“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 hadn’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.