hand and heart of Grace Harding. Possibly they had
been long engaged. All of my alleged rights and wrongs faded into thin
air. Besides, what was the use of whimpering? It was a stunning blow,
but I would stand it like a man.
"I do congratulate you, Carter!" I exclaimed, clasping his hand and
looking him frankly in the eyes. "You have won the most glorious woman
on earth, and I esteem it an honour that I have had the privilege of
meeting her and of enjoying her society! I am—"
"Confound it, man, you never met my wife!" said Carter. "What on earth
are you talking of, my dear Smith? Ah, excuse me!"
He pushed past me to meet a radiant creature with laughing blue eyes who
came from out that little store. He smiled and took a tiny parcel from
her hands. Then he said something to her and they turned to me.
"Stella, my dear," he said, her hand in his as they confronted the most
dazed human on the face of the earth, "you have heard me talk so much of
my dear friend, 'Foxy Old Smith'; well, here he is! Permit me to present
Mr. John Henry Smith, champion of Woodvale, winner of the Harding
Trophy, also Wizard of Finance!"
I assured Mrs. Carter that I was delighted to meet her, and if ever a
man told the truth I did at that moment. I said a lot of things, laughed
so boisterously that Carter looked shocked; I told of the death of my
uncle and grinned all the time. I certainly must have made an
impression on that lovely bride.
They compelled me to listen while they told of their marriage in London,
nearly a week before. She is an English girl, and Carter kept his word
that he would be married in London. Since she has never been in America,
and since this was my first visit to Great Britain, it was evident I had
not met her.
I do not know what Carter thought of my wild outburst. He has not
mentioned the subject, and I shall not bring it up.
"Where are the Hardings?" I asked, when I no longer could restrain my
impatience.
"They are stopping at the Caledonia," said Carter. "You probably will
find the Governor out on the links. He has struck up a great friendship
with 'Old Tom' Morris, and doubtless is playing with him right now."
"I think I will go and look him up," I said, as we came to a cross
street. "I have an important business matter in which he is interested.
I'll see you at dinner."
"The club house is yonder," said Carter, pointing down the hill. With a
bow and my uncontrollable grin, I parted from them and armed with a card
which Carter had given me, hastened toward the headquarters of the Royal
and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews.
The sedate gentlemen who were lounging about, waiting for the
prearranged times when they are privileged to drive from the first tee,
must have identified me as the typical American from the manner in which
I hastened from one room to another. I explored the locker rooms, the
cafes, reception hall, library, billiard room, the verandas, and every
nook and corner of the structure.
There is one sacred retreat called the "Room of Silence." Here are
displayed the famous relics and historical curios of the game, including
clubs used by King James, also strange irons once wielded by champions
whose bones have been mouldering for generations. In this awesome place
one must enter with sealed lips, and sit and silently ponder over his
golf and other crimes. It is sacrilege to utter a word, and not in good
form to breathe too rapidly.
An elderly gentleman who looked as if he might be a mine of information
was seated in a comfortable chair. He was the sole occupant of the room.
I had not asked a question since I had entered the building, and here
was my chance.
"Do you happen to know an American gentleman named Harding—Robert L.
Harding?" I asked, deferentially.
He did not move an eyelash. I pondered that it was just my luck that the
first gentleman I had addressed was deaf and dumb. As I crossed the
threshold, I caught an indignant mumble: "Talkative chap, that; he must
be an American."
I fled the club house and started down the course. There are three
links, but I was certain that Harding would be playing on the "regular"
one, and since it is rather narrow I had no difficulty in following it.
For the first time I was possessed of no ambition to play. Several
indignant golfers shouted "Fore!" but I pursued my way, keeping a sharp
lookout to right and left.
When about a mile from the first tee, I saw Harding. His head and
shoulders showed above the dreaded trap of "Strath's Bunker," and not
far from him was a white-bearded old gentleman with twinkling blue eyes
who was smiling at Harding's desperate efforts to loft his ball out of
the sand.
