and my heart gave a bound when its tower came in sight. She was there!
Would not the knowledge of my bereavement soften her heart toward me?
Surely she did not know all that I had suffered.
As the train crossed the road over which we had sped on our way to Oak
Cliff, I recalled that it was at this exact spot where she first had
called me "Jacques Henri." How happy I was that day! I thought of the
terrors of the tornado and would have given all that I possessed to live
through it again with her.
Handing my bags to the porter I hastened toward the club house. I was
hurrying across the edge of the eighteenth green when someone shouted to
me.
"Hello, Smith!"
I turned and saw Marshall and Chilvers. Marshall pitched his ball to the
green with more than his usual deliberation, and then they came toward
me and I advanced to meet them.
"Where in thunder have you been?" asked Chilvers, and it suddenly
occurred to me that I had told no one of my mission, neither had I left
my address. The next instant I realised that Miss Harding had not told
of the receipt of my letter. This might mean much or little.
"My Uncle Henry died out in New Mexico," I said.
"Too bad," said the sympathetic Chilvers. "Unless one of my uncles dies
pretty soon I'll have to go to work. But why didn't you let us know
where you were."
"I had just time to catch a train," I said. "What's the news?"
"News? Let's see?" reflected Chilvers. "Grandma Marshall, here, won the
July cup, and our team won the match with South Meadows by a score of
twenty-three to five. Say, we didn't do a thing to those boys. Moon has
bought two new clubs, Boyd made the sixth hole in two, Duff won four
dozen balls from Monahan, Lawson has a new stance which he claims will
lengthen out his drive twenty yards--and speaking about Lawson, he
discovers something every week which lengthens his drive at least twenty
yards. I've figured out that he should be driving at least five hundred
yards from improvements alone. That's all the news I can think of; do
you know any, Marshall?"
"They have moved the tee back on the seventh hole," volunteered
Marshall, "and--oh, yes; Wallace has gone."
"Where's he gone?" I asked, exasperated at the character of their
information.
"Someone died over in Scotland and left him money," said Chilvers. "Just
as soon as we get a good professional, his rich relatives pass away and
we lose him."
"How is Mr. Harding?" I asked.
I saw Chilvers wink at Marshall.
"Did you say Mr. Harding or Miss Harding?" asked Chilvers.
"I said Mr. Harding. What's the matter; are you deaf?"
"I'm a little hard of hearing at times," he grinned. "Let's see; when
did Mr. Harding leave here, Marshall?"
"It was the day that you and I beat Boyd and Lawson," said Marshall,
after a long pause. "That was a week ago."
"I presume he's in the city," I carelessly remarked.
"I presume he is not," laughed Chilvers. "He's probably rolling around
in the English Channel right this minute."
"Gone abroad?"
"That's what."
"And Mrs. Harding?" I inquired.
"Gone with him, of course. Also Miss Harding."
"And Carter," added Marshall. "They all went on the same boat."
"At the same time," laughed Chilvers. "You see that lots of things have
happened since you went away. What are you looking so white and glum
about, Smith? Brace up, man; it may not be true. Come up to the club
house. We've got a new brand of Scotch, and it's great."
I don't know whether my laugh sounded natural or not, but I cheerfully
could have murdered both of them.
In those brief minutes I learned practically all I now know concerning
the departure and the whereabouts of the Hardings and Carter. There was
a lot of mail awaiting me, and I opened letter after letter hoping
against hope that there might be one from Miss Harding. There was none.
I discreetly questioned Miss Ross, Miss Dangerfield and others whom I
met, and all that I learned was this: A few days after my departure the
Hardings suddenly decided to go to England, or France or Germany or
somewhere. Carter was with them much of the time, but none of them
talked of their plans, and all the hints dropped to me by the married
and unmarried ladies of Woodvale were unproductive of information. They
had been here; they were abroad--and that was all there was to it.
It was yet early in the day and I took the first train for the city and
went straight to Mr. Harding's office. I am known to his representatives
there. They told me that all they knew was that Mr. Harding had gone
abroad to remain for a time.
"I assure you, Mr. Smith," said his private secretary, "that I do not
know where he is. He said that his family was going with him, and that
nothing possibly could happen here which would warrant bothering him. I
am sure he would be glad to see you, and I can only advise you to call
on his London bankers, who may have his address."
