Nothing Serious (9 page)

“Good
morning, Miss Tewkesbury,” cried Ambrose gaily. Good morning, good morning,
good morning. Many happy returns of the day. Happy birthday to you, happy
birthday to you, in short. I have a little present here which I hope you will
accept. Just a trivial parrot, but you may be able to fit it in somewhere.”

And,
encouraged by the sudden softening of her eyes, he parked the car, stood on one
leg and asked her to be his wife.

When he
had finished, she stood silent for a space, and a close observer would have
seen that a struggle was proceeding in her mind. She was weighing the pros and
cons.

She had
always liked Ambrose and admired his clean-cut good looks. And the fact that he
had remembered her birthday argued that he was kind, courteous and considerate;
of the stuff, in short, of which good husbands are made. For a while the word “Yes”
seemed to be trembling on her lips.

And
then, chillingly, there came into her mind the picture of this man as he had
appeared on the tennis court. Could she, she asked herself, link her lot with
that of such a super-rabbit? There rose before her a vision of that awful
moment when Ambrose had got his left foot entangled with his right elbow.

“No,
no, a thousand times no,” she told herself. Then aloud, with a remorseful
sweetness which she hoped would rob the words of their sting: “I’m sorry… I’m
afraid… In fact… Well, you know what I mean.”

Ambrose,
disjointed though her utterance was, knew but too well what she meant, and his
eager face fell as if it, too, had got its left foot entangled with its right
elbow.

“I see,”
he said. “Yes, I get your drift.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“Don’t
mention it.”

“But
you know how it is.”

“Oh,
quite.”

There
was a silence, broken only by the parrot asking one or both of them—it was
impossible to say to whom the question was addressed—if they had seen by the
dawn’s early light. Despite his efforts to keep a stiff upper lip, Ambrose
Gusset was showing plainly how deeply this stymie had gashed his soul. His
aspect caused the girl’s tender heart to bleed for him. She yearned for some
means of softening the blow which she had been compelled to deliver.

And
then she saw how this might be done.

“You
used to speak,” she said, “of giving me a golf lesson.” Ambrose raised his
bowed head.

“So I
did.”

“Would
you like to give me one now?” Ambrose’s sombre face lit up.

“May I
really?”

“Do. I’ll
go and fetch my racquet.”

“You
don’t use a racquet.”

“Then
how do you get the ball over the net?”

“There
isn’t a net.”

“No
net. What a peculiar game.”

She was
still sniggering a little to herself, for she was a girl with a strong sense of
the ridiculous, when they came on to the practice tee.

“Now,”
said Ambrose, having teed up the ball and placed the driver in her hands and
adjusted her stance and enjoined upon her to come back slowly, “let’s see you
paste it into the next county.”

Years
of tennis playing (which, however bad for the soul, does, I admit, strengthen
the thews and sinews) had given Evangeline Tewkesbury a fine physique, and
Ambrose tells me that it was an inspiring sight to see her put every ounce of
wrist and muscle into her shot. The only criticism which could have been made
of her performance was that she missed the ball by about three inches.

It was
her salvation. Evangeline Tewkesbury’s was an arrogant mind, and I think there
can be no question that had she succeeded at her first effort in accomplishing
an outstanding drive, she would have abandoned the game on the plea that it was
too easy. For this, Ambrose had shocked me by telling me, was one of the things
she had said about golf when urged to take a lesson.

But she
had failed, and now it was but a question of time before the golf bug ran up
her leg and bit her to the bone. Suddenly Ambrose saw come into her face that
strange yearning look, composite of eagerness and humility, which is the
infallible first symptom.

“Let me
show you,” he said, seizing his opportunity with subtle skill. And taking the
club from her he waggled briefly and sent a screamer down the fairway. “That—roughly—is
the idea,” he said.

She was
staring at him, in her gaze awe, admiration, respect, homage and devotion
nicely blended.

“You
must be terribly good at golf,” she said.

“Oh,
fairish.”

“Could
you teach me to play?”

“In a
few lessons. Unfortunately I shall be leaving almost immediately for the Rocky
Mountains, to shoot grizzly bears.”

“Oh, must
you?”

“Surely
it is the usual procedure for a man in my position.” There was a silence. Her
foot made arabesques on the turf. “It seems rather tough on the grizzlies,” she
said at length. “Into each life some rain must fall.”

“Look,”
said Evangeline. “I think I see a way out.”

“There
is only one way out.”

“That
is the way I mean.”

Ambrose
quivered from the top of his head to the soles of his sure-grip shoes, as worn
by all the leading professionals.

“You
mean—?”

“Yes,
that’s what I mean.”

“You
really—?”

“Yes,
really. I can’t imagine what I was thinking of when I said No just now. One
makes these foolish mistakes.”

Ambrose
dropped the club and folded her in a long, lingering embrace.

“My
mate!” he cried. “Now,” he added, picking up the driver and placing it in her
hands. “Slow back, don’t press, and keep your ‘ee on the ba’.”

CHAPTER
IV

Feet of Clay

WITH the coming of dusk
the blizzard which had been blowing  all the afternoon had gained in force, and
the trees outside the club-house swayed beneath it. The falling snow rendered
the visibility poor, but the Oldest Member, standing at the smoking-room
window, was able to recognize the familiar gleam of Cyril Jukes’s
heather-mixture plus-fours as he crossed the icebound terrace from the
direction of the caddy shed, and he gave a little nod of approval. No fair
weather golfer himself when still a player, he liked to see the younger
generation doing its round in the teeth of November gales.

