Patricia stood in the hallway a moment looking at the note to Aurora,
which she held in her fingers. Then she went to the desk so recently
vacated by her guest and wrote steadily for an hour. Her thesis was the
international marriage, and she called it Crabb vs. DeLaunay, enclosing
two papers, DeLaunay's note and the newspaper clippings from her
adorable printers. Slips of paper were pinned to them, upon one of which
she had written "Exhibit A," and on the other "Exhibit B." She sealed
them all in a long envelope addressed to Miss North and handed it to
Aurora's maid with instructions that it should be given to her mistress
when she had gone up to her room.
From her own bed Patricia heard the motor arrive and her husband
fuming in the hallway below, the sound of Aurora's door closing and
of Mortimer's heavy footsteps in his own quarters; then after awhile,
silence. She lay on her bed in the dark thinking, listening intently. It
was long before she was rewarded. Then her door opened quietly, and in
the aperture the night-lamp showed a pale, tear-stained face and a
slender, girlish figure swathed in a pale blue dressing gown.
"Patricia!" the girl half sobbed, half whispered, "Patty!"
Patricia rose in her bed and took the slender figure into her sheltering
arms. "Aurora--darling. I've been waiting for you. Can you forgive me?"
"Yes--yes," sobbed the girl. "I understand."
"You were too good for him, Aurora, dear. He wasn't worthy of you." And
then, as an afterthought. "But then, I don't know a man who is."
Patricia breathed a sigh of relief. She had thought it was going to be
more difficult. She made room for the girl in the bed beside her and
soothed and petted her until she fell asleep.
"Poor Aurora," she murmured softly to herself. "You were never destined
for a life like that, child. The man you marry is to be an American, a
fine, young, healthy animal like yourself. I will not tell you his name
because if I did, you'd probably refuse him, and of course that would
never do. It must be managed some way. He's poor, you know, dear, but
then that won't matter because you will have enough for both."
It did not take Aurora a great while to recover from the shock of
disillusion and before long she was out on the golf links again,
with her usual happy following. Aurora had many virtues as well as
accomplishments, and Patricia was very fond of her. During the winter in
the city, she had given a dinner for her to which Stephen Ventnor was
invited. Patricia's plan had succeeded admirably, for Ventnor, after
several years of indomitable faithfulness to the ashes of the mourned
Patricia, had suddenly come to life. He liked Aurora so much that he
didn't even take the trouble to hide his new emotion from Patricia.
Patricia sighed, for even now renunciation was difficult to her, but
when she moved into the country for the summer, she held out the
latch-string to him for the week ends so that he could come out every
week and play golf with Aurora, which showed that after all marriage had
taught Patricia something.
Patricia had decided that Aurora North was to marry Steve Ventnor, and
this resolution made she left no stone unturned to bring the happy event
to a consummation. The skilful maker of opportunities she remembered
sometimes trusted to opportunity to make itself. Propinquity, she knew,
was her first lieutenant and the unobtrusive way in which these two
young people were continually thrown together must have been a surprise
even to themselves. Ventnor took his two weeks of vacation in July and
spent them at the Crabbs'. Patricia had thought that those two weeks
would have brought the happy business to a conclusion--for Aurora was
just ready to be caught on the rebound, and Ventnor was now very much in
love. But when Steve's vacation was over and he had packed his trunk to
go mournfully back to town, Patricia knew that something had happened to
change her well-laid plans.
She had never given Jimmy McLemore a thought. She had seen the three
many times during the summer from her bedroom windows, Aurora, Steve and
McLemore, but the thought of Aurora having a tenderness for the golfing
automaton had never for a moment entered her mind. She watched Mr.
Ventnor's departing back with mingled feelings.
"You'll be out on Saturday as usual, won't you, Steve?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, thank you, Patty," he replied, "I'll be out, if you'll have
me. But there isn't much use, you know."
"Don't be so meek, Steve!" she cried. "You're impossible when you're
that way. What earthly use did you make of all of my training?"
Ventnor smiled mournfully.
"You didn't begin soon enough, Patty," he said.
That pleased Patricia and she made a mental resolution that marry
Aurora, Steve should, if it lay in her power to accomplish it.
"There's something wrong with that girl," she mused, as she watched
Aurora and "the Sphynx"--as McLemore was familiarly called--playing
the fifth hole. "Anybody who can see anything marriageable in Jimmy
McLemore, ought to be carefully confined behind a garden wall. Jimmy! I
would as soon think of marrying a statue of Buddha."
The _Blue Wing_ was out of commission for the summer. Mortimer insisted
that no sane man could maintain both a big yacht and a big country
place. But Patricia was very happy and watched the development of Steve
Ventnor's romance with a jealous eye. She was obliged to admit, as the
summer lengthened into autumn, that after all, the whole thing was very
much a matter of golf.
Aurora was golf mad, Patricia knew, and when Jimmy McLemore ran down a
twenty-foot putt for a "bird" on the sixteenth hole, thereby winning
"three up and two" from Steve Ventnor, the golf championship of the
Country Club, Patricia detached herself from the "gallery" which had
followed the players and made her way sadly to the Club House veranda.