"Do you think the family are in England?" I asked, willing to accept the
faintest clue.
"I have no more idea than have you," he replied and I am convinced he
was telling the truth.
The "Oceanic" was the first boat to sail, and here I am. I doubt if a
sane man ever went on so absurd and hopeless a quest. I have had nothing
to do for several days but think over this situation, and the mystery of
the sudden departure resolves itself into these two possibilities;
first, that they have gone abroad to keep away from me; and, second,
that they have gone to England for the purpose of celebrating the
marriage of Carter and Miss Harding.
I do not see how I shall be of much use in either event. But this good
ship is cleaving the water toward England at the rate of twenty-five
knots an hour and I cannot turn back if I would.
I do not see how I am to stop the wedding. I remember that Carter once
told me that if he ever married it would be in London. I suppose they
are married before this time. Perhaps they will assume that I came
across on purpose to congratulate them.
I cannot understand why Mr. Harding did not leave some word for me.
Surely I have not offended him?
[Illustration: "I cannot turn back if I would"]
I met and chatted with him a few minutes before Miss Harding said the
words which have made me the most miserable of human beings.
This thing is past my solving. I only know that whatever she has done or
whatever she may do I love her and ever shall love her.
ENTRY NO. XXIII
A FEW CLOSING CONFESSIONS
On my arrival in London I lost no time in presenting myself to Mr.
Harding's bankers. I also presented a letter of introduction from that
gentleman's private secretary, and I presume these London financiers
called a meeting of the board of directors to consider this weighty
matter. I waited for hours, and was finally ushered into a private
office. It was as dingy and inadequate as are most London offices, and I
was properly impressed with its age, traditions and smells.
An old gentleman looked at me for a minute or two, and then took my
letter of introduction from his desk. He read it carefully again, wiped
his glasses and asked me if I were John Henry Smith. I assured him that
to the best of my knowledge and belief I was.
He looked doubtfully at me, hesitated as if determined to make no
mistake, sighed and then informed me that Mr. Harding had not left his
address in their care. I was tempted to express the opinion that Mr.
Harding showed rare judgment in declining to leave it with them, since
it doubtless would require an action at law to recover it in the event
he should have use for it, but I thanked the aged man for all that they
had done for me, and emerged from this gloomy den into the street.
[Illustration: "He looked doubtfully at me"]
This reed had broken. I never had much faith in it.
I had more confidence in a plan I then set in motion. I have a friend in
London of the name of Flynn. He is an American newspaper man. Flynn says
he would like to be a "journalist," but needs the money; therefore he
continues to be a newspaper man, and he is a good one.
Flynn is connected with one of the big news associations and after
drifting with the tide of cab and omnibus traffic which gorges on Fleet
Street, I finally located him in an office in New Bridge Street. I had
not seen him in five years.
"Hello, Smith!" he exclaimed, placidly as if we had spent the preceding
evening together. "When did you strike town?"
"Last night," I said, heartily shaking hands.
"I see that you recently put a crimp in that Wall Street gang," he
observed, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his chair. "You were
in with Harding on that deal, weren't you?"
"Yes," I said, "and I'm looking for him."
I briefly told him of the death of my uncle, and explained that Harding
had left suddenly and that it was necessary I should locate him without
delay.
"He was in London stopping at the Savoy a week ago," said Flynn, after
consulting a record book. "I sent a man to see him and he wouldn't be
seen. No use for you to go there; they won't tell you where he went."
"But can you help me locate him?" I eagerly asked.
"Certainly I can, provided you stand the tolls," he said. "Electricity
is as rapid here as in the United States, and if this magnate is on one
of these islands we can get his address in four or five hours, if we
have any kind of luck. Suppose we wire the twenty larger cities and
towns, about the same number of summer resorts, and the leading golf
centres?"
"Great scheme, Flynn!" I declared, "you're a natural detective."
"Natural nothing," growled that clever individual, "it's a part of the
regular grind. It should be no great trick to find a man worth thirty
millions in an area not much bigger than Illinois."
He wrote a telegram, dictated the list of places to his stenographer and
turned to me.
