Lawrence rush forward and half fall into Wallace's arms. We saw him
stagger to a lawn settee, she still clinging to him and screaming.
LaHume lay as if dead.
These latter details I noticed as Carter and I were running toward them.
Wallace was on his feet before we reached him. He was attempting to
calm Miss Lawrence who was moaning, "He has killed him; he has killed
him!" I knew she feared for Wallace, but I was much more apprehensive as
to the fate of LaHume.
Blood was trickling down the face of the young Scotchman, and its red
had stained a handkerchief which Miss Lawrence had pressed to his scalp
above his left temple. It was the sight of this which frightened her,
but she comported herself with as much bravery as would most women under
similar circumstances.
"I'm not much hurt," declared Wallace with a reassuring smile. "It's
only a scratch on the scalp. Miss Lawrence is more alarmed than I am
injured. I assure you it is nothing."
"LaHume struck him with a knife!" exclaimed Miss Lawrence, recovering
her nerve as a wave of anger came to her. "He called Mr. Wallace a
coward and a cad, and when Mr. Wallace tried to calm him he struck at
him with a knife. Oh, I hope you have killed him!"
[Illustration: "LaHume was shot back several yards"]
"I'm afraid your hope is realised," said Carter, bending over the inert
form of LaHume.
"Small fear of that," said Wallace, but I detected a note of
apprehension in his voice. "I aimed to disable without seriously
injuring him."
As he spoke LaHume moved, groaned and half raised himself. In the
meantime a group had gathered, and in it was Doctor Barry, a member of
the club. LaHume was conscious but completely dazed. We were much
relieved when the doctor said that he was not permanently injured.
Ordering two of the servants to take LaHume to the club house and put
him to bed, Doctor Barry turned his attention to Wallace.
Despite the spilling of blood the cut was a trifling one, and after
giving it simple treatment, the doctor assured Wallace that he could
attend to his duties as usual. An hour later the nervy Scotchman was out
on the links giving Lawson a lesson.
We picked the knife from the walk near the scene of the encounter. The
blow had been aimed at the breast or neck, but Wallace parried it and
received the scratch before he could grasp LaHume's wrist. The quick
wrench which caused the knife to fly from LaHume's hand fractured one of
the small bones in his forearm, as was learned when that desperate young
man had more fully recovered.
It was a disagreeable incident, and I take no pleasure in recording it.
Wallace immediately tendered his resignation, but Carter and I told him
it would not be considered, and I am sure the management will uphold us
in that action.
The conduct of Miss Lawrence convinces me that she is much attached to
Wallace. Of course, nothing else was talked of during the afternoon and
evening.
In the cool of the day Miss Harding accepted my invitation to play "the
brook holes," as we call them, and we climbed to the top of "The Eagle's
Nest" to watch the sunset.
I helped her up the steep rocks and finally we stood breathless, gazing
down on our little world.
"At last we are alone," I said.
It was one of my usual brilliant remarks. There must have been a ring of
tragedy or melodrama in my voice, but really I said it only because I
could think of nothing else to say at that moment.
Miss Harding looked up with a curious expression in her deep brown eyes
and a rather timid smile on her lips. It was as if she were wondering if
I meditated hurling myself to the depths below, or if I intended to take
this opportunity to launch some tender declaration.
I wish I had the command of language of the garrulous and ever
entertaining hero of the popular novel. If I ever propose it will be in
writing.
I can see that look of startled curiosity on her pretty face as I write
these lines, and the more I think of it, the more am I convinced that
she expected something far different from what followed.
I wonder what she would have said or done if I had thrown myself at her
feet and passionately declared the love I bear to her? I wonder if those
tender lips would have murmured the words which would have raised me to
the seventh heaven of happiness, or if she would have firmly said--oh,
what is the use of wondering?
"No danger of being hit with a golf ball up here," I said, when she
remained silent.
And then she laughed. Since there was nothing witty in my remark she
must have been laughing at something else. I have an idea what it was,
but I had sense enough to laugh with her.
"Do you know," I said, determined to frame a rational statement, "I
believe Miss Lawrence is in love with Mr. Wallace."
"Indeed?" she exclaimed. "And what of Mr. Wallace?"