Penelope Wharton, her sister, who was fond of Ventnor, followed, the
picture of dejection. In the morning round Steve had been "one up"; and
the hopes of the two women had run high that their champion would be
able to increase his lead during the afternoon, or at least to maintain
it against his redoubtable adversary, but after the first few holes the
victor had developed one of those "streaks" for which he was famous, and
though poor old Steve had played a steady up-hill game, the luck went
against him and he knew at the tenth hole that unless McLemore fell over
in a fit, the gold cup was lost--for that year at least.
Patricia realized, too, that the famous gold cup might not be the only
prize at stake.
"And now," she said wrathfully, "she'll probably marry that _person_."
Mr. McLemore would have withered could he have seen the expression in
Patricia's eyes, for when Patricia called any human being a "person," it
meant that her thoughts were unutterable.
"I suppose so," said Penelope.
"I've no patience with Aurora North," said Patty, "she's absolutely
lacking in a sense of proportion. Imagine letting one's life happiness
hang on the fate of a single putt."
"And Steve is _such_ a dear."
"He is, that's the worst of it--and they're eminently fitted for
each other in every way--by birth, breeding, and circumstances. As a
sportsman Jimmy may be a success, but as a gentleman--as a lover--as a
_husband_----"
Patricia's two brown hands were raised in protest toward Olympus. "It's
odious, Pen, a case for a grand jury--or a coroner!"
"Aurora is too nice a girl," sighed Penelope.
"Nice! In everything but discrimination. That's the peril of being an
'out-of-door girl.' The more muscle, the less gray matter. That kind of
thing disturbs the balance of power." Patricia sighed--"Oh, I tried
it and I know. A woman with too much muscle is like an over-rigged
yawl--all right in light airs, but dangerous in a blow. What's the use?
Our greatest strength after all, is weakness."
"I'm sure you couldn't convince Aurora of that--nor Steve."
"I don't know," said Patricia, slowly, "but I'd like to try."
Further talk was interrupted by the arrival of the crowd from the
fair-green, thirsty and controversial. Steve Ventnor, like the good
loser that he was, had been the first to shake McLemore by the hand in
congratulation, and if he was heavy of heart, his smiling face gave no
sign of it. For the present, at least, he had abandoned the field to
his conqueror who brought up the rear of the "gallery" with Aurora,
accepting handshakes right and left with the changeless dignity which
had gained him his sobriquet of "Sphynx." At the veranda steps Mortimer
Crabb took him in tow and brought him to the table where Penelope and
Patricia were mournfully absorbing lemonade.
"Too bad, Steve," said Patricia with a brightness that failed to deceive.
"Nobody with mere blood in his veins can expect to compete with a
hydraulic ram. He's a wonderful piece of mechanism--Jimmy is--but I'm
always tortured with the fear that he may forget to wind himself up some
morning. Mort, couldn't you have dropped a little sand in his bearings?"
"Oh, he's got plenty of sand," said Crabb generously.
"He's a cracking good golfer," said Steve, looking reprovingly at
Patricia. "He's the better man, that's all."
He sank beside Patricia while Crabb had a steward take the orders.
"No," muttered Patricia. "Not that, not the better man, only the better
golfer, Steve." And then with a sudden and mystifying change of manner,
"Do you know why he always wears a crimson vest?"
"No--I've never thought," replied Steve.
"It's very--un--er--unprofessional--isn't it?"
"It isn't what a man wears that wins holes, you know, Patty."
"Oh, no," she said, carelessly, "I was just wondering----"
Mortimer Crabb, unofficial host of the occasion, had beckoned to Aurora
and McLemore, who now joined the party. Steve Ventnor rose as the
girl approached and their eyes met. Aurora's eyes were the color of
lapis-lazuli, but the deep tan of her skin made them seem several shades
lighter. They were handsome eyes, very clear and expressive, and at
important moments like the present ones her long lashes effectually
screened what might have been read in their depths.
"I'm sorry, Steve," she said gently. "You didn't have enough practice."
"Are you really?" asked Steve. He bent his head forward and said
something for Aurora's ears alone, at which her lids dropped still
further and the ends of her lips curved demurely. But she did not reply,
and turned in evident relief when Crabb made a hospitable suggestion.
Patricia watched the by-play with interest. She had followed the romance
with mingled feelings, for it was apparent that the triangle which had
been equilateral in the spring was now distorted out of all semblance to
its former shape, with poor Steve getting the worst of it. The reason
was clear. The Sphynx was rich and so could afford to play golf with
Aurora every day of the year if he wished, while Steve Ventnor, who
spent his daylight hours selling bonds in the city, had to make the most
of his Saturday and Sunday afternoons. It was really too bad.
But the Sphynx only smiled his unhumorous smile, and went on playing
golf during the week when Ventnor was at work. Propinquity had done a
damage which even Patricia, with all her worldliness, could not find
available means to repair. But she joined good-humoredly in the toasts
to the new club champion who was accepting his honors carelessly,
keeping her eyes meanwhile on Jimmy McLemore's crimson vest. That vest
was a part of Jimmy's golf, as much a part of it as his tauric glasses,
his preliminary wiggle on the tee, or his maddening precision on the
putting-green. It fascinated her somehow, almost to the exclusion of the
gayety in which she rightfully had a part.
