A GAME OF GOLF--A GAME OF LIFE
"I wish I hadn't come here, Purvis."
"Why not?"
"Well, you know how I feel."
Purvis shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mistake can easily be remedied, Sprague. You have only to take the
train from Vale Linden station, and then you can go to Ilfracombe or
Westward Ho! or, for that matter, return to London."
"Yes, I know; and I know, too, that it was through me you came down
here. All the same, I feel jolly mean. Do you know, although that letter
meant the smashing up of the engagement, and thus saving her life from
ruin, she has never acknowledged it, and, for that matter, has never
spoken to me since. Not that I expected gratitude, at least for a time,
but after six years----"
"You know we both left England for a long sojourn abroad, directly we
knew that the bubble had burst."
"Yes, I know; still, I did think that out of pure gratitude she might
have----"
"She's not that sort, Sprague. Follow my example, and think no more
about her. Hang it, we are not children; and she's not the only woman in
the world. She gave us both our _conge_; let us take it graciously, and
enjoy our golf."
"I wish I could forget her, old man; but I can't. I don't feel
comfortable. For all these six years I've never forgotten her, and when
Leicester made an end of himself, I said to myself, 'In two or three
years' time she'll feel so grateful to me that----' Well, you know what
I thought. But she's never recognised me in any way. Other people we
know have been invited to Vale Linden, but I've never been one of the
lucky ones. That was why I urged you to come with me to this place of
hers. It meant having a chance of seeing her, and I hoped that she would
feel kindly towards me."
"Well, she may. Who knows?"
"I wonder how she feels about Leicester now?"
"Most likely she's forgotten him."
"Hardly."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, she's married no one else."
"I make nothing of that. Besides, if she really loved him, do you think
she'd have thrown him over?"
"Yes," said Sprague, after a moment's hesitation.
"How do you make it out?"
"No woman with such pride as Olive has could have married him after the
letter I wrote. I presented a strong case, man. You see, Leicester gave
himself away so completely, that I had only to quote his exact words to
prove--well, exactly what I wanted to prove. At any rate, she did throw
him over."
"Do you think Leicester really cared for her?"
"Heaven only knows. It was impossible for any one to tell exactly what
he felt. At any rate, he went the whole hog afterwards, and then killed
himself. Do you know, although the fellow's end was so terribly sad, I
heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the report in the newspapers? If he'd
lived--well, I don't like to think what would have happened to either of
us. You know that terrible look in his eyes when he threatened us."
"Yes; but, after all, what could he do?"
"There's no knowing what a fellow like Leicester would have done. But
there, he's dead, and that's an end of it."
The two men climbed the hill towards the moors in silence. Some distance
behind, two boys followed, carrying their golf clubs.
"I suppose all this land around here belongs to John Castlemaine,"
remarked Purvis presently.
"I suppose so. I say, Purvis, did you notice what a mixed lot we are at
The Homestead?"
"Rather; but I like it. They do things very well there, too. Of course,
it was never intended for the likes of us; yet I am sure there are
people there who have no need to economise. Some one told me that a
neighbouring squire was dining there last night; and did you notice that
Turkish chap?"
"Yes; remarkable-looking fellow, isn't he? He makes one think of
vampires. Still, I hear he's a good sort. I should like to have a chat
with him."
"Well, that should be easy enough. Somebody told me he had gone on the
links. We may see him there."
They made their way to the club-house, and prepared to commence their
game. A couple of men were on the first tee, waiting to start.
"We shan't have to wait long," said Purvis. "I say, there is that
Turkish fellow. I think he's looking for a match."
"Surely he won't be able to play."
"Anyhow, he has his clubs, and he seems to be wanting a game. Let's ask
him to join us. It'll only be civil."
"I don't like threesomes."
"Neither do I on a crowded links, but it doesn't matter here. We have
plenty of time; it's not ten o'clock yet."
"But I expect he's only a beginner. If he is, he'll spoil our game."
"Well, let's see."
Signor Ricordo stood near the tee as they came up. He bowed to them and
stood aside.
"Are you not playing, sir?" asked Purvis.
"Yes," replied Ricordo. "I will go around by myself after you are gone.
I arranged to meet a gentleman here just after nine; but I have received
word to say he can't come."
"Have you played much?" asked Sprague.
Ricordo looked at him, his eyes half closed; nevertheless, there was
evident interest in his gaze.
"We in the East do not play the game. But when I came to England--what
would you?--what others did, I did. That is the English fashion, eh?"
and he laughed quietly.