"Any engagement for dinner?" he asked, and when I said I had none he
suggested we go to the Savage Club. We did so, and that dinner was the
first enjoyable episode in many dismal weeks. The quiet charm of the old
club, together with its famous ale, had a soothing effect on my nerves,
and after several pleasant hours we took a cab back to his office.
Flynn disappeared for a minute and when he returned he handed me a stack
of telegrams.
"There are some reports already in," he said. "Look them over while I
attend to the work for which I'm supposed to draw salary."
I read them hurriedly. There was no news of the Hardings from
Birmingham, Manchester, Nottingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Brighton,
Blackpool, and a score of other places. Then I opened one from Glasgow.
They had been in Glasgow, but had left. I was on the trail, and
announced the news to Flynn. He smiled and again bent over his work.
In a few minutes a boy came in with more telegrams. They had been in
Edinburgh on the day following their visit to Glasgow, but were not
there now.
"They were in Edinburgh four days ago," I declared.
"Probably headed for St. Andrews," said Flynn, stopping in the middle
of a sentence he was dictating. "Don't bother me, Smith, I'm busy."
I spent the next half hour studying a map of Great Britain on which I
mentally traced _Her_ course from London to Glasgow and from there to
Edinburgh. Another batch of telegrams from Plymouth, Hull, Dublin,
Southampton, Newcastle, York, Hastings, and lesser places was silent
concerning the missing Hardings.
It was ten o'clock in the evening when the boy handed me three
envelopes. I read the first two and threw them on the floor. Without
glancing at the date line I read the third one. It ran:
"Robert L. Harding, wife and daughter at the Caledonia.--Jones."
It was dated St. Andrews.
"I've found them!" I declared. Flynn was just closing his desk. His
day's work was ended and he was in better humour.
"Where are they?" he asked, throwing a mass of stuff into a waste
basket.
"St. Andrews."
"Of course. Every American golf crank heads for St. Andrews from the
same fanatical instinct which impels a Mohammedan to steer for Mecca."
A study of the time tables showed that I could take a late night train
which would place me in Edinburgh early in the morning.
"I'm indebted to you for this more than you realise," I said to him.
"Don't mention it."
"How much do I owe your concern for this service?"
"Couldn't tell you," asserted Flynn. "Won't know until the bills come
in, and that will take a month or more. I'll have them tabbed up and
send you a statement, you send a cheque and that will end it."
"If there is anything I can do for you I--"
"Nothing," interrupted Flynn, "unless you should happen to run across
the New York plutocrat who hires me. You might tell him that unless he
tilts my salary he is likely to lose the most valuable man who ever
produced dividends for him."
"I'll do that!" I declared, and I meant it.
Two hours later my train rumbled out of the station and headed for
Scotland. I had been supremely satisfied with my progress during the
day, but when I began to analyse the situation I was unable to discover
any sound basis for self-congratulation.
I merely had ascertained her probable location. That did not improve my
prospects. I had not the slightest reason to believe that she had
changed her attitude toward me, and I had no right to assume that she
would receive, much less listen to me. She might be married, and
probably was. I thought of these things and fell from the fool's heaven
to which I had climbed.
But on I went toward Scotland. I would drink the cup to its lees. I
foil into a troubled sleep, and after a miserable night did not know
whether to be pleased or scared that I had finished the longer stage of
my journey.
The early morning train from out Edinburgh's dingy station carried one
passenger who paid small attention to the scenery between the beautiful
capital of Scotland and its famous university town. My one thought when
we crossed over the great bridge which spans the Firth of Forth was that
it was unconscionably long, and that the train slackened its speed in
taking it.
Then we came to a junction within sight of St. Andrews, and when I was
informed by the railway agent that I would have to wait half an hour for
a connection I told him that I would walk down the track. He informed me
that this was against the law. Having some familiarity with the monotony
with which the laws are enforced in Scotland, I smoked and waited.
The railroad skirts the links of St. Andrews, and from its pictures I
recognised the club house. Disdaining to ask questions or take a
carriage, I ordered my luggage to a hotel and started on a brisk walk,
hoping thus to brace myself for the ordeal ahead of me.
_She_ was here. Somewhere in this picturesque old town _she_
was living and breathing that very moment. _She_ had passed through
the street which then resounded with my brisk footsteps. Her name had
been Grace Harding. Was it yet Grace Harding?
I ran square into Carter!
