For several seconds after Mr. Carwell fell so heavily on the putting
green, having completed the last stroke that sent the white ball into
the cup and made him club champion, there was not a stir among the other
players grouped about him; nor did the gallery, grouped some distance
back, rush up. The most natural thought, and one that was in the minds
of the majority, was that the clubman had overbalanced himself in making
his stance for the putt shot, and had fallen. There was even a little
thoughtless laughter from some in the gallery. But it was almost
instantly hushed, for it needed but a second glance to tell that
something more serious than a simple fall had occurred.
Or if it was a fall caused by an unsteady position, taken when he
made his last shot, it had been such a heavy one that Mr. Carwell was
overlong in recovering from it. He remained in a huddled heap on the
short-cropped, velvety turf of the putting green.
Then the murmurs of wonder came, surging from many throats, and the
friends of Mr. Carwell closed around to help him to his feet-to render
what aid was needed. Among them were Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett,
and as the latter stepped forward he glanced up, for an instant, at the
blue sky.
Far above the Maraposa golf links circled a lone osprey on its way to
the inlet or ocean. Rather idly Bartlett wondered if it was the same one
he and Captain Poland had seen dart down and kill the fish just before
the beginning of the big match.
“What's the matter, Horace? Sun too much for you?” asked Major Wardell,
as he leaned over his friend and rival. “It is a bit hot; I feel it
myself. But I didn't think it would knock you out. Or are you done up
because you beat me? Come--”
He ceased his rather railing talk, and a look came over his face that
told those near him something serious had happened. There was a rush
toward the prostrate man.
“Keep back, please!” exclaimed the major. “He seems to have fainted. He
needs air. Is Dr. Rowland here? I thought I saw him at the clubhouse a
while ago. Some one get him, please. If not--”
“I'll get him!” some one offered
“Here, give him a sip of this--it's brandy!” and an automobilist, who
had come across the links from the nearest point to the highway, offered
his flask.
The major unscrewed the silver top, which formed a tiny cup, and tried
to let some of the potent liquor trickle between the purplish lips of
the unconscious victor in the cup-winners' match. But more of the liquid
was spilled on his face and neck than went into his mouth. The air
reeked with the odor of it.
“What has happened? Is he hurt?” gasped Viola, who made her way through
the press of people, which opened for her, till she stood close beside
her father. “What is it? Oh, is he--?”
“He fell,” some one said.
“Just as he made his winning stroke,” added another.
“Oh!” and Viola herself reeled unsteadily.
“It's all right,” a voice said in her ear, and though it was in the
ordinary tones of Captain Poland, to the alarmed girl it seemed as
though it came from the distant peaks of the hills. “He'll be all right
presently,” went on the captain, as he supported Viola and led her out
of the throng.
“It's just a touch of the sun, I fancy. They've gone for a doctor.”
“Oh, but, Captain Poland--father was never like this before--he was
always so strong and well--I never knew him to complain of the heat. And
as for fainting--why I believe I almost did it myself, just now, didn't
I?”
“Almost, yes.”
“But father never did. Oh, I must go to him!”
She struggled a little and moved away from his half encircling arm, for
he had seen that her strength was failing her and had supported her as
he led her away. “I must go to him!”
“Better not just now,” said Captain Poland gently. “Harry is there with
him, the major and other friends. They will look after him. You had
better come with me to the clubhouse and lie down. I will get you a cup
of tea.”
“No! I must be with my father!” she insisted. “He will need me when
he--when he revives. Please let me go to him!”
The captain saw that it was of little use to oppose her so he led her
back toward the throng that was still about the prostrate player. A
clubman was hurrying back with a young man who carried a small black
bag.
“They've got a doctor, I think,” said Gerry. “Not Dr. Rowland, though.
However, I dare say it will be all right.”
A fit of trembling seized Viola, and it was so violent that, for a
moment, Captain Poland thought she would fall. He had to hold her close,
and he wished there was some place near at hand to which he might
take her. But the clubhouse was some distance away, and there were no
conveyances within call.
However, Viola soon recovered her composure, or at least seemed to, and
smiled up at him, though there was no mirth in it.
“I'll be all right now,” she said. “Please take me to him. He will ask
for me as soon as he recovers.”
The young doctor had made his way through the throng and now knelt
beside the prostrate man. The examination was brief--a raising of the
eyelids, an ear pressed over the heart, supplemented by the use of the
stethoscope, and then the young medical man looked up, searching the
ring of faces about him as though seeking for some one in authority to
whom information might be imparted. Then he announced, generally:
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” exclaimed several.
“Hush!” cautioned Harry Bartlett “She'll hear you!”
He looked in the direction whence Viola and Captain Poland were
approaching the scene.
“Are you sure, Dr. Baird?” he asked.
“Positive. The heart action has entirely stopped.”
“But might that not be from some cause--some temporary cause?”
“Yes, but not in this case. Mr. Carwell is dead. I can do nothing for
him.”
It sounded brutal, but it was only a medical man's plain statement of
the case.
“Some one must tell her,” murmured Minnie Webb, who had been attracted
to the crowd, though she was not much of a golf enthusiast. “Poor Viola!
Some one must tell her.”
“I will,” offered Bartlett, and he made his way through a living lane
that opened for him. Then it closed again, hiding the body from sight.
Some one placed a sweater over the face that had been so ruddy, and was
now so pale.
Captain Poland, still supporting Viola on his arm, saw Bartlett
approaching. Somehow he surmised what his fellow clubman was going to
say.
“Oh, Harry!” exclaimed Viola, impulsively holding out her hands to him.