[Illustration: "This takes the cake!"]
"Thot weel not do-o, mon!" I heard him say as I neared the scene of this
tragedy. "Take yeer niblick, mon, an' coom richt doon on it!"
Out of a cascade of flying sand I saw his ball lob over the bunker, and
with various comments Mr. Harding scrambled out of this pit, brushed the
sand off his clothes, and then turned and saw me.
"Of all the damned places to get in trouble, Smith, this takes the
cake!" he exclaimed, mopping the perspiration from his face. "Do you
know," he added, looking about for his ball, "that it took me five
strokes to get out of that cursed sand pit!"
He looked in his bag for another club, played his shot, and made a
fairly good one, and then appeared to recall for the first time that he
had not recently seen me.
"Hello, Smith; when did you strike town?" he said, a welcoming smile on
his face as he offered his hand.
"About an hour ago," I said.
"Well, well! I'm glad to see you! Why didn't you wire you were coming?
We'd have come for you in our new machine. Bought a new one since we
came over here and have been travelling around in it. It's more
comfortable than these confounded English trains. They're the limit,
aren't they? Well, how are you? Seems to me you look a bit peaked?"
"I'm all right," I insisted. "How is—how is Mrs. Harding?"
"Never better in her life!"
"And how is—how is Miss Harding?"
We were on the edge of the green, and Harding had played his ball so
that we passed near the old gentleman who was Harding's opponent.
"Smith," said that gentleman, "I want you to know Old Tom Morris! Of
course, you have heard of him—every golfer has—and all that I ask is
that I may be able to play as good a game and be as good a fellow when I
am eighty-five years old. Mr. Morris, this is my young friend, John
Henry Smith, of America."
I greeted this famous character with some commonplace remarks, and
remained silent while they putted out. I made no further attempt in the
conversational line until they had driven the next tee.
"How is your daughter, Mr. Harding?" I asked.
"Grace? The Kid?" he hesitated. "She's pretty well, but this climate
don't seem exactly to agree with her. We must get her started on golf
again. She hasn't played a game since she has been here."
My heart gave a bound when he said that little word "we." Surely he knew
nothing of the trouble which had come between us. If she were married,
he surely would have said something about it, and up to that minute I
had a lingering fear that I might have lost her to some suitor other
than Carter.
"And she has never played the course?" I asked, not knowing what else to
say.
"Not once," he declared. "As a matter of fact, Smith, women are not very
popular around here. They herd them off on a third course which is set
aside for them. I looked it over, and it's a scrubby sort of a place."
"That's an outrage!" I declared.
"Oh, I don't know," he returned. "They can hack around over there and do
no great damage. Between you and me, Smith, I think women are more or
less of a nuisance on a course frequented by good players."
I recalled that I once held the same opinion, and in looking back to the
opening pages of this diary I find that I expressed it even more
brutally than did Mr. Harding. But I was in no mood to argue the matter
with him.
"I presume Mrs. and Miss Harding are at the hotel?" I carelessly
remarked. "I should like to pay my respects to them."
"They're about the hotel, I reckon," he said, taking his stance for a
brassie shot. He made a very good one.
"How's that, Smith?" he exclaimed. "My boy, I'm getting this game down
fine! Old Tom has put me onto some new wrinkles. See that old cock line
out that ball! Isn't he a wonder?"
"I think I will go and call on them," I said.
"Call on who? Oh, yes!" he said, as I started away.
"By the way, you won't find Grace there, come to think of it. Let's see;
where did she say she was going? She's painting the ruins, and has
finished the old cathedral and the monastery. What's that other famous
wreck around here? Oh, yes; the castle! I remember now that she said she
was going to paint the castle to-day. Somebody ought to paint it. I
understand it hasn't been painted for more than eight hundred years."
His roar of laughter sounded like old Woodvale days.
"What's your hurry?" he asked. "Tell you what let's do! I'll fit you out
with a set of clubs and we'll play a few holes on the second course.
