The Last Drive (28 page)

“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 of 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.”

“What time did this happen?”

“Hours ago; about seven o'clock—right after breakfast. What time is it now?”

Canby glanced at his watch. “Eleven.”

“They ought to be back soon. I'm waiting around. I'll tell you what, Mr. Canby, I'm going to marry that girl if I have to take—no matter what. I can't live without her; I'm not going back to the office or anywhere else until—Hello, here they are!”

So it was. Through the gate in the great hedge the Binot racer appeared and came spinning along the driveway. Canby and young Linwood rose hastily and crossed over, meeting it as it drew up near the garage. The expression on the youth's face was one of anxiety and determination; on Canby's, curiosity and inquiry.

“Good morning!” cried Nella, leaping out. “Oh, we've had such a fine ride!” She turned to Canby: “We missed you at breakfast. I peeped in your room, but you were asleep.”

This was hardly the manner of a girl who had just been subjected to dreadful insults, Canby reflected; and from the bewildered hopefulness on young Linwood's countenance it seemed that he had arrived at the same conclusion. Nella turned her smile, first on one, then on the other, with perfect impartiality; and Canby, who was looking for signs, could find no slightest indication that she had made a decision, either voluntary or forced. The elder Linwood, having relieved himself of his duster, wanted to know of his nephew why the deuce he hadn't gone to his office; but, though the reply was somewhat unsatisfactory, he immediately dropped the question. He regarded the young man with a quizzical, half-amused expression in his eyes; then abruptly turned to his host with a demand for drink, claiming a magnificent thirst.

They made for the piazza, Canby leading with Nella, and the two Linwoods bringing up the rear. It was cooler there, and a faint stir began to be felt in the air, promising relief for the afternoon. Nella and Tom sat in a porch swing, talking by fits and starts; the elder Linwood reclined in a chair and fanned himself; and Canby, who felt that he alone understood the situation, took heart from the rather impersonal quality of the girl's gaze as she let her eyes rest on young Linwood. Still, uneasiness seemed to hover in the air. A keen observer, studying the group, would have noted that each of its members had something on his mind; a subtle lack of repose, a kind of intangible restlessness, made itself felt; there was an undercurrent of uneasy suspense, and you could almost hear the sighs of relief that greeted the call to luncheon.

Canby meant to have a talk with Nella at the earliest opportunity, but they had no sooner gotten up from the table after lunch than he found himself circumvented by young Linwood, who calmly tucked the girl's arm through his and led her away.

Canby watched them go with a sinking heart. He knew that the opposition of the uncle had put the finishing touch to the young man's resolution; he would be capable now of carrying the girl off by main force. Youth could do such a thing while staid middle age looked on and sighed. Middle age did in fact sigh, seeing the two young people disappear around a bend in the garden path; and then turned at hearing the elder Linwood's voice:

“How about a game of billiards?”

But Canby was in no mood for games of any sort, and said so briefly. He wanted to listen to no chatter, either; he only wanted to be alone. With Linwood in one of his genial moods there was only one way to make sure of that, and Canby adopted it. Announcing his intention of paying a visit to his sister at Roselawn, he went out and jumped into the roadster, turned for the gate and was gone.

He did in fact pass the entrance to Roselawn twice that afternoon, but did not enter. He tore along at forty miles an hour, paying no attention to direction or distance, wanting only to move and get away from himself. He was beginning to see that he had indeed acted a fool. Seldom in this sorry life are we given a strong desire and the means of satisfying it at the same time; when the happy combination comes only a madman refuses to take advantage of it. So he had done, Canby reflected. Nella had actually agreed, in so many words, to marry him, and he had refused! Then youth had come—youth, with its fiery eyes and burning words and grace of limb and movement; its awkward phrases and crude inflections that were somehow powerful; its triteness and endless repetition that somehow seemed ever new; youth with all its mastery.

These reflections and a thousand others tossed about in Canby's brain as he drove madly about the countryside all that September afternoon. The thing was eminently just; he wouldn't deny that. The girl of nineteen and boy of twenty-four belonged in each other's arms.