"I believe Mr. Wallace is in love with Miss Lawrence."
"What a delightful state of affairs!" she laughed. "Nothing then remains
but to set the date, celebrate the event and live happily ever
afterward."
"I do not say she will marry him," I ventured to qualify. "It probably
started as a harmless flirtation on her part, but I really think she
cares more for him than she would be willing to admit."
"If she liked him well enough to encourage his attentions, which is a
fairly good definition of a harmless flirtation," she said, quite
seriously, "and later discovers that she loves him and that he loves
her, why should they not marry?"
I think my tactics at this point were rather clever. I saw a chance to
obtain her views on a question most vital to me, and I proceeded to do
so, but I hope I did not lower myself in her estimation. As I have said
before, I think Wallace is good enough for any woman.
"Consider the difference in their stations in life," I interposed. "She
has wealth, family, and a high position in society. Of Wallace we know
nothing except that he comports himself like a gentleman in reduced
circumstances."
"I should imagine that would be the most difficult time to play such a
role," Miss Harding said. "We know those who cannot be gentlemen even
under the most encouraging circumstances. The greatest happiness which
can come to a good woman is to marry the man she loves, and if she
allows wealth, position or any other selfish consideration to stand in
the way she does not deserve happiness."
"Right you are!" I declared with an enthusiasm which may have betrayed
me. "I agree with every word you have said."
"See those perfect yellows against that bar of vivid red," she said,
pointing to the west, where the sky quivered with a naming sunset. "See
how the light flashes from the windows of the club house! One would
think it filled with molten metal. How sharp the old church belfry shows
against that mass of golden cloud to the northwest!"
We watched this glorious scene in silence until the upper rim of the sun
sank beneath the rounded crest of "Old Baldy." Then I helped her down
and we walked slowly back to the club house.
Have I not the right to assume that Miss Harding "likes me well enough
to encourage my attentions," which is her definition of a flirtation? I
believe I have. I know that other young gentlemen belonging to the club
have attempted in vain to compete with me for the favour of her society.
All have failed--Carter alone excepted. But recently I have been with
her more than has Carter. In fact I fear him less at the present moment
than I have at any time. I shall soon know my fate.
For the first time the strain of my stock operations is telling on me. I
have now purchased 35,000 shares of N.O. & G., and the market for it
closed to-night at 60. If I were forced to settle at this figure I would
be about $345,000 loser. If the stock is valueless, as some of the
experts are now declaring, I am liable for nearly $2,000,000 more.
I have converted everything except my equity in Woodvale into money, and
counting the margins in the hands of my brokers I find that I have
nearly $3,000,000. I suppose I could get out with a loss of half a
million, and there are moments when my cowardice struggles against me
and when I am tempted to abandon this hazardous enterprise.
I shall stick it out, however. I know the conspiracy which has been
hatched, and I do not believe they will dare force the price down much
lower. I am going to buy another block of ten thousand shares if it
continues to decline, and then await developments. If it goes to zero I
shall still have a little money left, and I shall have the income from
the old farm--but I shall not have the hardihood to ask for the hand of
Grace Harding.
You may talk as much as you please but money is a commanding factor in
love and marriage. It is all very well for a wealthy man to fall in love
and marry a poor girl, but it is an entirely different thing for a poor
man to aspire to the hand and heart of a wealthy woman.
Honestly, I don't believe it right that women should be permitted under
the law to inherit vast sums of money--at least marriageable women. No
man of ordinary means who possesses a proper self-respect will espouse a
woman whose income overshadows his own.
I would limit the inheritances of marriageable women to a maximum amount
of $100,000. I wish Miss Harding did not have a dollar.
The contest for the Harding Trophy--I mean the bronze, and not the real
Harding Trophy--has narrowed down to four of us, Carter, Boyd, Marshall
and myself. I have a sort of a premonition that as that 'bronze gent'
goes, so will go everything which I hold dear. I am making the fight of
my life for it. I play Marshall to-morrow morning.
ENTRY NO. XVIII
MR. HARDING'S STRUGGLE
I won my match with Marshall after a contest which went to the twentieth
hole. He had me dormie one coming to the eighteenth, but by perfect
playing I won it in a five and halved the match. Nothing happened on the
first extra hole, but on the following I held a fifteen putt for a three
and won a beautifully contested match.