"Why, my dear Smith!" he exclaimed, clutching at his monocle which came
as near falling as it well could and remain in place. "Why don't you
call 'Fore!' when you drive ahead like this? You're in Scotland, my dear
fellow!"
I begged his pardon, though of course it was not necessary. We heartily
shook hands--at least he did.
We were on a corner of a crooked and cobblestoned street which twists
around the side of a hill. There is a small store on this corner, and
its neatly pointed red bricks and shining plate glass are sharp in
contrast to the ancient and somewhat dilapidated structures which
surround it. I recall these facts distinctly, and I can see even now
every attitude and expression on the part of Carter.
During our brief interview his eyes frequently wandered from mine to
those plate-glass windows, as if something within were of vast interest
to him.
"You're looking fine, Carter," I said, and he was; "St. Andrews must
agree with you."
He smiled placidly and his eye twinkled merrily through that monocle.
"I'm feeling fine! Congratulate me, old fellow!"
The blow had fallen--but I stood it better than I had dreamed would be
possible!
A swarm of thoughts came to me in that instant, but I maintained my
outward serenity. I knew that he was a clean, honourable man and worthy
in every way of the hand and heart of Grace Harding. Possibly they had
been long engaged. All of my alleged rights and wrongs faded into thin
air. Besides, what was the use of whimpering? It was a stunning blow,
but I would stand it like a man.
"I do congratulate you, Carter!" I exclaimed, clasping his hand and
looking him frankly in the eyes. "You have won the most glorious woman
on earth, and I esteem it an honour that I have had the privilege of
meeting her and of enjoying her society! I am--"
"Confound it, man, you never met my wife!" said Carter. "What on earth
are you talking of, my dear Smith? Ah, excuse me!"
He pushed past me to meet a radiant creature with laughing blue eyes who
came from out that little store. He smiled and took a tiny parcel from
her hands. Then he said something to her and they turned to me.
"Stella, my dear," he said, her hand in his as they confronted the most
dazed human on the face of the earth, "you have heard me talk so much of
my dear friend, 'Foxy Old Smith'; well, here he is! Permit me to present
Mr. John Henry Smith, champion of Woodvale, winner of the Harding
Trophy, also Wizard of Finance!"
I assured Mrs. Carter that I was delighted to meet her, and if ever a
man told the truth I did at that moment. I said a lot of things, laughed
so boisterously that Carter looked shocked; I told of the death of my
uncle and grinned all the time. I certainly must have made an
impression on that lovely bride.
They compelled me to listen while they told of their marriage in London,
nearly a week before. She is an English girl, and Carter kept his word
that he would be married in London. Since she has never been in America,
and since this was my first visit to Great Britain, it was evident I had
not met her.
I do not know what Carter thought of my wild outburst. He has not
mentioned the subject, and I shall not bring it up.
"Where are the Hardings?" I asked, when I no longer could restrain my
impatience.
"They are stopping at the Caledonia," said Carter. "You probably will
find the Governor out on the links. He has struck up a great friendship
with 'Old Tom' Morris, and doubtless is playing with him right now."
"I think I will go and look him up," I said, as we came to a cross
street. "I have an important business matter in which he is interested.
I'll see you at dinner."
"The club house is yonder," said Carter, pointing down the hill. With a
bow and my uncontrollable grin, I parted from them and armed with a card
which Carter had given me, hastened toward the headquarters of the Royal
and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews.
The sedate gentlemen who were lounging about, waiting for the
prearranged times when they are privileged to drive from the first tee,
must have identified me as the typical American from the manner in which
I hastened from one room to another. I explored the locker rooms, the
cafes, reception hall, library, billiard room, the verandas, and every
nook and corner of the structure.
There is one sacred retreat called the "Room of Silence." Here are
displayed the famous relics and historical curios of the game, including
clubs used by King James, also strange irons once wielded by champions
whose bones have been mouldering for generations. In this awesome place
one must enter with sealed lips, and sit and silently ponder over his
golf and other crimes. It is sacrilege to utter a word, and not in good
form to breathe too rapidly.
An elderly gentleman who looked as if he might be a mine of information
was seated in a comfortable chair. He was the sole occupant of the room.
I had not asked a question since I had entered the building, and here
was my chance.
