The sweetness of her lips! Given or taken, the whole world was in them. He was drinking at the only fount that could quench his thirst, and he would not relinquish the draught. He neither knew nor cared how long he remained thus, straining her to him, for the force of all the weeks of repression surged into his arms and kept them round her. He could not even tell if she resisted, though that would not have mattered, for it was not tenderness that inspired this embrace.
“You are mine!” His tone was fiercely, savagely triumphant. “Mine, Nella!” Again he had her lips.
Then all at once the wave subsided as suddenly as it had come. He released her, almost pushing her from him in his revulsion. He turned his back and covered his face with his hands.
The girl’s voice came:
“Oh, how tight you squeezed me! I could scarcely breathe!”
“Good heavens!” cried Canby, wheeling about. “And that’s all you felt—” He checked himself and gathered his scattered senses. When he spoke again his voice was bitterly ironic. “And I wanted to be your guardian! Nella, I’m an old fool. Don’t misunderstand me; I wouldn’t insist on your love. My desire is to have you for my wife, on any terms; but I won’t ask you, and that’s all there is to it. Later, we’ll see. Forget everything I’ve said. If I asked you now to marry me, you would?”
She seemed to hesitate.
“Yes, I would,” she said at last.
“Very well. All the more reason why I shouldn’t ask it — now. I’ve got to think the thing out. I see I haven’t really thought about it; I’ve merely tried to make myself believe lies. It’s all a question of your chance for happiness, and I swear I won’t rob you of it. I’m tempted unspeakably. If we — if you find you can love me, we’ll see. Good night, and forgive me.”
He had reached the door when her voice came:
“Don’t you want me to kiss you good night?”
“I do not!” he replied grimly; and the next instant the door closed after him.
V
If only Canby had possessed a sufficiently active sense of humor to see the comedy in the thing it would have saved him many a bad hour. Or, if he had been a reader of modern fiction he would have known that in the past ten years hundreds of wealthy, middle-aged bachelors have suffered untold miseries through their unhappy passion for their beautiful young wards, and he would have been much less disturbed by the appearance of youth upon the scene in the person of Tom Linwood; for he would have known beforehand that it was inevitable, and the very triteness of the situation would have soothed his pain a little.
But he possessed neither of these desirable advantages, and thus, when Tom Linwood came on Saturday for the weekend and began to appropriate Nella’s waking hours with the calm assurance of arrogant youth, Canby felt the turning of the screw in no small degree. He reproached himself, was unutterably disgusted with himself, but all to no effect. He deliberately made opportunities for the two young people to be alone together and then berated himself for an ass. But he was determined to seize no unfair advantage on account of the position he held with regard to Nella; youth should have its chance with her.
At dinner Sunday evening he said to young Linwood:
“Why don’t you stay up with us a while, Tom? You could go down of mornings on the seven-thirty-five and get back in the evening in time for dinner. It’s only a two-hour run.”
The alacrity with which this invitation was accepted was equalled by that with which Canby immediately regretted having extended it. He told himself that it was more than fairness demanded; but the thing was done.
He had the days with Nella, however, and they were full of joy for him. If young Linwood was making any impression on her heart it was not evidenced by any change in her attitude toward Canby or any lessening of her pleasure in his company. They played tennis and walked and rode together as formerly, and he read to her a good deal — this last to improve her mind, and she did not refrain from expressing her gratitude. They were in September now, and the countryside lay in peaceful exhaustion after the summer’s heat.
The elder Linwood played golf, hanging on with grim tenacity to his resolution and purpose; but his reports from the links, though invariably optimistic, showed small progress. Canby was amused. Linwood had come up for the month of July, and here autumn was fast approaching without any sign of an intention to depart from Greenhedge. His own magnificent country estate on Long Island, not to mention a bungalow in the Adirondacks and a cottage at Bar Harbor, remained closed that he might pursue an elusive dream on the Wanakahnda golf links. Still he appeared to be growing a little discouraged, for his pilgrimages were becoming less frequent; he spent some of his days at Greenhedge now.
One evening Canby and Linwood sat on the lawn of the northern terrace smoking and talking; three of the Irish wolf-dogs lay at their feet, and a wooden table between their chairs held glasses and a bottle and a pail of cracked ice. Nella and Tom had gone off somewhere an hour before in Linwood’s new Binot racer, which he had allowed his nephew to bring up from New York. The night was cloudless and cool, with the stars gleaming intermittently through the foliage of the trees as the breeze stirred the leaves above them.
“I’ll probably run down Tuesday,” Canby was replying to a question from the other. “Andrews has written me that it will be necessary to appear in court that day in regard to my appointment as Nella’s guardian. I’ll attend to the other matter then too. Much obliged for that tip on Copper United, Linwood; I’ve cleared thirty thousand.”
The elder man waved the thanks aside. “Don’t mention it. Didn’t cost me anything, you know.” After a moment’s silence he added: “So you’re going through with the guardian business?”
Canby, filling the glasses, nodded. “I am.”
“Well,” Linwood chuckled, “it’ll probably be a short job. You may have your hands full for a while, but it won’t last long. Why don’t you marry her yourself, Canby, instead of flopping around like a sick fish?”
“Would it be fair to her?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t be a donkey, Linwood; you know why not as well as I do. She’s a mere girl, and I... well, I’m no unfledged nestling. As a matter of fact, she’s consented to marry me. I refused. There’s twenty-two years between us; it wouldn’t be fair to her.”
Linwood snorted. “What do you think a girl wants a husband for, anyway?” he demanded. “Do you still believe in the moonish ecstasy, the connubial coo-coo? Bah! Of course it’s not surprising; you’re a bachelor. I’ve had the advantage of experience. The call of youth is well enough as a pre-election platform, but it’s an issue that soon dies. Fair to her! Her eyes are open, aren’t they? You merely put it up to her, yes or no, and she can decide what she wants. And you refused!”
“But you don’t understand,” Canby protested. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t hesitate, but you see I’ve done things for her, and merely out of gratitude—”
“Don’t fool yourself,” the other interrupted. “No woman worthwhile ever yet married any man out of gratitude. I may add that this little lady is distinctly worthwhile. If she takes you it’s because she wants you, no matter what her reason.”
Canby seemed to be impressed. He picked up his glass and drained it before replying.
“But isn’t it true,” he asked then, “that Nella would certainly be happier with — well, with Tom, for instance?”