"Have you a handicap?" asked Sprague.
"A what?"
"A handicap. That means--well, it is a number of strokes allowed to a
player."
"A handicap. Ah, yes, I am handicapped; but not in that way, signore. I
am afraid I do not play well enough even to have a handicap."
"Won't you join us?" asked Purvis. "We can easily make a threesome."
The stranger darted a look, not at Purvis, but at Sprague, and he saw
that he did not take the proposition kindly. Both Purvis and Sprague
were good players, and especially the latter did not wish the game
spoiled.
"I cannot refuse such a kind invitation," said Signor Ricordo. "But I
will not interfere with your play. Let the match be between you two,
while I will struggle on as best I may. If--if I do not prove such
a--a--what do you call it?--duffer as I fear, then I might sometimes
enter into the competition; but that, I imagine, will not be. Still, I
cannot refuse such courtesy."
He looked a striking figure as he stood by them. His clothes, although
not very different from those worn by the others, were somewhat foreign
in style; while his fez, surmounting his dark, Oriental-looking face,
would single him out anywhere as an Eastern.
"Will you proceed, gentlemen?" he continued; "as for me, I will bring up
the rear. If I find I am spoiling your game, I will drop out."
Purvis and Sprague tossed for the honour, and the former, having won it,
drove first. His ball flew straight as an arrow towards the distant
flag. Sprague followed next, and sent his ball within a dozen yards of
the one which Purvis had driven.
"Ah," said Signore Ricordo, "I feel humbled before I begin. I see I
shall not long deserve your society."
He struck his ball, and foozled it badly. It went away among the
heather, where some two or three minutes were spent in finding it.
Sprague and Purvis halved the hole, while Ricordo was several strokes
down.
"We shall have to get rid of the fellow," said Sprague. "You see he's
only a beginner."
"Let us be civil," said Purvis. "We are staying at the same place, and
he promises to be interesting."
The next hole Ricordo fared a little better, but only a little. Sprague
began to think of some hint he could give him that would cause him to
leave them.
"I will play one or two holes more with you, Mr.--Mr.--ah, I am afraid I
did not catch your name."
"Sprague is my name."
"Sprague, Sprague--thank you; yes, I will remember. My name is
Ricordo--that means remember, and I will remember, yes."
"And mine is Purvis."
"Thank you. Yes, I will remember. I will play one or two holes more with
you, and then, if I continue to be such a--duffer--yes, that is the
word--then I will go away, and challenge you for to-morrow."
"Golf is a difficult game," said Sprague; "one does not pick it up in a
day."
"Ah, you do not think I will be a match for you to-morrow."
"Why, do you?" and Sprague laughed lightly.
"If not to-morrow, then the next day. I never rest until I am a match
for my--what do you call it--enemy?"
"Not quite so bad as that--opponent," said Purvis.
"Opponent, yes, that is the word. I learnt English when I was a boy, but
I have had such little practice at it lately, and so--but there, I will
remember. Whenever I play a game--and is not life a game?--I am often
beaten at first. But then I remember that there is always a to-morrow,
and so I go on."
"Until you are a match for your opponent?"
"Until I have beaten him," said Ricordo.
Sprague laughed. "A lot of to-morrows are required in golf, Mr.
Ricordo," he said.
"Yes, they are required for most things; but they come. Still, this
match is only just begun yet. Who knows? I may improve!"
This conversation had taken place while walking from the green to the
tee, which in this case was some little distance.
For the next five holes Sprague and Purvis played with varying fortunes,
but when the seventh hole was played the former was one up. As for
Ricordo, while he greatly improved, he did not even halve a single hole
with either of them. As he improved they offered to give him strokes,
and so make the possibility of a match, but he refused.
"I always like to play level," he said sententiously. "You never beat a
man if he gives you strokes. Let me see, I am now seven down. If I lose
two more it will be impossible for me to win the match, eh?"
"That is the arithmetic of it, I imagine," said Purvis.
"Ah!" said Ricordo.
Ding! Ding! Ding! The three balls flew through the air, and each went
straight to the green, only in this case Ricordo's ball went several
yards further than the others.
"That was a lucky stroke of mine," he said, as he saw them exchange
significant glances. "Ah! if I could only do it always!"
For the first time Sprague felt a suggestion of competition in the game.
Although he was seven holes up on the stranger, and they had only eleven
more to play, the possibility of losing flashed into his mind. Besides,
he felt some little resentment, because of the superior way in which the
foreigner spoke. He seized an iron club, and placed his ball within two
yards of the hole.
