Kent Knowles: Quahaug

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

Heathcroft, in spite of the close play, was as bland and unconcerned as ever. I tried to appear likewise. As a matter of fact, I wanted to win. Not because of the possible prize, I cared little for that, but for the pleasure of winning against him. We drove from the ninth tee, each got a long brassy shot which put us on the edge of the green, and then strolled up the hill together.

“I say, Knowles,” he observed; “I haven't finished telling you of my Paris experience, have I. Odd coincidence, by Jove! I was telling young Bayliss about it just now and he thought it odd, too. I was—some other chaps and I drifted into the Abbey over in Paris a week or so ago and while we were there a girl came out and sang. She was an extremely pretty girl, you understand, but that wasn't the extraordinary part of it. She was the image—my word! the very picture of your niece, Miss Morley. It quite staggered me for the moment. Upon my soul I thought it was she! She sang extremely well, but not for long. I tried to get near her—meant to speak to her, you know, but she had gone before I reached her. Eh! What did you say?”

I had not said anything—at least I think I had not. He misinterpreted my silence.

“Oh, you mustn't be offended,” he said, laughing. “Of course I knew it wasn't she—that is, I should have known it if I hadn't been so staggered by the resemblance. It was amazing, that resemblance. The face, the voice—everything was like hers. I was so dotty about it that I even hunted up one of the chaps in charge and asked him who the girl was. He said she was an Austrian—Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte or something. That ended it, of course. I was a fool to imagine anything else, of course. But you would have been a bit staggered if you had seen her. And she didn't look Austrian, either. She looked English or American—rather! I say, I hope I haven't hurt your feelings, old chap. I apologize to you and Miss Morley, you understand. I couldn't help telling you; it was extraordinary now, wasn't it.”

I made some answer. He rattled on about that sort of thing making one believe in the Prisoner of Zenda stuff, doubles and all that. We reached the green. My ball lay nearest the pin and it was his putt. He made it, a beauty, the ball halting just at the edge of the cup. My putt was wild. He holed out on the next shot. It took me two and I had to concentrate my thought by main strength even then. The hole and match were his.

He was very decent about it, proclaimed himself lucky, declared I had, generally speaking, played much the better game and should have won easily. I paid little attention to what he said although I did, of course, congratulate him and laughed at the idea that luck had anything to do with the result. I no longer cared about the match or the tournament in general or anything connected with them. His story of the girl who was singing in Paris was what I was interested in now. I wanted him to tell me more, to give me particulars. I wanted to ask him a dozen questions; and, yet, excited as I was, I realized that those questions must be asked carefully. His suspicions must not be aroused.

Before I could ask the first of the dozen Mr. Handliss bustled over to us to learn the result of our play and to announce that the distribution of prizes would take place in a few moments; also that Lady Carey wished to speak with her nephew. The latter sauntered off to join the group by the pavilion and my opportunity for questioning had gone, for the time.

Of the distribution of prizes, with its accompanying ceremony, I seem to recall very little. Lady Carey made a little speech, I remember that, but just what she said I have forgotten. “Much pleasure in rewarding skill,” “Dear old Scottish game,” “English sportsmanship,” “Race not to the swift”—I must have been splashed with these drops from the fountain of oratory, for they stick in my memory. Then, in turn, the winners were called up to select their prizes. Wilson, the London attorney, headed the list; the sporting curate came next; Heathcroft next; and then I. It had not occurred to me that I should win a prize. In fact I had not thought anything about it. My thoughts were far from the golf course just then. They were in Paris, in a cathedral—Heathcroft had called it an abbey, but cathedral he must have meant—where a girl who looked like Frances Morley was singing.

However, when Mr. Handliss called my name I answered and stepped forward. Her Ladyship said something or other about “our cousin from across the sea” and “Anglo-Saxon blood” and her especial pleasure in awarding the prize. I stammered thanks, rather incoherently expressed they were, I fear, selected the first article that came to hand—it happened to be a cigarette case; I never smoke cigarettes—and retired to the outer circle. The other winners—Herbert Bayliss and Worcester among them—selected their prizes and then Mr. Wilson, winner of the tournament, speaking in behalf of us all, thanked the hostess for her kindness and hospitality.

Her gracious invitation to play upon the Manor-House course Mr. Wilson mentioned feelingly. Also the gracious condescension in presenting the prizes with her own hand. They would be cherished, not only for their own sake, but for that of the donor. He begged the liberty of proposing her ladyship's health.