by Rex Stout
“Oh, of course!” Linwood’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “Undoubtedly! So she would have the pleasure of running to me every Saturday to get enough to buy pork chops.”
“Linwood, you’re a depraved cynic.”
“Canby, you’re a doting driveler.”
With that exchange of courtesies they left the topic and drifted back to the stock market. But Canby had in reality been impressed, as we always are by any argument that fits in with our desire. He reflected that Linwood had a good understanding of the world and the life that was lived in it, and that his judgment was probably sensible, as it was certainly to his liking.
After all, not to flatter himself, he was a decent sort of fellow; there was no assurance that Nella would do better, and she might conceivably do worse. The memory of her in his arms came to him, as it had many times before, and he felt his blood grow warm at the recollection of that incomparably blissful moment. The sense of the sanctity and innocence of her youth was still strong within him, however, and colored his thoughts; what he feared was to take advantage of her ignorance and purity, and he asked himself how she could possibly be expected to make a decision for herself when the real question was of necessity hidden from her. And possibly it was already too late. Was her heart still her own to give? Folly, idiotic folly, to have deliberately placed before her the fascination of Tom Linwood’s youthful graces!
Most of these reflections came to him as he wandered alone in the garden, having left Linwood to take the dogs back to their kennels; and the fear of young Linwood’s rivalry was immediately suggested by the sound of the returning Binot racer on the driveway.
Canby sat on the bench in a secluded corner of the garden and dug about in his brain for a decision. Surely he had given youth a fair chance and an able representative. If the joy of having her was still possible, why not seize it?
Linwood’s words recurred to him. Yes, passion is a fleeting thing anyway, and when that was over the best of her would be left to him, and he would guard—
The current of his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching along the garden path. He glanced out from his dark retreat; it was Nella and young Linwood. They approached slowly, without speaking, and Canby merely kept silent till they should pass; but, instead, they halted on the opposite side of the bush under which his bench was placed, not ten feet away. Too late he realized his position.
Young Linwood’s voice came:
“But, Nella, you have no feeling for me whatever?”
Then a little gay laugh from her:
“Of course! Didn’t I say I was awfully fond of you?”
“Oh, fond be hanged!” The representative of youth was evidently ready to explode with impatience. “It’s your love I want, Nella. Good Lord, how I hate that word fond! You’ve got to love me!” His breath caught and he went on: “I didn’t suppose anyone in the world could be so lovely, so adorable, as you. I tell you, I can’t live without you. Nella, look at me!”
Canby was trying to find a means of escape, but none offered. In the rear was an impenetrable hedge; on either side he was sure to be seen. He had stayed too long, and now must stay longer.
The rustle of a quick movement came from the other side of the bush, and the young man’s voice:
“Nella! There, I can’t help it! Oh, I’ve wanted so to hold you in my arms—like this. Ah!” There was the sound of a kiss. “No—please, Nella! I love you, I worship you, I adore you! See, I don’t hurt you, do I?”
“No—o. No, you don’t hurt me, Mr. Linwood, but—”
“Ah, let me! Nella, you don’t know what you mean to me! I never thought—You’ve just bowled me over! Dearest, let me!”
More kisses. Canby groaned inwardly. To be out of this!
Nella’s voice came:
“Mr. Linwood, let me go—please.”
“No, I can’t! I won’t! You must promise me, Nella. Say you love me. I’ve begged you long enough.”
“Mr. Linwood … please! Mr. Canby wouldn’t like it.”
“To the devil with Canby! I want you, Nella, you don’t know how I want you. You’re a sorceress, a witch; you set me crazy! You’ve got to promise me; you’ve got to. I tell you I can’t think of anything, of anyone but you. On the train, all day long at the office—everywhere I think of nothing but you. I can’t even sleep—I swear I can’t! But I don’t need to tell you that; you know how I love you. Nella, please—tell me—No! Tell me—”
There was the sound of rustling garments, the scuffling feet on gravel, a little suppressed cry, and then rapid retreating footsteps; and Canby, peering round the corner of the bush, saw Nella’s form dimly disappearing down the path in the starlight. She had flown to the house.
Then from the other side of the bush sounded the footsteps of the man she had left. But not along the path; they approached instead on the grass. Was the young idiot actually coming to this very bench?
He was indeed. On the instant, his form appeared from behind the bush and he sat down on the opposite end of the bench without becoming aware of the other’s presence; he thrust his hands deep in his pockets, crossed his legs in front of him, and let his chin fall on his chest.
“Well, I’m dashed good!” came his voice.
Canby felt that the situation had reached its limit.
“Hello!” he said abruptly. His voice sounded queer.
Young Linwood jumped up as though there had been a pin under him.
“What the devil!” he exclaimed, wheeling.
“It’s I—Canby,” returned the other, retaining his grammar in spite of everything.
“Oh!” The young man caught sight of him. He stood for a moment in silent bewilderment. “But what are you doing? How do you happen—”
Canby explained. “I was here when you came up. I thought you’d go on by. You began to talk at once, and there was no escape. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” Young Linwood looked at him a moment, then sat down again. “Couldn’t be helped; not your fault. It happens often, especially in novels. Doesn’t bother me any; I don’t give a hang if the whole world knows I love her.”
