The sky above was black and full of cold stars. It seemed to Mortimer
that the sooner he packed up and went to the South of France, the
better. He was just about to close the door, when suddenly he thought
he heard his own name called.
'Mortimer!'
Had he been mistaken? The voice had sounded faint and far away.
'Mortimer!'
He thrilled from head to foot. This time there could be no mistake. It
was the voice he knew so well, his wife's voice, and it had come from
somewhere down near the garden-gate. It is difficult to judge distance
where sounds are concerned, but Mortimer estimated that the voice had
spoken about a short mashie-niblick and an easy putt from where he
stood.
The next moment he was racing down the snow-covered path. And then his
heart stood still. What was that dark something on the ground just
inside the gate? He leaped towards it. He passed his hands over it. It
was a human body. Quivering, he struck a match. It went out. He struck
another. That went out, too. He struck a third, and it burnt with a
steady flame; and, stooping, he saw that it was his wife who lay there,
cold and stiff. Her eyes were closed, and on her face still lingered
that faint, sweet smile which he remembered so well.
* * * * *
The young man rose with a set face. He reached for his golf-bag.
'I call that a dirty trick,' he said, 'after you promised--' The Sage
waved him back to his seat.
'Have no fear! She had only fainted.'
'You said she was cold.'
'Wouldn't you be cold if you were lying in the snow?'
'And stiff.'
'Mrs. Sturgis was stiff because the train-service was bad, it being the
holiday-season, and she had had to walk all the way from the junction,
a distance of eight miles. Sit down and allow me to proceed.'
* * * * *
Tenderly, reverently Mortimer Sturgis picked her up and began to bear
her into the house. Half-way there, his foot slipped on a piece of ice
and he fell heavily, barking his shin and shooting his lovely burden
out on to the snow.
The fall brought her to. She opened her eyes.
'Mortimer, darling!' she said.
Mortimer had just been going to say something else, but he checked
himself.
'Are you alive?' he asked.
'Yes,' she replied.
'Thank God!' said Mortimer, scooping some of the snow out of the back
of his collar.
Together they went into the house, and into the drawing-room. Wife
gazed at husband, husband at wife. There was a silence.
'Rotten weather!' said Mortimer.
'Yes, isn't it!'
The spell was broken. They fell into each other's arms. And presently