Miss Harding went around with us and was my Mascot. I broke my record
for the course, making a medal score of seventy-eight. Miss Harding
congratulated me and I was so happy I could have yelled. Dear old
Marshall did not take his defeat the least to heart, but he is not
playing for the stakes that I am.
I have dreamed twice that if I won the Harding Trophy I should win
everything.
Carter beat Boyd handily, and the prize will go to one of us. I must
beat him; I shall beat him!
After having declared innumerable times that he would master the secrets
of golf without aid from anyone, Harding finally surrendered and took
his first lesson this afternoon.
"I take back everything I ever said about this being an easy game to
play," he said. "I'm a pretty good 'rule of thumb' civil and mechanical
engineer, I know a few things about the laws of resistances and all that
sort of thing, I have watched you fellows hit that ball and have tried
to imitate you, but it's no use. Now I'm going to do just what Wallace
tells me, and if he can teach me to drive I'll pay him more than any
professional ever made in the history of the game."
Harding certainly has had a time of it. For weeks he has laboured with a
patience worthy of better results, he has purchased every known variety
and weight of club. He has a larger collection of drivers, brassies,
cleeks, mashies, midirons, jiggers, niblicks, putters and other tools
than Billy Moon, and Moon is a specialist in that direction.
The surrounding woods, the ponds, brooks and swamps contain unnumbered
balls which Harding has misdriven. He will not waste one minute looking
for a ball which gets into difficulty, and since his arrival our orders
to the manufacturers have more than doubled.
One of his ambitions has been to drive a ball across the old mill pond.
It is a long carry and beyond probability that he can accomplish it, but
I have seen him drive box after box of balls and give them to the
caddies who have recovered them.
Wallace was on hand at the appointed time to give Harding his first
lesson, and we had quite a gallery for our foursome, including Miss
Harding and Miss Lawrence. Wallace was to play with Harding against
Carter and me, but the chief interest centred in whether Wallace could
effect any improvement in the playing of his ponderous pupil.
He told Harding to make several practise swings Harding did so and
Wallace studied them closely.
"A man of your build should play with the left foot advanced," he said.
"Bend the left knee but keep the other one more nearly rigid. Keep the
weight of your body on your heels or you will fall on your ball when you
swing through. Do not curve your back like a letter C. Keep the backbone
straight but not rigid. It is the pivot on which your body and shoulders
must turn, and how can it turn true if your vertebræ is bent?"
"I had not thought of that," admitted Harding, making a much better
stroke.
"Unless the back is straight the right shoulder will drop, and that is
fatal," cautioned Wallace. "Grip firmly and evenly with the fingers--not
the palms--of both hands, but let the wrists be flexible until the
club-head comes to the ball."
Wallace corrected other errors, and after fifteen minutes of instruction
Harding teed a ball and for the first time in his life cleared the lane.
He was as delighted as a boy who unexpectedly comes into possession of
his first gun.
"Wallace," he declared, "if you will stick to me until I get so I can do
that well half of the time I'll give you a hundred shares of the L.M. &
K. and a job which beats this one all hollow."
"I think you will be able to do even better than that," said Wallace
confidently.
As the game progressed Harding's play steadily improved and his face
took on an expression of supreme satisfaction delightful to contemplate.
His crowning triumph came on the thirteenth hole, in which he drove the
green and found his ball laying within a foot of the cup, from which
distance he easily negotiated a two which won the hole, and, as it
subsequently developed, the match, Wallace holding the best ball of
Carter and myself even.
Harding made the round in 106, which is ten strokes better than any of
his previous records. He tried in vain to induce Wallace to take some
large sum of money, but this strange young Scotchman positively refused
to accept more than the regular rate for a lesson.
LaHume left, bag and baggage, early this morning, and I doubt if
Woodvale will see him again. His membership is for sale, and at a
special meeting of the board his resignation was accepted. He seems to
have been the villain of this diary, but really he is not a bad sort of
fellow, save for a strain of tactless selfishness. I presume that his
good looks eventually will win for him some unfortunate heiress.