“Is he all right? Is he better?”
“I am sorry,” began Harry, and then she seemed to sense what he was
going to add.
“He isn't--Oh, don't tell me he is--”
“The doctor says he is dead, Viola,” answered Bartlett gently. “He
passed away without pain or suffering. It must have been heart disease.”
But Viola Carwell never heard the last words, for she really fainted
this time, and Captain Poland laid her gently down on the soft, green
grass.
“Better get the doctor for her,” he advised Bartlett. “She'll need him,
if her father doesn't.” As Harry Bartlett turned aside, waving back
the curiosity seekers that were already leaving the former scene of
excitement for the latest, LeGrand Blossom came up. He seemed very cool
and not at all excited, considering what had happened.
“I will look after Miss Carwell,” he said.
“Perhaps you had better see to Mr. Carwell--Mr. Carwell's remains,
Blossom,” suggested Captain Poland. “Miss Carwell will be herself very
soon. She has only fainted. Her father is dead.
“Dead? Are you sure?” asked LeGrand Blossom, and his manner seemed a
trifle more naturally excited.
“Dr. Baird says so. You'd better go to him. He may want to ask some
questions, and you were more closely associated with Carwell than any of
the rest of us.”
“Very well, I'll look after the body,” said the secretary. “Did the
doctor say what killed him?”
“No. That will be gone into later, I dare say. Probably heart disease;
though I never knew he had it,” said Bartlett.
“Nor I,” added Blossom. “I'd be more inclined to suspect apoplexy. But
are you sure Miss Carwell will be all right?”
“Yes,” answered Captain Poland, who had raised her head after sprinkling
in her face some water a caddy brought in his cap. “She is reviving.”
Dr. Baird came up just then and gave her some aromatic spirits of
ammonia.
Viola opened her eyes. There was no comprehension in them, and she
looked about in wonder. Then, as her benumbed brain again took up its
work, she exclaimed:
“Oh, it isn't true! It can't be true! Tell me it isn't!”
“I am sorry, but it seems to be but too true,” said Captain Poland
gently. “Did he ever speak of trouble with his heart, Viola?”
“Never, Gerry. He was always so well and strong.”
“You had better come to the clubhouse,” suggested Bartlett, and she went
with them both.
A little later the body of Horace Carwell was carried to the “nineteenth
hole”--that place where all games are played over again in detail as the
contestants put away their clubs.
A throng followed the silent figure, borne on the shoulders of some
grounds workmen, but only club members were admitted to the house. And
among them buzzed talk of the tragedy that had so suddenly ended the day
of sports.
“He looked all right when he started to play,” said one. “Never saw him
in better form, and some of his shots were marvelous.”
“He'd been drinking a little too much for a man to play his best,
especially on a hot day,” ventured another. “He must have been taken ill
from that, and the excitement of trying to win over the major, and it
affected his heart.”
“Never knew him to have heart disease,” declared Bruce Garrigan.
“Lots of us have it and don't know it,” commented Tom Sharwell. “I
suppose it will take an autopsy to decide.”
“Rather tough on Miss Carwell,” was another comment.
“That's true!” several agreed.
The body of Horace Carwell was placed in one of the small card rooms,
and the door locked. Then followed some quick telephoning on the part of
Dr. Baird, who had recently joined the golf club, and who had arrived at
the clubhouse shortly before Mr. Carwell dropped dead.
It was at the suggestion of Harry Bartlett that Dr. Addison Lambert,
the Carwell family physician, was sent for, and that rather aged
practitioner arrived as soon as possible.
He was taken in to view the body, together with Dr. Baird, who was
almost pathetically deferential to his senior colleague. The two medical
men were together in the room with the body for some time, and when they
came out Viola Carwell was there to meet them. Dr. Lambert put his arms
about her. He had known her all her life--since she first ventured into
this world, in fact--and his manner was most fatherly.
“Oh, Uncle Add!” she murmured to him--for she had long called him by
this endearing title--Oh, Uncle Add! What is it? Is my father--is he
really--”
“My dear little girl, your father is dead, I am sorry to say. You must
be very brave, and bear up. Be the brave woman he would want you to be.”
“I will, Uncle Add. But, oh, it is so hard! He was all I had! Oh, what
made him die?”
She questioned almost as a little child might have done.
“That I don't know, my dear,” answered Dr. Lambert gently. “We shall
have to find that out later by--Well, we'll find out later, Dr. Baird
and I. You had better go home now. I'll have your car brought around. Is
that--that Frenchman here--your chauffeur?”
“Yes, he was here a little while ago. But I had rather not go home with
him--at least, unless some one else comes with me. I don't like--I don't
like that big, new car.
“If you will come with me, Viola--” began Bartlett.
“Yes, Harry, I'll go with you. Oh, poor Aunt Mary! This will be a
terrible shock to her. I--”
“I'll telephone,” offered Dr. Lambert. “She'll know when you arrive. And
I'll be over to see you, Viola, as soon as I make some arrangements.”
“And will you look after--after poor father?”
“Yes, you may leave it all to me.”
And so, while the body of the dead clubman remained at the nineteenth
hole, Viola Carwell was taken to 'The Haven' by Harry Bartlett, while
Captain Poland, nodding farewell to LeGrand Blossom and some of his
other friends, left the grounds in his gray car.
And as he rode down past the inlet where the tide was now running out to
the sea, he saw an osprey dart down and strike at an unseen fish.
But the bird rose with dripping pinions, its talons empty.
“You didn't get any one that time!” murmured the captain.