"Do you happen to know an American gentleman named Harding--Robert L.
Harding?" I asked, deferentially.
He did not move an eyelash. I pondered that it was just my luck that the
first gentleman I had addressed was deaf and dumb. As I crossed the
threshold, I caught an indignant mumble: "Talkative chap, that; he must
be an American."
I fled the club house and started down the course. There are three
links, but I was certain that Harding would be playing on the "regular"
one, and since it is rather narrow I had no difficulty in following it.
For the first time I was possessed of no ambition to play. Several
indignant golfers shouted "Fore!" but I pursued my way, keeping a sharp
lookout to right and left.
When about a mile from the first tee, I saw Harding. His head and
shoulders showed above the dreaded trap of "Strath's Bunker," and not
far from him was a white-bearded old gentleman with twinkling blue eyes
who was smiling at Harding's desperate efforts to loft his ball out of
the sand.
[Illustration: "This takes the cake!"]
"Thot weel not do-o, mon!" I heard him say as I neared the scene of this
tragedy. "Take yeer niblick, mon, an' coom richt doon on it!"
Out of a cascade of flying sand I saw his ball lob over the bunker, and
with various comments Mr. Harding scrambled out of this pit, brushed the
sand off his clothes, and then turned and saw me.
"Of all the damned places to get in trouble, Smith, this takes the
cake!" he exclaimed, mopping the perspiration from his face. "Do you
know," he added, looking about for his ball, "that it took me five
strokes to get out of that cursed sand pit!"
He looked in his bag for another club, played his shot, and made a
fairly good one, and then appeared to recall for the first time that he
had not recently seen me.
"Hello, Smith; when did you strike town?" he said, a welcoming smile on
his face as he offered his hand.
"About an hour ago," I said.
"Well, well! I'm glad to see you! Why didn't you wire you were coming?
We'd have come for you in our new machine. Bought a new one since we
came over here and have been travelling around in it. It's more
comfortable than these confounded English trains. They're the limit,
aren't they? Well, how are you? Seems to me you look a bit peaked?"
"I'm all right," I insisted. "How is--how is Mrs. Harding?"
"Never better in her life!"
"And how is--how is Miss Harding?"
We were on the edge of the green, and Harding had played his ball so
that we passed near the old gentleman who was Harding's opponent.
"Smith," said that gentleman, "I want you to know Old Tom Morris! Of
course, you have heard of him--every golfer has--and all that I ask is
that I may be able to play as good a game and be as good a fellow when I
am eighty-five years old. Mr. Morris, this is my young friend, John
Henry Smith, of America."
I greeted this famous character with some commonplace remarks, and
remained silent while they putted out. I made no further attempt in the
conversational line until they had driven the next tee.
"How is your daughter, Mr. Harding?" I asked.
"Grace? The Kid?" he hesitated. "She's pretty well, but this climate
don't seem exactly to agree with her. We must get her started on golf
again. She hasn't played a game since she has been here."
My heart gave a bound when he said that little word "we." Surely he knew
nothing of the trouble which had come between us. If she were married,
he surely would have said something about it, and up to that minute I
had a lingering fear that I might have lost her to some suitor other
than Carter.
"And she has never played the course?" I asked, not knowing what else to
say.
"Not once," he declared. "As a matter of fact, Smith, women are not very
popular around here. They herd them off on a third course which is set
aside for them. I looked it over, and it's a scrubby sort of a place."
"That's an outrage!" I declared.
"Oh, I don't know," he returned. "They can hack around over there and do
no great damage. Between you and me, Smith, I think women are more or
less of a nuisance on a course frequented by good players."
I recalled that I once held the same opinion, and in looking back to the
opening pages of this diary I find that I expressed it even more
brutally than did Mr. Harding. But I was in no mood to argue the matter
with him.
"I presume Mrs. and Miss Harding are at the hotel?" I carelessly
remarked. "I should like to pay my respects to them."
"They're about the hotel, I reckon," he said, taking his stance for a
brassie shot. He made a very good one.
"How's that, Smith?" he exclaimed. "My boy, I'm getting this game down
fine! Old Tom has put me onto some new wrinkles. See that old cock line
out that ball! Isn't he a wonder?"
"I think I will go and call on them," I said.
"Call on who? Oh, yes!" he said, as I started away.