Canby was silent.
“You know, I do love her,” the young man resumed presently. “By Jove, I do; with all my heart. “You heard what I said. Well, every word of it is true. And she won’t give me any satisfaction. Most amazing girl I ever saw. She tantalizes me and sets me crazy. I can’t understand it. For two days, you remember, I didn’t come up here; I was trying to forget her. Duff Lewis and I took two girls down to Long Beach and, Lord, but I was sick of ’em! Couldn’t get my mind off of her one minute. I tell you, Canby, I’m hit hard.”
It was the first time he had ever called him “Canby” without the “Mister.” He had reached the estate of man!
“It’s her confounded stubbornness,” the young lover resumed presently, changing his tune a little. “She loves me—I know she does, only she won’t admit it. It’s enough to worry a man to death; because, of course, I’m not absolutely sure.”
He stopped suddenly and looked at Canby as though a new idea had just entered his head.
“By the way, I suppose I ought to consult you, sir; you’re her guardian. Have you any objections?”
“Objections to what?”
“To my marrying Miss Somi.”
“Why—” Canby hesitated. “Have you asked her?”
“Only about ten thousand times.”
“What does she say?”
“She says—she says—I don’t know what the devil she does say! I’ll swear I don’t know, sir. Confound it all, that’s what I’m beefing about! I can’t get her to say anything.”
“It’s just possible she hasn’t made up her mind,” Canby observed drily.
“Good Lord, how much time does she want? Why, all the other girls—but, of course, that’s different. I ha
dn’t asked them to marry me; so naturally they let me kiss them all I wanted. But I can’t believe— Has she said anything to you about me?”
“About you? No.”
“Not a word?”
“Well, she asked me the other evening if you liked scallops. I believe they were considered for dinner.”
“Did she really?” The young man’s face brightened, then as speedily fell. “But that’s nothing. I’m her guest; she’d do as much for a dog. But she’ll marry me, if I have to run off with her. I’d be capable of anything; that is, I mean, if you have no objections, sir.”
“None whatever, Tom.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What I mean to say is, you’re acceptable to me if you are to her,” Canby continued. “Go ahead and win her if you can. No doubt you’d be as good a husband as the next man. But permit me an observation: don’t you think your method is a little boisterous?”
“Boisterous?”
“Well, undignified; er—unreserved.”
“Oh! Yes, sir, perhaps; but you can’t make love like a clam, you know; you’ve got to move around a little. Besides, they like it.”
Canby grunted. “As you please. It’s the way of youth, I suppose.” He rose from the bench. “I’ll leave you to your rosy reflections. Good night.”
He went off toward the house, leaving the young man on the bench.
He went partly because he had heard enough of the youth’s chatter, but more on account of a decision that had formed itself in his mind as he listened. Evidently the youth had not yet conquered. It was an open field now and a fair one. He, Fred Canby, would buckle on his armor and enter the lists at once, and at once meant now.
He paced the length of the piazza. There was no one there. The elder Linwood, he knew, had gone up to bed some time before. He entered the house, went upstairs to Nella’s room and, seeing a light under the door, knocked on the panel.
Her voice came instantly:
“Who is it?”
“Canby.”
“Oh! Come in.”
He entered, closing the door behind him. She was reclining in a low fauteuil with an open book in her hand; about her hung the folds of the filmy white dressing-gown she had worn that other night two weeks before, and her dark hair, in two massive braids, dropped from her shoulders. The wonder of her was ever new to Canby, and he gazed at her a second in silence.
Then he began abruptly:
“I’ve just been talking with young Linwood.”
Nella sat up, closing the book.
“He tells me he wants to marry you. He says he has asked you to be his wife. You haven’t accepted him?”
Silence.
“Have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” she declared calmly.
“Have you decided to accept him?”
She seemed to hesitate.
“Decided? No,” she replied finally.
Canby breathed. “Then I may speak.” He moved forward a little. “You remember, Nella, two weeks ago you said you would marry me if I wanted you to. I refused to accept what I considered a sacrifice. I gave you my reasons then. I no longer hold myself bound by them. I ask you to marry me.”
She started to speak, but he raised his hand to stop her:
“Wait; I want to explain. I do this because I see pretty plainly that if you don’t marry me you will marry Tom Linwood, and I believe I’d do as well by you as he would. But as your guardian I must put the facts before you: I am forty-one, he is twenty-four. We both come of good families, though mine is considerably better placed socially. I am worth about half a million, not counting Greenhedge, with an income of twenty thousand or so. He is penniless himself, but he is sole heir of his uncle’s fortune, which is somewhere between ten and fifteen millions. He will have that when Mr. Linwood dies if he behaves himself. Mr. Linwood is fifty-two years of age and in good health; what he would do for his nephew in the event of marriage I don’t know.”
Nella’s eyes were wide open.
“Is Mr. Linwood so wealthy?”