"Why, that is magnificent," remarked Ricordo. "That is where skill comes
in."
Purvis came next, and while he sent his ball on the green, it was at an
extreme corner.
"If I lose this hole, my chance of winning on you shrinks to a vanishing
point," remarked Ricordo. "Well, I must not lose it."
He looked at the ball steadily, and then turned to his companions.
"Is it not whimsical?" he said. "This little thing seems to have become
a part of our life, eh? And the game of golf is also a game of life,
_non e vero_? Forgive me, signores, but I am an Eastern, and everything
in life is a parable to such as I."
He struck the ball, and laid it, according to golfers' parlance, "dead."
"Fine shot," said Purvis; as for Sprague, he said nothing.
For the first time Purvis lost a hole to Ricordo, but Sprague halved it
with him.
"Good hole," remarked Purvis. "One under bogey."
"Ah yes," said Ricordo, "but I cannot afford even to halve with Mr.
Sprague if I am to win the match, eh? Seven up and ten to play. No, I
must win, and not halve. I have lost so much in the beginning of the
game. The game of life is always hard to win, when you lose in the
beginning."
Sprague took the honour, and drove with unerring precision. As he saw it
fall, a look of satisfaction came into his eyes.
"Longest ball you've driven to-day, Sprague," said Purvis. "It's
possible to reach the green with a good 'brassy' from there."
"Nasty hazard just before the green, by the look of it," remarked
Sprague, looking steadily.
"Ther' iz, zur," said one of the caddies, "great big pit overgrawed weth
vuss and vearny stuff."
Ricordo addressed his ball. It was teed rather too high, and he patted
it down. A moment later he made his shot. There was a slight curve on
it, but he outdrove Sprague by two or three yards. Purvis foozled his
drive for the first time.
"Are you going to try it?" asked Purvis, as Sprague stood before his
ball.
"It's risky," said the other. "Do your players here carry that green in
two?" he asked the caddy who pulled out an iron for him.
"'T 'ave bin dun, zur," replied the caddy. "The perfeshernal 'ave done
et, an' a gen'leman from London; but moasly they doan't. Bezides, ther's
a little wind."
"I'll try it," said Sprague, taking the brassy.
He struck the ball fairly, but it did not carry. It fell into the
bushes.
Sprague suppressed an angry exclamation.
"Goin' to play for safety, zur?" asked the caddy of Ricordo.
Ricordo took the brassy from the boy, and looked steadily towards the
green.
"Risky," remarked Purvis, almost involuntarily. He knew that according
to strict rules he had no right to say anything.
"The essence of life is risk," remarked Ricordo. Somehow both felt that
he was a different man from what he had been an hour before. He no
longer seemed to be playing a game upon which nothing depended, but to
be struggling for a great victory in life. His eyes were no longer half
closed, and the old expression of cynical indifference was gone. A few
seconds later his ball fell within six yards of the pin.
Neither of the players uttered a sound; but the boys could not suppress
their admiration.
"You are six up at the turn, signore," remarked Ricordo to Sprague.
"That is odds against one; but _noi verremo_."
Sprague walked silently to the next tee. It was the first hole he had
lost to the foreigner, and although his position seemed well-nigh
impregnable, he had a fear of losing. He felt as though he were not
playing with a man, but with fate.
Ricordo took the honour. The green was over two hundred yards away, but
he landed his ball safely on it. Sprague drove next; he failed to reach
it by more than thirty yards. Purvis fared no better. Again Ricordo won
the hole.
"Five up, and eight to play," he laughed pleasantly. "I cannot afford to
make any mistakes, signore."
Ding, dong, went the balls. When they had played the seventeenth hole,
Ricordo had actually placed himself one up on Purvis, and was all square
with Sprague. The game was to be finished on the last green.
"Ah, I like that," said Ricordo lightly. "Life is never interesting when
everything is settled early in the game, eh, Mr. Sprague? And
everything is worth so much more when we win by a single bold stroke,
eh?"
Why it was, Sprague could not tell, but his heart beat faster than was
its wont. An atmosphere of grim earnestness possessed him, and more, a
fear filled his heart. After having the game in his hands he was in
danger of losing it. Not that he had played badly. In nearly every case
he had been level with bogey, but then in nearly every case for the last
nine holes the stranger had beaten him by a stroke. Yes, he was angry.