Then we'll go to the hotel, talk over the news with the women folks, and
this afternoon we'll drag Carter away from his bride, and you and he can
play Tom Morris and me a foursome! How does that strike you?"
"I cannot play this forenoon," I promptly said. "I must attend to my
luggage, shave, write some letters, send telegrams and—and do a lot of
things."
"How about this afternoon?" he asked. "We start at three o'clock."
"I'll be on hand," I promised, desperately.
"All right, and don't fail," he cautioned me. "You would not believe it,
Smith, but I have got so that I can line 'em out from one hundred and—"
I turned and left him with those unknown yards poised on his lips. When
at a safe distance I looked back and saw him gazing at me with an
attitude and expression of dumb wonder.
I retained the services of a red-headed and freckled-faced boy who was
confident he could direct me to the ruins of the old castle. It was not
a long walk, and when he pointed them out in the distance I gladdened
his heart and brought a grin to his tanned face by giving him a
half-crown as I dismissed him.
I was within sight of my fate! My steps faltered as I neared the grim
arches, and once I stopped and tried to plan how I should act and what I
should say. But I could think of nothing, and mustering all my courage
and invoking the god of luck, I went on.
In a few minutes I stood within the shadow of the gray and crumbling
walls, undecided which way to turn. Picking my way over fallen masonry,
I turned the corner of a huge pile which seemed as if it might crash to
earth at any moment.
And then I saw her!
She was seated at an easel, a small canvas in front of her. Her hat was
lying on a rock near by, and the breeze had toyingiy disarranged the
dark tresses of her hair.
She was looking out over the ocean, a brush idly poised in her hand. I
saw the profile of her sweet face as I stood motionless for an instant,
not five yards away.
"Grace!" I softly said.
That easel with its unfinished canvas was tipped to the rocks as with a
startled cry she sprang to her feet. For one agonising moment I gazed
into her startled eyes and saw her quivering lips.
[Illustration: "And then I saw her!"]
"Jack!" she cried, and we were in each other's arms.
I cannot write what we did or said during the first sweet minutes which
followed, for I do not know. I only know that we told each other the
most rapturous news which comes to mortal ears. Oh, the wonder of it!
We lived and we loved! This great earth with its blue-domed sky, its
fields, its flowers and its heaving seas became ours to enjoy "till
death us do part!"
There we sat amid the ruins where kings and queens had been born; where
they had lived, loved and died centuries agone. Their ashes mingled with
the dust from which they sprang; of their pomp and splendour naught
remained save the walls which crumbled over our heads; since their time
the world had been born anew, but the god of Love who came to them now
smiled on us, his heart as youthful, his figure as beautiful and his
ardour as strong as when he whispered sweet words into the ears of the
lovers who dwelt in Eden.
I had forgotten that we ever had quarrelled. As we sat there looking out
on the sea it seemed as if we had always known of each other's love.
"Sweetheart," I asked, "when did you first know that I loved you?"
"When I became angry at you," she replied.
"When you became angry at me?" I repeated, and then the thought of the
anguish through which I had passed recalled itself.
"Darling!" I exclaimed, "why did you treat me so? What had I done?
Sweetheart, you do not know how I have suffered!"
"But you must have known all the time that I loved you," she said, a
strange smile on her lips.
"How could I know?" I faltered.
"Could you not tell?" she asked, lifting her dancing eyes to mine. "Who
was the inspired author of lines which run like this: 'I have received
that glorious message! Grace Harding loves me! The message was
transmitted from the depths of her beautiful eyes! It has been confirmed
by the gentle pressure of her hand as it rested on my arm! It has been
echoed in the accents of her sweet voice! I have read it in the blush
which mantles her cheek as I draw near, and I know it from a thousand
little tokens which my heart understands and which my feeble words
cannot express. I am—'"
'"I am an ass,' is the amended and proper ending of that sentence," I
humbly said. "I beg of you, tell me how you ever came to see those
words from my miserable diary!"
