CHAPTER XXIII
With a sigh of relief, Jacob handed his driver to the caddy andwatched the career of a truly hit ball down the smooth fairway. Therewas a little murmur of applause from a hundred or so of onlookers. Bythat stroke, Jacob had opened the Cropstone Wood Golf Links.
"Pretty certain where your name will come on the handicap list, Mr.Pratt," his opponent observed, after his own somewhat inferior effort.
"If I can qualify for scratch," Jacob replied, as they marched offtogether, first of twenty-three couples of prize-competing CropstoneWoodites, "one of the ambitions of my life will be gratified."
What really were his ambitions, Jacob wondered, in the pretty littleluncheon room at the club an hour or so later, as he resumed his seatamidst a storm of applause, having renounced to the next successfulcompetitor the cup which he had himself presented and won. Upon thehandicap sheet the magic letter "Scr." had already been emblazonedopposite to his name, as the result of a very sound seventy-nine onan eighty bogey course. There was scarcely one of his investmentswhich was not prospering. His health was perfect. There were manypeople leaning upon him, and not in vain, for happiness. He had beenobliged to put a limit on the premium which might be paid for houseson the Cropstone Wood Estate, and even then, notwithstanding hisunwonted liberality in the matter of a tennis club, golf course andswimming bath, the investment introduced to him in so unpropitious amanner was a thoroughly remunerative one. He had won four first prizesat the Temple Flower Show. His bungalow at Marlingden was theadmiration of all the neighbourhood, his flat at the Milan Court thelast word in luxury and elegance. And yet there was a void.
He looked out of the windows of the clubhouse at the cottage whereSybil Bultiwell and her mother had first taken up their abode, and histhoughts wandered away from the uproarious little scene over which hewas presiding. Called to himself by the necessity of acknowledging auniversal desire to drink his health, he looked around the table andrealised what it was that he lacked. There were a dozen women present,comely enough, but only in one or two cases more than ordinarilygood-looking; they were there because they were the helpmates of themen who brought them, sharers in their daily struggle, impressed withthe life duty of sympathy, houseproud a little, perhaps, and with someof the venial faults of a small community, but--their husbands'companions, the "alter ego" of the man whose nature demands the leavenof sentiment as the flowers need their morning bath of dew. And Jacobstill lived and was alone. On his right sat the proud and buxom motherof the captain of the club, a young bank clerk; on his left, the wifeof the secretary, a lady who persisted in remaining good-lookingalthough she had eight children and but a single nursemaid.
"And only one word more," the secretary concluded, crumpling up thetypewritten slips in his hand, wiping the perspiration from hisforehead, and trying to convey the impression that the whole of whathad gone before had come from his lips as spontaneously as these lastfew words. "I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to drink the health ofour president and generous benefactor, Mr. Jacob Pratt, and when weall meet again next year, as a married man I have only one wish to addto those which we have already expressed, and that is that there maybe a Mrs. Jacob Pratt to share in his pleasures, his triumphs, and, ifby any evil chance he should ever have any, his sorrows."
There were rounds of applause. Every one stood up and held out theirglasses towards him, and Jacob was forced back again into this veryreal world of men and women made comfortable in their daily lives byhis efforts. He said his few words of thanks simply but gracefullyand, in accordance with the programme of the day, they trooped outafterwards to the lawn in front of the freshly plastered clubhouse anddrank their coffee at small round tables, looking down the course,discussing the various holes, and making matches for the next Saturdayafternoon and Sunday. A girl at the adjoining table leaned over andasked him a question.
"Do you know what has become of the Bultiwells, Mr. Pratt?" sheenquired.
"Mrs. Bultiwell, I believe, went to stay with some relatives inDevonshire," he replied. "The last I heard of Miss Bultiwell was thatshe had taken a position as governess somewhere near Belgrave Square."
"A governess!" his questioner repeated. "Fancy her not being married!Don't you think she's awfully pretty, Mr. Pratt?"
"I do," Jacob agreed.
"And so good at tennis, too," the girl continued. "I wish she'd comeback."
"Quite a tragical story, her father's death," a man at the same tableobserved. "I don't know whether you ever heard about it, Mr. Pratt. Hewas a leather merchant in a very large way in the city, but got intodifficulties somehow. His one hope was that a friend who had a lot ofmoney would come into partnership with him. It seems that the friendnot only refused to do so when the moment came, but was rather roughon poor old Bultiwell about the way he had been conducting hisbusiness--so much so that he blew out his brains in the office, anhour or so after their interview."
"How brutal of the friend!" the girl observed. "He might have let himdown gently. You wouldn't do a thing like that, would you, Mr. Pratt?"
Jacob opened his lips to tell the truth, but closed them again. Afterall, why should he say a single word to mar the pervading impressionof good-heartedness and happiness? The man was so anxious to improvehis acquaintance with Jacob; the girl, who had moved her chair asthough unconsciously a little closer to his, even more so. He met thesmiling question in her eyes a little gravely but with no lack offriendliness.
"One never knows quite what one would do under certain circumstances,"he said. "If Mr. Bultiwell, for instance, had tried to deceive hisfriend and had been found out, I imagine it is only fair that heshould have heard the truth."