The man had commenced as a beginner, he had thrown away his chances, and
yet he had recovered all the ground he had lost. More than once he
caught himself watching Ricordo's dark features. The fez which
surmounted his face made him look sinister. The black beard and
moustache covered his mouth, but he fancied a mocking smile playing
around his lips. The man impressed him as a mystery. Sometimes he found
himself thinking of him as an Englishman, but again strange fancies
flitted through his mind concerning him. He pictured him away in desert
places, dreaming of dark things.
"Anyhow, I can't win," said Purvis. "The best I can do is to halve the
match with you, Mr. Ricordo."
"But I have a chance of winning," said Sprague. "By the way, signore,
we've had nothing on the game. What do you say to a stake on this hole?"
"No, Mr. Sprague, I never play for stakes, except the stake of life."
"What do you mean?"
"A game is always more than a game to me. It has destiny in it. Thus we
are playing for stakes, great stakes."
"What are they?"
"Ah, who can tell? Perhaps for heaven, perhaps for hell."
"Oh, I say!"
They were now standing on the eighteenth tee, and the green was near the
club-house. Close to the flag they saw a woman and a man.
"Do you know who that is on the green?" Ricordo asked of the caddy who
had made his tee and was moving away.
"Yes, zur; 'tes Miss Castlemaine, wot the links do belong to, and Muster
Briarfield." The lad rushed away towards the green.
"Ah!" said Ricordo, "we may be playing for the lady--who knows?"
He looked at Sprague as he spoke, and noted the pallor of his face.
"Do you know Miss Castlemaine?" asked Purvis.
"I expected to see her when I came here," said the stranger; "but, as I
said to Mr. Briarfield last night, although I have been here several
days, I have not yet had the felicity of setting eyes on her. But
fortune favours me now. Ah, we are playing for a great stake, Mr.
Sprague. Who knows?"
"Perhaps the man who is standing by her side will win her," laughed
Purvis. He hardly knew why he spoke.
"The man who is standing by may see most of the game," said Ricordo,
"but he never wins--never. It is only the man who plays who wins. Ah,
gentlemen, discussing the stakes on a tee is bad preparation for a
stroke; therefore we will dismiss the subject. Besides, I never make
wagers. Life itself is the wager."
He struck his ball, and although it flew far, it had what golfers call a
"slice" on it. It cleared the hazard, but curled away to the right of
the large green, at least twenty yards from the hole. He made no remark,
but moved aside for Sprague to play.
"You've got your chance, Sprague," said Purvis in low tones. "A good
straight shot, and you are close to the tee; it can't be more than a
hundred and eighty yards."
Sprague felt his hands tremble. He had not missed a drive for the round;
he determined he would not miss now. The stranger had made him feel that
the game _was_ a game of life. He knew not why, but it seemed to him
that the future would depend on whether he won or lost.
His ball flew through the air. It was struck, and clean and true; it
fell within ten yards of the hole.
"Good!" said Purvis, "a good putt, and you are down in two." Somehow, he
had lost interest in the game himself: all interest was centred in the
other two. Even when his ball failed to reach the green he did not mind;
he did not care if he lost.
When they reached the green, they found that Sprague's ball had stymied
Ricordo's--that is to say, it lay on the green on a straight line
between Ricordo's ball and the hole.
"Will you either play out, or pick up your ball, signore?" said Ricordo
quietly. "I believe it is the law that there are no stymies in a
three-ball match."
He said this because Sprague stood waiting for him to play.
"If it _is_ a stymie, certainly," he said, almost angrily.
"Look for yourself," said the stranger.
Sprague looked. "Very well, I'll play it out," he said.
He cast a hasty glance around, and saw that Olive Castlemaine and
Herbert Briarfield had moved to the edge of the green and were watching
the contest.
Sprague measured the distance carefully, then seizing the putter he
played. The ball rolled to the lip of the hole, and stopped. His heart
almost ceased to beat. Then perhaps a blade of grass bent or a breath of
wind stirred--anyhow, the ball dropped into the hole.
Ricordo laughed pleasantly. "Ah, we halve it, I see," he said.
"It will take you all your time to do that," said Sprague triumphantly.
His words had scarcely escaped his lips when Signor Ricordo's ball came
rolling across the green.
"Too lively," thought Purvis; but he was mistaken. It came straight to
the hole and dropped in.
They heard some one clapping on the edge of the green; it was Herbert
Briarfield, who had been watching.
"We will play it out another day," said Sprague.
Signor Ricordo walked away towards the spot where Herbert Briarfield and
Olive Castlemaine stood. His eyes had half closed again, while the old
air of cynical melancholy manifested itself in his face.