“He is. No doubt this all sounds mercenary to you, but these things should be taken into consideration when a girl contemplates marriage; and I, being an interested party, can’t very well judge for you, so you have to do it yourself. Another thing: You must decide between us strictly according to your own desires. It would be an injury to me—a deep injury—if you permit any feeling of gratitude for what I have done to influence your decision in my favor. You must take the one you want for your husband. You understand that, don’t you?”
Nella’s face was a study. “Yes, I understand,” she said slowly.
“I suppose—” Canby hesitated a moment, then went on: “I suppose you aren’t ready to decide? Tom Linwood wants to marry you; so do I. Can you decide now between us?”
His voice trembled a little in spite of himself. If she were willing to take him now, as she had been two weeks previously, he would not refuse the prize a second time. He waited, scarcely breathing.
“I—I—really, I don’t know,” said Nella at last. “Oh, Mr. Canby, you don’t mind, do you? I must think, just till tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell you.” She had risen from her chair and was standing with her hands clasped in front of her. “I do love you; but I like Mr. Linwood too. I must think over it a little—”
“Of course,” Canby agreed. His face was white. “Of course, dear child, you must think.”
There was a short silence.
“Tomorrow, then!” said Canby; and, turning, left the room without another word.
VI
He could not get to sleep for a long while, and in the morning he awoke late—late, that is, for him, for he was usually up by six o’clock. Downstairs the house was empty; the Linwoods had supposedly gone, one to the city and the other to the golf links, and Nella was apt to be anywhere. He lingered disconsolately over his fruit and coffee and morning paper, reading the latter through from beginning to end without a single word entering his consciousness. The morning was warm, the air oppressive, everything seemed out of tune; he heard Mrs. Wheeler out in the kitchen berating the cook, and finally, to escape the sound of her voice, he got up and wandered out to the lawn.
Turning a corner of the house, he halted in surprise; for there, stretched out on his back in the shade of a tree with his arms crossed over his eyes, he saw Tom Linwood.
“Hello! You didn’t go in this morning?” observed Canby, approaching.
The young man sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking, and returned a negative with his greeting.
“You look sort of hipped,” Canby continued, stopping above him.
The youth nodded. “I feel it.” Looking up at the other, he added: “You don’t seem very jaunty yourself.”
“No. Weather, I guess.” Canby sat down on the grass. “Seen anything of Nella?”
“I have.”
It appeared from the length of the pause that followed this that young Linwood had said all he intended to say, but presently he continued:
“She’s gone off with Uncle Garry. In the Binot.”
Canby looked surprised. “Where to?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere; nowhere in particular, I guess.” Another pause, then he continued: “Rotten car, that Shinton roadster of yours, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Canby.”
“Say anything you please, my boy. But what—”
“The most I could get out of her was fifty-five. The Binot does eighty, you know. I was after uncle. I might as well have been standing still.”
“You were after—” Canby was mystified.
“Yes, after uncle. I didn’t want him to insult Nella if I could help it.”
“Insult Nella?” Canby turned quickened eyes on him. “Tom, make yourself intelligible, please.”
“Oh, I don’t mean—that is, it’s on account o
f me,” the young man explained. “You see, after you left me in the garden last night I set out to look for Uncle Garry. Couldn’t find him anywhere about, so I went up to his room. He was in bed. I should have waited perhaps, but I’d made up my mind to have it over with; so I turned on the lights and woke him up and told him I was going to marry Miss Somi. You see, I was afraid he might object on account of her—that is, she’s not—”
“I understand. Go on.”
“Well, he sleeps pretty sound for an old man, you know, so I had to shake him up a little and say it over once or twice before he seemed to get what I was driving at. Then he just sat and looked at me—and laughed!”
“Laughed?”
“Yes. I thought he was a little off. Finally he said to me, ‘Tom, you’re an unconditional ass!’ I replied, ‘I know it, sir,’ and he laughed again. Then all at once he got serious and read me a lecture. He said he knew better than to attempt to argue with words against the celestial trumpet-call of youth. He said he was glad to learn I had begun to talk moon-eyed, because the sooner it began the sooner it ended, but that I was too young yet to play the bass in the matrimonial harmony. He said that while he had all the respect in the world for the primal urge of nature, he preferred not to connive at its premature manifestations. Then he lay down again and told me to get out.”
“Well?” Canby was grinning.
“Well, I went. I didn’t like it; I wouldn’t have minded if he’d let out at me, but I didn’t like his sarcasm. I knew he was up to something; and, sure enough, at the breakfast-table this morning, the first thing I knew he and Miss Somi were arranging to go for a drive. I could tell from his manner he meant trouble. But he caught me napping, and pulled the thing off so quick that he had the Binot out of the garage and was off before I got my breath. I went after him in the roadster, but, Lord, I might as well have been chasing a hydroplane in a rowboat.”
“But you spoke of insult.”
“Sure. Oh, I know Uncle Garry! He’s going to try to buy her off. He’d say anything to her, and she’s so—so darned sweet, she’d stand for it. He’d throw it up to her about her—oh, about everything. That’s what he’s doing now. I tell you, Canby, I came nearly busting that roadster up with an axe.”