by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. VI
I PLAY WITH MISS HARDING
I regret that lack of intimacy with the muses prevents me from recordingthis entry in verse. I have been playing golf with Miss Harding!
Not until this afternoon did I realise that constant association withMarshall, Carter, Chilvers, and other hardened golfers has dulled myfiner sensibilities and deadened my appreciation of the wonderful scenicbeauties of the Woodvale golf course.
Like the fool bicycle scorcher who tears past beautiful bits oflandscape, his eyes fixed on the dusty path spurned by his whirringwheel, or like the goggled maniac who steers an automobile, I now findthat I have played hundreds of times over this course without oncehaving seen it.
When I was a boy my foolish parents took me on a tour of the continent,for the reason, I presume, that they did not dare leave me at home. Myimpression of the colossal splendour beneath the vaulted heights ofSaint Peter's was that a certain smooth space on the tiled floor offeredunequalled facilities for playing marbles. I marvelled that baseballgrounds were not laid out in the noble open spaces surrounding thepalaces of Paris, Berlin, and Vienna. The Swiss Alps had a fascinationfor me by reason of their unsurpassed opportunities for coasting.
It never occurred to me until to-day that nature had any motive inplanning Woodvale other than to provide a sporty golf course. MissHarding has opened my eyes to the fact that it is one of the mostbeautiful spots on the face of the earth.
When I told Carter I was to play with Miss Harding, he looked sort ofqueer for a moment, and then bet me a box of balls I would not makeeighty-five. This was the only thing he could think to say. He triedhard to conceal his surprise, but I could see that he was hard hit.
He wins the box of balls, all right. As a matter of fact we did notfinish the round, but I did not tell Carter that. I simply grinnedhappily and told him that he had won.
There is no reason why I should attempt to write an account of this gamein this diary. I shall never forget the slightest detail of it as longas I live.
The night is black as a raven's wing, but I am certain that I can startfrom the first tee and retrace every step made by Miss Harding over thefourteen holes played, and I will admit that it was far from a straightline. I will wager that I can place my hand on every place where herclub tore up the turf, and can locate the exact spots where she droveout of bounds.
The day was beautiful, the weather perfect. A few fleecy clouds driftedacross a deep sky. The rich green of the slopes blended into the darkershades of the encompassing forests. As a rule, the only thing I canrecall after a golf game, so far as weather is concerned, is whether itrained or if a high wind were blowing. It was different to-day.
I noted that the breeze was just strong enough to ruffle the lace at herthroat, and that the blue of her gown matched perfectly with cloud, sky,and the dominating tones of the undulating carpet on which she tread.
I might play with Marshall or Chilvers a thousand times and not know orcare if the links were garbed in green or yellow, or if the clouds werepink or Van Dyke brown, but as I said before, the only sentiment arousedby association with these vindictive golf fiends is a wild andunreasoning desire to beat the life out of them at their own game. Idislike to say it, but they have never inspired in me one sentiment ofwhich I am proud.
At my suggestion we decided to start at the third tee. The first onerequires a long drive to carry the lane, and on the second it isnecessary to negotiate the old graveyard, and I disliked to put MissHarding to so severe a test on the start.
As I made a tee for her and carefully placed a new white ball on it, Icould not help think of the many times I have sneered and laughed atThomas, who is the only good player in the club who has really seemed toenjoy a game of golf with one of the opposite sex.
I can see now that I have been very unfair to Thomas.
The man who refuses to play golf with a woman, or who even hesitates,and who justifies such conduct on the plea that she cannot play wellenough to make the contest an equal one--well, he has none of the finerinstincts of a gentleman.
I told Marshall and Chilvers so this evening, and they laughed at me.
Both of these men are married, and both used to play golf with theirsweethearts when they were engaged. Once in a great while they now playa round with the alleged partners of their joys and sorrows, but they doit as if it were a penance, and seem immensely relieved when the ordealis over. It is pitiful to watch these two ladies forced to playtogether, while their lords and masters indulge in fierce foursomes,waged for the brute love of victory--and incidentally, perhaps for aball a hole.
If I ever marry I shall play with the habitual golfer only when Mrs.Smith is disinclined to favour me with her society on the links.Chilvers and Marshall say that they made the same resolution--and keptit nearly six months. Let them watch me.
Miss Harding missed the ball entirely the first time she swung at it,and both of us laughed heartily.
Now that I come to think of it, nothing used to infuriate me more thanto have to wait on a tee for a woman who was wildly striking at a ball.But one must learn, and it is no disgrace for a lady to miss so smallan object as a golf ball.
She hit the ball on the second attempt. It did not go far, it is true,but it went gracefully, describing a parabolic curve considerably to theright of the line of the green.
Then I drove a long, straight ball, and felt just a little bit ashamedof myself. It seemed like taking an unfair advantage of my fairopponent. In fact it seemed a brutal thing to do, but she expresseddelight.
"That was splendid, Mr. Smith!" she declared, as my ball stoppedrolling, more than two hundred yards away. "I know that my poor littlegame will bore you to death, but you invited this calamity."
"I only wish that--that I----" and then I stopped in time to keep fromsaying something foolish.
"Well?" she said, a smile hovering on her lips.
"I only wish that I could drive as far as that every time," I continued,"and--and that you could drive twice as far."
"What an absurd wish!" declared Miss Harding.
It was worse than absurd; it was stupid! Imagine a woman driving a ballfour hundred yards! I would never dare marry such a woman, and I camenear making some idiotic remark to that effect, but luckily at thatmoment we came to her ball. I selected the proper club for her, jabberedsomething about how to play the shot, and thus got safely out of anawkward situation.
At my suggestion we were playing without caddies. There are times whenthese little terrors take all of the romance out of a situation, and Idid not wish to be bothered with them.
