The Guarded Heights
Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the
pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white
figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume
of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close
to her. He had no business, anyway----
She snapped on the light. She laughed.
"I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter."
He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give
way.
"If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it
was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted
to forget."
"I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad
to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?"
"Yes," he answered, doubtfully.
That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced.
"I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I
mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?"
"Yes," he said again.
Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if
Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up
short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert
Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his
companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It
surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened,
after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had
condemned himself.
"Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in.
Dear old Squibs told me so."
He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her,
said good-night, and turned resolutely away.
It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked
Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he
had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered
him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his
ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.
Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so
differently?
The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to
himself.
"Because she doesn't know."
He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He
would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that
crop yet.
X
He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a
seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of
Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George
noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire
room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he
decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked
lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination
sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to
rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and
sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him:
"How do you suppose Spike does it?"
George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike.
He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well
emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He
took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than
two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased.
First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly.
"Lend me a novel--something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a
text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir,
and you haven't given me another."
Bailly's wrinkled face approved.
"You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall
have your novel. I'm afraid----"
He paused, laughing.
"I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than a
dinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's.
Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhuman
effort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your next
schedule will come from Stringham and Green."
He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red.
"Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that."
"'Treasure Island.'"
George frowned doubtfully.
"We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in the
school books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night."
"Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Bailly
asked.
George smiled.
"I know I have to forget all that."
"In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed.
He glanced slyly around.
"I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment,
so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly
equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most
exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is
based on manner rather than matter."
"You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it
is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?"
Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George
with a little show of bewildered temper.
"See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't
fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and
read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless
and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is
always worth while."
George's attitude was a challenge.
"Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your
hands do get dirty."
Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a
preacher," he said, "not a tutor."
XI
In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his life
had he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures of
colourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthy
feet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at various
doors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up,
surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the table
drawer.
"Come in," he called, not heartily.
A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange and
black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the
appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had
no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing
was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism.
"Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and
follow us."
George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to
give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be
qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged
him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to
obey. Then someone grunted with disgust.
"Come on. Duck out of here."
"What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel."
"It's Morton. We can't monkey with him."
The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in
search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an
opposite reason.
"Why not?" he demanded.
The leader smiled in friendly fashion.
"You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field."
As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation.
Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important
character.
The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, he
heard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into the
university offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appear
on a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attended
to the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, to
take up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, to
make friends. He had completed the first lap.
When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmen
had a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violence
of a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with which
he drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to him
their hopes.
The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be thrown
into a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promising
quarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled,
appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team,
even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogers
disappeared at the first weeding-out.
The opening fortnight was wholly pleasant--a stressing of fundamentals
that demanded little severe physical effort. Nor did the curriculum
place any grave demands on George. During the evenings he frequently
supplemented his work at the field with a brisk cross-country run, more
often than not in the vicinity of the Alston place. He could see the
lights in the huge house, and he tried to visualize that interior where,
perhaps, men of the Goodhue stamp sat with Betty. He studied those
fortunates, meantime, and the other types that surrounded him. There
were many men of a sort, of the Rogers sort particularly, who
continually suggested their receptivity; and he was invariably
courteous--from a distance, as he had seen Goodhue respond to Rogers.
For George had his eyes focused now. He had seen the best.
The election of Freshmen class officers outlined several facts. The
various men put up for office were unknown to the class in general, were
backed by little crowds from their own schools. Men from less important
schools, and men, like George, with no preparatory past, voted wild.
These school groups, he saw, clung together; would determine, it was
clear, the social progress through college of their members. That
inevitably pointed to the upper-class club houses on Prospect Street.
George had seen them from his first days at University Field, but until
now they had, naturally enough, failed to impress him with any immediate
interest. He desired the proper contacts for the molding of his own
deportment and, to an extent even greater, for the bearing they would
have on his battle for money and position after he should leave college.
But it became clear to him now that the contest for Prospect Street had
begun on the first day, even earlier, back in the preparatory schools.
Were such contacts possible in a serviceable measure without success in
that selfish, headlong race? Was it practicable to draw the attention of
the eager, half-blind runners to one outside the sacred little groups?
Football would open certain doors, but if there was one best club he
would have that or nothing. It might be wiser to stand brazenly aloof,
posing as above such infantile jealousies. The future would decide, but
as he left the place of the elections he had an empty feeling, a
sharpened appreciation of the hazards that lay ahead.
Goodhue would be pointed for the highest. Goodhue would lead in many
ways. He was elected the first president of the class.
The poor or earnest men, ignorant of everything outside their books,
come from scattered homes, quite friendless, gravitated together in what
men like Rogers considered a social quarantine. Rogers, indeed, ventured
to warn George of the risk of contagion. As chance dictated George
chatted with such creatures; once or twice even walked across the campus
with them.
"You're making a mistake," Rogers advised, "being seen with polers like
Allen."