"He must have been told it in a cruel way, though, or he would neverhave committed suicide," the girl persisted. "I am quite sure that youcouldn't do anything in a cruel way, Mr. Pratt."
"I am going to be cruel to myself, at any rate," Jacob replied, "andgo over and start those foursomes."
Jacob rose to his feet. The girl's look of disappointment was soingenuous that he turned back to her.
"Won't you come with me, Miss Haslem?" he invited.
She sprang up and walked gladly by his side, chattering away as theystood on a slight eminence overlooking the first tee, using all thesimple and justifiable weapons in her little armoury of charms to wina smile and a little notice, perhaps even a later thought from thegreat man of the day whose wealth alone made him seem almost like ahero of romance. She was a pleasant-faced girl, with clear browneyes and masses of hair brushed back from her forehead and leftunhandicapped by any headgear to dazzle the eye of the beholder. Herblouse was cut a little low, but the writer of the young ladies'journal, who had sent her the pattern, had assured her that it was nolower than fashion permitted. Her white skirt was a little short, andher stockings were very nearly silk. She was twenty-two years old,fairly modest, moderately truthful, respectably brought up, but shewas the eldest of four, and she would have fallen at Jacob's feet andkissed the ground beneath them for a sign of his favour. Jacob, withthe echoes of that tragic story still in his ears, wondered, as hestood with his hands behind his back, whether in those few minutes,when he had taken his meed of revenge, he had indeed raised up a ghostwhich was to follow him through life. More than anything in the world,what he wanted besides the good-fellowship of other men was the loveand companionship of a wife. Was his to be the dream of Tantalus?Here, young womanhood of his own class, eager, sufficiently comely,stood striving to weave the spell of her sex upon him, with a lack ofsuccess which was almost pitiable. It was the selective instinct withwhich he was cursed. Something had even gone from the sad pleasurewith which he used to be able to conjure up pictures of Sybil. It wasalmost as though the thought of her had ceased to attract him, andwith the passing of the spell which she had laid upon him had come apassion as strong as ever for her sex, coupled with hopeless andglacial indifference to its human interpretesses. The girl began tofeel the strain of a monosyllabic listener, but she had the courage ofa heroine. She
clutched her companion's arm as her father topped hisdrive from the first tee. As though by accident, her fingers remainedon Jacob's coat sleeve.
"Poor dad!" she sighed. "Did you see him miss his drive? He'll be sodisappointed. He used to play quite well, but that wretched City--hedoesn't seem to be able to shake it off, nowadays. I wonder why it'sso difficult, Mr. Pratt," she added, raising her eyes artlessly tohis, "for some people to make money?"
"We haven't all the same luck," Jacob observed.
"Dad rushes home on Saturdays so tired," she went on, "and thenwonders why he plays golf so badly, wonders why mother isn't alwayscheerful, and why we girls can't dress on twopence a week. Why,stockings alone,"--she lifted her foot from the ground, gazedpensively at it for a moment and then suddenly returned it. Her anklewas certainly shapely, and the brevity of her skirts and a slightbreeze permitted a just appreciation of a good many inches ofmysterious white hose. "But of course you don't know anything aboutthe price of women's clothes," she broke in with a laugh. "I hope youdon't mind my hair looking a perfect mop. I never can keep it tidy outof doors, and I hate a hat."
Jacob patiently did his best.
"I like to see girls without their hats when they have hair as prettyas yours," he assured her, "and some day or other you must play me around of golf for a dozen pairs of stockings."
"Wouldn't I just love to!" she exclaimed with joy. "Now or any otherold time! I warn you that I should cheat, though. The vision of adozen pairs of stockings melting into thin air because of yourwonderful play would be too harrowing.--What on earth is that?"
Jacob, too, was listening with an air of suddenly awakened interest.Up the hill came a black speck, emitting from behind a cloud of smokeand punctuating its progress with the customary series of explosions.
"I do wish I had a two-seater," the girl sighed.
"I rather believe it's some one for me," Jacob said, stepping eagerlyforward.
The girl remained by his side. Felix brought the car to the side ofthe road which wound its way across the common, shook the dust fromhis clothes and waved his hand joyously to Jacob.
"Forty-seven minutes, my revered chief!" he exclaimed, as heapproached, waving a missive in his hand. "See what it is to have someone amongst your bodyguard who can perform miracles!"
"What have you brought?" Jacob asked.
"A cable! Dauncey thought I had better bring it down."
Jacob read it, and read it over again. It was a dispatch from NewYork, handed in that morning:
Regret to say your brother seriously ill. Should be deeply grateful if you would expedite your proposed visit. Am urgently in need of advice and help. Please come Saturday's steamer if possible.
Sydney Morse, Secretary.
Jacob folded up the dispatch and placed it in his breast pocket. Thenhe suddenly remembered the girl.
"Felix," he said, "let me present you to Miss Haslem. LordFelixstowe--Miss Haslem."
The two young people exchanged the customary greetings. The girl beganto apologise for her hair. Her cup of happiness was very nearlyfilled. And then Jacob dashed it to the ground.
"I want you to take me back to town as soon as you've had a drink," heintervened, addressing the young man. "We sail for America to-morrow."
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