A man of comfortable independent means, he lived during these days on next to nothing. Golf-balls cost him a certain amount, but the bulk of his income he spent in efforts to discover his wife’s whereabouts. He advertised in all the papers. He employed private detectives. He even, much as it revolted his finer instincts, took to travelling about the country, watching croquet matches. But she was never among the players. I am not sure that he did not find a melancholy comfort in this, for it seemed to show that, whatever his wife might be and whatever she might be doing, she had not gone right under.
Summer passed. Autumn came and went. Winter arrived. The days grew bleak and chill, and an early fall of snow, heavier than had been known at that time of the year for a long while, put an end to golf. Mortimer spent his days indoors, staring gloomily through the window at the white mantle that covered the earth.
It was Christmas Eve.
The young man shifted uneasily on his seat. His face was long and sombre.
“All this is very depressing,” he said.
“These soul tragedies,” agreed the Oldest Member, “are never very cheery.”
“Look here,” said the young man, firmly, “tell me one thing frankly, as man to man. Did Mortimer find her dead in the snow, covered except for her face, on which still lingered that faint, sweet smile which he remembered so well? Because, if he did, I’m going home.”
“No, no,” protested the Oldest Member. “Nothing of that kind.”
“You’re sure? You aren’t going to spring it on me suddenly?”
“No, no!”
The young man breathed a relieved sigh.
“It was your saying that about the white mantle covering the earth that made me suspicious.”
The Sage resumed.
It was Christmas Eve. All day the snow had been falling, and now it lay thick and deep over the countryside. Mortimer Sturgis, his frugal dinner concluded—what with losing his wife and not being able to get any golf, he had little appetite these days—was sitting in his drawing-room, moodily polishing the blade of his jigger. Soon wearying of this once congenial task, he laid down the club and went to the front door to see if there was any chance of a thaw. But no. It was freezing. The snow, as he tested it with his shoe, crackled crisply. 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. Halfway 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 they were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands, just as if that awful parting had been but a dream.
It was Mortimer who made the first reference to it.
“I say, you know,” he said, “you oughtn’t to have nipped away like that!”
“I thought you hated me!”
“Hated you! I love you better than life itself! I would sooner have smashed my pet driver than have had you leave me!”
She thrilled at the words.
“Darling!”
Mortimer fondled her hand.
“I was just coming back to tell you that I loved you still. I was going to suggest that you took lessons from some good professional. And I found you gone!”
“I wasn’t worthy of you, Mortimer!”
“My angel!” He pressed his lips to her hair, and spoke solemnly. “All this has taught me a lesson, dearest. I knew all along, and I know it more than ever now, that it is you—you that I want. Just you! I don’t care if