On
Cyril Jukes’s normally cheerful face, as he entered the room some moments
later, there was the sort of look which might have been worn by a survivor of
the last days of Pompeii. What had been happening to Cyril Jukes in the recent
past it was impossible to say, but the dullest eye could discern that it had
been plenty, and the Oldest Member regarded him sympathetically.

“Something
on your mind, my boy?”

“A
slight tiff with the helpmeet.”

“I am
sorry. What caused it?”

“Well,
you know her little brother, and you will agree with me, I think that his long
game wants polishing up.”

“Quite.”

“This
can be done only by means of unremitting practice.”

“Very
true.”

“So I
took him out for a couple of rounds after lunch. We’ve just got back. We found
the little woman waiting for us. She seemed rather stirred. Directing my
attention to the fact that the child was bright blue and that icicles had
formed on him, she said that if he expired his blood would be on my head. She
then took him off to thaw him out with hot-water bottles. Life can be very
difficult.”

“Very.”

“I
suppose there
was
a sort of nip in the air, though I hadn’t noticed it
myself, but I had meant so well. Do you think that when a man’s wife calls him
a fatheaded sadist, she implies that married happiness is dead and the home in
the melting pot?”

The
Sage patted him on the shoulder.

“Courage,”
he said. “She may be a little annoyed for the moment, but the mood will pass
and she will understand and forgive. Your wife is a golfer and, when calmer,
cannot fail to realize how lucky she is to have married a man with the true golfing
spirit. For that is what matters in this life. That is what counts. I mean the
spirit that animated Horace Bewstridge, causing him to spank his loved one’s
mother on the eighteenth green when she interfered with his putting; the inner
fire that drove Rollo Podmarsh on to finish his round, though he thought he had
been poisoned, because he had a chance of breaking a hundred for the first
time; the spirit which saved Agnes Flack and Sidney McMurdo, bringing them at
last to peace and happiness. I think I may have mentioned Agnes Flack and
Sidney McMurdo to you before. They were engaged to be married.”

“She
was a large girl, wasn’t she?”

“Very
large. And Sidney was large, also. That was what made the thing so satisfactory
to their friends and well-wishers. Too often in this world you find the
six-foot-three man teaming up with the four-foot-ten girl and the
five-foot-eleven girl linking her lot with something which she would seem to
have dug out of Singer’s troupe of midgets: but in the union of Agnes Flack and
Sidney McMurdo there was none of this discrepancy. Sidney weighed two hundred
pounds and was all muscle, and Agnes weighed a hundred and sixty pounds and was
all muscle, too. And, more important still, both had been assiduous golfers
since childhood. Their’s was a love based on mutual respect. Sidney’s habit of
always getting two hundred and fifty yards from the tee fascinated Agnes, and
he in his turn was enthralled by her short game, which was exceptionally
accurate.”

It was
in warmer weather than this (the Sage proceeded, having accepted his companion’s
offer of a hot toddy) that the story began which I am about to relate. The
month was August, and from a cloudless sky the sun blazed down on the popular
sea-shore resort of East Bampton, illuminating with its rays the beach, the
pier, the boardwalk, the ice-cream stands, the hot doggeries and the simmering
ocean. In the last-named, about fifty yards from shore, Agnes Flack was taking
her customary cooler after the day’s golf and thinking how much she loved
Sidney McMurdo.

Sidney
himself was not present. He was still in the city, working for the insurance
company which had bespoken his services, counting the days to his vacation and
thinking how much he loved Agnes Flack.

When
girls are floating in warm water, dreaming of the man they adore, it sometimes
happens that there comes to them a sort of exaltation of the soul which demands
physical expression. It came now to Agnes Flack. God, the way she looked at it,
was in His heaven and all right with the world, and it seemed to her that
something ought to be done about it. And as practically the only thing you can
do in the way of physical expression in the water is to splash, she splashed.
With arms and feet she churned up great fountains of foam, at the same time
singing a wordless song of ecstasy.

The
trouble about doing that sort of thing when swimming is that people are apt to
be misled. Agnes Flack’s was one of those penetrating voices which sound like
the down express letting off steam at a level crossing, and in the number which
she had selected for rendition there occurred a series of high notes which she
held with determination and vigour. It is not surprising, therefore, that a
passing stranger who was cleaving the waves in her vicinity should have got his
facts twisted.

A
moment later Agnes, in the middle of a high note, was surprised to find herself
gripped firmly beneath the arms and towed rapidly shorewards.

Her
annoyance was extreme, and it increased during the trip, most of which was made
with her head under water. By the time she arrived at the beach, she had
swallowed perhaps a pint and a half, and her initial impulse was to tell her
assailant what she thought of his officiousness. But just as she was about to
do so friendly hands, seizing her from behind, pulled her backwards and started
rolling her over a barrel. And when she fought herself free the man had
vanished.

Her
mood was still ruffled and resentful when she stepped out of the elevator that
night on her way down to dinner, for the feeling that she was full of salt
water had not wholly disappeared.

And it
was as she was crossing the lounge with a moody frown on her brow that a voice
at her side said “Oh, hullo, there you are, what?” and she turned to see a
tall, slender, willowy man with keen blue eyes and a sun-tanned face.

“Feeling
all right again?” asked the handsome stranger.

Agnes,
who had been about to draw herself to her full height and say “Sir!” suddenly
divined who this must be.

“Was it
you— ?” she began.

He
raised a deprecating hand.

“Don’t
thank me, dear lady, don’t thank me. I’m always saving people’s lives, and they
will try to thank me. It was nothing, nothing. Different, of course, if there
had been sharks.”