"It makes me mad even now when I think of it!" she declared, vainly
attempting to release her hand. "You great big stupid; do you not know
what you did?"
"I only know that I wrote those vain-glorious lines and that you must
have read them," I said.
"I did not read them! Oh, I could box your ears! While you were
composing that rhapsody Mr. Chilvers and others came along and asked you
to play golf with them. Golf being more important than anything else on
earth, you rushed up stairs for your clubs and left that diary on the
table. Do you remember that on your way to the first-tee you met Miss
Ross, Miss Dangerfield and me?"
I remember it.
"When we arrived on the veranda," she continued with rising indignation,
"Miss Dangerfield picked up that literary treasure of yours and of
course opened it to the page from which I have been quoting. And then
she read it to us! I never was so mortified and angry in my life. I
rushed away from them, and when you found me I was so angry that I
could have killed you. It was not a declaration of your love for me; it
was a declaration of my love for you!"
I could not help laughing, and then she did box my ears.
"That little minx of a Miss Dangerfield busied herself until your return
from your golf game in copying from your diary its choicest extracts,"
continued Grace, after we had "made up," "but I managed to get them away
from her, and I have them yet. Some of them were—well, they were nicer
than the one Miss Dangerfield read."
"Which one, for instance?"
"I won't flatter your vanity by repeating them. But when I received your
letter and had thought it over several days I decided to forgive you,
Jack, and so I wrote you that letter."
"But I never received a letter from you!" I exclaimed.
On comparing dates we found that I had left Albuquerque before the
letter could arrive there, and that it probably had not been forwarded
to Woodvale in time so that I would get it prior to my sailing.
"It was a cold and formal letter," she said, trying to look severe.
"I don't care anything about the old letter, sweetheart," I declared,
"now that I have found you."
And then we laughed and cried and were very happy. It seems that Miss
Dangerfield gave the diary to the steward, who must have sent it to my
rooms, for I have no recollection of missing it at any time.
We talked of many, many things as we sat there within the shadows of the
old castle.
"Oh, Jack!" she suddenly exclaimed, "we must secure an invitation for
you to the wedding."
"Ours, dearest?" I innocently asked. "Do I need an invitation?"
"You are so stupid I'm afraid you will—if it ever takes place," she
added, looking down. "Be good, Jack, and don't tease me. I meant to Lord
Marwick's wedding."
"Lord Marwick? Who is Lord Marwick?"
"Lord Wallace Marwick, of Perth!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands in
delight at being the custodian of some great secret.
"My knowledge of the peerage is so slight, dearest, that I confess I
have never heard of, much less met, Lord Wallace Marwick of Perth," I
declared, smiling in sympathy with her enthusiasm.
"Oh, yes you have! You know him very well!"
"I?"
"Yes, you; you dear old stupid!"
"Who on earth is Lord Wallace Marwick, or whatever his name is?"
"Bishop's hired man!"
"Wallace?"
"Wallace, our club professional!"
"And his bride is—?"
"Can you not guess?" she exclaimed.
"Miss Olive Lawrence," I hazarded.
"Really, Jack, you are improving. Two weeks from this noon Bishop's
hired man, Lord Wallace Marwick, will be united in marriage with Olive
Lawrence!"
If she had told me that her father had bought the English throne and was
about to be crowned I should not have been more surprised.
"What was he doing at Bishop's?" I gasped.
"He was studying farming," she explained. "It seems that his father
invested heavily in farming lands in the abandoned districts of New
England. Upon his death Wallace determined to acquire a practical
knowledge of the methods of American farming, and this was the way in
which he went about it. He had already worked on two farms before he
applied to Mr. Bishop. He was about to return to Scotland when he met
Miss Lawrence. The reasons for his subsequent course you certainly must
understand."
"How soon did Miss Lawrence learn that he was—that he was what he is?"
"Shortly after he became our professional." she replied. "That
disclosure, and certain other disclosures constituted one of her
'lessons.' Olive confided the secret to me, and this is the principal
reason we are here."