Had he remained here until this evening he would have been treated to
another surprise. Wallace took Miss Lawrence's high-powered automobile
from the garage, and, after a preliminary run of several miles in which
to become familiar with certain new devices, swung it around the club
house and up to the landing steps with the easy skill in which he
handles a mashie.
As Bishop says, he certainly is "a most remarkable hired man."
Miss Lawrence, Miss Ross and Miss Dangerfield soon appeared and, with
Wallace, started on a trip which was to include a call at Bishops, and
later a spin down the old post road and back by some circuitous route.
It is only a week from to-day until the meeting of the directors of the
N.O. & G. I shall then know whether I am to be comparatively a financial
nonentity or a man of affairs. And then I shall know something of vastly
more importance!
ENTRY NO. XIX
THE TORNADO
Early Monday morning Mr. Harding took a train for Oak Cliff, where he
had an appointment with Mr. Wilson. He made a remark to the effect that
his mission pertained more to business than golf. Mr. Wilson is
president of the bank through which the "Harding System" transacts most
of its financial operations.
"You can do me a favour, if you will, Smith," he said. "I shall stay
over night in Oak Cliff. We have visitors coming to Woodvale to-morrow
evening, and I should be back here to dine with them by six o'clock.
There is no train from Oak Cliff within hours of that time, and it has
occurred to me that the folks might come for me in the red machine. Of
course the Kid thinks she can handle it, but I hate to trust her on so
long and hilly a route. Could you come with them?"
An invitation was never accepted with more cheerful willingness. It was
arranged that Mrs. Harding, Miss Harding and I should arrive at Oak
Cliff with the auto at about four o'clock Tuesday afternoon.
We were to start from Woodvale at half after one o'clock, so as to have
plenty of time. That Fate, which is always prying into and disarranging
the plans of us poor mortals, interfered with our arrangements an hour
before the time fixed for our departure. The visitors who were to arrive
in the evening came shortly after noon. It was exasperating.
I pictured myself making that long trip alone, and cursed the chattering
arrivals who had the bad form to anticipate the hour set for their
welcome. There were three of them, and I noticed that they were of
mature years.
I sat glumly watching them and heartily wishing that the train which
brought them had been blocked for an hour or two, when Miss Harding came
smilingly towards me.
"Mamma cannot go," she said.
"And you?" I asked, hardly daring to hope for the best.
"They seemed glad to excuse me, Jacques Henri," she laughed.
I have no doubt I grinned like a Cheshire cat. I refrained from telling
the abominable falsehood that I was sorry Mrs. Harding could not go with
us, and an hour later the huge touring car rolled smoothly away from the
Woodvale club house, its front seat occupied by a supremely happy
gentleman of the name of Smith, and by his side a supremely pretty young
lady who waved her hand to the elderly group on the veranda.
I had been so absorbed in the unfolding of the incidents just narrated
that I took no note of the weather or of anything else. For a month or
more the weather has been so uniformly fine that we had come to accept
the succession of warm but cloudless days as a matter of course.
When I was a boy my father drilled into me a knowledge of the visible
signs of impending changes in meteorological conditions. As I became
older the study of the warnings displayed in the sky and in the
indescribable variations in the feel of the air possessed a fascination
for me. During the early years after the formation of the club the
members jested me on account of my predilection for weather forecasting,
but the uniform accuracy of these guesses commanded their surprise and
subsequently won their respect.
Chilvers and others sometimes call me "Old Prog. Smith," and I am more
proud of that pleasantry than of some others.
There was not a breath of air stirring. The atmosphere seemed stagnant,
like a pool on which the sun has beat during rainless weeks. The dried
tops of the swamp grass and reeds pointed motionless to the
heat-quivering sky. The dust cast up by our car hung over the road like
a ribbon of fog.
The forest to our left shut off a view of the western sky, but I felt
sure that the clouds of an approaching storm were already marshalled
along its horizon. Then we shot out into a clearing and I took one swift
look.
From north to south was spanned the sweeping curve of a gray cloud with
just a tinge of yellow blended into it. The ordinary observer would have
seen in it no premonition of a storm. It was smooth, light in tone and
restful to the eye as compared with the angry blue from out of which the
sun blazed.