On her fourth shot Miss Harding landed her ball in the brook, and ittook quite a time to find it. While we were looking for it Boyd andLaHume arrived on the tee, and I motioned them to drive ahead.
I have seen this brook a thousand times. It was my greatest source ofamusement and mischief when a boy, but never until this afternoon did Iobserve its perfect beauty. Heretofore it has been no more nor less thana ribbon of water with weed-lined banks and tall rushes, into which apoor player is likely to drive a ball and lose one or more strokes. Itis one of our "natural hazards," and I have thought no more of it than Iwould of the cushion on a billiard table.
I shall never cross that brook again without thinking of her face as Isaw it mirrored in the shadows of the old stone bridge. The reflectionwas framed with delicate interfacings of water cress, while in the bedof the stream the smooth pebbles gleamed like pearls. The pointed reedsnodded and waved in the gentle breeze.
Now that I think of it, I have cursed those reeds many, many times whilehunting for a lost ball.
"Is it not beautiful?" I exclaimed to Miss Harding.
"That drive of Mr. Boyd's?" she asked in reply. Boyd had made a ripper,which went sailing over our heads. "It was a lovely drive! He has beatenyou by several yards."
"I meant the brook," I said.
"The brook?" she exclaimed. "I am surprised, Mr. Smith! I had no ideathat a confirmed golfer could fin
d beauty in anything outside of adrive, brassie, approach or putt."
"You malign us, Miss Harding," I declared, looking first in her eyes andthen in her mirrored image in the water. "From where I stand that brookis the most lovely thing in the world, except--except----"
"Mr. LaHume has put his ball square on the green on his second shot!"interrupted Miss Harding, clapping her hands in excitement.
I do not know whether she knew what I was going to say or not. I wish Ihad the nerve to finish some of the fine speeches and compliments I planand begin, but as a rule I end them without a climax.
We found the ball and I dropped it a few yards back of the brook. Shepromptly drove it into the brook a second time, and what became of itwill always remain a mystery to me. It did not go more than fifteenfeet, and we looked and looked but could not find it, so I smiled anddropped another one, and this time she made a really good shot.
Counting all of the strokes and penalties it took Miss Harding fifteento make that hole, the bogy for which is four, but I assured her that Ihave known men to do worse, and I believe the statement a fact, though Icannot recall at this moment who did it in such woeful figures.
Miss Harding insisted in trying to drive over the pond on the fourthhole, and said she would gladly pay for all the balls that went into it,but of course I would not listen to that. The pond is very shallow atthis season of the year, and in fact is a mud hole in most places, andit is therefore impossible to recover a ball which fails to carry lessthan eighty yards.
She barely touched the ball on her first attempt, and I got it afterwading in the mud to my shoe tops. Then she hit it nicely, but it failedto carry the pond by a few yards, and disappeared in the ooze.
"I thought I could do it, but I give it up," she said, and I could seethat she was disappointed.
"Try it again," I insisted, teeing up a new one. "Keep your eye on theball when your club comes down, and don't press."
She made a brave effort, but hit the ball a trifle on top. It struck thewater, ricochetted and eventually poised itself on a mud bank. I recallhow white it looked against the black slime with lily pads in thebackground, but I saw at a glance that it would remain there, so far aswe were concerned.
"We rested on top of the hill"]
Against her protest I teed another ball, but she went under it and itmet the fate of its predecessors. It took all my eloquence to induce herto make the five attempts which followed, and then I made the discoverythat I had brought only eight new balls with me. So I excused myself andwent back to the club house and bought a box of a dozen, but nothingwould change her determination not to try it again.
I am firmly convinced that with a little luck she could have done it,but it was the first time Miss Harding had played this course, and thatmakes lots of difference.
Of the various incidents in this most delightful game nothing gave memore keen enjoyment than when Miss Harding played Carter's ball. It wasby mistake, of course. Nature has implanted in woman an instinct whichleads her to play any ball rather than her own. The ball thus selectedis generally without a blemish, and it has been ordained that a weaklittle creature can with one stroke cut that sphere in halves.
That is what happened to Carter's ball when Miss Harding played it bymistake, and I never laughed more heartily. Carter smiled and bowed andpretended to be amused, but I knew he was not.
We rested on top of the hill after this exploit and talked of the rareview and of other topics which had nothing whatever to do with golf.Never before have I rested during a game, and I did not think itpossible. I have been on that hill innumerable times, but it neveroccurred to me to take more than a passing glance at the inspiringvista which spreads away to the north and west.
We talked of poetry and of art. Think of sitting with a golf club inyour hand, resting a few rods from a tee where a clean shot will carrythe railway tracks a hundred feet below and land your ball on a greentwo hundred and eighty yards from the tee--it is one of the finest holesin the country--think of idling an hour away on the most perfect golfafternoon you ever saw, and repeating line after line of versedescriptive of "meadows green and sylvan shades," and all that sort ofthing!
We did that! I would not believe it, but I actually felt sorry for thechaps who went past us, their minds absorbed in the mere struggle to seewhich would take the fewer numbers of strokes in putting golf balls incertain round holes. Honestly I pitied them.
And they envied me. I could see that. The arrival of Miss Harding hascreated a sensation, and it was no small honour to play the first gamewith her. Of course Marshall, Chilvers, Pepper and other married menhardly noticed me, but Thomas, Boyd, Roberts and such young gallantssmiled, bowed and looked longingly in my direction.
It took us more than five hours to play twelve holes, and I have playedtwice around in less than that. I have not the slightest idea what myscore is, and that is something which never before happened to me.Carter wins a dozen balls, and he can have them, or a dozen dozen forall I care.
Miss Harding has promised to play with me again.