The gold cup was brought forth and passed from hand to hand. As it came
to Patricia she looked at it inside and out, read the inscription
leisurely, then handed it carelessly to her neighbor.
"Chaste and quite expensive," was her comment.
"Oh, I think it's beautiful," said Aurora, reprovingly.
"_Chaque enfant a son gou gou_, my dear," said Patricia. "You know,
Aurora, I never did approve of golf prizes--especially valuable ones.
After all, golf is merely a game--not a religion. It's the habit in this
club to consider a golf cup with the same kind of an eye that one gives
to a possible seat in Paradise."
Even Steve Ventnor thought Patricia's remarks in bad taste.
"If Jimmy plays the game of life the way he played golf to-day," he
laughed, "he'll have an eighteen-karat halo, and no mistake."
"Patty!" exclaimed Miss North, reprovingly. "You know you don't believe
a word you say. You love golf prizes. Why you're always giving the
Bachelors' Cup, and this year you've presented the cup for the
'Affinity Foursomes.' Besides, you've won at least three prizes
yourself."
"I've reformed," said Patricia, decisively. "I've lost patience with
golf. I haven't any interest in a game that requires the elimination of
all human attributes."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"One can't be entirely human and play a good game of golf, that's all,"
she announced.
"That's rough on McLemore," laughed Mortimer.
"It's human to be irritated, human to be angry, human to have nerves,
human to make mistakes. I've no patience with people who can't lose
their tempers."
"I'm apt to lose mine, if you keep calling me names," said the Sphynx,
affably.
"You couldn't, Jimmy," said Patricia, soberly. "Anyone who can make the
tenth, eleventh and twelfth in eleven playing out of two bunkers will
never lose his temper in this world--or anything else," she added,
_sotto voce_.
"There won't be any more Bachelors' Cups, then?"
"Not if I can help it. At least not for the Ancient and Honorable Game
as we play it now. The Bachelors' Cup this fall will be played for
across country." The members of the party examined her as though they
believed she had suddenly been bereft of her senses--all but her
husband, who knew that in being surprised at Patty, one was wasting
valuable energy, but even Mortimer was mildly curious.
"Across country!" they asked.
"Exactly. I'm going to invest the game with a real sporting interest,
develop the possibilities of the niblick, eliminate the merely
mechanical, introduce a stronger element of chance. The course will be
laid out like a 'drag.'"
"With an anise-seed bag?" queried Crabb.
Patricia withered her husband with a look. "With scraps of paper," she
asserted, firmly. "The course will be four miles long over good hunting
country."
"You can't mean it," said McLemore.
"I do. It's quite feasible."
"Yes, but----"
"It's a good sporting proposition," said Aurora North, suddenly kindling
to interest. "Why not?"
Ventnor and McLemore only smiled amusedly, as became true golfers.
"Oh you can laugh, you two. Why not give it a trial? Just to make it
interesting I'll offer a cup for the Club champion and runner-up. It
will be a pretty cup--and Aurora and I will caddy."
"Willingly," laughed Aurora.
There the matter stopped. It was a joke, of course, and both men
realized it, but any joke in which Aurora North had a part was the joke
for them. A week passed before Patricia completed her plans and in the
meanwhile everybody had forgotten all about her amazing proposition. It
was, therefore, with surprise and not a little amusement that McLemore
and Ventnor received the dainty notice in Patricia's handwriting, which
advised them that the Cross Country Match would be played off on the
following Thursday afternoon, at two o'clock. Jimmy McLemore smiled at a
photograph on the desk in his library, but later in the day after a talk
over the telephone with Aurora he got a mashie, and a heavy mid-iron
from his bag and went out in his own cow-pasture to practice. Steve
Ventnor in his office in the city turned the note over in his fingers
and frowned. Thursday was his busiest day, but he realized that he had
given his promise and that if McLemore played he must. It was a very
silly business. Several things mystified him, however. What did Patricia
mean, for instance, by the absurd lines at the bottom of his invitation?
"Aurora will caddy for you; and don't wear a crimson vest--there's
nothing to be gained by it."
On a slip of paper enclosed were the _local rules_:
(1) The first ball and every fourth ball thereafter may be
played from a rubber tee.
(2) A ball in "casual" water may be lifted and dropped without
penalty.
(3) Running brooks, ponds, rocks, fences, etc., are natural
hazards, and must be played over as such.
(4) A lost ball means the loss of one stroke, but not of
distance. A ball may be dropped within twenty-five yards
of the spot where ball disappeared.
(5) _The match must be finished_ within four hours. The
competitor who for any reason fails to finish loses the
match.
Steve Ventnor smiled as he read, but in spite of his golf sense, which
is like no other sense in the world, felt himself gently warming to the
project. He would go of course--for Aurora was to caddy for him.