"Sweetheart," I said, after an interval of silence, "would it not be
splendid to have our wedding at the same time? I have always been—been
partial to double weddings."
"I do not know," she whispered, looking intently at the tip of her
dainty shoe. "Perhaps—perhaps—I don't know what papa and mamma would
think about it."
I heard the crunching of gravel.
"Don't you folks ever eat?" demanded a familiar voice, and Mr. Harding
bore down upon us. We said nothing.
"Do you know what time it is?" he added, with an impatience which
puzzled me.
"I have not the slightest idea," I truthfully replied.
"Well, it's nearly two o'clock," he declared, looking at his watch.
"I've been looking everywhere for you, Smith, and then I began to be
worried about you," turning to his daughter. "Why, Kid, you've had time
to paint this old stone shack two coats."
"I imagine I'm to blame," I interposed.
"Have you forgotten, Smith, that you have an engagement to play a
foursome with old Tom Morris, Carter and myself this afternoon?" he
said, looking at us rather suspiciously, I thought.
"I have another engagement," I returned, mustering all my courage.
"What's that?"
"I have an engagement with Grace for life, and we wish to know if you
will give your consent to our marriage two weeks from to-day!"
He gazed at us for a moment, a grave look on his rugged and honest face.
He dropped his cane, took our hands in his and said:
"Children, you didn't fool your old dad for one minute! Take her, my
boy, and God bless both of you! Your mother knows it, Grace, and she
sends her blessing."
We almost overcame him with our expressions of gratitude. As we started
back to the hotel he glanced at us and chuckled.
"I suppose you two have not quit eating?" he suggested.
We promptly admitted we were hungry.
"And I presume you will play golf once in a while?"
We assured him that we certainly should.
"Well, suppose we go to the hotel, get a bite to eat and then go out and
play that foursome with old Tom Morris and Carter," he pleaded. "There
is one green out there which is called 'The Garden of Eden,' and I want
to show it to you. You, Grace, and mother and Mrs. Carter can go along
and be the gallery. I'll promise not to say a word or give a hint about
what has happened."
Oh, that happy, happy afternoon on the turf, sand dunes, braes and
greens of Old St. Andrews! The sea gulls circled over our heads, the
foam-flecked surf crooned its song of love, the River Eden wound about
our pathway, and the blue sky smiled down upon us.
"Sweetheart," I said, "there is one confession you have not made to me."
"What is it, Jack?"
"Why did you play so wretchedly that first game in Woodvale?"
Old Tom Morris looked back and smiled in sympathy with her joyous laugh.
"They told me that you were a confirmed woman hater, and that nothing so
exasperated you as to be compelled to play with a girl who was a novice.
I wished to see if it were true. You are not a woman hater; are you,
Jacques Henri?"
"No longer!" I declared.
"And you take back all the mean things you wrote about us in your
diary?"
"Every word of it, Sweetheart!"
"Oh, Jack; I thought I should die of laughter when I drove those eight
new balls in the pond. And when you never said a cross word, and smiled
and tried to encourage me, then I suspected that you loved me."
"I wouldn't have cared if you had driven me into the pond," I said, and
then I missed my fourth brassie.
Two weeks from that day there was a double wedding in the fine old
drawing room of Marwick Mansion. From the wedding feast which followed
cablegrams went to our friends in Woodvale, also one to Mr. James
Bishop, farmer near Woodvale, informing him that sometime next season
all of us, including the "hired man," would be with him for dinner and
another dance in the new red barn.
We have been cruising in the Mediterranean, and now are anchored in the
beautiful Bay of Naples. Mr. Harding has been pacing the deck and gazing
at the smoke-wreathed crest of Vesuvius.
[Illustration: "I believe I can carry it"]
"Jack," he has just remarked, "that is quite a bunker, but with a little
more practice I believe I can carry it."
End of Project Gutenberg's John Henry Smith, by Frederick Upham Adams