The upper edges of this mass were unbroken save at one point near the
zenith of its curve. From this there protruded the sharper edges of a
"thunder-head," as if some titanic and unseen hand were lifting to the
firmament a colossal head of cauliflower, its shaded portions
beautifully toned with blue. This description may be homely, but it has
the merit of accuracy.
I said no word of my certainty of the oncoming tempest, but threw on
full speed and dashed ahead at a rate which startled my fair companion.
From the turn in the road just beyond the clearing we headed directly
into the line of march of the storm. If it were slow-moving I calculated
we would reach Oak Cliff before it broke, but I realised it would be
close work.
Miss Harding leaned over and said something to me. The whirr of the
machinery and the swaying of the car made conversation difficult. I
presume she thought I was determined to show my nerve and skill as a
driver.
"Why this mad haste, Jacques Henri?" she again cried, her head so close
to mine that her hair brushed my cheek.
I returned a non-committal smile and fixed my eyes on the road which
slipped toward us like a huge belt propelled by invisible pulleys.
The miles kept pace with the minutes. Of a sudden the sun was blotted
out. When I lifted my eyes from the road I saw birds circling high in
the sky. The cattle in adjacent fields lifted their heads and moved
uneasily as if some instinct sounded a warning in their dull brains.
Above the trees I saw the skirmish line of the storm.
In after hours Miss Harding told me that she had quickly solved the
secret of my wild dash. For a quarter of an hour she hung to the swaying
seat and said no word. Once I looked into her eyes and read in them that
she understood.
We dashed through a little village and paid no heed to the angry shouts
and menacing gestures of a man who wore a huge star on his chest. Oak
Cliff was only ten miles away. Could we make it?
The restful grays of the cloud had disappeared; and low down on the
horizon I saw a belt of bluish black, and as I looked, a bolt of
lightning jabbed through it. We were now running parallel to the storm,
and I believed I could beat it to Oak Cliff. I felt certain I could
reach the little hamlet of Pine Top, and from there on it would be easy
to get to shelter. Between us and Pine Top was practically an unbroken
wilderness, a part of the country reserved as a source of water supply
for the great city far to the south of us.
Into that wilderness we dashed.
We were taking a hill with the second speed clutch on when a grating
sound came to my alert ears, and with it an unnatural shudder of the
machinery. I threw off power and applied the brakes. As the car stopped
the deep rolling bass of the thunder rumbled over the hills.
"We are caught," declared Miss Harding, but there was no fear in her
voice.
"Not yet!" I asserted, springing from the car and making a frenzied
examination of the cause of our breakdown. I knew it was not serious,
and when I located it I joyously proclaimed it a mere trifle. But
automobile trifles demand minutes, and nature did not postpone the
resistless march of its storm battalions. As I toiled with wrench and
screw-driver I cursed the folly which induced me to plunge into that
desolate stretch of forest and marsh.
The roar of the tempest's artillery became continuous. The low scud
clouds travelling with incredible velocity blotted out the blue sky to
the east and darkness fell like a black shroud. I could not see to work
beneath the floor of the car, and lost another minute searching for and
lighting a candle.
In the uncanny gloom I saw the fair face of the one whose safety now was
menaced by my bold folly. I saw her form silhouetted against the black
of a fir tree in the almost blinding glare of a flame of lightning.
"Just one minute and I will have it fixed!" I said, and she smiled
bravely but said nothing.
Still not a breath of air! The spires of the pine trees stood rigid as
if cast in bronze!
This is the time when a storm strikes terror to my soul. With the first
patter of the rain and the onrushing of the wind I experience a
sensation of relief, but it is nerve-racking to stand in that frightful
calm and await the mighty charge of unknown forces.
As I bolted the displaced part into its proper adjustment I reflected
that had it not been for the ten minutes thus lost we would have been in
Oak Cliff. My calculations had been accurate, but again Fate had
introduced an unexpected factor. I started the engine and leaped into
the car.
"Only a mile to shelter!" I exclaimed. "I think we can make it. Where
are the storm aprons?"
"We forgot them," she said.
"I forgot them, you mean," I declared. "Hold fast! It is a rough road!"
The red car leaped forward. I remembered that there was a farmhouse a
mile or so ahead.